She was on the broad doorstone smiling a welcome when, after an hour's drive, the carriage at last came to a stop. Beside her was her niece, the girl whom I had been so impatient to meet. She was neither shy nor awkward.
"Are you tired?" she inquired. "What should you like to do? Go to your room or rest downstairs until supper-time? Supper will be ready in about twenty minutes."
"I'd like to see the music-room," I found myself saying.
"Oh," exclaimed the girl, her face brightening, "are you musical? How nice!"
As she spoke she led the way into the music-room. It was indeed a back sitting-room. Its windows opened upon the barnyard; glancing out, I saw eight or ten cows, just home from pasture, pushing their ways to the drinking-trough. I looked around the little room. On the walls were framed photographs of great composers, on the mantelshelf was a metronome, on the centre-table were two collections of classic piano pieces, and in a corner was,—not a melodeon,—but a piano. The maker's name was on it—a name famous in two continents.
"Your aunt told me you were musical," I said to the girl. "I see that the piano is your instrument."
"Yes," she assented. "But I don't play very well. I haven't had many lessons. Only one year with a really good teacher."
"Who was your teacher?" I asked idly. I fully expected her to say, "Some one in the village through which you came."
"Perhaps you know my teacher," she replied; and she mentioned the name of one of the best pianists and piano teachers in New England.
"Most of the time I've studied by myself," she went on; "but one year auntie had me go to town and have good lessons."