f
the new song, and to alter and re-alter the more troublesome bars. She
must practise, too, for with the hope of public work before her it would
never do to lose execution and flexibility of finger. Already she was
making arrangements for lessons in harmony, and her time seemed filling
up.

In the energy which distinguishes all beginnings, Hope practised scales
and exercises for a good three hours one Saturday afternoon, and towards
the end of the time was much exercised to account for the meaning of a
thumping noise that seemed to rise from the ground beneath her feet.
She stopped playing; the noise stopped also. She began again; the noise
was repeated. Philippa, summoned to decide whether or no they were the
proud possessors of a unique sort of echo, immediately arrived at a more
prosaic explanation.

"It's some one knocking from underneath. It must be the Hermit, that
bachelor creature who lives just below. He wants you to stop."

"What cheek!" cried Hope. She was, as a rule, discreet and punctilious
in her language, but there are points upon which the meekest among us
are keenly sensitive, and when it came to interference with her
practising, propriety flew to the winds. "What _hateful_ cheek! What
right has he to interfere! Has he hired the whole building? Does he
think we are going to consult _him_ about what we do? What next,
indeed? I'll try chromatics now, and see how he will like them. Cheek!
Abominable cheek?"

She went to work more vigorously than ever, and Philippa thought it
prudent to refrain from interference, but contented herself with
hurrying preparations for tea; and for the time being there was no more
knocking. Presumably the chromatics had reduced the listener to a
condition of helpless despair.

On the third evening Theo made her appearance wearing her best fichu,
and with a face wreathed in smiles. "I've got it!" she announced; and
there was no need to ask to what she referred. The tension was over for
the time being, and the young author worked up her subject with the
usual enjoyment. When the story was finished the girls begged for a
private reading; a request against which, as a rule, the author steadily
set her face, so that, as usual, the first response was a refusal.

"I can't. It is too cold-blooded. The members of one's own family are
too painfully critical. I'd rather face a dozen editors than you three
girls."

"Very unkind of you, then; that's all I have