  The day of the contest dawned gloriously. During the night pink and golden crocuses had blossomed on the seminary grounds and each bush and tree was a haze of silvery green. In the mid-afternoon two girls stood at an open library window. They were Muriel and Nan and they were waiting their turn at the recital. In the study hall beyond many parents and friends were gathered and with the teachers and pupils of the seminary, they were listening with pride and pleasure to the rendering of solos on violin and piano, while at one side of the platform, a golden harp stood waiting. “Daisy Wells is playing now,” Muriel said, “Are you nervous Nan?” “No dearie.” Then the older girl exclaimed joyfully, “Do look in the lilac bush! The first robin has come, and now he is going to sing for us. He surely would win the medal if he were to enter the contest.” Muriel looked up at the other maiden and slipping an arm about her, she said impulsively, “I love you.” Then, before the gypsy girl could reply, the younger harpist was called. “Oh Nan,” she said in a sudden panic of fear. “Think of your father, dearie and just play for him.” How calming that suggestion had been, and, while she played, Muriel was thinking of the twilight hours when her father had lifted her to his knee, and, holding her close, had told her of that other little girl whom he had so loved, and how lonely his boyhood had been when that little sister had died, and, how like her, Muriel was. “It will be a happy day for me, little daughter, when I hear you play as she did on the harp,” he had often said. When the last sweet notes were stilled, there were tears in many eyes, for Muriel, forgetting all others, had played alone for her father. Professor Bentz was amazed and delighted. “I knew she had talent,” he said to Mrs. Dorsey, the principal of the school, “but I did not know that she could play like that.” When the recital was over, it was to Muriel that the medal of gold was awarded. “Oh Nan, I ought not to take it. You have done it all!” There was a happy light in the eyes of the gypsy girl as she stooped and kissed her little friend. “You played wonderfully dearie!” she said. Just at that moment a maid appeared in the library door, where the performers had gathered. “Miss Muriel,” she called, “there is a gentleman here to see you.” “It’s father!” the little girl cried with eyes aglow. “I do believe that he came for the recital.” And she was right. Mr. Metcalf was standing in the small reception room and he caught his little daughter in his arms and held her close for a moment without speaking. He said in a choking voice: “My dream is fulfilled. You play the harp, Muriel, as my sister did.” Then he told her that he had long planned to visit her at the school and had timed that visit so that he might be present at the recital without her knowing it. “I think I must have known it, somehow,” the happy little girl said, “for I was playing only for you.” And Nan Barrington, who had done so much to help Muriel, felt that the winning of the love of her little “enemy” was far more to be desired than the winning of the medal of gold. |
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