squealing, as he could laugh no more. In a moment Ralph was as
meek as a Quaker, and sat looking about him with a mildly
astonished air, as if inquiring the cause of such unseemly mirth. A
knock at the door produced a lull, and in came a maid with apples.
“Time’s up; fall to and make yourselves comfortable,” was the
summary way in which the club was released from its sterner
duties and permitted to unbend its mighty mind for a social
halfhour, chiefly devoted to whist, with an Indian war-dance as a
closing ceremony.
Chapter 10 The Dramatic Club
While Jack was hopping gayly about on his crutches, poor Jill was
feeling the effects of her second fall, and instead of sitting up, as
she hoped to do after six weeks of rest, she was ordered to lie on a
board for two hours each day. Not an easy penance, by any means,
for the board was very hard, and she could do nothing while she
lay there, as it did not slope enough to permit her to read without
great fatigue of both eyes and hands. So the little martyr spent her
first hour of trial in sobbing, the second in singing, for just as her
mother and Mrs. Minot were deciding in despair that neither she
nor they could bear it, Jill suddenly broke out into a merry chorus
she used to hear her father sing:
“Faut jouer le mirliton,
Faut jouer le mirlitir,
Faut jouer le mirliter,
Mir–li–ton.”
The sound of the brave little voice was very comforting to the two
mothers hovering about her, and Jack said, with a look of mingled
pity and admiration, as he brandished his crutch over the
imaginary foes,
“That’s right! Sing away, and we’ll play you are an Indian captive
being tormented by your enemies, and too proud to complain. I’ll
watch the clock, and the minute time is up I’ll rush in and rescue
you.”
Jill laughed, but the fancy pleased her, and she straightened herself
out under the gay afghan, while she sang, in a plaintive voice,
another little French song her father taught her:
“J’avais une colombe blanche,
J’avais un blanc petit pigeon,
Tous deu~ volaient, do branche en branche,
Jusqu’au falte de mon don geon:
Mais comme un coup do vent d’automne,
S’est abattu Za, I’‚per-vier,
Ft ma colombe si mignonne
Ne revient plus au colombier.”
“My poor Jean had a fine voice, and always hoped the child would
take after him. It would break his heart to see her lying there trying
to cheer her pain with the songs he used to sing her to sleep with,”
said Mrs. Pecq, sadly.
“She really has a great deal of talent, and when she is able she
shall have some lessons, for music is a comfort and a pleasure,
sick or well,” answered Mrs. Minot, who had often admired the
fresh voice, with its pretty accent.
Here Jill began the Canadian boat-song, with great vigor, as if
bound to play her part of Indian victim with spirit, and not disgrace
herself by any more crying. All knew the air, and joined in,
especially Jack, who came out strong on the “Row, brothers, row,”
but ended in a squeak on a high note, so drolly, that the rest broke
down. So the hour that began with tears ended with music and
laughter, and a new pleasure to think of for the future.
After that day Jill exerted all her fortitude, for she liked to have the
boys call her brave and admire the cheerful way in which she
endured two hours of discomfort. She found she could use her
zither as it lay upon her breast, and every day the pretty music
began at a certain hour, and all in the house soon learned to love
and listen for it. Even the old cook set open her kitchen door,
saying pitifully, “Poor darlint, hear how purty she’s singin’, wid the
pain, on that crewel boord. It’s a little saint, she is. May her bed
above be aisy!”
Frank would lift her gently on and off, with a kind word that
comforted her immensely, and gentle Ed would come and teach