So happy was she that she was very unwilling to go to bed, and so it happened that she and her mother were the last up.
"Do you remember the talk we had on the night after father went?" Dora asked, sitting in the same attitude as she had done on the occasion to which she referred, with her head resting against her mother's knee.
"Yes, dear."
"The work hasn't been too much," she said, triumphantly. "You thought I should break down!"
"You have done wonderfully well," replied her mother; "but lately I have feared the strain is getting too much for you."
"Indeed, I have not found it so; and now that it's light so early, I mean to have an hour's writing every morning before breakfast."
"I thought you intended taking that hour as extra practice time."
"But I like writing so much better than practising," said Dora, a little impatiently. "I know you will be prouder of me some day as a writer than ever you will be as a musician."
"I am not anxious to be proud of you as either," said Mrs. Grainger. "To see you using your talents for the happiness and comfort of others, and not for your own self-glory and advancement, is what I desire, Dora. Do you remember what took place after our talk together on that first night of your father's absence?"
The gravity of Mrs. Grainger's voice, more than the words, made her meaning clear.