had a carefully trained ear, and she quite shuddered when Marjorie crashed out some of her terrible discords.
Having finished the fugue, which took a considerable time, the young girl rose from the piano amid a profound silence. Eileen had turned away and was engrossed in a book on cookery which she had picked up from a side-table. She was muttering to herself half-aloud:
“Take of flour one ounce, butter, cream, three eggs, and——”
“What are you doing, Eileen?” said the mother.
Eileen made no reply.
Marjorie seated herself on a chair near her mother.
“I hope you liked that fugue?” she said. “I took tremendous pains learning it. I got up every morning an hour earlier than the others during the whole of last term, simply because I intended to play that fugue of Bach’s to you.”
“It was a great pity, dear,” began Mrs. Chetwynd; then she sighed and stopped.
“A pity, mother? What in the world do you mean?”
“Nothing, love; we will talk of all those things to-morrow.”