As she stood in the wing her violin under her arm, Grace thought she had never appeared more beautiful.
Her gown was of some soft, white material and rather simply made.

"I never like to wear fussy things when I play," she had confided to the girls.
Jessica stood directly behind her.

She was to act as accompanist.
Nora O'Malley sang the concluding line of her song, favored the audience with a saucy little nod and made her exit.
"Come on, Eleanor," said Jessica.

"It's our turn." Well toward the back of the hall sat Miss Nevin, wearing a look of mingled anxiety and pain.

Beside her sat a dark, distinguished man in the prime of life, who never took his eyes off the stage.
As one of the senior girls who had charge of the programme stepped forward and announced, "Solo, Miss Eleanor Savelli," he drew a deep breath, and such a look of longing crept into his eyes that Miss Nevin understood for the first time something of the loneliness of which he had written.
He covered his eyes with his hand as though reluctant to look.