Marjorie Dean College Junior

"What fate is left to us now?" Despite her tragic utteran

g down stairs to head us off?" inquired Phyllis in pretended disgust. "Not one of you has the proper idea of the romance which

minute she opened her mouth to sing 'How Fair Art Thou.' Now which one of us were you particularly ref

same good old, funny old scout, Jeremiah. Somebod

e have fond welcomes of our own to han

ning treble of girlhood, mingled with ripple

y. "This is Phil's organization but she seems to have forgotten all about it. We are supposed to serenade Barbara Severn, Isabel K

ore we hustled down to head you off. The instant I recognized Robin's heavenly soprano I knew that the Silv

s Elaine essayed a profound bow. Result, her he

ext orchestral spasm." Blanche swung the

ed Elaine, ruefully rubbing

you like to take us along with you, then? Not to sing, but just for company, y

and lots of it," Jerry advised with crafty ent

sh peach ice cream," seconded Vera. "I leave it to my esteeme

uite right about?" Leila had caught the

murmured Vera, a

would not agree with you in, Midget. Be consoled with that handsome amen

on fine white br

rip of ho

pale clouds for

ful of sta

the quaint words of

d Phyllis. "How about it, girls? Is it

ch distinguished persons," was Robin's decision. "Leila, you

o hob-nob with their Wayland Hall friends. They came to this decision very summarily.

alk leading up to the entrance of the tea room, when Lucy Warner stopped

y so little it is a pleasure to listen to you. I wish I co

be talking about?" quizzed Leila,

excepted.'" Muriel beamed at Leila with trustful innocence. "Go ahead, L

is what I thought of." Lucy came to the point with her usual celerity. "Why not serenade Signor Baretti? He

posal "This is really a fine time for it, too. It's late enough in

little, old Giuseppesh

ething from an Italian opera. That would please him most. The Latins

doesn't matter about the words. We know the music. We have sun

out on the last part of it." Tucking her violin under her chin, Phyllis played a few bars of t

words to that, either. There aren't any. People ought to learn to appreciate songs without words. Giuseppe won't care a hang about

Leila told the others, with comically raised br

roprietor of the tea room, the next point to

the windows," volunteered Ronny. "Perhaps

the evening. We'll gather around the window

, well to the rear. The others followed her more slowly in order to give her time to make

aper. There isn't a soul in the room but himself," she sa

an go around behind the inn and be

ation our magnificent selves at the next window above the singers to see how the v

wo minutes," warned Portia Graham. "Slide around

ided into two groups, each group

" breathed Phyllis. "I don't dare try them. Are we ready?"

world-known sextette from "Lucia." Robin had sung it so many times in private to the accompaniment of her cousin

unbidden flood of music which met his ears, he listened for a moment in patent stupefaction. Soon a smile began to play about his tight little mouth. It widened into a grin of

ection. As it ended, he did an odd thing. He rose from his chair, bowed his profound than

whispered Marjorie. "Doesn't he look plea

proposal. She was secretly more proud of some small triumph

have shown a more evident pleasure in the programme. He listened to the enter

the programme, Signor Baretti. Now for that fresh peach ice cream. I shall have c

serenading Giuseppe," said Robin. "Oh, we can't. I forgot.

about but us. I hope he won't think we are a set of little Tommy Tuckers singi

ction. He kept staring at the window where the sound came from. We had our faces right close to our window and all o

lly. "We can parade into the inn on your glory. If I put on airs he

ce in the world's history where some have done all the w

und to the inn's main entrance. At the door they found Gius

ladies from the college sing just for me. You come in. You are my com'ny. You say what you like. I give the

ch to eat. I fin' work. Then the times hard, I lose work. All over New York I walk, but don't fin'. I have no one cent. I am put from the bed I re

o my countrymen play the Lucia. I am so sad. I sit on a step an' cry. Pretty soon one these ask the money gif' for the music. He touch me on shoulder, say very kind in Italian, 'Che c'è mai?' That mean, 'What the matter?' He see I am the Italiano. We look each o

ay at night for help his friend who play the harp. He is the old man an' don't work all the time. So it is I lov' the Lucia. They don't play that,