Suddenly the soft tinkle of a mandolin sounded under the window, then a chorus of fresh young voices sang softly:
"Come, tune your lyre to Kathleen West,
Of all the plays hers is the best;
Long may she shine, long may she wave,
Her shrine we deck with garlands brave;
May Fortune bring her world renown—
To Kathleen West, girls, drink her down."
"How perfectly sweet in them!" exclaimed Kathleen, her color rising.
"Hush!" Miriam held up her finger.
"Dear Loyalheart, we sing to you,
O girl so brave and sweet and true,
May life to you be wondrous kind,
And may you all its treasures find;
May skies ne'er threaten you, nor frown—
To Loyalheart, girls, drink her down."
Owing to the lateness of the play no one at Wayne Hall had had time to retire, and, hearing the music, the girls had with one accord hurried to the windows.
"Come on up, Gertrude," called Grace into the soft darkness. "I know your voice. How on earth did you get out of your costume, go home for your mandolin and manage to land under Miriam's and Elfreda's window, all within half an hour?"
"That's easy. We brought our instruments of torture with us to the play, and Elfreda agreed to have you girls in her room at the time appointed."
"There is fruit punch enough to go round, and dozens of cakes," observed an ingratiating voice over Grace's shoulder.
"We had several more verses to sing, and one for you, Elfreda. If you will ask Mrs. Elwood's permission, we will come up, sing them and incidentally sample the punch and the cakes," stipulated Gertrude.