heart was thumping almost audibly as he waited for his Phebe. Not
from the anteroom, but out among the children, where she had sat
unseen in the shadow of the organ, came stately Phebe in her
wine-colored dress, with no ornament but her fine hair and a white
flower at her throat. Very pale, but quite composed, apparently, for
she stepped slowly through the narrow lane of upturned faces,
holding back her skirts lest they should rudely brush against some
little head. Straight to the front she went, bowed hastily, and, with
a gesture to the accompanist, stood waiting to begin, her eyes fixed
on the great gilt clock at the opposite end of the hall.
They never wandered from that point while she sang, but as she
ended they dropped for an instant on an eager, girlish countenance
bending from a front seat; then, with her hasty little bow, she went
quickly back among the children, who clapped and nodded as she
passed, well pleased with the ballad she had sung.
Everyone courteously followed their example, but there was no
enthusiasm, and it was evident that Phebe had not produced a
particularly favorable impression.
“Never sang so badly in her life,” muttered Charlie irefully.
“She was frightened, poor thing. Give her time, give her time,”
said Uncle Mac kindly.
“I know she was, and I glared like a gorgon, but she never looked
at me,” added Steve, smoothing his gloves and his brows at the
same time.
“That first song was the hardest, and she got through much better
than I expected,” put in Dr. Alec, bound not to show the
disappointment he felt.
“Don’t be troubled. Phebe has courage enough for anything, and
she’ll astonish you before the evening’s over,” prophesied Mac with
unabated confidence, for he knew something the rest did not.
Rose said nothing, but under cover of her burnous gave Archie’s
hand a sympathetic squeeze, for his arms were unfolded now, as if
the strain was over, and one lay on his knee while with the other he
wiped his hot forehead with an air of relief.
Friends about them murmured complimentary fibs and affected
great delight and surprise at Miss Moore’s “charming style,”
“exquisite simplicity,” and “undoubted talent.” But strangers freely
criticized, and Rose was so indignant at some of their remarks, she
could not listen to anything on the stage, though a fine overture
was played, a man with a remarkable bass voice growled and
roared melodiously, and the orphans sang a lively air with a chorus
of “Tra, la, la,” which was a great relief to little tongues unused to
long silence.
“I’ve often heard that women’s tongues were hung in the middle
and went at both ends now I’m sure of it,” whispered Charlie,
trying to cheer her up by pointing out the comical effect of some
seventy-five open mouths in each of which the unruly member was
wagging briskly.
Rose laughed and let him fan her, leaning from his seat behind
with the devoted air he always assumed in public, but her wounded
feelings were not soothed and she continued to frown at the stout
man on the left who had dared to say with a shrug and a glance at
Phebe’s next piece, “That young woman can no more sing this
Italian thing than she can fly, and they ought not to let her attempt
it.?
Phebe did, however, and suddenly changed the stout man’s opinion
by singing it grandly, for the consciousness of her first failure
pricked her pride and spurred her to do her best with the calm sort
of determination which conquers fear, fires ambition, and changes
defeat to success. She looked steadily at Rose now, or the flushed,
intent face beside her, and throwing all her soul into the task, let
her voice ring out like a silver clarion, filling the great hall and
setting the hearers’ blood a-tingle with the exulting strain.
That settled Phebe’s fate as a cantatrice. The applause was genuine
and spontaneous this time and broke out again and again with the
generous desire to atone for former coldness. But she would not
return, and the shadow of the great organ seemed to have