“Well, that very same poem I am going to read, next Wednesday night, at the evening exercises in the academy. The academy hall won’t hold everybody, and so they are going to be admitted by tickets. Each of us girls has a certain number to give away, and I have one for you. I thought you would like to go and see me there among the rest in my white gown, and hear me read the old verses again.”
You would not have believed so small a thing could so have moved anybody; but Sally’s face turned from red to white, and from white to red again, and her big black eyes were as full of tears as an April cloud is of rain-drops.
“Do you mean it, truly?” she asked.
“Yes, truly, child. Here is your ticket. Why, don’t cry, foolish girl. It’s nothing. I wanted to be sure of one person there who would think I read well, whether any one else did or not. And I’ve a gown for you, too—that pink muslin, don’t you know, that I wore last year? I’ve shot up right out of it, and it’s of no use to me, now, and mamma said I might give it to you. This is Saturday; you can get it ready by Wednesday, can’t you?”
What a happy girl went home that night, just as the rosy June sunset was fading away, and ran, bright and glad and full of joyful expectation, into the Widow Green’s humble little house! Widow Green wasn’t much of a woman, in the neighbors’ estimation. She was honest and civil, and she washed well; but that was all they saw in her. Sally saw much more. She saw a mother who always tried to make her happy; who shared her enthusiasms, or at least sympathized with them; who was never cross or jealous, or any thing but motherly. She was as pleased, now, at the prospect of Sally’s pleasure as Sally herself was; and just as proud of this attention from pretty Miss Kate. Together they made over the pink muslin dress; and when Wednesday night came the widow felt sure that her daughter was as well worth having, and as much to be proud of, as any other mother’s daughter that would be at the academy.
“You must go very early,” she said, “to get a good seat; and you need not be afraid to go right up to the front. You’ve just as good right to get close up there as anybody.”
When Sally was going out, her mother called her back.
“Here, dear,” she said, “just take the shawl. Do it to please me, for there’s no knowing how cold it might be when you get out.”
“The shawl” was an immense Rob Roy plaid,—a ridiculous wrap, truly, for a June night; but summer shawls they had none, and Sally was too dutiful, as well as too happy, not to want to please her mother even in such a trifle. How differently two lives would have come out if she had not taken it!
She was the very first one to enter the academy. Dare she go and sit in the front row so as to be close to pretty Miss Kate? Ordinarily she would have shrunk into some far corner, for she was almost painfully shy; but now something outside herself seemed to urge her on. She would not take up much room,—this something whispered,—and nobody, no, nobody at all, could love Miss Kate better than she did. So she went into the very front row, close up to the little stage on which the young performers were to appear,—a veritable stage, with real foot-lights.