Amy, on the other hand, had not had just the same school advantages that Fritz had had. Her mother had been her chief teacher, and had made her lessons at home very interesting. Twice a week in winter she went to the city for French and music,—an extravagance, some people who knew Mrs. Redmond’s circumstances might have said. But her mother thought that to give Amy this opportunity was really a duty, and she felt that she was justified in letting her have these lessons, by the fact that she herself gave her her other instruction. Had they lived in the city, she would have sent Amy to the grammar school; but to have her go to school, as things were, would have meant leaving her alone so many hours every day, that neither mother nor daughter could make up their minds to this separation. Yet Mrs. Redmond was a busy woman, giving all the time that she could to her art, and although she directed her daughter’s studies very carefully, little more than an hour was spent in recitations, and Amy had much time every day for reading. Books completely filled the shelves around three sides of their sitting-room, and they represented the best in English literature. In the evenings mother and daughter read together; and when Amy could choose the author, it was apt to be a poet,—Tennyson, Longfellow, Spenser. If any one had asked Amy to say which of these great men she preferred, she would have found it hard to answer. She was fond of them all, and she had begun to make Fritz feel a part of her enthusiasm. When Amy was enthusiastic on any subject, she could quickly bring
