“I couldn’t help singing,” said Marion, simply. “It is one of our old hymns that we sing up in the country.”
The crowd stared at her curiously as she turned away, and would probably have applauded had not the preacher objected.
“No! No! Not now! Not at this time!” he said, smiling. “The child is a friend of mine; she only did it to help me.”
“She’ll make more converts than you will, Mr. Haley!” called a jovial voice in the crowd.
The preacher laughed good-naturedly as he answered.
“I hope she will, I am sure, Mr. Smythe. It would be a pity if that voice could not cheer the soul of some poor sinner.”
Marion was hurrying away, when two men stepped up to her.
“I beg your pardon, miss,” said Marcus Rosen, the song writer, politely, “I have just been listening to your beautiful singing. You have a magnificent voice. Pray tell me who trained it.”
Marion looked up at him sharply and saw the eagerness in his face.
“It has never been trained, sir, by any one,” she said, simply. “I sing as I feel—I know nothing of method.”