Felicity followed her and recited her selection without haste,
without rest, and absolutely without any expression whatever. But
what mattered it how she recited? To look at her was sufficient.
What with her splendid fleece of golden curls, her great,
brilliant blue eyes, her exquisitely tinted face, her dimpled
hands and arms, every member of the audience must have felt it was
worth the ten cents he had paid merely to see her.
The Story Girl followed. An expectant silence fell over the room,
and Mr. Perkins' face lost the look of tense anxiety it had worn
all the evening. Here was a performer who could be depended on.
No need to fear stage fright or forgetfulness on her part. The
Story Girl was not looking her best that night. White never
became her, and her face was pale, though her eyes were splendid.
But nobody thought about her appearance when the power and magic
of her voice caught and held her listeners spellbound.
Her recitation was an old one, figuring in one of the School
Readers, and we scholars all knew it off by heart. Sara Ray alone
had not heard the Story Girl recite it. The latter had not been
drilled at practices as had the other pupils, Mr. Perkins choosing
not to waste time teaching her what she already knew far better
than he did.
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