Sundown was rosy behind the distant mountains, a sea of purple shadows laved their nearer feet, when Banjo got out his fiddle at Mrs. Chadron’s request and sang her “favorite” along with the moving tones of that instrument.
Dau-ling I am growing-a o-o-eld,
Seel-vo threads a-mong tho go-o-ld—
As he sang, Nola slipped from the room. He was finishing when she sped by the window and came sparkling into the room with the announcement that the guests from far Cheyenne were coming. Frances was up in excitement; Mrs. Chadron searched the floor for her unfinished sock.
“What was that flashed a-past the winder like a streak a minute ago?” Banjo inquired.
“Flashed by the window?” Nola repeated, puzzled.
Frances laughed, the two girls stopping in the door, merriment gleaming from their young faces like rays from iridescent gems.
“Why, that was Nola,” Frances told him, curious to learn what the sentimental eyes of the little musician foretold.
“I thought it was a star from the sky,” said Banjo, sighing softly, like a falling leaf.
As they waited at the gate to welcome the guests, 40 who were cantering up with a curtain of dust behind them, they laughed over Banjo’s compliment.