To the alleged tune a song was started. It was perfectly dark in the place, no substitute lights having been provided, and when the voice of a young girl trembled above the din and racket of the people fighting for the open air, it seemed almost ridiculous.
“For our special benefit,” announced Walter. “I don’t believe there is another person seated in the place.”
But the girl sang on, each bar of her song of the times bringing her voice out clearer, and fuller.
“I would like to see her face,” said Cora to Ed. “There is something familiar about that voice.”
“Well, perhaps we can make a light,” he replied. “I have as many as two matches, and the other fellows may have a couple.”
Bess leaned over to Cora. “Doesn’t that sound like Nellie?” she asked. “I am sure she had just that queer lisp.”
“I was just saying the same thing,” returned Cora. “Oh, if we only could find them—here, and have no further worry about them and their—foolish suicide note,” for although Cora placed no credence in the drowning threat, she did not like it, and would very much preferred to have it put out of all possibility of occurring.
Still the child sang on—all about the roses and the birds that seemed to get in a most dangerous tangle, until the listeners found it difficult to tell which was sweeter—the song of the birds, or the color of the roses!
The Chelton party was not far from the place where the footlights ought to have been.
“Suppose I go over there and strike a match,” suggested Ed. “I can hold it up near her face, and then you will be able to get a glimpse.”