“Oh, my poor Nellie Gray, They have taken her away, And I’ll never see my darling any more!” The men were going through the rooms upstairs and one of them said to another, as he stopped to listen, “That girl can sing, can’t she?” Rhoda heard them coming downstairs and knew that Marcia was looking at her with eyes wide and face a little pale. Would they come in? Suddenly she was aware that her nerves were steady and strong as steel and that her heart was beating as calmly as ever. “Now for the next verse, Marcia!” and her fingers moved across the keys. Then she heard the men at the door. “There’s some one in the hall. I must see what they want,” she said, rising and casting an encouraging smile at Miss Kimball. Marcia gazed at her wonderingly as she moved calmly across the room and then, feeling the contagion of her courage, turned quickly to Mary Ellen, and to draw her attention away from the door so that she would not face it, began asking her what other songs she knew. “Excuse me, Miss Ware, for disturbing you and your friends,” Marshal Hanscomb was saying, “but my duties under the law make it necessary for me to search your house.” “Certainly, Mr. Hanscomb. Come in if you wish to. Miss Kimball is here--I think you know her--and the other lady is my friend, Miss Dunstable, from Cincinnati, who has been visiting me for the last week.” The marshal stepped inside, his assistants close behind him. Rhoda cast a single glance toward the piano and saw thankfully that Marcia was still holding Mary Ellen’s attention. “If only she won’t look around,” was her anxious thought. Then turning to the marshal she said seriously, with a gentle smile: “You see, there’s no one else visible in here, Mr. Hanscomb, but if you want to look under the piano and up the chimney--” she stopped on a rising inflection and looked at him gravely. His eyes flashed, but he merely sent an inquiring glance around the room, saw that there were no closets or recesses, and then moved toward the door, saying, “Thank you, Miss Ware.” Rhoda closed the door behind him and leaned against it while she drew a long breath and pressed her lips together tightly for a moment. Then she went back to the piano saying, “Now, Marcia, suppose we let Mary Ellen sing that next verse all alone. I want you to hear her.” The men on the veranda steps, taking their departure, paused and listened to the closing lines as Mary Ellen, in a voice of mournful sweetness, sang on alone: “They have taken her to Georgia, For to wear her life away, As she toils in the cotton and the cane.” “That girl makes a right good imitation of the way a darkey’s voice sounds,” said the one who had spoken before. “I reckon she’s practised it.” CHAPTER XXI