Judy, still wearing her widow’s weeds, was singing a doleful ballad when Molly hurried in, called “By the Bonnie Milldams o’ Binnorie.” Molly was fond of this ancient song, but she was in no mood to listen to it just then.
“‘The youngest stood upon a stane,
The eldest cam’ and pushed her in.
Oh, sister, sister, reach your hand,
And ye sall be heir to half my land;
Oh, sister, sister, reach but your glove,
And sweet William sall be your love.’”
The guitar gave out a mournful twang.
“Talk about impressionable people, I’m worse than she is,” thought Molly. “I’ll shriek aloud if she doesn’t stop this minute.”
Just then the six o’clock bell boomed out and Molly did give a loud nervous exclamation.
Judy dropped the guitar on the floor. The strings resounded with a deep protesting chord and then subsided into resigned quietude.
“Molly, what is the matter? You’re as pale as a ghost.”
Molly smiled at her own weakness. Having just made up her mind not to tell Judy, she was suddenly possessed with a fever to relate the entire incident from beginning to end.
“If you’ll promise to put on your red dress to-night by way of celebration, and to cheer me up, I’ll tell you a thrilling story, Judy.”
“But I’ve made a vow and I can’t break it.”