e
ridiculed because of Tabitha's mistake; and she hurriedly completed the
small girl's "war times toilette" so that when Tabitha emerged from
under her skillful hands she was the admiration and envy of all her
mates. And truly she presented a pretty picture as she stood before the
none too critical audience and recited _Sheridan's Ride_ with such vim
and spirit that every heart was fired with patriotism and the applause
was so prolonged that Miss Brooks told her she must speak another piece,
even though it was not on the program. Purposely the teacher had left
Tabitha's part in the exercises well toward the last, knowing that she
could be depended upon to make a fitting climax for the afternoon's
program, nor was she disappointed; and she fairly beamed upon the little
girl as she gently pushed her toward the front of the platform to
respond to her encore.

Having done so well with one war piece, Tabitha decided that _Barbara
Fritchie_ was a most appropriate selection to recite this second time,
besides being quite in keeping with her old-fashioned dress. So she
began the familiar lines:

Up from the meadow rich with corn
Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

How she loved that poem, how vividly the whole scene seemed to lie
before her, and how her very soul thrilled as she gave life to the
stirring words!

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.

She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

Suddenly from among the audience one face seemed to leap before her
eyes,--white, set, terrified. Tom! And beside him, leaning forward as he
stood near the door, his face grim and threatening, was her father! Her
surroundings were forgotten; she seemed to be standing beside the dusty
road again with a pail of blackberries at her feet; and with gaze
rivetted upon those two figures in the back of the hall, she recited:

Slap, if you dare, you old gray head,
I'll scratch like a--cat--till you'll wish you were dead.

Was there a titter behind her, were the faces in the audience smiling?
Was Miss Brooks speaking her name, were someone's arms around her
trying to drag her to her seat? It seemed an age that she stood there,
words frozen on her lips, heart that seemed to have ceased its beating,
and eyes that looked without seeing. Then, pau