But Nell came to the Wild Rose, and the two girls grew to know each other better than before. This because they both wished a closer understanding. Nell had begun to admire something about Betty Hunt besides her frocks and the way she manicured her nails. The parson’s sister now desired to know Nell better for the parson’s sake.
“I’m sick to death, Betty, singing for those roughnecks,” Nell had burst forth on one occasion. “I used to think it was great to have ’em cheer me and clap me off and have ’em throw money at me. But I’m plumb sick of it.”
“It’s a great gift to be able to move people with one’s voice so.”
“It ain’t nothing of the kind!” Nell declared vehemently. “It’s because they ain’t got no brains—at least, what they’ve got are addled with hootch. I’ve only got just a nice, sweet, singing voice. Them fellers are so plumb ignorant that they hoot and holler for me because I please ’em. I’d love to be really able to sing!”
“I am not so sure that you cannot sing, as you mean it,” was Betty’s sympathetic rejoinder. “Merely, you do not sing worth-while songs—altogether.”
“I’m mighty ashamed about singing that ‘This Is No Place for a Minister’s Son,’” burst out Nell suddenly.
“Why, I think it’s funny,” and Betty laughed. “I’ve often heard Ford humming it.”
“Oh! I—I sang it at him, Betty. I did!”
“I am quite sure it never disturbed Ford in the least.”
“Well, no, I reckon not. Nothing a girl like me done——”