Muriel looked up at the other maiden and slipping an arm about her, she said impulsively, “I love you.”
Then, before the gypsy girl could reply, the younger harpist was called. “Oh Nan,” she said in a sudden panic of fear.
“Think of your father, dearie and just play for him.” How calming that suggestion had been, and, while she played, Muriel was thinking of the twilight hours when her father had lifted her to his knee, and, holding her close, had told her of that other little girl whom he had so loved, and how lonely his boyhood had been when that little sister had died, and, how like her, Muriel was. “It will be a happy day for me, little daughter, when I hear you play as she did on the harp,” he had often said.
When the last sweet notes were stilled, there were tears in many eyes, for Muriel, forgetting all others, had played alone for her father.
Professor Bentz was amazed and delighted. “I knew she had talent,” he said to Mrs. Dorsey, the principal of the school, “but I did not know that she could play like that.”
When the recital was over, it was to Muriel that the medal of gold was awarded.
“Oh Nan, I ought not to take it. You have done it all!”
There was a happy light in the eyes of the gypsy girl as she stooped and kissed her little friend. “You played wonderfully dearie!” she said.
Just at that moment a maid appeared in the library door, where the performers had gathered. “Miss Muriel,” she called, “there is a gentleman here to see you.”
“It’s father!” the little girl cried with eyes aglow. “I do believe that he came for the recital.”