orgotten their scales, and how to write and read, before the
governess returned, Miss Bibby had considered it her duty to see to
these things.

So she exacted half an hour a day at the piano from each of the little
girls, and faithfully sat beside them saying: "One, two, three, four,
don't droop your wrists, Lynn; one, two, three, four, count, Pauline;
one, two, three, four, thumb under, Muffie."

And she established two letter hours a week, and saw to it that the
children wrote to their parents in their best hand for one page, though
she allowed a "go-as-you-please" for the other pages, judging that that
would give most pleasure across the wash of the Pacific seas.

"My dearest Mummie and Dad," wrote Pauline this afternoon, "I played my
Serenade through yesterday without one single solitary mistake."

Then she looked up with trouble in her eyes.

"Miss Bibby," she said, "you know just where you turn over and the
chords begin, are you _sure_ I didn't play D flat there, instead of D
natural?"

Miss Bibby started guiltily; as silence had settled slowly down over the
room her thoughts began to drop nearer and nearer to her elbow.

"I don't remember, dear," she said; "didn't I praise you--didn't we say
you could tell mother that you had it quite correct at last? Yes, I
remember quite well."

Pauline sighed. There was no help for her spiritual difficulty here.
That doubtful D flat had made her toss restlessly for half an hour
before she slept last night. She was consumed by the desire to write the
glorious news to her mother, and even Miss Bibby, exigent Miss Bibby,
had said the piece was perfect. But Pauline herself had a lurking,
miserable doubt in her mind; she seemed to recollect just one mistake,
just one tiresome finger jumping up to a black note, when it should have
played a white one with a slur. She stared wretchedly at the written
statement before her. Suppose it were not true--think of writing a lie,
an actual lie to mother! But, indeed, if she really knew for certain
that she had played D flat she would not dream of writing so. It was the
doubt that tormented. She had better not write so certainly--yes, she
would add something that would leave the question more open. "Perhaps"
was the word, of course,--"perhaps" excused many, many things. She read
over the beginning once more, imagining it to be her mother's eye
perusing.

"'My dearest Mummie and Dad,--I played my Serenade through this morning
without