“And, by George! you succeeded,” muttered Cyril under his breath; then aloud he asked: “Didn't you ever study music?”
Billy's eyes dimmed.
“No. That was the only thing Aunt Ella and I didn't think alike about. She had an old square piano, all tin-panny and thin, you know. I played some on it, and wanted to take lessons; but I didn't want to practise on that. I wanted a new one. That's what she wouldn't do—get me a new piano, or let me do it. She said SHE practised on that piano, and that it was quite good enough for me, especially to learn on. I—I'm afraid I got stuffy. I hated that piano so! But I was almost ready to give in when—when Aunt Ella died.”
“And all you play then is just by ear?”
“By—ear? I suppose so—if you mean what I hear. Easy things I can play quick, but—but those chords ARE hard; they skip around so!”
Cyril smiled oddly.
“I should say so,” he agreed. “But perhaps there is something else that I play—that you like. Is there?”
“Oh, yes. Now there's that little thing that swings and sways like this,” cried Billy, dropping herself on to the piano stool and whisking about. Billy was not afraid now, nor defiant. She was only eager and happy again. In a moment a dreamy waltz fell upon Cyril's ears—a waltz that he often played himself. It was not played correctly, it is true. There were notes, and sometimes whole measures, that were very different from the printed music. But the tune, the rhythm, and the spirit were there.
“And there's this,” said Billy; “and this,” she went on, sliding into one little strain after another—all of which were recognized by the amazed man at her side.
“Billy,” he cried, when she had finished and whirled upon him again, “Billy, would you like to learn to play—really play from notes?”