“Sir, I did not know ’twas required, but— Yes, I can sing.”
“A ballad over your needleworks, child? Well, but I need somewhat more.”
“Somewhat more I can do, Sir,” she said modestly, “I have had lessons.”
“Can you sing me a lesson now?”
’Twas a hard test and Mr. Rich knew it, but the girl invited tests. Two she had past triumphant, but the third was the hardest. ’Tis to be said however that he already saw her in his mind’s eye in the chorus, was it but up the stage or in the wings. That face would stir the gallants, he dare swear.
Bending over his scrutoire he took out a sheet of music very neat written,
“This here’s a song in the new piece. You would not have this song for ’tis the first woman’s. Still, since we can’t ask you for a chorus, ’twill give me the notion of your voice, Mrs. Beswick. Will you try it—you can read the music?”
“Certainly, Sir,” she replied with a little curtsy, and a sort of assured modesty very pleasing. “You will make allowance for my situation, I am certain.”
He composed himself in his chair as she took the music in hand, and stood up like a young poplar by the candles to get the light on the sheet. A few minutes past while she read it down slowly and carefully, the paper shaking the least in the world in a somewhat trembling hand. Then she began:
“Cease your funning,