Then the programme commenced. It was the recital of the musical department. What! yes, the same! Paul Waffington ran his eye down the programme that he held—it stopped at the third number. He dropped the programme to his knees and settled back uneasily in his seat. It seemed that he could hardly abide the time, when she, in whom he had always—from the very first—had been so deeply interested, should appear upon the stage and render her part of the programme. But finally the old president came slowly forward, adjusted his nose-glasses with ever so much care and precision, and read from the programme.
“The next number on the programme is——instrumental, by Miss Gena Filson.”
But who was this coming forward? Gena Filson was the name on the programme. Some mistake sure, thought Waffington. Too bad that she should be cheated out of her number. Some mistake——
“Oh!” he suddenly cried out half aloud, as he saw the young lady come forward and take her place on the piano bench.
He sat dazed. Did his eyes fail him? He rubbed them once, then looked again. She finished the number, turned and looked the audience square in the face and left the stage. The hair! The eyes! Yes, it was Gena Filson of Blood Camp. But oh, so different, so changed, so beautiful!
He heard little of the remaining numbers of the programme, for he was busy with his thoughts. But by and by the music stopped, and the people were crowding the rostrum to offer congratulations. Paul Waffington made off with the others in the direction of the rostrum, to offer his congratulations and to express his pleasure and belief in the ability of Gena Filson to succeed. But as he drew near he saw no other than the square-jawed, ill-dressed “Mr. Texas” standing at Gena Filson’s side, himself acknowledging the congratulations of her friends as if she were property individual. He stood there, showing his big teeth, his arms almost breaking under the load of bundles, boxes of candy and flowers that he himself had brought to lavish upon her. He had taken her by the arm, and was now leading her away, with his great head poked right into her very face. Gena Filson dropped the train of her dress as she turned to see who it was that had spoken to her. She blushed a deep red, and her lovely blue eyes sparkled as bright as the evening star as she put out her hand and simply but gently said:
“Mr. Waffington, is it you!”
“Accept my congratulations. I knew that it was in you to succeed. I arrived too late to see you before the musicale, and must go now, at once. Good-bye. I knew that you would succeed. Good-bye.” And before she had time to present her friend, “Mr. Texas,” Paul Waffington was moving away.
“Ugh!” growled Mr. Texas holding on to his bundles. “Ah, do you know him, ah?”
“Yes, sir. He is a friend,” the answer came softly.