"Now, you see? Oh, if you would only put your mind on your work, my dear, it would really be a pleasure to teach you. My dear old teacher used to say-"

And here, veering away from the discussion of alt.i.tudes and bases, the good dame began to prattle in the friendliest way about her own girlhood, and about the little school she used to go to, way up in the country, where half the tuition was paid in salt pork and other provisions, and about her father and brothers. Everybody seemed to drift into talking about their own affairs to Jane, and Jane remembered everything they told her. There was hardly a soul in Frederickstown whose general history she was not familiar with; very simple histories for the most part, for the inhabitants of Frederickstown were simple souls, yet each had its measure of comedy and tragedy, and each had its mysterious relationship to the character of its confiding narrator.

So now Miss Farrel told her about her sister, Miss Elizabeth, who was, she said, so much the cleverer and better in every way-the last of her whole family, and crippled with inflammatory rheumatism; and about her wonderful cat, Amaryllis, and so on, and so on.

It was nearly half-past four when the old lady suddenly realized how little of the time she had given to the lesson. Then she made a last attempt to a.s.sume her dignity.

"Well, now, my dear. Let me see. I think that if only you will train yourself-so much depends on our own selves, you know, my dear." And then after a second little discourse, delivered no doubt princ.i.p.ally to a.s.sure herself that everything she had been saying had had some bearing on Jane's particular case, she picked up her inevitable knitting-bag, and took her departure.

Jane, remembering her promise to Elise, to return Lily's patterns, set out toward the Deacon's house.

It stood just at the top of Sheridan Lane, a sleepy, prim old street, regarded as being rather fashionable and aristocratic, princ.i.p.ally because at the lower end of it stood the deserted Sheridan mansion, which, notwithstanding the fact that its owners had not deigned to pay any attention to it in fifteen years, was still one of the prides of Frederickstown.

The quiet street was paved with cobblestones as it descended the hill from Frederickstown itself, as far as the ancient rusty fountain, in whose basin the leaves collected in the autumn, and the birds bathed in the spring; but on the opposite side, where the hill began its rise, the street became simply a white dusty road, leading on through sweet smelling fields, over wooden bridges, where a meadow stream doubled back on itself in loops, past the Sheridan mansion, which marked the limits of Frederickstown proper, and on to the open country.

The branches of the elm trees arched over Janey's head, and now and then, shaken by a drowsy breeze, the yellowed leaves fell noiselessly.

Through the open window of the Deacon's little parlour, came the sound of chords struck on a tinkling square piano, followed by scales and arpeggios sung in a sweet, if rather timid and unsubstantial, feminine voice.

"Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah." Chord. "Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah."

Chord. And so on, patiently up the scale. Miss Deacon was practising. It was a part of her daily program, and never would it have entered Lily's head to deviate from that daily program, mapped out by her excellent but strong-minded and dictatorial mamma. Singing was a very genteel accomplishment for a young lady, and Mrs. Deacon desired above all things that Lily should be elegant.

Jane leaned on the window sill, and listened to the scales for a little while, watching Miss Lily's slender throat swell and quiver like a bird's.

"How pretty she is. If I were as pretty as that, I think I'd be perfectly happy; but she always looks sort of sad. Maybe it's because she's always being fussed at."

There was indeed no girl in Frederickstown who could claim to be quite as pretty as Lily Deacon. Slender and small, with a little tip-tilted nose, which gave the most unexpected and charming spice of coquetry to her delicate face, with large serious blue eyes, and glossy black hair so neatly coiled on the nape of her neck, with beautifully drawn eyebrows, and a tiny mole at the corner of her under lip, accentuating the whiteness of her skin, she would have drawn her tributes of admiration from any pair of eyes that rested on her-and would have been perfectly blind to them. Lily's mother would not have allowed her for a moment to imagine that she was pretty, and Lily never thought of disobeying mamma. Prettiness, according to Mrs. Deacon's severe judgement, counted for nothing; as she had once observed, "It was only as deep as the epidermis." Elegance alone was desirable. You should never say that you were "hot"-a lady spoke of being "warm." And the word "scared" was abominable; you should speak of being "startled" or "alarmed." Lily was almost perfectly elegant. She wore a silk dress, and her pink nails were polished, and even when she sat at the piano, she was so afraid of not having her feet demurely crossed, that she did not dare to use the pedals.

