touched her guitar, almost graceful, almost handsome; her every-day fretful look was gone for a moment, and was replaced by a “sourire plein de bonté.” She sang the songs he asked for, with feeling; they reminded her of a parent to whom she had been truly attached; they reminded her of her young days. She observed, too, that Caroline listened with naïve interest; this augmented her good-humour; and the exclamation at the close of the song, “I wish I could sing and play like Hortense!” achieved the business, and rendered her charming for the evening.
It is true, a little lecture to Caroline followed, on the vanity of wishing, and the duty of trying. “As Rome,” it was suggested, “had not been built in a day, so neither had Mademoiselle Gérard Moore’s education been completed in a week, or by merely wishing to be clever. It was effort that had accomplished that great work: she was ever remarkable for her perseverance, for her industry: her masters had remarked that it was as delightful as it was uncommon to find so much talent united with so much solidity, and so on. Once on the theme of her own merits, Mademoiselle was fluent.
Cradled at last in blissful self-complacency, she took her knitting and sat down tranquil. Drawn curtains, a clear fire, a softly shining lamp gave now to the little parlour its best—its evening charm. It is probable that the three there present felt this charm: they all looked happy.
