"Perfect!" exclaimed the spectators: the interest of every one present
was more than aroused; each individual in the little theater felt,
though no one could exactly tell why, that Maggie was not merely
acting her part, she was living it.
Suddenly she raised her head and looked steadily at the visitors in
the gallery: a wave of rosy red swept over the whitness of her face.
It was evident that she had encountered a glance which disturbed her
composure.
The play proceeded brilliantly, and now the power and originality of
Priscilla's acting divided the attention of the house. Surely there
never was a more impassioned Prince.
Priscilla could sing; her voice was not powerful, but it was low and
rather deeply set. The well-known and familiar song with which the
Prince tried to woo Ida lost little at her hands.
"O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee.
"O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each,
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender is the North.
"Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,
Delaying as the tender ash delays
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?
"O tell her, brief is life but love is long,
And brief the sun of summer in the North,
And brief the moon of beauty in the South.
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