“Most remarkable, the most remarkable hand I have ever seen in anyone so young. My dear, you must write, or paint, or sing, or do something with that hand.”

Up to that moment I had certainly never thought of doing anything but lessons or enjoying myself.

He took out his pocket-book and made some notes, then he insisted upon the others looking at what he called “the character, originality, and talent” depicted in my hand.

He was so long about it that I grew tired, and at last exclaimed:

“I shall charge you if you lecture them about me any more.”

“And I’ll pay,” he said; “I’ll send you a Breitmann Ballad all to yourself.”

And he did. Naturally proud of being so honored in verse, its heroine was nevertheless shy, and never, never showed her poetic trophy for fear of being thought conceited.

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