"Mildred's slacking all round," she said. "I don't know what's wrong with her. She's letting her own work go. Her practice-sheet is a disgrace. She's the most musical girl we have at the Coll., and she's simply doing nothing for herself or anyone else."
"Yes, I've noticed she's gone off lately," replied Ella. "She's a curious girl. I can't make her out. I sometimes think she's incorrigibly lazy. She plays when she feels inclined, and she's so clever that it's no effort to her, but real solid work she doesn't understand. If I'd half her talent I'd undertake to do more with it than she does. Sometimes she makes Professor Hoffmann absolutely rage with wrath; she has her lesson just before mine, you know, so I don't bless her when she leaves him in a bad temper. Professor Kleindorf gets pretty savage too when she won't practise, though I think he realizes that her piano is only understudy to her violin, and doesn't expect too much."
"I wish something would happen to wake her up!" declared Kitty.
CHAPTER III
The Story of a Violin
Mildred Lancaster, with whose history this book is largely concerned, was an orphan, and had been brought up from her babyhood by an uncle and aunt who had no children of their own. Her uncle, Dr. Graham, was a busy man with a large practice, who managed nevertheless to spare a little leisure to keep up the scientific side of his profession. He was a prominent member of Health Congresses, Sanitary Commissions, and Medical Societies, and was full of schemes for the better housing of the labouring classes, the opening of gardens and pleasure-grounds in crowded slum districts, the care of cripples and pauper children, or any question which affected the well-being of the poor people among whom his work chiefly lay. In all these things Mrs. Graham was his most earnest right hand.
She had a very strong sense of her responsibility towards those who were less-well equipped for the world's battles than herself, and she tried to take some of the light and beauty and culture of her own well-ordered life into those sad, sordid homes, where no dawn of higher things had ever shone. It was quiet, unostentatious work, that sometimes seemed to show small reward for the trouble spent over it, but she went on patiently all the same, knowing that the result might often be there, even if she were not able to see it herself.
To both Dr. and Mrs. Graham, Mildred stood in the place of a daughter. She could remember no other home, and knew no other friends, for her mother's relations had hitherto ignored the very fact of her existence. It was a happy little household, with a great deal of love in it, but the life was plain and simple, with few luxuries or extra indulgences. The Grahams were not rich people, and everything that they did not need for absolute necessities was devoted to helping forward the many causes they had at heart. On Mildred's education, however, they spared no expense. They sent her to St. Cyprian's College because it was the only school where she could spend an adequate time on the music which they hoped might some day prove to be her career, and they were prepared later on to give her the best possible advantages.