Eurie’s curiosity rose to such a pitch that she leaned forward for a peep at the title-page, and drew back suddenly.  It was a copy of the Teacher’s Bible!

A silence fell upon the company near the front, broken suddenly by an old lady who leaned lovingly toward her chubby-faced grandson, and said: 

“Frankie, you must look in a few minutes and you will see the President of the United States.”

“That is good news, anyhow,” spoke forth a rough-looking, good-natured man near by, and the listeners, who were in that excited state of weariness and waiting that they were ready to laugh or cry as the slightest occasion offered, burst forth into roars of laughter, which rang back among the crowds behind and enticed them to join, though I suppose not twenty of the laughers knew what the joke was, if indeed there was one.

A sudden rush.  Some one occupied the stand.  A notice.

“A telegram!” said a ringing voice.  “For Mrs. C.G.  Hammond.  Marked—­’Death!’”

A sympathetic murmur ran through the great company, as they moved and wedged and fell back, and did almost impossible things, to make a road out of that dense throng of humanity for the one to whom the president had suddenly become an insignificance.

Just then came the “Wyoming Trio.”  Blessings on them, whoever they are.  Nothing ever could have fitted in more splendidly than they did just there and then.  And the singing rested and helped them all.

Now a sensation came in the shape of a poem that had been written for the occasion, and was to be learned to sing in greeting to the president.  How they rang those jubilant words through those old trees!  Tender, touching words, with the Chautauqua key-note quivering all through them.

    “Greet him!  Let the air around him
      Benedictions bear;
    Let the hearts of all the people
      Circle him with prayer.’

“I wonder if he realizes what a blessed thing it is to be circled with prayer?” said she of the Teacher’s Bible, turning a thoughtful face upon the four girls who had attracted her attention.

“I wonder who Mary A. Lathbury is?” said Eurie, reading from the poem.  “She is a poet, whoever she is.  There isn’t a line in this that is simply rhyme.  I doubt if the president ever had such a rhythmical tribute as that.”

“She is the lady with blue eyes and curls who designs the pictures in that charming child’s paper which flutters around here.  I have forgotten the name of it, but the pictures are little poems themselves.”

This was Flossy’s bit of information.

“Which designs them, the blue eyes or the curls?” Marion asked, gravely.  And then these four simpletons burst into a merry laugh.

Still the president did not appear.  The audience had exhausted their resources and their good humor.  Ominous grumblings and cross faces began to predominate.  Some darkly hinted that he was not coming at all, and that this was a design to draw the immense crowd together.  Nobody believed it, but many were in a mood to pretend that they did.