"But, Miss Lily, don't you ever sing anything but scales?" demanded Jane presently. Miss Deacon jumped, put her hand to her throat, and then slowly turned her head.

"Oh-Janey! How you sc-alarmed me!"

"I'm sorry," said Jane, "Elise told me to give you these patterns. Here they are in my bag. No-I don't believe she put 'em in at all. Well, then it's her fault this time-no, here they are."

"Thank you so much. How thoughtful of you. Won't you come in?"

"Well, you're practising, aren't you?"

Lily shook her head.

"It's nearly five. And I'm tired."

"What a lovely day it is," she got up, and came to the window, where she stood, looking up the street, one hand resting on the frame above her head. The wind ruffled her hair a little, and blew the end of her lacy kerchief against her cheek, shaking free a faint scent of sachet.

She sighed gently, and a momentary frown ruffled her smooth forehead.

"I wish-" she began impetuously, and then abruptly checked herself.

"What?" prompted Jane, curiously. For some reason, she really wanted very much to know what Miss Lily wished. But Lily shook her head, smiling a little awkwardly as if she regretted even having said so much; or as if she wasn't sure herself what she did wish. Every now and again, one caught that quick, vanishing expression in her large blue eyes, which seemed to say, "I wish-" and never got any farther.

"Oh, I don't know what I was going to say. Something foolish, no doubt,"

and then to change the subject, she said hastily,

"I suppose you have heard the news about the Sheridan house?"

"No! What? It isn't sold, is it? If they tear it down, and build a horrid old factory there, I don't know what I'll do."

"Oh, no-not that. But some member of the family is going to live there again, and is already moving in."

"Why, that's nice," said Jane. What a lot of events were taking place in Frederickstown! "Do you know who it is? Man, woman or child? Any people of my age? Anybody _interesting_?"

Lily blushed slightly.

"Why, I'm not sure. I think there's only one-a Mr. Sheridan, I suppose."

"Young, old or middle-aged?" inquired Jane, who had already rather lost interest.

"Why, he seemed rather youngish," said Lily, blushing again, "but I couldn't tell very well."

"When did you see him?"

"Why, I didn't exactly see him. I heard mamma talking about it last night, and then this morning I just happened to see a carriage drive past-in my mirror, while I was doing my hair, so of course, I couldn't be sure-but, anyhow, someone was sitting in it leaning back, with a stick-but it seemed to be fairly young-though I couldn't tell," Lily explained confusedly. It seemed to her to be a little indelicate perhaps to look at a fairly young man in a mirror, while you were doing your hair.

"Um," said Jane. "Well, I suppose it's too late to go and investigate now. But I think I'll go to-morrow."

"Oh, Jane! You couldn't do that!" said Lily, in a shocked tone.

"Why not? How else'll I find out."

"Why, I don't know."

"Very well then. Somebody's got to know something about strangers when they come here."

"Yes-that's true," said Lily.

"Of course," said Jane. "It's what you call civic interest."

"Oh," said Lily,-she had been taught to call "it" curiosity; but then mamma's vocabulary was not like other peoples'.

"I have a tremendous amount of civic interest," said Jane, complacently, "I ought to be able to do this town a lot of good."

And with a jaunty wave of her hand, she took her leave. As she turned out of Sheridan Lane, she once more heard the light, pure tones of Lily's voice, but now they sounded a little gayer, a little warmer and sweeter than they had before, and what was more, instead of the monotonous scales, Lily was singing a pert song, which mamma, had she heard it, would probably not have thought elegant at all.

CHAPTER III-CIVIC INTEREST