It was easy to see that
she was not a musician; but, as she forgot her listeners, we forgot
everything but her.
Miss Bryant put down the compasses and scale rule she had been restlessly
fingering, and her keen eyes softened and dilated. Kitty dropped on the
floor at Helen's feet; the hush in the room was breathless. Reid sat in
the dark, still as a statue; I clenched my hands and held silence.
The words were as simple as the air. But the voice, so clear, so sweet, so
joyous, like Helen's own loveliness--to hear it was an ecstasy. We were
listening to the rarest notes that ever had fallen on human ears--unless
the tale of the sirens be history.
As the last note died, the fire leaped, dropped and left us in dusk and
silence. Kitty buried her face against Helen's dress. My heart was
pounding until in my own ears it sounded like an anvil chorus. I don't
know whether I was very happy or very miserable. I would have died to hear
that voice again. It is the truth!
With a sudden sob and a sniffing that told of tears unashamed, Miss Bryant
found frivolous words to veil our emotion.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she quavered, "this is a high-class concert; three
dollars each for tickets, please.
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