The rose tree toppled an instant on the window-sill and then went down, flower pot, jardinière and all, into those singing, upturned faces, two stories below. There followed a frightful crashing sound, and then a stupefied silence.
Peggy, covering her face with her hands, turned and ran from the window, jumped into bed and pulled the sheet over her head.
“Oh, they’re dead, they’re dead, and I’ve killed them,” she thought miserably to herself.
She never wanted to hear a glee-club again, she never wanted to look into the face of a living soul. This was a fine ending of a wonderful day, this was, that she should have killed, goodness knew how many fine young men, and talented ones, too. Just when they were singing up so trustingly, for her to have hurled this calamity down upon them! She shook with sobs. Oh, she had only meant to do a kind deed, a courteous deed—and she had killed them. She buried her poor little crying face deeper into the pillow.
After a few moments she felt her room-mate shaking her, and when she reluctantly uncovered her tear-stained face she was astonished to hear laughter.
“It’s all right, come back to the window quickly,” Katherine was chortling, “it’s—just great.”
Oh, the glorious shaft of light that shot across Peggy’s mental horizon! Then they weren’t dead. No one—not even a heartless room-mate could laugh at her if she had really killed them. She dashed her hand across her eyes and went back to peer cautiously down in the moonlight.
Each of the singers brandished some tiny thing in the shining white light of the moon, could it be a—flower—a—rose?
“Little Rose Girl!
Little Rose Girl!
We’ll sing and shout your praises o’er and o’er,
To you ever, we’ll be loyal,
Till the sun shall climb the heavens no more!”
Peggy caught her breath. They were all singing straight at her window,—and oh, moonlit clouds! and wonder of stars!—to her.