Games interspersed the music, and it was discovered that the president of June Holiday Home, as well as the eldest of the Home residents, was quite as clever in guesses as the young folks.

Either by chance or intention,—­Juanita Sterling could not decide which,—­Nelson Randolph appeared to have established himself for the evening at her side.  Others came and went, but the president stayed.

“I wonder when we shall hear Caruso,” she said.  “He is on the programme; I think they must be waiting until the moon is high.”

“Caruso?” he repeated with a puzzled look.  “Not—­”

“No, not the great Caruso,” she smiled; “the little Caruso.”

“But what has the moon to do with his singing?  I am in the dark.”

She laughed out.  “I don’t wonder!  I supposed you knew about
Caruso.  He is a wonderful mocking-bird that belongs to Doodles. 
He can—­but wait!  You will hear him soon, if I’m not mistaken.”

Blue was at the window, gazing skyward.  He raised the curtain high, and the moonlight streamed in.  A large cage was placed on a table in the direct beams.  Suddenly the lights were out.

A mellow fluting broke the hush,—­and Caruso was in song!

Few of the guests had ever heard his like.  He was a score of performers in one.  The notes of a dozen birds issued in quick succession from that one little throat, clear, sweet, delicious.  Then, without warning, came the unmistakable squeal of a pig, the squawking of hens, the yelp of a puppy, which in a moment merged into a little carol, and then—­Caruso was singing “Annie Laurie”!

The concert reached a sudden end, and the audience came to itself in such applause as none of the other performers had won.

“Are there any more astonishments in store for me?” asked Nelson Randolph, as the clapping dwindled to a few tardy hands.  “When the Colonel invited me to come up this evening I did not anticipate a concert of this nature.  He said they were to have ‘a little music,’ but you know what that generally means.”

“I know,” nodded Miss Sterling smilingly.  “I wonder, after such an admission, that you were willing to risk it.”

“Oh, I didn’t come for the music!” he returned.  “Nevertheless, it is worth going more than twenty miles to hear.  Polly and Doodles and David would make a good concert by themselves—­and now the mocldng-bird!  I never heard anything equal to his performance!  He is a wonder!”

“He can whistle ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ too, I think he does it quite as well as ‘Annie Laurie.’”

The applause had started again, and the lights, which had been turned on, went out.  The audience quieted at once.

Soft and sweet came the tones of a violin.

“Doodles,” breathed Miss Sterling.

Nelson Randolph bent his head to hear, and nodded in answer.

Softly the player slipped into “Old Folks at Home,” and the tune went on slowly, lingeringly, as if waiting for something that did not come.  Again it was played, this time with the voice of Doodles accompanying.