“That is lovely, most lovely,” she said, her whole face and manner changing. “I should love the piano if I could play like that.”
“You must love music, I suspect,” Madelene replied. “Perhaps it is the actual mechanical part of playing that has discouraged you.”
“I have bad hands for it,” said Ella, looking at her very little fingers, as she spoke.
“You have peculiarly small ones,” said her sister; “that is like mamma. Still she managed to play very charmingly. Now what will you sing? I dare say we have some of your songs.”
Ella opened a book of songs and ran through its contents.
“Yes,” she said, “there are one or two of mine here. Perhaps,” she added more timidly, “they are some that mamma sang, as Aunt Phillis chose them. I will try this if you like,” and she pointed to what had been in fact one of Mrs St Quentin’s special favourites.
It was a simple enough song, calling for no great execution, still, though the observation may sound absurd, it was a song depending for its beauty on the voice of the singer. And Ella’s young voice suited it perfectly. There was complete silence till she ended. Then a slight sigh from her father made her glance at him.
“I remember that well,” he said. “It is very sweet, very sweet. Thank you, my dear.”
“You have been very well taught it seems to me, Ella,” said Madelene, “and you have a charming voice. It is a pleasure to accompany you. Still it would be well for you to accompany yourself sometimes—you must keep up your playing too.”
“She must have lessons in both,” said Colonel St Quentin decidedly.