Well might Brampton be proud, too, of Gamaliel Ives, president of its literary club, who could make such a speech as this on such short notice.  If the truth be told, the literary club had sent Miss Lucretia no less than seven invitations, and this was the speech Mr. Ives had intended to make on those seven occasions.  It was unquestionably a neat speech, and Judge Graves or no other chairman should cheat him out of making it.  Mr. Ives, with a wave of his hand toward the celebrity, sat down by no means dissatisfied with himself.  What did he care how the judge glared.  He did not see how stiffly Miss Lucretia sat in her chair.  She could not take him on her knee then, but she would have liked to.

Miss Lucretia rose, and stood quite as stiffly as she had sat, and the judge rose, too.  He was very angry, but this was not the time to get even with Mr. Ives.  As it turned out, he did not need to bother about getting even.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said he, “in the absence of any other chairman I take pleasure in introducing to you Miss Lucretia Penniman.”

More applause was started, but Miss Lucretia put a stop to it by the lifting of a hand.  Then there was a breathless silence.  Then she cast her eyes around the hall, as though daring any one to break that silence, and finally they rested upon Mr. Ives.

“Mr. Chairman,” she said, with an inclination toward the judge, “my friends—­for I hope you will be my friends when I have finished” (Miss Lucretia made it quite clear by her tone that it entirely depended upon them whether they would be or not), “I understood when I came here that this was to be a mass meeting to protest against an injustice, and not a feast of literature and oratory, as Gamaliel Ives seems to suppose.”

She paused, and when the first shock of amazement was past an audible titter ran through the audience, and Mr. Ives squirmed visibly.

“Am I right, Mr. Chairman?” asked Miss Lucretia.

“You are unquestionably right, Miss Penniman,” answered the chairman, rising, “unquestionably.”

“Then I will proceed,” said Miss Lucretia.  “I wrote the Hymn to Coniston’ many years ago, when I was younger, and yet it is true that I have always remembered Brampton with kindly feelings.  The friends of our youth are dear to us.  We look indulgently upon their failings, even as they do on ours.  I have scanned the faces here in the hall to-night, and there are some that have not changed beyond recognition in thirty years.  Ezra Graves I remember, and it is a pleasure to see him in that chair.” (Mr. Graves inclined his head, reverently.  None knew how the inner man exulted.) “But there was one who was often in Brampton in those days,” Miss Lucretia continued, “whom we all loved and with whom we found no fault, and I confess that when I have thought of Brampton I have oftenest thought of her.  Her name,” said Miss Lucretia, her hand now in the reticule, “her name was Cynthia Ware.”