The evening of the Old Folks’ Concert was clear and balmy and the town hall was packed to the doors. Esther, sitting on the platform, with the other singers and looking out over the audience, after the curtain rose, saw many strange faces--faces which did not belong to Harniss--as well as the familiar ones. In a front seat she saw her uncle, big, commanding, much stared at and quite careless of the stares, the flower she had put in the button-hole of his blue serge coat still in place, his gold-headed cane, presented to him by the committee of cranberry growers after the passage of the much-discussed “cranberry bill,” between his knees. Nearby were Reliance Clark and Millard, also Mr. and Mrs. Varunas Gifford, Captain Ben Snow and wife, Abbie Makepeace, and many others whom she knew almost as well. Mr. Cornelius Gott, the undertaker’s assistant and local music teacher, conducted. Nabby, whispering across her husband’s shoulder to Miss Makepeace, commented upon his appearance. “Looks just as much like a tombstone as he always does, don’t he?” she said. “Them old-fashioned clothes ain’t took that out of him a mite, have they? You’d think he was standin’ up there ready to show folks to their seats at George Washin’ton’s funeral, or somethin’.” The opening chorus was received with loud applause. So was Marjorie Wheeler’s first solo. Marjorie’s voice lacked only depth, height, purity and strength to be very fine indeed, but her play of eye and brow was animated and her self-confidence supreme. She was handed a large bouquet over the tin reflectors of the footlights when she finished. Esther Townsend’s confidence was by no means so assured. She was suffering from stage fright when she stepped forward for her first number. She had sung often before gatherings at the Conservatory and in Mrs. Carter’s parlor, but this was different. It was the first time she had appeared in public in her native town since she was a little girl singing in Sunday School concerts. For just an instant her voice trembled, then it rose clear and sweet and liquidly pure, in an old-fashioned Scottish folk song. There was nothing merely polite or perfunctory in the plaudits at its end. The audience clapped and pounded and demanded an encore. Reliance’s round, wholesome face shone, although her eyes were damp. Millard stood up when he applauded. It was a great evening for Millard. The fierce light which beats upon thrones was casting a ray or two in his direction and if strangers were whispering: “Who, did you say? Oh, her uncle! I see.” If they were saying that--and some were--Mr. Clark had no objections. Foster Townsend did not applaud--with hands, feet or the gold-headed cane. His expression was calm. Nevertheless, he was the proudest person in that hall.