“What is it to be? 'Dixie'?”
“Yes! Yes!” cried the crowd. “'Dixie.' We'll give you the chorus.”
After a little protest the girl struck a few chords and dashed off into that old plantation song full of mingling pathos and humour. Barney picked up his father's violin, touched the strings softly till he found her key and then followed in a subdued accompaniment of weird chords. The girl turned herself toward him, her beautiful face lighting up as if she had caught a glimpse of a kindred spirit, and with a new richness and tenderness she poured forth the full flood of her song. The crowd were entranced with delight. Even those who had been somewhat impatient for the renewal of the dance joined in calls for another song. She turned to Dick, who had resumed his place beside her. “Who is the man you wanted so badly to kiss?” she asked quietly.
“Who?” he cried, so that everyone heard. “What! don't you know? That's Barney, the one and only Barney, my brother. Here, Barney, drop your fiddle and be introduced to Miss Iola Lane, late from Virginia, or is it Maryland? Some of those heathen places beyond the Dixie line.”
Barney dropped the violin from his chin, came over the floor, and awkwardly offered his hand. With easy, lazy grace she rose from the block where she had been sitting.
“You accompany beautifully,” she said in her soft Southern drawl; “it's in you, I can see. No one can ever be taught to accompany like that.”
“Oh, pshaw! That's nothing,” said Barney, eager to get back again to his shadow, “but if you don't mind I'll try to follow you if you sing again.”
“Certainly,” cried Dick, “she'll sing again. What will you give us now, white or black?”
“Plantation, of course,” said Barney brusquely.
“All right. 'Kentucky home,' eh?” cried Dick.