“And you have a voice, that with the proper training, may be very fine, indeed. I noticed it this morning in the hymn.”
“Oh, do you think so? I love to sing,” and her face was a-light with pleasure. “But it seems to me that it isn’t, well—neither alto nor soprano; I can’t keep it to a true sound.”
“It is a contralto and has some most expressive notes in it. Of course, you will be trained in music.”
“Mrs. Barrington spoke of it in the next term. Some of the girls sing beautifully. I was to take up several new studies. Oh, there are so many splendid things to learn.”
Her face was aglow with enthusiasm and gave promise of something finer than mere beauty. There had been a good deal of repression in her life since she had come to understand, in a measure, her own desires. She had held them back because she did not want to make Mrs. Boyd unhappy with the difference between them, when she saw that the elder woman was making any effort to indulge her fancies, and during these months at school had settled to a grave deportment, that she might better sustain her authority. The lack of spontaneity had puzzled Mrs. Barrington, when in some moments she caught the ardor and glow of an inward possibility.
“I think you will be in the right place now,” remarked Edith with a smile. “One with a strong individuality at times surmounts adverse circumstances, but when there are so many events to hamper, one does lose courage and begins to question whether the effort and sacrifice will pay for the late reward.”
“Oh, let me have Miss Lilian awhile,” besought Claire. “I want her to inspect my playhouse, while you and mother put away the dishes and things.”
The playhouse was an old time cabinet with the doors taken off. One shelf, the highest, was full of curiosities, the next of books, the third left out and the dolls had it to themselves. There was a parlor in one end, a sleeping room in the other and three pretty dolls were in their chairs, ranged round a table, inspecting their Christmas gifts.
“I wouldn’t have any new dolls this time,” she began, with a touch of weariness in her voice. “For after all you can’t make them real. I play school with them. I read them stories. I dress them and take them out riding, but I have to do the talking for them and sometimes it gets so dull. There’s too much make-believe. I shall be glad when summer comes and there won’t be any bad boys next door. What do you suppose God did with them? They couldn’t like heaven, you know, for there they have to be good all the time. And there are so many beautiful things in summer. The birds and the flowers and the trees waving about and the sky so full of mysterious things. Great islands go sailing about and I wish I was on one of them. I get so tired, sometimes. I don’t suppose I’ll ever have any strong back and legs until I do get to heaven. But I’d like to go about in this world. I want a fairy godmother; that is it.”
She gave a little laugh but there were tears in her eyes.