“How wonderful he must have been!”

“Wonderful?  For eighty years he held sway over the hearts of them, and was known as the best story-teller of them all.  This was the more interesting, you see, because every year they gathered at a certain place to have a story-telling contest; and great-grandfather was voted the master of them until—­”

Marna hesitated, and a flush spread over her face.

“Until—­” urged Kate.

“Until a young man came along.  Finnegan, his name was.  He was no more than a commercial traveler who heard of the gathering and came up there, and he capped stories with great-grandfather, and it went on till all the people were thick about them like bees around a flower-pot.  Four days it lasted, and away into the night; and in the end they took the prize from great-grandfather and gave it to Gerlie Finnegan.  And that broke great-granddad’s heart.”

“He died?”

“Yes, he died.  A hundred and ten he was, and for eighty years had been the king of them.  When he was gone, it left me without anybody at all, you see.  So that was how I happened to go down to Baraboo to earn my living.”

“What were you doing?”

Marna looked at the tip of her slipper for a moment, reflectively.  Then she glanced up at Kate, throwing a supplicating glance from the blue eyes which looked as if they were snared behind their long dark lashes.

“I wouldn’t be telling everybody that asked me,” she said.  “But I was singing at the moving-picture show, and Mrs. Barsaloux came in there and heard me.  Then she asked me to live with her and go to Europe, and I did, and she paid for the best music lessons for me everywhere, and now—­”

She hesitated, drawing in a long breath; then she arose and stood before Kate, breathing deep, and looking like a shining butterfly free of its chrysalis and ready to spread its emblazoned wings.

“Yes, bright one!” cried Kate, glowing with admiration.  “What now?”

“Why, now, you know, I’m to go in opera.  The manager of the Chicago Opera Company has been Mrs. Barsaloux’s friend these many years, and she has had him try out my voice.  And he likes it.  He says he doesn’t care if I haven’t had the usual amount of training, because I’m really born to sing, you see.  Perhaps that’s my inheritance from the old minstrels—­for they chanted their ballads and epics, didn’t they?  Anyway, I really can sing.  And I’m to make my debut this winter in ‘Madame Butterfly.’  Just think of that!  Oh, I love Puccini!  I can understand a musician like that—­a man who makes music move like thoughts, flurrying this way and blowing that.  It’s to be very soon—­my debut.  And then I can make up to Mrs. Barsaloux for all she’s done for me.  Oh, there come all the people!  You mustn’t let Mrs. Fulham know how I’ve chattered.  I wouldn’t dare talk about myself like that before her.  This is just for you—­I knew you wanted to know about me.  I want to know all about you, too.”