“That was what I hoped you would say, Uncle Peter,” she whispered.
They had a long talk after this, discussing the past and the future; the past few months of the experiment from Eleanor’s point of view, and the future in relation to its failures and successes. Beulah was to begin giving her lessons again and she was to take up music with a visiting teacher on Peter’s piano. (Eleanor had not known it was a piano at first, as she had never seen a baby grand before. Peter did not know what a triumph it was when she made herself put the question to him.)
“If my Aunt Beulah could teach me as much as she does and make it as interesting as Aunt Margaret does, I think I would make her feel very proud of me,” Eleanor said. “I get so nervous saving energy the way Aunt Beulah says for me to that I forget all the lesson. Aunt Margaret tells too many stories, I guess, but I like them.” 109
“Your Aunt Margaret is a child of God,” Peter said devoutly, “in spite of her raw-boned, intellectual family.”
“Uncle David says she’s a daughter of the fairies.”
“She’s that, too. When Margaret’s a year or two older you won’t feel the need of a mother.”
“I don’t now,” said Eleanor; “only a father,—that I want you to be, the way you promised.”
“That’s done,” Peter said. Then he continued musingly, “You’ll find Gertrude—different. I can’t quite imagine her presiding over your moral welfare but I think she’ll be good at it. She’s a good deal of a person, you know.”
“Aunt Beulah’s a good kind of person, too,” Eleanor said; “she tries hard. The only thing is that she keeps trying to make me express myself, and I don’t know what that means.”
“Let me see if I can tell you,” said Peter. “Self-expression is a part of every man’s duty. Inside we are all trying to be good and true and fine—”