"Then I wish very much that you would sing one of your favourite
songs. It would be a great pleasure to very many of us."
"I'll not wait to be coaxed," was the reply, after a moment's
hesitation. "It is only really good singers who can afford to do
that."
In spite of her dimpled figure and child-face, Rose Macleod had a very
stately little way with her, and it served to repel one pair of eyes
that for the first time that evening caught sight of her as she moved
towards the instrument. A little queen! That was what he had always
called her in his heart. _His_ little queen! Oh, how had he dared to
enthrone her there? Presumptuous idiot! she was as far from him as the
stars are from the weeds. But the girl at the piano thought of nothing
but the sharp, sweet odour of new-mown hay. Sharp as a sword and sweet
as love, it pierced and thrilled her being. Then, like a fragrant
blossom, a melody sprang from the hidden sources of her pain. The
sympathetic musical expressiveness of her voice, and its pure
penetrating quality filled the room, and riveted the attention of
every one in it. Others came in from adjoining rooms, until, in the
press of the throng, a young man was forced, in spite of himself,
nearer and nearer to the instrument, and found himself close beside
the fair girl-goddess of song, just as the last words left her lips.
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