Dorothy Dainty at the Mountains Part 5

When the hour arrived that had been set for the concert, every guest was present, and all were talking and laughing gaily, and very glad that an evening's amus.e.m.e.nt had been provided.

Outside, the rain was descending in torrents, while a cold wind whistled around the corners, as if demanding admittance.

Indoors the heavy red hangings were drawn over the lace draperies, great logs blazed in the fireplaces, while over all softly shaded lights gave an air of cozy comfort that made one feel sheltered and safe from the storm.

A group of ladies sat chatting together, and one, a recent arrival, was saying that she had understood that children were not permitted as guests at the Cleverton.

"There are only a few children here," Mrs. Vinton said, "and some of them are charming."

"While others are _not_?" questioned the stranger, with an odd smile.

"I'd rather not say just that," Mrs. Vinton said, "but I will say that Mrs. Dainty's little daughter, and Dorothy's little friend, Nancy, and Flossie Barnet, are three of the sweetest children I have ever met. My stay here is brighter and far pleasanter because they are also here."

"Dorothy Dainty is an unusually fine singer for a child," another lady said, "and she is to sing for us to-night. I believe Nancy Ferris is to do something, but I do not know what. Does any one know if Nancy sings?"

"I've not the least idea what her talent is," said a pleasant-voiced matron, "but she is such a bright, interesting child that I feel sure that whatever she is able to do at all, she will do exceedingly well."

"Aunt Vera is to play a solo for the first number," said little Flossie Barnet, to a lady who sat near her.

"That is delightful," said the lady, "and what are you to do?"

"Oh, I'll listen, and listen," said Flossie, "and then, I'll clap to show how much I liked what the people did."

"And your friend Dorothy is to sing," said the lady, "do you know what Nancy does?"

"Oh, yes, I do!" cried Flossie, "and she does it so lovely, you'll wonder how she could! I'm not to tell _what_ she'll do, none of us are to tell. You'll _see_ when she does it!"

"Dear little girl, you seem quite as happy as if you were to be a soloist," said the lady.

"Why, yes," said Flossie, "for when the other little girls do pretty things, I see them, but I couldn't see myself do anything!"

"Oh, you sweet, funny little girl," the pleasant-faced lady said, as she drew Flossie closer, "I never knew so dear a child."

"Dorothy and Nancy are dear," said Flossie, "and oh, you haven't seen Molly Merton! She's another one of my little friends, and she's _always_ lovely to play with. We're always together when I'm at home at Merrivale."

Before the lady could express regret that she did not know Molly, the orchestra began the opening chords of an overture.

The musicians gave an afternoon and evening concert daily, throughout the season, but to-night their numbers were to be interspersed with solos given by the guests.

The orchestra was generously applauded, and then a slender figure in a gown of soft, pink satin seated itself at the piano, and with light touch and brilliant execution, played a rondo that delighted all.

In response to repeated applause, she played the "Caprice Hongroise,"

which aroused wild enthusiasm.

She smiled, and bowed gracefully in acknowledgment, then turning toward her husband, who now stood beside her, took from his hand the duplicate of the song that he was to sing. She always played his accompaniments.

How full of music was his rare voice, how like the tones of a silver trumpet when he sang "A Song of the Sea," how tender his tones when for a second number, he sang an "Italian Love Song!"

"Didn't he sing _fine_, just _fine_?" Flossie asked, eagerly.

"Indeed he did," the lady replied, "I never heard a more excellent voice."

"Well, he's my own Uncle Harry!" said Flossie, a world of love and pride in her voice.

A young girl played a serenade on the guitar, and a member of the orchestra played a waltz for violin, and both were encored.

Those who were to perform were in a small room awaiting their turn. They were laughing and chatting while they waited, and all, save a little girl, who kept apart from the others, seemed bright and happy. Her eyes were dull, and her red lips pouting. It was Floretta Paxton, and she was watching Nancy Ferris, noticing every detail of her costume, and looking as unpleasant as possible.

Nancy wore a frock of white gauze, thickly strewn with tiny gold spangles. Her girdle was white satin, her slippers were white, and she wore a cl.u.s.ter of pink rosebuds in her hair.

"What's she going to do?" Floretta asked in a fretful voice, but Mrs.

Paxton, who stood beside her, could not tell her that. She knew no more of Nancy's talent than Floretta did.

Floretta had been angry in the afternoon; she had foolishly refused dinner, and was very hungry; she was made more angry because hers was not the first number on the program, and now, here was Nancy Ferris wearing a beautiful frock that far outshone her own!

She was wearing a simple pink muslin, and had felt that she was finely dressed, until Nancy appeared.

The satin girdle, the white slippers, and the spangles were more than she could forgive.

"What's she going to _do?_" she asked again, more fretfully than before.

"I _don't know_," Mrs. Paxton said.

"Well, I won't do a thing 'til I do know!" said Floretta.

Silly little girl! Always a jealous child, she now thought that Nancy _might_ be another impersonator or imitator, and she was nearly wild.

The orchestra was now playing a dreamy waltz. Nancy's foot tapped the measure. Her eyes were brighter.

"What _is_ she going to do?" whispered Floretta.

The tall man, who had been announcing the numbers, now swung aside the portiere, and Nancy slipped from her chair, ran out upon the stage, and then,--oh, the fairy motion of her arms, the lightness with which, on the tips of her toes, she flew across the stage!

With her finger-tips she lifted the hem of her skirt, and courtesied low, then away in a dreamy whirl she sped, turning to look over her shoulder, and laugh at the faces that showed greatest surprise.

On swept the strains of sweetest music, and little Nancy, carried away with love of the music, danced more charmingly than ever before.

Aunt Charlotte and Mrs. Dainty watched her flying figure, and often as they had seen her, they knew that she was excelling herself.

"Nancy, Nancy, dear child!" murmured Aunt Charlotte.

Now, with her feet crossed, and still on the tips of her toes she whirled like a top, did the graceful rocking step, swayed like a flower in the wind, whirled about again, courtesied once more, and laughing like a merry, dark-eyed sprite, ran back into the little waiting-room.

Oh, what thunders of applause greeted her, yet she sat quietly chatting with a lady who stood near her!

Again and again they seemed to be begging that the little dancer might return.

"I'll bow to them," said Nancy, and she ran out to do so.