Frances Fenton made the address. It was an honour once accorded to Elizabeth, but usually reserved as a reward for superhuman virtue. Not on that score had Elizabeth ever enjoyed it. Frances was first blue ribbon, first medallion, and head of the Children of Mary. There was nothing left for her but beatification. She stepped slowly, and with what was called a “modest grace,” into the middle of the room, curtsied, and began:—
“Your children’s simple hearts would speak,
But cannot find the words they seek.
These tones no music’s spell can lend;
And eloquence would vainly come
To greet our Father, Guide, and Friend.
Let hearts now speak, and lips be dumb!”
“Then why isn’t she dumb?” whispered Tony aggressively, but without changing a muscle of her attentive face.
I pretended not to hear her. I had little enough discretion, Heaven knows, but even I felt the ripe unwisdom of whispering at such a time. It was Mary Rawdon’s absence, at the piano, I may observe, that placed me in this perilous proximity.
“Our reverence fond and hopeful prayer