Harold made himself late that night, puiposely—he liked to
hear the suppressed murmur that always followed the advent of
his handsome figure; he loved to catch the sly glances of admir
ing eyes; and the short program was just about to commence
as 'he entered the brilliantly-decorated hall. He scarcely
had time to exchange cordial greeting with an old friend before
he heard the piano, and conversation ceased. Turning toward
the player, Harold saw a shapely head, gracefully rounded
shoulders, a very tasty costume, and white fingers nimbly running
over the keys--a picture to arouse the keenest curiosity—as to the
face, he could not see. At her side stood a tall gentleman, ready
to turn her music. After a short prelude she began to sing. From
where he stood, Harold could see the changing color of her cheeks,
as if her soul were in her words. Her voice was rich and sweet,
her song an old ballad. At her first soft notes a stillness came
over the gay company, and in a moment even the most suppressed
whispering had ceased. Soon she swelled the tone with a gentle
crescendo until her rich contralto voice seemed to lift everyone
into triumphant sympathy, and then, with tones so pure and sweet
that they seemed to come from her own heart, she told a story of
love so plaintive and so touching that when her last note died
away and she arose from the piano, there was • only that deepest
applause, silence and tears.
" How beautiful Miss Ellington is to-night," said Harold's
friend.
" Flossie Ellington I" cried Harold. " Can that be Flossie El
lington ?" But just then she turned her face. " Yes, it is she,"
he muttered, in a dazed sort of a way.
Four years ago Flossie had won a high school honor for which
Harold worked very hard. A year older than she, he had always.
treated her in a sort of patronizing way, and to have her step in
and deliberately take a prize which he had done his best to win
was a liberty which his proud boyishness could not forgive.
When Harold went to Montrose she had entered a Boston semi
nary. During her first vacation she was ill and did not come
home, and at the beginning of the second she started abroad with
her aunt. Thus it came that for three years Harold had not seen
her, and what a change three years may work in a young girl 1.
This was what Harold thought when it dawned upon him fully
that the cultured singer was his girl playmate. Two years of col
lege life in Boston, a year of foreign travel, had sufficed for
The Free Lance.
[JUNE,