"Don't be silly, Percival. Of course you are. Now practice just one hour more, and we will see about that pony this afternoon."
"You said that yesterday," returned the boy's voice sulkily, "but you didn't do a thing about it."
"I will today, dear, sure. I was too tired yesterday."
"Honor bright?"
"Yes; honor bright."
"All right. If you don't attend to it today I won't touch this old violin again this summer. So there!"
Beatrice was an unwilling listener to the foregoing dialogue. Not wishing that her presence should be unknown, and curious as to the identity of the musician, she drew aside some branches of the arbor vitæ hedge, and looked through.
The boy of the knickerbockers and long curls stood under a large tree, his chin resting upon a violin which he held in his left hand, while with his right he tapped restlessly upon his shoe with the bow. A rack upon which were some sheets of music stood before him.
"Oh!" exclaimed Bee in surprise as she saw who the musician was.
The lad heard her and ran to the opening eagerly.