Tom came up to Dorothy as she entered the
broad hall.
"How's the boy?" he inquired kindly. "Has he forgiven me yet?"
"Of course," replied Dorothy, smiling. "He's getting better. But it was
hard to leave him alone with his hurt--and Norah. Not that Norah is to be
classed with the injuries," she hurried to add, laughing merrily.
"They are waiting for the orchestra," Tom reminded her, taking her music
and escorting her to the piano.
The girls, with their violins, were already in place. Dorothy felt some
embarrassment in facing a room filled with those she considered critical
spectators, for the best society of all the Birchlands, as well as
cultured persons from Ferndale near by, had come to the entertainment.
The Brownlie girls played the violins. Dorothy gave them the "A" note, and
they put their instruments in tune, with that weird, fascinating
combination of chords which prelude the opening strains of enthralling
music. Then they began.
The first number received a generous encore, and the girls played again.
Then there was a suppressed murmur of expectancy--a picture was about to
be presented.
Slowly the curtains were drawn aside. The lights had been "doused" as Nat,
the acting stage manager, expressed it, and only a dim glow illuminated
the tableau.
An immense gilt frame, containing a landscape as a background.
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