That was the prelude, however.  The next moment she dashed into Beethoven’s seventh sonata and played it magnificently.

Her mother, hearing the unusual burst of melody, came downstairs to see what musical guest had arrived; but when she discovered it was her own little daughter who was playing so divinely she had an attack of palpitation of the heart (to which she was subject) and sat down upon a sofa until it should pass away.

Meanwhile Bessie played one piece after another with untiring energy.  She loved music, and now found that all she need do was to sit at the piano and listen and watch her hands twinkle over the keyboard.

Twilight deepened in the room and Bessie’s father came home and hung up his hat and overcoat and placed his umbrella in the rack.  Then he peeped into the parlor to see who was playing.

“Great Caesar!” he exclaimed.  But the mother came to him softly with her finger on her lips and whispered:  “Don’t interrupt her, John.  Our child seems to be in a trance.  Did you ever hear such superb music?”

“Why, she’s an infant prodigy!” gasped the astounded father.  “Beats Blind Tom all hollow!  It’s—­it’s wonderful!”

As they stood listening the senator arrived, having been invited to dine with them that evening.  And before he had taken off his coat the Yale professor—­a man of deep learning and scholarly attainments—­joined the party.

Bessie played on; and the four elders stood in a huddled but silent and amazed group, listening to the music and waiting for the sound of the dinner gong.

Mr. Bostwick, who was hungry, picked up the bonbon dish that lay on the table beside him and ate the pink confection.  The professor was watching him, so Mr. Bostwick courteously held the dish toward him.  The professor ate the lemon-yellow piece and the senator reached out his hand and took the lavender piece.  He did not eat it, however, for, chancing to remember that it might spoil his dinner, he put it in his vest pocket.  Mrs. Bostwick, still intently listening to her precocious daughter, without thinking what she did, took the remaining piece, which was the white one, and slowly devoured it.

The dish was now empty, and Claribel Sudds’ precious bonbons had passed from her possession forever!

Suddenly Mr. Bostwick, who was a big man, began to sing in a shrill, tremolo soprano voice.  It was not the same song Bessie was playing, and the discord was shocking that the professor smiled, the senator put his hands to his ears and Mrs. Bostwick cried in a horrified voice: 

“William!”

Her husband continued to sing as if endeavoring to emulate the famous Christine Nillson, and paid no attention whatever to his wife or his guests.

Fortunately the dinner gong now sounded, and Mrs. Bostwick dragged Bessie from the piano and ushered her guests into the dining-room.  Mr. Bostwick followed, singing “The Last Rose of Summer” as if it had been an encore demanded by a thousand delighted hearers.