Charlotte tucked her instrument under a sulky, round chin, raised her
bow and waited, her eyes on the floor. Celia, smiling, softly tried her
strings.

"That's it, precisely," began the leader, still with irritation. "Celia
tunes between practice; Charlotte takes it for granted she's all right
and fires ahead. Your E string is off!"

The second violin grudgingly tightened the E string; then all her
strings in turn, lengthening the process as much as possible. The 'cello
did the same--the 'cello always stood by the second violin. Jeff gave
Charlotte a glance of loyalty. His G string had been flatter than her E.

Lansing wheeled about and picked up his instrument, carefully trying its
pitch. He gave the signal, and the "_March of the Pilgrims_" began--in
the remote distance. The double-bass viol gripped his bow with his
stubby twelve-year-old fingers, and hardly breathed as he strove to keep
his notes subdued. The 'cello murmured a gentle undertone; the first
violin sang as sweetly and delicately as a bird, her _legato_ perfect.
The second violin fingered her notes through, but the voice of her
instrument was not heard at all.

The leader glanced at her once, with a frown between his fine eyebrows,
but Charlotte played dumbly on. The Pilgrims approached--_crescendo_;
drew near--_forte_; passed--_fortissimo_; marched away--_diminuendo_;
were almost lost in the distance--_piano_--_pianissimo_. Uplifted
bows--and silence.

"Good!" said a hearty voice behind them. Everybody looked up,