“Plays on the table?” repeated Miss Parrott in a puzzled way. “I don’t understand.”
“Just like this,” Davie having by this time quite forgotten to be embarrassed, went over to the big mahogany center-table, and laying down his beloved slate, softly ran his fingers up and down the shining surface.
“Oh, you mean instead of a piano she uses a table.”
“Yes,” said Davie, picking up his slate, and running back to stand by Polly.
Miss Parrott was quite still for a moment regarding Polly. Then she said, “Would you like to have me play to you, Polly?”
Polly drew a long breath, and tore her gaze away from the big piano.
“Oh, if you would!” she cried with shining eyes.
So Miss Parrott sat down on the music-stool and drew her long figure up just as the music master had instructed her years ago, and began to finger the keys, Polly, with her little plant in her hand, standing in rapt attention, on one side, and David, with his slate, on the other.
At first the tunes didn’t go very well, Miss Parrott observing, “I don’t know when I have tried this before,” and breaking into some other selection. But by degrees, the slender fingers began to run up and down quite at their ease among the black and white keys, and the long somber drawing-room seemed to glow with the trills and quavers.
“My soul an’ body!” exclaimed the cross cook to the housemaid, “ef she ain’t playin’ th’ pianner. I’m scared to death, Mary Jane.”