“Because I thought it would do her good to stoop a little,” replied the other, laughing.—“She will have to practise a good deal before she becomes tolerable.” Not a word of this was lost upon Matilda.
She even fancied that it was intended she should hear it, and she shook so with passion that she had to turn over the music, as if in search of something she wanted, a considerable time before she dared to trust her trembling fingers to touch the keys; and when she did, she played with so unsteady a hand, that she rose from the piano when she had finished, still more humbled and mortified.
At length the dancing was renewed, and continued until all seemed anxious to rest, when Isabella proposed a game at Magical Music, which was agreed to by all hands; and many a merry peal of laughter resounded at the various mistakes that were made.
Then there were the forfeits to be worked for, and songs were sung, pas seuls danced, and various other penances performed, for their recovery. At length it was Edmund Wharton’s lot to redeem his pledge, by repeating some poetry. After turning it over for some time in his mind, he said, “I never was a good hand at remembering poetry, but a few lines have just come into my head, of which, however, I neither know the author, nor am I sure I am quite correct in the words: the sense is the only thing I can answer for, and will give it you, as well as I can.”
He then repeated with much distinctness, and with great effect, the following well-known lines:
“What is the finest tincture of the skin,
To peace of mind and harmony within?
What the bright sparkling of the finest eye,
To the sweet soothings of a mild reply?
Can comeliness of form or shape or air