estion. She
almost never volunteered a perfectly useless observation. She made no
remarks upon self-evident topics. If the sun shone, she never mentioned
it. If there was a heavy rain, she never mentioned that. Miss Martha
suited her cousin exactly, and for that reason, aside from the fact that
he had been devoted to little Lucy's mother, it never occurred to him
to marry again. Little Lucy talked no more than Miss Martha, and nobody
dreamed that she sometimes wanted somebody to talk to her. Nobody
dreamed that the dear little girl, studying her lessons, learning
needlework, trying very futilely to play the piano, was lonely; but she
was without knowing it herself. Martha was so kind and so still; and her
father was so kind and so still, engrossed in his papers or books,
often sitting by himself in his own study. Little Lucy in this peace and
stillness was not having her share of childhood. When other little
girls came to play with her. Miss Martha enjoined quiet, and even Lily
Jennings's bird-like chattering became subdued. It was only at school
that Lucy got her chance for the irresponsible delight which was the
simple right of her childhood, and there her zeal for her lessons
prevented. She was happy at school, however, for there she lived in
an atmosphere of demonstrative affection. The teachers were given
to seizing her in fond arms and caressing her, and so were her girl
companions; while the boys, especially Jim Patterson, looked wistfully
on.

Jim Patterson was in love, a charming little poetical boy-love; but it
was love. Everything which he did in those days was with the thought of
little Lucy for incentive. He stood better in school than he had ever
done before, but it was all for the sake of little Lucy. Jim Patterson
had one talent, rather rudimentary, still a talent. He could play by
ear. His father owned an old violin. He had been inclined to music in
early youth, and Jim got permission to practise on it, and he went by
himself in the hot attic and practised. Jim's mother did not care for
music, and her son's preliminary scraping tortured her. Jim tucked the
old fiddle under one round boy-cheek and played in the hot attic, with
wasps buzzing around him; and he spent his pennies for catgut, and
he learned to mend fiddle-strings; and finally came a proud Wednesday
afternoon when there were visitors in Madame's school, and he stood on
the platform, with Miss Acton playing an accompaniment on the baby grand