Then as the days grew short and the evenings long, a singing school was started. It met once a week at Damaris Drybread's schoolroom, was largely attended by the youth of both sexes, quite as much for the sport to be got out of it as for the improvement of their vocal powers.
Each carried thither a note book and a tallow candle, and at the end of the term paid his or her proportion of the salary of the teacher—one Timothy Buzzard, from a neighboring town.
Not the fittest name in the world for a singing teacher, people said; but then he couldn't help that, and soon proved himself competent for what he had undertaken; for imparting instruction at least;—as to keeping order among his pupils, some of whom were years older than himself—that he found was quite another thing. Of course there was often a good deal of misbehavior on the part of silly, giggling girls and tittering lads which tried his patience, occasionally even beyond endurance.
Mildred, Claudina and their friend Lucilla Grange were not of these; but invariably conducted themselves in a ladylike manner which won the admiration and gratitude of the sometimes sorely tried teacher, and gave him a powerful motive to self-control, in the natural desire to win their respect and esteem.
These three girls were the belles of the town; Timothy was an unmarried man, and when he seemed to pay court in a manner, to one or another of them, several of the young men were inclined to grow wrathy over it, and to feel that their rights were invaded.
Will Chetwood, Yorke Mocker, and Wallace Ormsby had become frequent visitors at Mr. Keith's; though, perhaps not more so in the case of the latter two, than at the homes of Mildred's two intimate girl friends; the six formed a coterie of their own and were generally seen together at the merry-makings; pairing off now in one way now in another.
Gotobed Lightcap would now and then pluck up courage to step in upon Mildred of an evening, and was invariably treated politely and kindly, though not in a way to give undue encouragement.
He had an instinctive understanding of that, attributed it in a great measure, to his own awkward, ungainly ways, and looked with envy upon those whose better education and more polished manners made them more acceptable companions.
Nicholas Ransquattle was not one of that number, yet esteemed himself such, and annoyed our heroine not a little by his unwelcome attentions.
They were declined whenever it could be done without positive rudeness, but vanity and self-conceit are often very blind.