The words were of her own, coming from her soft bosom and her strong round arms. The Bells, Anthony, Charlotte, Horace, and Theodosia, sat huddled together to weep, remote from the others of the church, sitting forward. They could not hear the words of the song as Miss May Bent sang it, as she sent it from her warm, kind body, they being too near to the whole of the event. In Charlotte Bell was the song itself, waiting. She could not hear the singing. Theodosia heard it as a bright myth having some celestial, candle-lit meaning she could not understand. * * * * * Theodosia was delicately modeled with strong slender limbs, swift in a game, quick-witted at play. Her red-brown hair hung in a long braid or was twined braided about her head. Her fingers were small and thin, bent strangely about a fiddle, were quick among the fiddle strings, weighted with music. Little Annie’s grave was marked now by a small white stone in the graveyard, a stone which read only the name, ANNIE, in hard letters set deeply into the marble. To see Theodosia was to think of the child and to wonder if she had forgotten. As she ran down the ball field where the boys and girls played together, as swift as the best of the girls, the act would question if she had forgotten. As she bent her fingers over the fiddle strings and pressed them down in cunning ways, her knowing fingers keen with music, the act again would test her memory of the small girl. The people of the town were assembled at the chapel hall of the Seminary to hear the school choruses and solo pieces, the last day of the term. The piano had been tuned and its dark squat legs had been polished, an effort made to remove all blemishes and all dust. There were pieces recited and some bits of dialogue given. When Theodosia had finished playing, Anthony Bell went forward and lifted her down from the platform and kissed her, proud of her applause. “Her playen, it’s not so much,” voices in the throng said. “I’ve heard better fiddle-playen.” Hostile voices, and then another, “But fine for a child only fourteen, right good for a child now.” “Right good for anybody, I’d say. I only wish I could do half as well.” “But it sounds like exercises.” “It’s classical music. It all sounds like that, classical music does.” “Classical music all sounds alike.” “Give her another encore. It pleases old Mr. Bell.” “It pleases him too much. He’s a vain old man.” “But do it no matter. It’s right sweet the way he takes on over Dosia’s playen. He’s given her his fiddle and they say it’s one of the finest in the whole state. It’s a famous fiddle, they say. Give another encore.” “He says he aims to send her off to learn from a high teacher, away off somewheres, and he may do it.” “It would take a sight of money to do that.” “They may manage it somehow. Give another encore.” “She’s a-goen to play again. He may manage it.” “I for one hope so.” “She’s right sweet with her fiddle up to her