The time at length arrived for Dulcie to do her parlour trick; she rose and came forward, clasping the big, fragrant bouquet, prettily flushed but self-possessed. The harp began a little minor prelude--something Irish and not very modern. Then Dulcie's pure, untrained voice stole winningly through the picked harp-strings'

hesitation:

"Heart of a colleen, Where do you roam?

Heart of a colleen, Far from your home?

Laden with love you stole from her breast!

Wandering dove, return to your nest!

Sodgers are sailin'

Away to the wars; Ladies are wailin'

Their woe to the stars; Why is the heart of you straying so soon-- Heart that was part of you, Eileen Aroon?

Lost to a sodger, Gone is my heart!

Lost to a sodger, Now we must part---- I and my heart--for it journeys afar Along with the sodgers who sail to the war!

Tears that near blind me My pride shall dry,---- Wisha! don't mind me!

Lave a la.s.s cry!

Only a sodger can whistle the tune That coaxes the heart out of Eileen Aroon!"

And Dulcie's song ended.

Almost instantly the audience had divined in the words she sang a significance which concerned them--a warning--perhaps a prophecy. The 69th Regiment of New York infantry was Irish, and nearly every seat in the hall held a relative of some young fellow serving in its ranks.

The applause was impulsive, stormy, persistent; the audience was demanding the young girl's recall; the noise they made became overwhelming, checking the mediating music and baffling the next embarra.s.sed graduate, scheduled to read an essay, and who stood there mute, her ma.n.u.script in her hand.

Finally the princ.i.p.al of the school arose, went over to Dulcie, and exchanged a few words with her. Then he came forward, hand lifted in appeal for silence.

"The music and words of the little song you have just heard," he said, "were written, I have just learned, by the mother of the girl who sang them. They were written in Ireland a number of years ago, when Irish regiments were sent away for over-seas service. Neither words nor song have ever been published. Miss Soane found them among her mother's effects.

"I thought the story of the little song might interest you. For, somehow, I feel--as I think you all feel--that perhaps the day may come--may be near--when the hearts of our women, too, shall be given to their soldiers--sons, brothers, fathers--who are 'sailin' away to the wars.' But if that time comes--which G.o.d avert!--then I know that every man here will do his duty.... And every woman.... And I know that:

'Tears that near blind you, Your pride shall dry!----'"

He paused a moment:

"Miss Soane has prepared no song to sing as an encore. In her behalf, and in my own, I thank you for your appreciation. Be kind enough to permit the exercises to proceed."

And the graduating exercises continued.

Barres waited for Dulcie. She came out among the first of those departing, walking all alone in her reconstructed white dress, and carrying his bouquet. When she caught sight of him, her face became radiant and she made her way toward him through the crowd, seeking his outstretched hand with hers, clinging to it in a pa.s.sion of grat.i.tude and emotion that made her voice tremulous:

"My bouquet--it is so wonderful! I love every flower in it! Thank you with all my heart. You are so kind to have come--so kind to me--so k-kind----"

"It is I who should be grateful, Dulcie, for your charming little song," he insisted. "It was fascinating and exquisitely done."

"Did you really like it?" she asked shyly.

"Indeed I did! And I quite fell in love with your voice, too--with that trick you seem to possess of conveying a hint of tears through some little grace-note now and then.... And there _were_ tears hidden in the words; and in the melody, too.... And to think that your mother wrote it!"

"Yes."

After a short interval of silence he released her hand.

"I have a taxi for you," he said gaily. "We'll drive home in state."

The girl flushed again with surprise and grat.i.tude:

"Are--are _you_ coming, too?"

"Certainly I'm going to take you home. Don't you belong to me?" he demanded laughingly.

"Yes," she said. But her forced little smile made the low-voiced answer almost solemn.

"Well, then!" he said cheerfully. "Come along. What's mine I look after. We'll have lunch together in the studio, if you are too proud to pose for a poor artist this afternoon."

At this her sensitive face cleared and she laughed happily.

"The pride of a high-school graduate!" he commented, as he seated himself beside her in the taxicab. "Can anything equal it?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Her pride in your--friendship," she ventured.

Which unexpected reply touched and surprised him.

"You dear child!" he said; "I'm proud of your friendship, too. Nothing ought to make a man prouder than winning a young girl's confidence."

"You are so kind," she sighed, touching the blossoms in her bouquet with slender fingers that trembled a little. For she would have offered him a flower from it had she found courage; but it seemed presumptuous and she dropped her hand into her lap again.

Aristocrates opened the door for them: Selinda took her away.

Barres had ordered flowers for the table. In the middle of it a doll stood, attired in academic cap and gown, the Stars and Stripes in one hand, in the other a green flag bearing a gold harp.

When Dulcie came in she stopped short, enchanted at the sight of the decorated table. But when Aristocrates opened the kitchen door and her three cats came trotting in, she was overcome.

For each cat wore a red, white and blue cravat on which was pinned a silk shamrock; and although Strindberg immediately keeled over on the rug and madly attacked her cravat with her hind toes, the general effect remained admirable.

Aristocrates seated Dulcie. Upon her plate was the box containing chain and locket. And the girl cast a swift, inquiring glance across the centre flowers at Barres.

"Yes, it's for you, Dulcie," he said.

She turned quite pale at sight of the little gift. After a silence she leaned on the table with both elbows, shading her face with her hands.