Meanwhile Madge had led the girls into the library, which was richly though simply furnished. She asked them to be seated while they talked over which classes they would like to enter. “The Art Institute is just around the corner, and we are not due there until ten-thirty,” Madge said. “Of course, you lassies understand that it is an endowed institute, and so the classes are free. Eva has decided to take drawing. Adele, what would be your choice?”
“Oh, Miss Peterson!” Adele cried joyously. “I didn’t know that I was to take anything. Have they a class for writers? I may not have any talent, but I’d so love to try.”
Miss Peterson smiled at the girl’s enthusiasm as she replied, “Then you shall have the opportunity, and really wanting to do a thing is half of success, I think, because one is more apt to persevere in spite of seeming failures.” Then, turning to Amanda, she said kindly, “And what talent have you hidden away, little Miss Brown?”
Amanda flushed with evident embarrassment as she replied, “Oh, Miss Peterson, I don’t suppose that I have any talents. If I have, I don’t know what they are. I never had a chance to try anything.”
Madge Peterson’s heart was touched with pity for this forlorn girl, and she said softly, “Amanda, won’t you tell us a little about your life, before you went to the orphanage, and then perhaps we shall know how best to find your talent?”
“There isn’t much to tell,” Amanda said hesitatingly. “My mother was only eighteen when I came. She sang in concert-halls, and folks said her voice was like an angel’s, sweet and sad-like. All that I seem to remember of her looks is that her face was so white and her dark eyes shone like stars. She used to leave me in a little back room when she sang, and then, when her part was over, she would catch me up in her arms and hold me close, and sometimes she cried. Then, when I was seven years old, she was taken sick. A kind old woman took care of us. One day my mother called me to her bedside. She said, ‘Little daughter, if you can sing when you grow up, promise me that you won’t sing in concert-halls.’ Of course I promised. The old woman kept me for a while after mother died, but she didn’t have any money, and so she sent me to the orphanage and I’ve been there ever since, and now I am thirteen.”
There were tears in the eyes of the listeners, and Madge said kindly, “Amanda, would you like to try to sing?”
Amanda shook her head. “You have to feel happy inside to want to sing,” she said, “and I never feel that, at least I never did until Eva came,” she added, with a loving glance toward her friend.
Then Madge rose and said, “Come, girls, we will go to the Art Institute now.”
A few moments later they were entering a large building only a block from the Peterson home. Eva was placed in a drawing-class and Adele in one for composition. When the other two were alone, Madge said kindly, “Amanda, there is a dear old singing-master here. I have known him for years. Will you let him try your voice?”