Nixie leaned over her chair. Again his random words hit the mark and might carry the day.
“By Jove!” he whispered to Helen, “you two girls will look stunning together. You must let me take you over there as soon as Hebe gets through.”
Helen’s lips compressed and she did not reply.
Rosalie was about to give her last recitation. It was a tender sketch, but with plenty of comedy.
A mother was rocking her baby and singing him to sleep, with periodic interruptions from her other children whom she dismissed with varying manner and replies.
It was excellently done. Rosalie’s singing was simple and natural, her voice sympathetic, and when the lullaby finally died away, and she rose and bent her lovely head above the baby as she laid him in an imaginary bed, there were plenty of dim eyes among her auditors.
The absolute stillness broke as the girl rose and smiled again upon her listeners,—the modest, deprecatory smile the Yellowstone party knew so well.
Irving’s eyes shone. “Mrs. Nixon,” said he to that lady, “may I take you over to speak to Miss Vincent? She is in strange surroundings and will appreciate it.”
“Well,” replied Mrs. Nixon with a surprised and regal lift of the head, “the girl certainly does charming work. I’m quite willing to tell her so.”
She rose and took Irving’s offered arm, and they moved away. Mrs. Bruce held her lip between her teeth; her face burned, her eyes filled with tears of anger and mortification.