“Thou, with voice so silvery clear,
I your dearest wish will hear.”
As Jeanette spoke the lines she held her wand above Dorothy's head.
“Song! Ah, let me always sing
For the peasant, or the king,
For the ones I hold most dear,
For all hearts that I may cheer,”
sang Dorothy, in her clear, light little treble, and very winning she looked, as she extended her hand toward the fairy whom she implored to grant her wish.
“Sing you shall, in tones so clear
That the very birds shall hear,
And, in envy, cease their lay
While your melody holds sway.”
As Jeanette chanted the verse, she waved her wand, and Dorothy, entering the circle beside her, sang a fairy song which delighted all who listened.
The woman beside Uncle Harry seemed ill at ease, crumpling her programme, and moving restlessly upon her seat as if the little play bored her.
Uncle Harry stooped, and picked up the fan which had dropped from her lap. She looked at him as if she thought that he had intended to steal it, then, relenting, she screwed her thin lips into something like a smile.
“Thank ye,” she said, as she took the fan, and glanced at his pleasant face.
Uncle Harry wished that she would speak again.