ed.

'Then, may I get up an hour earlier in the morning to practise, Mama,
dear?'

There is something almost unnatural in the way that child fights her
way through all obstacles to the piano and the monotony of Czerny. All
the other parents in the world seem to be bewailing the fact that they
can't get their children to practise. I know I ought to be proud and
glad that The Kid is so bent upon a musical career, but even as the
lion and the lamb cannot lie down together, neither can a writer and an
incipient musician dwell in the same house in amity.

Through almost illimitable difficulties (for when at work Henry can no
more stand piano practice than I can) The Kid has got to the Variations
of 'The Blue Bells of Scotland.' Nevertheless she is yearning for the
day when she will arrive at the part where she crosses hands (Var.
8)--a tremendous achievement in her eyes, but viewed with cold
aloofness by Henry and me.

As I returned to my writing Henry entered the room.

'Will you as a Scotsman tell me,' I inquired before he could speak,
'what English people have done that they should be so unduly annoyed by
the bells of Scotland, why those bells should be blue, and who was
responsible for bringing the said blue bells (with variations) across
the Border?'

'I see The Kid's been annoying you again,' he commented. 'It's a pity
she gets no chance of practising.'

I looked at him sternly. 'No chance! On the contrary, she never lets
a chance escape her. I think it's the fierce Northern strain she
inherits from you, Henry, that makes her so persistent. She reminds me
of Bannockburn----'

'Bannockburn!' ejaculated Henry.

'King Bruce and the Spider and all that, you know. Didn't he go on
trying and trying until he succeeded? That's what The Kid does with
her scales. I think I understand why in 1603 we put a Scotch King on
the English throne--you wouldn't have given us any peace if we hadn't.'

'Well, don't blame me for it, my dear,' replied Henry. 'I dropped in
to tell you that William has just 'phoned up to say he accepts our
invitation to dinner this evening, but he is most anxious to know who
else is coming.'

I stared. 'This is most unusual. What should it matter to him who is
coming?'

'I told him, of course, that there was only Marion and ourselves, and
then he asked if he should get into evening dress. What do you think
of that?' We looked at each other in silent amazement.

'William--in--ev