“Hout, Miss Hope! a’body that’s very good at it makes that excuse, ye ken; and I’m sure ye must aye be getting new tunes in Edinburgh.”
“But I don’t like new tunes,” pleaded Hope.
“Oh, Miss Oswald!” said the astonished Maggie, in gentle reproof.
Hope was offended; Maggie Irving called her Miss Oswald; Maggie Irving had nothing to talk about, after so long a separation, but stitches and new tunes! Their friendship was at an end. Hope walked indignantly to the piano, and played her favourite air of “Hame, hame, hame!”
“It’s a bonnie bit simple thing that,” said Mrs Irving, looking proudly at her own accomplished performer, as she took her place at the instrument, by the side of which Hope and her mother were reluctantly compelled to sit for a dull half hour, listening to jingling pieces of music, whose brief moment of fashion was long ago over, and which had never had anything but fashion to recommend them.
But Mrs Irving was delighted, and Maggie was exceedingly complacent. Alas, poor Maggie! her fingers were highly educated; her mind was fallow. The thorough training of Hope’s Edinburgh school these good folk in Fendie could not reach; but they could reach the superficials, and they were contented.
“Well, Hope,” said Mrs Oswald, in answer to a burst of wonder and disappointment, when they had left Friarsford and its accomplishments behind them; “you remember how you used to resist and be disobedient when your father said that Matthew Irving’s daughter was no companion for you.”
“But, mother,” said Hope solemnly, “Adelaide Fendie is just the same—and Adelaide ought to be a lady, if being anybody’s daughter would make her one; but she is not, for all that.”
“Adelaide is only a girl like yourself, Hope.”
“But she is not a gentlewoman, mamma; and she talks about stitches and tunes like Maggie Irving—and I’m sure I don’t know what’s the use of them.”