"It doesn't matter," I said; "I'm equally familiar with Choctaw."
"Adela and Zillah, you come and stand by me. Your little voices are like the birds'."
We all gathered in the old parlor, and spent an hour that I shall never forget. I had a tolerable tenor, and an ear made fairly correct by hearing much music. Mr. Hearn did not sing, but he seemingly entered into the spirit of the occasion. Before very long Miss Warren and I were singing some things together. Mr. Hearn no doubt compared our efforts unfavorably with what he had heard in the city, but the simple people of the farmhouse were much pleased, and repeatedly asked us to continue. As I was leaning over Miss Warren's shoulder, finding a place in the hymn-book on the stand, she breathed softly:
"Have you told them you are going to-morrow?"
"No," I replied.
"Can you leave such friends?"
"Yes."
"You ought not. It would hurt them cruelly;" and she made some runs on the piano to hide her words.
"If you say I ought not to go, I'll stay—Ah, this is the one I was looking for," I said, in a matter-of-fact tone; but she played the music with some strange slips and errors; her hands were nervous and trembling, and never was the frightened look that I had seen before more distinctly visible.
After we had sung a stanza or two she rose and said, "I think I'm getting a little tired, and the room seems warm. Wouldn't you like to take a walk?" she asked Mr. Hearn, coming over to his side.