Ethelyn's Mistake

And simple-hearted Andy drew near to Ethelyn, who was softened more by

what he said than she could have been by her husband's most urgent

appeal. The thought of the people to whom she had been so cold, and even

rude, working and planning for her comfort, touched a very tender chord,

and had Richard then proffered his request for her to go down, it is

very possible she might have done so; but it was too late now, and after

Andy left her she lay pondering what he had said and listening to the

sound of voices which came up to her from the parlor directly beneath

her room where James, and John, and Andy, and the mother, with Melinda,

and Eunice, were talking to Richard, who was conscious of a greater

feeling of content, sitting there in their midst again, than he had

known in many a day. Melinda had been more than disappointed at Mrs.

Richard's non-appearance, for aside from a curiosity to see the great

lady, there was a desire to be able to report that she seen her to other

females equally curious, whom she would next day meet at church. It

would have added somewhat to her self-complacency as well as importance

in their eyes, could she have quoted Mrs. Richard's sayings, and,

described Mrs. Richard's dress, the very first day after her arrival. It

would look as if the intimacy, which many predicted would end with Mrs.

Ethelyn's coming, was only cemented the stronger; but no such honor was

in store for her. Ethelyn declined coming down, and with a good-humored

smile Melinda said she was quite excusable; and then, untying her

bonnet, she laid it aside, just as she did the indescribable air of

stiffness she had worn while expecting Mrs. Richard.

How merrily they all laughed and chatted together! and how handsome

James' eyes grew as they rested admiringly upon the sprightly girl, who

perfectly conscious of his gaze, never looked at him, but confined her

attention wholly to Richard, until Andy asked "if they could not have a

bit of a tune."

Then, for the first time, Richard discovered that Ethelyn's piano had

been unpacked, and was now standing between the south windows, directly

under Daisy's picture. It was open, too, and the sheet of music upon the

rack told that it had been used. Richard did not care for himself, but

he was afraid of what Ethelyn might say, and wondered greatly why she

had not spoken of the liberty they had taken.

Ethelyn had not observed the piano; or if she did she had paid no

attention to it. Accustomed as she had always been to seeing one in the

room, she would have missed its absence more than she noticed its

presence. But when, as she lay half dozing and thinking of Aunt Barbara,

the old familiar air of "Money-musk," played with a most energetic hand,

came to her ear, she started, for she knew the tone of her own

instrument--knew, too, that Melinda Jones' hands were sweeping the

keys--and all that Melinda Jones had done for her comfort was forgotten

in the deep resentment which heated her blood and flushed her cheek as

she listened to "Old Zip Coon," which followed "Money-musk," a shuffling

sound of feet telling that somebody's boots were keeping time after a

very unorthodox fashion. Next came a song--"Old Folks at Home"--and in

spite of her resentment Ethelyn found herself listening intently as

James' rich, deep bass, and John's clear tenor, and Andy's alto joined

in the chorus with Melinda's full soprano. The Markham boys were noted

for their fine voices; and even Richard had once assisted at a public

concert; but to-night he did not sing--his thoughts were too intent upon

the wife upstairs and what she might be thinking of the performance, and

he was glad when the piano was closed and Melinda Jones had gone.