Miriam ran a brilliant scale up the piano, for music was another of her many accomplishments. Then she paused and turned to the others.
"I won't sing," she said, "unless Miss Pierson promises to recite us something first, Poe's 'Raven,' for instance."
Grace flushed angrily and was about to interfere when, to her surprise, Anne herself replied:
"I shall be glad to if that is the poem you like best. I always preferred 'Annabel Lee.'"
Miriam was too amazed to answer. She could never form an idea of what it cost Anne in self-control to acquiesce; but the young girl had gained a new strength that day. So many people had been kind to her, and what is more, interested in her welfare. She rose quietly and walked to the middle of the semicircle.
Grace and her chums were in an agony of fear lest poor Anne should break down, and so distress them all except the unkind Miriam. However, they need not have troubled themselves. Anne fixed her eyes on the far wall of the dining room and commenced to recite "The Raven" in a clear, musical voice that deepened as she repeated the stanzas. The girls forgot the shabby little figure in its ill-fitting black silk and saw only Anne's small, white face and glowing eyes. Not Miss Tebbs, herself, teacher of English and elocution at the High School, could have improved upon the performance.
"It was perfectly done," said Grace afterwards, telling the story to her mother. "It was almost uncanny and quite creepy toward the last."
When the performance was over the girls crowded around little Anne with eager congratulations; but, strange to say, everyone forgot that Miriam had given her promise to sing.
What the crestfallen Miriam kept wondering was: "Wherever did she learn to do it?"