"Lark,—Lark," called the superintendent.
Carol sighed bitterly. Evidently it was up to her. With a grim face, she rose from her chair and started out on the platform. The superintendent stared at her, his lips parting. The people stared at her too, and smiled, and then laughed. Panic-stricken, her eyes sought her father's face. He nodded quickly, and his eyes approved.
"Good!" His lips formed the word, and Carol did not falter again. The applause was nearly drowned with laughter as Carol advanced for her second recitation.
"The wind went drifting o'er the lea," she began,—her voice drifting properly on the words,—and so on to the end of the piece.
Most of the audience, knowing Lark's temperament, had concluded that fear prevented her appearance, and understood that Carol had come to her twin's rescue for the reputation of the parsonage. The applause was deafening as she went back. It grew louder as she sat down with a comforting little grin at Lark. Then as the clapping continued, something of her natural impishness entered her heart.
"Lark," she whispered, "go out and make a bow."
"Mercy!" gasped Lark. "I didn't do anything."
"It was supposed to be you—go on, Lark! Hurry! You've got to! Think what a joke it will be."
Lark hesitated, but Carol's dominance was compelling.
"Do as I tell you," came the peremptory order, and Lark arose from her chair, stepped out before the astonished audience and made a slow and graceful bow.