Willingly enough, Elaine went to the melodeon, which had not been opened since the Carrs came to live at the Jack-o’-Lantern, and lifted the lid. Immediately, however, she went off into hysterics, which were so violent that Harlan and Dorothy were obliged to assist her to her room.
Dick strongly desired to carry Elaine upstairs, but was forbidden by the hampering conventionalities. So he lounged over to the melodeon, somewhat surprised to find that “It” was still there.
“It” was a brown, wavy, false front of human hair, securely anchored to the keys underneath by a complicated system of loops of linen thread. Pinned to the top was a faded slip of paper on which Uncle Ebeneezer had written, long ago: “Mrs. Judson always kept her best false front in the melodeon. I do not desire to have it disturbed.—E. J.”
“His Nibs never could bear music,” thought Dick, as he closed the instrument, little guessing that a vein of sentiment in Uncle Ebeneezer’s hard nature had impelled him to keep the prosaic melodeon forever sacred to the slender, girlish fingers that had last brought music from its yellowed keys.
From upstairs still came the sound of crying, which was not altogether to be wondered at, considering Miss St. Clair’s weak, nervous condition. Harlan came down, scowling, and took back the brandy flask, moving none too hastily.
“They don’t like Elaine,” murmured Dick to himself, vaguely troubled. “I wonder why—oh, I wonder why!”