nia fashion-plating herself on the sofa?

He leaned back smoking peacefully, listening to Marise's voice brimming
up all around the children's as they romped through "The raggle-taggle
gypsies, oh!"

What a mastery of the piano Marise had, subduing it to the slender pipe
of those child-voices as long as they sang, and rolling out sumptuous
harmonies in the intervals of the song. Lucky kids! Lucky kids! to have
childhood memories like that.

He heard Paul say, "Now let's sing 'Massa's in the cold, cold ground,'"
and Elly shriek out, "No, Mother, _no!_ It's so _terribly_ sad! I can't
stand it!" And Paul answer with that certainty of his always being in
the right, "Aw, Elly, it's not fair. Is it, Mother, fair to have Elly
keep us from singing one of the nicest songs we have, just because she's
so foolish?"

His father frowned. Queer about Paul. He'd do anything for Elly if he
thought her in trouble, would stand up for her against the biggest bully
of the school-yard. But he couldn't keep himself from . . . it was perhaps
because Paul could not _understand_ that . . . now how could Marise meet
this little problem in family equity, he wondered? Her solutions of the
children's knots always tickled him.

She was saying, "Let's see. Elly, it doesn't look to me as though you
had any right to keep Paul from singing a song he likes. And, Paul, it
doesn't seem as though you had any right to make Elly listen to a song
that makes her cry. Let's settle it this way. We can't move the piano,
but we can move Elly. Elly dear, suppose you go 'way out through the
kitchen and shut both doors and stand on the back porch. Toucle will
probably be there, looking out, the way she does evenings, so you won't
be alone. I'll send Mark out to get you when we're through. And because
it's not very much fun to stand out in the dark, you can stop and get
yourself a piece of cocoanut cake as you go through the pantry."

Neale laughed silently to himself as he heard the doors open and shut
and Elly's light tread die away. How perfectly Marise understood her
little daughter! It wasn't only over the piano that Marise had a
mastery, but over everybody's nature. She played on them as surely, as
richly as on any instrument. That's what he called real art-in-life. Why
wasn't it creative art, as much as anything, her Blondin-like accuracy
of poise among all the conflicting elements of family-life, the warring
interests of the different temperaments, ages, s