She swept from the piazza, Floretta, firmly grasped, walking beside her. Jack Tiverton's mother took him to her room, where she could talk to him, without fear of interruption.

Floretta sat on a low divan, sullen and obstinate.

For twenty minutes she had listened, while her mother had told what a disrespectful thing she had done.

"I don't see how it was not respectful," grumbled Floretta, "we were just having a little fun."

"And it was fun at my expense," said Mrs. Paxton. "I was annoyed, just when I was making plans for a fine entertainment, to have you and that boy parade out on to the piazza with those old corn-cobs, singing, or rather howling, like young savages!"

This, and much more Floretta was forced to listen to, but during the remainder of the scolding, she did not speak, or reply in any way.

She was still very sullen when her mother left the room, and no one saw her until she appeared in the dining-room at dinner.

She tasted one dish after another, but managed to eat but little dinner. She wished her mother to think that the scolding had made her ill.

It proved to be wasted effort. Mrs. Paxton had been so interested in what Mrs. Dayne was saying that she had not noticed that Floretta let the various courses go untasted.

She had hoped to worry her mother, but had only punished herself!

She was very hungry when they left the table, and also very angry.

"I might just as well have eaten my dinner," she muttered, "she never noticed that I didn't."

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 amusement 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 cluster 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 portiÈre, 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.

"Once more, once more!" cried an eager voice, and then more clapping, and even a few shrill whistles from some very young men begged her to respond.

She extended her arms for a second, then whirling rapidly, she repeated the last half of the dance, courtesied again, and when she ran back to the little room, Dorothy embraced her tenderly.

"Oh, Nancy darling!" she cried, "you never danced finer. Do you know how pleased every one is?"

"I danced to please and surprise them," said Nancy. "I do love to see people look happy. They couldn't remember how hard it was raining while I was whirling and dancing for them."

Floretta, now more unhappy than before, turned so that she might not see Nancy, nor note the shimmer of her spangles.

Mrs. Paxton, who had been talking with a friend, now turned toward Floretta.

"Come!" she said, "now run out, and do your very best, Floretta."

"I'm not going out!" said Floretta.

"What an idea!" cried Mrs. Paxton. "Of course you'll run out, and show every one how cute you are. Why, I planned this entertainment just to give you a chance to show off!"

"And made me the last one on the whole list!" snarled Floretta.

"Come, come!" cried her mother, "every one couldn't be first. I thought I'd have the others perform first, and then you could show who was the smartest! Come! They're just wild to see what you can do, and they're waiting."

"They'll have to wait!" hissed Floretta, like a cross little cat.

It was no use to urge, plead, or insist. Floretta was stubborn, and when once she had determined what she would, or would not do, nothing could move her.

Prayers and threats were equally useless.

Dorothy sang very sweetly, and was cordially received.

Uncle Harry and his wife sang a charming duet that delighted all, the orchestra played a military caprice, and then the remainder of the evening was spent in a little, informal dance.

All was light, laughter, and music, and there were two kinds of music that gladdened their hearts,—the sweet music of the violins, and the still sweeter melody of happy voices!

Silly little Floretta had ruined the evening for no one save her own jealous little self.

Because she could not be the first on the program, she would not appear at all, although, at heart, she longed to show her really clever mimicry. Later, after having sulked during the early part of the evening, she refused to join the dancers, and ran away to her room, angry, very angry with every one save the one person who was really at fault,—herself.

Her efforts at imitating would surely have amused, and would, doubtless, have been well received. She was rather a graceful dancer, in any of the ordinary ballroom dances, and she thus might have joined the other children when the concert was over. She had needlessly spent a most unhappy evening.

Now, in her room, she heard the strains of the orchestra, and for the first time realized how foolish she had been.

"I had a chance, and I lost it," she sobbed, but her tears were not tears of grieving. They were angry tears, and the droll part of it was that while she alone was at fault, she was angry with every one but herself.

For a few moments she lay, her face hidden in her pillow. Then, she turned over into a more comfortable position, and softly she whispered, "I'll do enough to-morrow to make up!"

She did not say what she intended to do, but the idea evidently pleased her, for she laughed through her tears.

She sprang from her bed, found a box of bonbons that her mother had won as a prize in an afternoon whist party the day before, and crept back into bed. When she had eaten nearly all of the candy, she sat up and in the softly shaded light, looked at the box with its few remaining bits of candy. She was wondering where she could hide it.

"Ma will surely notice the empty box, or anyway, I've made it almost empty," she said. "She might not miss it if I hid it!"

She had never been taught to be honest, so whenever she did a naughty thing, her first thought was to hide, or cover up the act. She never felt regret.

No one ever heard her gently say, "I'm sorry."

Softly she crept from her bed, and made her way across the floor to the dressing-case.

She put the box upon the floor, and pushed it well under it, and wholly out of sight.

"There!" she whispered. "That's all right. I would have finished the candy, but I didn't want the whole of it. I ate the best of it. The others weren't very nice."

Down in the long parlor the guests were no longer dancing.

They were resting, and listening to a lovely barcarolle played softly by the orchestra.

Flossie, clinging to Uncle Harry's hand, drew him toward the window.

"Look!" she said, as she parted the curtains. "It isn't raining now, and the moon is coming out. It will be pleasant to-morrow! And it has been lovely in here to-night."

"Dear little Flossie, dear little niece, it was your cheery, loving nature that led us to give your name to our baby. She has two fine names, she is Beatrice Florence. The first is Vera's mother's name, the second, dear, is yours."