“And now there is something that I want to show you, which I hope you will like,” said the old lady, who guessed something of Eline’s sadness; “follow me.” She led her down-stairs, and opened the door of the drawing-room.
“You know I used to have such an old cripple of a piano, because, you see, it was only for Paul, who jingled a little on it to study his singing, but now just look here.”
They walked inside, and in the place of the old cripple they found a brand-new Bechstein; her music-books in their red and gilt bindings lay on the top.
“It will suit your voice splendidly, the tone is so clear.”
Eline’s lips trembled and twitched nervously.
“But, madam,” she stammered, “why did you do this—oh why, why did you do it? I—I don’t sing any more.”
“Why, why not?” asked the old lady, quite alarmed.
Eline with a sigh threw herself in a chair.
“I may not sing any more,” she exclaimed almost bitterly, for the new piano most cruelly awoke the memory of her splendid voice of former days. “The doctors whom I consulted in Paris have forbidden me; you see I have been coughing all the winter, and it is only lately that my cough has been less. During the last two winters I have coughed continually, and had such a pain here on my chest. In the summer-time I am quite well.”
“But, child,” said the old lady anxiously, “didn’t you take good care of yourself then, while you were abroad?”