"Why, of course they will for such a bang-up program as we'll give them. Mamma and Cecile and Mrs. Sherrar and Frances will go; and Nancy and Marie, the girls. That makes six right there. Of course we can't charge Victor anything if he takes part. I bet Miss Truesdale would buy a ticket, too. You ask her, or get Allee to. Allee is in her room now. The minister and his family are coming over some night for dinner while the Sherrars are here, and I'll get mamma to invite them Wednesday, and you tell them to come early enough for the program. They'll be glad to. Mr. Strong was here the day we boys had our time in the carriage shed, and he clapped and stamped the loudest of anyone." "Have you written the tickets yet?" "No, just cut them." "Well, that's good. We'll charge a nickel for two tickets, and give it in your shed next Wednesday. Get to work now. I've just thought of Montie Fry and his trick dog, and Dick Sullivan and his mouth-organ. I am going right over and see if they will take part." She was as good as her word, and when the following Wednesday afternoon arrived it would have been hard to tell which was the largest, the audience in the carriage shed, or the company of participants arranged on the platform which Leonard had built for just such gatherings; but every one of the fifty tickets had been sold, and late arrivals had to present cash, at the door, where Hector presided. The program, was certainly original and varied, if somewhat lengthy, and the audience was kept in a thrill of expectation from one number to the next, for Peace was a master hand at arranging her numbers, and instinctively had saved the best for the last. Just as she herself had taken her place in front of the motley gathering to give an exhibition of her whistling, the big door swung noiselessly, and the company from the great house arrived in a body,--the Judge's wife and daughter, their guests, the Sherrars, and the minister and his small family. They looked very much surprised to find the place crowded to its utmost capacity, but were even more astonished when, after a preliminary bar or so on the mouth-organ, Dick Sullivan began softly to play _The Blue-bells of Scotland_, and Peace's red lips took up the melody, whistling with beautiful accuracy and clearness, trilling through measure after measure with bird-like notes, following all of Dick's variations, and adding a few of her own under the inspiration lent by the presence of her beloved friends. "Cecile," exclaimed her friend Frances, "why didn't you tell me you had such a genius in your midst? I'd have been out here the first one to hear the whole program. Why, she looks like an angel, and her whistling is divine. Who is she?"