"Recitation—Miss Lark Starr."
Again the applause rang out.
Lark did not move. "I can't," she whispered again. "I can't."
"Lark, Lark," begged Carol desperately. "You must go, you must. 'The wind went drifting o'er the lea,'—it's easy enough. Go on, Lark. You must."
Lark shook her head. "Mmmmm," she murmured indistinctly.
"Remember the parsonage," begged Carol. "Think of Prudence. Think of papa. Look, there he is, right down there. He's expecting you, Lark. You must!"
Lark tried to rise. She could not. She could not see her father's clear encouraging face for those queer flashes of light.
"You can," whispered Carol. "You can do anything if you try. Prudence says so."
People were craning their necks, and peering curiously up to the second row where the twins sat side by side. The other performers nudged one another, smiling significantly. The superintendent creaked heavily across the platform and beckoned with one plump finger.
"I can't," Lark whispered, "I'm sick."