"
He did not sing loud, and the clack and snarl of the banjo carried
hardly further than the adjoining room; but there was no one to
hear, and, as he went along, even Travis began to hum the words,
but at that, Condy stopped abruptly, laid the instrument across
his knees with exaggerated solicitude, and said deliberately:
"Travis, you are a good, sweet girl, and what you lack in beauty
you make up in amiability, and I've no doubt you are kind to your
aged father; but you--can--not--sing."
Travis was cross in a moment, all the more so because Condy had
spoken the exact truth. It was quite impossible for her to carry
a tune half a dozen bars without entangling herself in as many
different keys. What voice she had was not absolutely bad; but as
she persisted in singing in spite of Condy's guying, he put back
his head and began a mournful and lugubrious howling.
"Ho!" she exclaimed, grabbing the banjo from his knees, "if I
can't sing, I can play better than some smart people."
"Yes, by note," rallied Condy, as Travis executed a banjo "piece"
of no little intricacy. "That's just like a machine--like a hand-
piano.
"Order in the gallery!" she retorted, without pausing in her
playing. She finished with a great flourish and gazed at him in
triumph, only to find him pretending a profound slumber. "O--o--
o!" she remarked between her teeth, "I just hate you, Condy
Rivers."
"There are others," he returned airily.
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