bert; then, when she had left the piano, Mab said, entreatingly, "Oh Mirah, if you would not mind singing the little hymn."
"It is too childish," said Mirah. "It is like lisping."
"What is the hymn?" said Deronda.
"It is the Hebrew hymn she remembers her mother singing over her when she lay in her cot," said Mrs Meyrick.
"I should like very much to hear it," said Deronda, "if you think I am worthy to hear what is so sacred."
"I will sing it if you like," said Mirah, "but I don't sing real words—only here and there a syllable like hers—the rest is lisping. Do you know Hebrew? because if you do, my singing will seem childish nonsense."
Deronda shook his head. "It will be quite good Hebrew to me."
Mirah crossed her little feet and hands in her easiest attitude, and then lifted up her head at an angle which seemed to be directed to some invisible face bent over her, while she sang a little hymn of quaint melancholy intervals, with syllables that really seemed childish lisping to her audience; but the voice in which she gave it forth
