“Sing it again. I never heard anything like it,” he said as he at last reached her side.
“Yes, sing it again,” Miss Percy said, laying a hand on her shoulder.
Louie sang it again, better than at first, it seemed to those who heard her, and this time she had for her audience the whole party, for the dancing had ceased, and musicians and all were listening to her. There were cheers and clapping of hands and bravoes heard on all sides when she was through, with a call for more. But Louie had done enough. Her brain was reeling with the vociferous applause, and a pallor was setting about her mouth, which Miss Percy was quick to see.
“Come with me. You need some fresh air after this,” she said, and taking Louie’s hand she led her out upon the veranda, where she made her sit down, while she stood over her and asked, “Where did you learn all this?”
“From the birds,” Louie answered. “I am always imitating them. I cannot help it. I began when I was a child, first with the crows and bobolinks and then with the robins. I liked them best, and I’ve kept on till I guess I can sing like them all. Did I do well?”
She looked up at Miss Percy, who stooped and kissed her as she replied:
“Do well? I should think you did. Why, every musician and dancer stopped to listen to you. Do you know, you have a fortune in your voice—hundreds of dollars a night, perhaps.”
“Oh!” Louie gasped; “I couldn’t do it; it tires me so, and makes my heart beat so fast when the people cheer—not the singing, but the cheering. If I were all alone, I could sing on and on forever, but I could never sing on the stage.”
“Who is talking of the stage for Louie? You, Fred?”
It was Herbert who spoke, and who had come out upon the veranda, preceded by Fred Lansing.