“Yes, Miss Dayton says my hair is auburn and not red, and she says—”
“Why, ef here isn’t Mis’ Weston’s little Prue!”
“Yes’m, I’m going to be one of the tab things, and sing a little tune what Miss Dayton learned—no, taught me,” said the little girl, very proud to think that she had remembered the correction.
“Well, I think she’s real nice to come up here and plan such good times,” but here Helen tapped upon the piano, and the conversation ceased so abruptly that one might think that the audience held its breath.
The girls rushed behind the curtains on either side of the frame, and Jotham Potts, clearing his throat, read the first number for the evening.
Helen had drilled him in pronouncing those names which he found difficult, and very clearly he read,—
“Our first number will be a piano solo by Miss Dayton, entitled, ‘Marche Militaire.’”
Mr. Potts nudged his wife, saying, in a loud whisper, “Our Jotham did that just like a city feller, didn’t he?” His wife ejaculated “Sh—,” but she smiled and nodded, for she was of the same opinion.
Helen in her white muslin looked very beautiful, as she took her seat at the piano. That piano was the only one in town, and the only one that many of the audience had ever heard. Helen was a good musician, and the piece, grand in itself, rang out brilliantly, to the great delight of every one present, and many were the words of praise which reached her ears when she arose. One voice, bolder than the others, said, “That’s what I call great; just one more piece, Miss Dayton, ef it ain’t asking too much.”
This was an honest if unceremonious encore, so Helen seated herself once more, and for those simple country people played a brilliant polacca.