Poor Edith's answers were very far from satisfying Miss Harley.
"You say you have had no teacher but your sister since Miss Phelps, or
Phipps, or whatever her name was, left. And how old is your sister, may
I ask?"
"Jessie is eighteen," answered Edith. "And she is very clever--every one
says so, especially at music."
"Why didn't she teach you, then, and make you practise regularly? You
tell me you have had no regular practice, and cannot play more than two
or three pieces."
"It is not Jessie's fault," said Edith, colouring up. "Papa and mamma
liked us all to learn, but I am afraid, aunt, I have no natural talent
for music. I get on better with some other things."
Aunt Rachel opened a French book that lay on the table.
"Read that," she said shortly, pointing to the open page.
Edith was at home here; her pronunciation was rather original, it is
true, but she read with ease and fluency, and translated the page
afterwards without any awkward pauses.
"That is better," said her aunt, more graciously. "You shall have some
lessons. As for the music, I don't believe in making girls, who can't
tell the National Anthem from the Old Hundredth, strum on the piano
whether they like it or not. You may learn drawing instead. And then I
shall expect you to read with me--good solid authors, you know, not
poetry and romances, which are all the girls of the present day seem to
care for.
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