Lark gazed at him with limpid troubled eyes. "I can't figure out, either. I don't know why I did. It was a mistake, some way."
At the church, which was gratifyingly crowded with Sunday-school enthusiasts, the twins forsook their friends and slipped along the side aisle to the "dressing-room,"—commonly utilized as the store room for worn-out song books, Bibles and lesson sheets. There they sat in throbbing, quivering silence with the rest of the "entertainers," until the first strains of the piano solo broke forth, when they walked sedately out and took their seats along the side of the platform—an antediluvian custom which has long been discarded by everything but Sunday-schools and graduating classes.
Printed programs had been distributed, but the superintendent called off the numbers also. Not because it was necessary, but because superintendents have to do something on such occasions and that is the only way to prevent superfluous speech-making.
The program went along smoothly, with no more stumbles than is customary at such affairs, and nicely punctuated with hand clappings. When the superintendent read, "Recitation—Miss Carol Starr," the applause was enthusiastic, for Carol was a prime favorite in church and school and town. With sweet and charming nonchalance she tripped to the front of the platform and gave a graceful inclination of her proud young head in response to the applause. Then her voice rang out, and the room was hushed. Nobody ever worried when Carol spoke a piece. Things always went all right. And back to her place she walked, her face flushed, her heart swelling high with the gratification of a good deed well done.
She sat down by Lark, glad she had done it, glad it was over, and praying that Lark would come off as well.
Lark was trembling.
"Carol," she whispered, "I—I'm scared."
Instantly the triumph left Carol's heart. "You're not," she whispered passionately, gripping her twin's hand closely, "you are not, you're all right."
Lark trembled more violently. Her head swayed a little. Bright flashes of light were blinding her eyes, and her ears were ringing. "I—can't," she muttered thickly. "I'm sick."
Carol leaned close to her and began a violent train of conversation, for the purpose of distracting her attention. Lark grew more pale.