Betty kicked a footstool, as if to relieve her overburdened feelings, and then laughed at herself for her foolishness.
She learned her lines carefully, determined to do her part as well as she could, if her dress was plain and inconspicuous.
Her speech was full of brave and noble thoughts, and Betty practised it often, and observed conscientiously her teacher’s instructions as to inflections and gestures. It was easy for Betty to learn by heart; so easy, indeed, that she unconsciously learned most of the other girls’ speeches by merely hearing them at rehearsals.
Often she would amuse her mother and Jack by breaking forth into some of the stilted lines of the play.
“I am Pocahontas,” she would say, striking an attitude of what she considered Indian effect; “I claim the prize, Goddess, because I, in years that are past, rendered a service——”
“There, there, that will do, Betty!” Jack would cry. “You are a born actress, I know, but I’m studying my English history now, and Pocahontas doesn’t belong with the Saxon kings.”
“Oh, English history!” said Betty, mischievously.
Then, stalking grandly up to him, she held an umbrella for a scepter, and declaimed:
“Goddess of Honor! You see before you Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen. A noble monarch, not alone in power, but in majestic traits that won for her the loyalty and adoration of her loved and loving subjects. A queen who——”
“Off with her head!” cried Jack, throwing a sofa-pillow at Betty, who promptly threw it back at him, and then ran laughing from the room.