“Dear Birdie, can’t you see that’s what the whole thing is for—to cure Aunt Mean of her nonsense? You know how proud she is—we think if we can only get her to the hall, that, after she has heard how beautifully you play and how fine people think it is, she will give right in.”
“I’m ’fraid she mightn’t—’sides, Cousin Gertrude, how could I ever play at the hall? I never, never could do that.”
“Chee,” Gertrude’s face was earnest with pleading, “you love your little violin, don’t you?”
“You know I love Daddy Joe’s fiddle best of everything in this world.”
“Well, if you knew that all you ever might learn about it depended upon whether you played at the hall or not, couldn’t you do it?”
“Do you mean I could learn to make music like the man at the concert long ago?” Chee spoke tremulously, and tears filled her eyes as they looked up, so full of yearning entreaty.
“Yes, I think you could. If our concert was a success, so Aunt Mean would let you go, we would take you to the city with us, where you could study music to your heart’s content.”
“Go to the city and learn how to play all I want to!” Chee echoed.
“Can’t you get courage to play at the concert, now?” The child’s lips compressed for a moment, then she answered in a whisper, “I don’t believe she’d ever let me go, but I’ll try.”
“That’s a dear. Don’t you worry about Aunt Mean. Just wait until my Nut-Brown Maiden thrills the house.”