“He’s going to give me a chance,” said Ethel quietly. The old lady was silent for a moment.
“I should like to hear about it,” she told the girl at last, in a voice that touched Ethel profoundly—a voice so determined to sound cheerful and sympathetic.
“I can’t tell you, grandmother,” she said gently; “because you’d think it was your duty to tell Aunt Amy, and she’d try to stop me. I don’t intend to be stopped. I may never have another chance. I don’t care what I have to sacrifice. I’d gladly give up anything on earth for my singing. You can’t think what it’s like to have that in you—such a terrible longing—to know that you can do it, and to be stopped and turned aside and laughed at!” She bent and kissed the old lady again. “I’ve got to go now, grandmother dear!” she said, with a sob.
“No! Little Ethel! No!”
“I’ve got to, grandmother. I promised.”
“Ethel! You promised what?”
The girl was frankly crying now.
“Good-by, darling!” she said. “You’ve always been my dearest, kindest friend. If I hadn’t been a little beast, I’d never have left you; but I am a little beast. I must go my own way. I’ve got to go. Good-by, dear!”
Her hand was on the door knob.
“No, Ethel, no!” cried the old lady.