Margery rarely put forth her claim of obedience as the elder sister whom circumstances had given a large share of the mother's headship over the family, but when she did assert herself there was something in gentle Margery that got the obedience she asked.
Laura arose somewhat sulkily, quite unwillingly, but she arose at once, and went towards the door. "If you only knew what I was composing!" she grumbled.
"Something that I shall care a great deal about, I'm sure, and something that will be all the better for my little sister's sacrifice, as all art gains from the artist's gain in character," said Margery, putting her arm around Laura affectionately. Laura's brow cleared. If there were a person in the world whom she loved better than her important little self, that person was Margery.
"Oh, Margery, I don't mean to be unkind to people, but I don't seem to care one bit about them. I don't see how you can care for everybody's bothers, the way you do," said Laura candidly.
"And I'm afraid you think that comes from your being wholly taken up with your little talents, my Laura, and are a wee bit proud of it," said Margery wisely, "when the truth is that the greatest artist, like the highest art, has a sympathy for sorrow, and a knowledge of human hearts far beyond that of ordinary mortals. Wait. I must tell Happie that I have carried you off, and that I will come back soon myself."
It was a listless Laura that began to play the two-step which Mrs. Stewart placed before her on the piano rack, a Laura not converted to zeal in her service by the little lady's warm thanks for her coming. But after a few minutes, as the rhythm of many feet chimed with the music, Laura began to play with more spirit, and when the first dance was ended, and she had got Mrs. Stewart's consent to turning the piano a very little so that she might see the dancers, Laura forgot that she was a genius—with a big G—wrested from her task of composing an epithalamium, and became only a little girl of thirteen who played remarkably well, and dearly loved dancing.
Even the half hour in which the children were arranged in line to practice the waltz step up to a certain crack in the floor and back again to their starting point, did not dismay Laura. She played her waltz over and over, but her eyes were dreamy, with the far-away look that Margery, had she been there, would have understood, as a signal of inspiration, and her cheeks were red with excitement.
Laura was watching little Serena Jones-Dexter, filled with the thought of Ralph and Snigs, the unknown cousins, and fired with enthusiasm for the child's loveliness.
"Now, partners, if you please, children, and waltz!" Mrs. Stewart announced, looking at her watch, and giving the longed-for signal for her little pupils to test their practice in proper waltzing. She stepped over and placed another waltz before Laura, to give the children the incentive of new music, unassociated with drill. But Laura did not see the notes before her. She began to play something so pretty, so dreamy, so full of the spirit of the waltz that Mrs. Stewart forgot her duty to listen, wondering where the little girl had found it.