“I should dearly love to have her visit me at Bellvieu, if only to show the cold, aristocratic young lady the warmth and sincerity of a Southern reception.”
“And perhaps you will have the opportunity. But not this summer. I have other plans for you.”
“Now, you are arousing my curiosity again,” said Dorothy, in a disappointed tone. “Please, Aunt Betty, tell me what is on your mind.”
“All in good time, my dear.”
“Has it—has it anything to do with Uncle Seth?” the girl queried, a slight tremor in her voice. Somehow, she felt that the death of the “Learned Blacksmith,” with whom Aunt Betty had been so intimate for years, had been responsible in a measure for the present poor state of her health.
“Yes; it has to do with your Uncle Seth, poor man. His death, as you have probably imagined, was a great shock to me. I felt as though I had lost a brother. And then, the news of his demise came so suddenly. It was his dearest wish that you become a great musician. You will remember how he encouraged and developed your talent while we were at Deerhurst, arranging with Mr. Wilmot to give you lessons? He has frequently expressed himself as not being satisfied with your progress. Shortly before his death I had a letter from him, in which he urged me to employ one of the best violin teachers in Baltimore for you at the end of your course at Oak Knowe. I feel it is a small favor, to grant, dear, so if you are still of the notion that you were intended for a great violinist, I have decided to give you a chance to show your mettle.”
“Dear Aunt Betty,” said the girl, earnestly, putting an arm affectionately around the neck of her relative, “it is the dearest wish of my life, but one.”
“What is the other wish, Dorothy?”
“That you be thoroughly restored to health. Then, if I can become perfect on my violin, I shall be delighted beyond measure.”
“Oh, my health is all right, child, except that I am beginning to feel my age. It was partly through a selfish motive that I planned this outing in Western Maryland.”