have been dearest
friends ever since they were little. They call each other cousin,
though they're no kin at all, any more than he's my uncle. He was my
first teacher at his 'school in the woods,' but felt I ought to go to
a school for girls. So I went to the Rhinelander Academy and he stayed
at his smithy on the mountain, near Mother Martha's little farm and
Aunt Betty's big one, and one vacation auntie told me who I was and
took me home to live with her; and she liked Oak Knowe because the
Bishop is her lifelong friend. She has had my name on the list waiting
for a vacancy for a long, long time; so it's a terrible pity I should
have been horrid, and offended the Lady Principal."

"Let us hope she is not seriously offended, dear, nor have you told me
what the offense is. But bear in mind, Dorothy, that she is at the
head of a great and famous institution and must strictly live up to
its standards and keep her pupils to their duty. But she is absolutely
just, as you will learn in time.

"I feel like hearing music, to-day, but get very little. All our
practice rooms are sound-deadened. Do you play at all, on any
instrument, or sing?"

"A little of both, when I'm at home. Not well in either, though Aunt
Betty loves my violin and my little songs. If I had it here, I would
try for you, if you'd like. But it's in my trunk, my 'box,' Mr. Gilpin
called it."

Miss Hexam smiled and, opening a little secretary, took out an old
Cremona, explaining:

"This was my brother's, who died when I was young. He was a master of
it, had many pupils. I allow few to touch it, but I'd be pleased to
have you, if you would like."

"Would you? May I?" asked Dorothy, handling it reverently for its
sacredness to this loving old sister. And, after she had tuned it, as
reverently for its own sake. It was a rare old instrument of sweetest
tone and almost unconsciously Dorothy tried one theme after another
upon it while Miss Hexam leaned back in her chair listening and
motionless.

Into that playing the young musician put all the love and homesickness
of her own heart. It seemed as if she were back at Deerhurst, with the
Great Danes lying on the rug at her feet and dear Aunt Betty resting
before the fire. Then, when memory threatened to bring the tears she
was determined should not fall, she stopped, laid the violin silently
upon the table and slipped out of the room, leaving Miss Hexam still
motionless in her chair.

But she would have bee