she was, and how bright and untiring; and how
wonderful it was that Ashland School had drawn such a prize of a
teacher. The seats filled, the noise and the clatter went on. Still no
sign of Gardley or any one from the camp, and still Bud had not
returned! What could it mean?

But the minutes were rushing rapidly now. It was more than time to
begin. The girls were in a flutter in one cloak-room at the right of the
stage, asking more questions in a minute than one could answer in an
hour; the boys in the other cloak-room wanted all sorts of help; and
three or four of the actors were attacked with stage-fright as they
peered through a hole in the curtain and saw some friend or relative
arrive and sit down in the audience. It was all a mad whirl of seemingly
useless noise and excitement, and she could not, no, she _could not_, go
on and do the necessary things to start that awful play. Why, oh, _why_
had she ever been left to think of getting up a play?

Forsythe, up behind the piano, whispered to her that it was time to
begin. The house was full. There was not room for another soul. Margaret
explained that Fiddling Boss had not yet arrived, and caught a glimpse
of the cunning designs of Forsythe in the shifty turning away of his
eyes as he answered that they could not wait all night for him; that if
he wanted to get into it he ought to have come early. But even as she
turned away she saw the little, bobbing, eager faces of Pop and Mom
Wallis away back by the door, and the grim, towering figure of the Boss,
his fiddle held high, making his way to the front amid the crowd.

She sat down and touched the keys, her eyes watching eagerly for a
chance to speak to the Boss and see if he knew anything of Gardley; but
Forsythe was close beside her all the time, and there was no
opportunity. She struck the opening chords of the overture they were to
attempt to play, and somehow got through it. Of course, the audience was
not a critical one, and there were few real judges of music present; but
it may be that the truly wonderful effect she produced upon the
listeners was due to the fact that she was playing a prayer with her
heart as her fingers touched the keys, and that instead of a preliminary
to a fairy revel the music told the story of a great soul struggle, and
reached hearts as it tinkled and rolled and swelled on to the end. It
may be, too, that Fiddling Boss was more in sympathy that night with his
accompanist than was the