As the beautiful girl finished the plaintive air there was absolute stillness for a few seconds. The audience was too deeply moved to speak. Melissa’s voice was sweet and full and came with no more effort than the song of the mocking bird heard in her own valleys at dawn. She took high note or low with the same ease that she had stooped and lifted her little hair trunk at Wellington station.
The song in itself was very remarkable, being one of the few original ballads evidently brought to America by an early settler, and handed down from mother to daughter through the centuries. Edwin Green recognized it, and noted the changes from the original from time to time. Richard Blount was the first to find his tongue, although he was the one most deeply moved by the performance.
“My, that was fine!” was all he could say, but he broke the spell of silence, and there was a storm of applause. Melissa bowed and smiled, pleased that she met with their approval, but with no airs or affectation.
“She has the stage manner of a great artist who is above caring for what the gallery thinks, but has sung for Art’s sake, and, as an artist, knows her work is good,” said Richard to Professor Green. “Miss Hathaway, you will sing again for us, please. I can’t remember having such a treat as you have just given us, and I have been to every opera in New York for six years.”
The demand was general, so Melissa graciously complied. This time she gave “The Mistletoe Bough.”
“The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,
And the holly branch shone on the old oak wall;
And all within were blithe and gay,
Keeping their Christmas holiday.
Oh, the mistletoe bough,
Oh, the mistletoe bough.”