Miss Cliveden taught her girls to love work, to love it best when done for others, and to reverence all work truly and faithfully accomplished. The nobility of honest labour was her favourite theme, and the allurements of altruistic toil the highest attraction she could hold out to her young scholars. As her pupils were all in the upper forms of the college, Frances was one of the youngest of them, and Miss Cliveden took a great liking for the frank-hearted, winning lass. Thrown chiefly among the elder girls, Frances soon caught their spirit and shared their ambitions, while remaining in ways and thoughts a thorough child.
By the time Mrs. Morland was comfortably settled in Woodend, she began to grow tired of petting and coddling a wayward, restless boy. Scotland and the country air had brought Austin back to fair health, and his bright eyes and rosy cheeks assured his mother that her sacrifice had not been in vain. Mrs. Morland loved ease of mind and body. She thought it time her boy should return to his lesson-books, and that Frances—so soon as her second term at Haversfield should be over—should come home to help him.
The terms of his father’s will had decreed that Austin should be educated privately. Mr. Morland had disliked public schools. His wife regretted the social disadvantage, but could not overrule her husband’s decision; and she began to face the trouble of looking out for a new tutor. Before she had looked long, she discovered that Mr. Carlyon, the young curate of Woodend church, took pupils; and Austin became one of them for the greater part of the summer term.
“What sort of place is Woodend?” asked Frances.
“Oh, well—nice enough. Some jolly fellows among the boys, and plenty of girls to match. I dare say you’ll like Florry Fane, anyhow. She has lots of pluck, and doesn’t bounce, though she’s no end clever. Then there’s roly-poly Betty Turner—and May Gordon—and the First Violin.”
“Who’s the First Violin?”
“We’ve a boys’ and girls’ band, and she’s the leader. Everybody calls her the First Violin. She hardly moves without her fiddle; and she can play.”
“What about your fiddle? Haven’t you joined the band, lazy imp?”
“Had to; Miss Carlyon wouldn’t let me off. Besides, it’s good fun. We’ve a master to train us, and he gives me lessons alone as well. I practise sometimes,” added Austin hastily, “so you needn’t worry.”
Frances felt on this golden afternoon even less inclined than usual to “preach”, so she let the fiddle pass.