“That young man is very superior to his station,” she declared, solemnly; “he must be of good though decayed family.”
“His grandfather was a Vermont farmer, and ours was a Massachusetts farmer,” retorted Pauline; “I dare say if we go back far enough we shall find the Armstrongs as good as we—”
“Oh, pray don’t talk that way before Etty, dear,” interrupted Mysie, hurriedly: “she thinks it so like the anarchists; and if you get into that way of speech, you might slip out something before her. Poor Etty, I wish she felt as if she could go to church. I hope she had a peaceful morning.”
Ah, hope unfounded! Never had Miss Henriette Beaumont passed a season more rasping to her nerves. Looking out of the window, she saw both the younger Armstrongs and their mother. The boys had been picking vegetables.
“Now, boys,” called Mrs. Armstrong, gayly, “let’s come and play on the organ.”
Henriette’s soul was in arms. Unfortunately she was still in the robes of rest (attempting to slumber after her tumultuous night), and dignity forbade her shouting out of the window.
The two boys passed a happy morning experimenting on the different stops, and improvising melodies of their own. “Say, mummy, isn’t that kinder like a tune?” one or the other would exclaim. Mrs. Armstrong listened with pride. The awful combination of discords fell sweetly on her ear, which was “no ear for music.”
“It’s just lovely to have an organ,” she thought.
When Miss Beaumont could bear no more she attired herself and descended the stairs. Then the boys stopped. In the afternoon several friends of the Armstrongs called. They sang Moody and Sankey hymns, until Henriette was pale with misery.
“I think I prefer the untutored Armstrong savages themselves, with their war-cries,” she remarked.