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“No, sirree! You always were pretty. I used to watch you sittin’ beside me in the choir, and when you threw back your head and sort of closed your eyes to sing, I didn’t wonder Sam Goodwin was crazy about you.”

“Is he still organist at the First Presbyterian?”

“Yep.”

“And are you still in the choir?”

“Yep.” His boyish brown eyes dropped. His plump hands twisted the brim of his wide slouch hat. “Guess that’s the most I’ll ever amount to.”

ssss1 “But that beautiful voice of yours—it’s a sin!”

“My Dad don’t think so. Gimcracks, he calls it. I asked him once to give me enough to get it trained,” the eyes lifted with a twinkle, “and I never asked him again.”

She patted his arm sympathetically. “He wouldn’t understand—of course.”

“Gee, I wish I had your sand, Lizzie! To break away—and make good.”

She turned swiftly to the mirror, picked up the discarded puff, dabbed some powder on her nose, then carefully rouged her nostrils. And if a tear smudged into the shadow under her eye, he didn’t notice it.