"Then may I dance again?" begged Rachel. "Please--just once before I go."
"Yes," said Miss Parrott, sitting very straight, and giving all the
graceful little quirks to the slender fingers which her music-master, long
since dead and buried, had taught her. "Now begin, child."
So up and down, high and clear, rang Rachel's voice, with no more effort
than the birds outside put forth, the sound penetrating the ancient walls,
and paralyzing every domestic, while it nearly made Simmons, outside, fall
from his box.
"She hain't touched that pianner in ten years," said the cook, in a hushed
voice. "Oh, me! I'm afraid she's going to die," and she flung her apron
over her head.
"Die!" exclaimed Hooper, finding his voice. "She won't die with that young
one here," he added, in scorn.
"Now may I dance?" pleaded Rachel, plucking Miss Parrott's sleeve. "Do let
me; you said I might."
"Yes," said Miss Parrott, wrenching herself away from the operatic strains,
to begin on a little old-fashioned jig.
"Oh, that's so funny," giggled Rachel, hopping aimlessly in the center of
the big drawing-room and trying to keep time. "Do stop; you put me all
out."
"But that is a dancing-tune," said Miss Parrott, jingling away, "and sister
and I used to dance quite prettily to it, I remember."
"Well, I can't," said Rachel, hopping wildly, and doing her best to get
into step.
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