As soon as dinner was over and her mother comfortably in bed, Judy pleaded weariness.
“Good idea for us all to get to bed early. Tomorrow is the big day,” her father smiled.
“You’re sure Mother’s going to be able to sing? It’s wonderful, Father—”
Judy picked up her book, an ancient and much worn copy of Les Miserables that she had found in some neglected cabinet. The title appealed to her. With a deprecating little smile at her father, she ascended the staircase, much as Sidney Carton is said to have ascended the gallows.
* * * * * * * *
It was a quarter to four on Wednesday afternoon. The Amphitheater, as the Big Tent was sometimes called, was packed, every seat taken.
Judy, no longer the lonesome stranger of those first weeks in Aspen, knew many people. The children of the camp were there. Even the youngest came to hear his father play in the orchestra. They waved and smiled to her and she waved back. But she was tense and frightened, impatient for the concert to begin, and wishing it were over. Her mother was well, the doctor was more than satisfied. But could that terrible thing happen again—
Mr. Izler Solomon, the conductor, stood on the podium, bowing to acknowledge the applause. Judy sat through Beethoven and Prokofieff, hardly knowing which was which. Her mind was a blank, her heart was pounding.
Minna Lurie stepped on stage, bowed at the ripple of applause. Judy stared open-mouthed. Was that her mother? So poised, so beautiful, in that shimmering green dress? Solomon lifted his baton. The orchestra began.