Father Letheby sat by me, quiet and demure, as usual. He looked as if he had known nothing of all this wonder-working; and when I charged him solemnly with being chief organizer, builder, framer, and designer in all this magic, he put me off gently:—
"You know we must educate the people, sir. And you know our people are capable of anything."
I believed him.
Presently, there was a great stir at the end of the long room, and I looked around cautiously; for we were all so grand, I felt I should be dignified indeed.
"Who are these gentry, coming up the centre of the hall?" I whispered; for a grand procession was streaming in.
"Gentry?" he said. "Why, these are the performers." They were just passing,—dainty little maidens, in satin from the bows in their wavy and crisp locks down to their white shoes; and they carried bouquets, and a subtle essence of a thousand odors filled the air.
"Visitors at the Great House?" I whispered.
"Not at all," he cried impatiently. "They are our own children. There's Mollie Lennon, the smith's daughter; and there's Annie Logan, whose father sells you the mackerel; and there's Tessie Navin, and Maudie Kennedy, and—"
"Who's that grand young lady, with her hair done up like the Greek girls of Tanagra?" I gasped.
"Why, that's Alice Moylan, the monitress."