Michael Angelo Buonarroti | Page 2

to tell her young daughter of the bliss in store for her.
Strange to say, she had cherished the secret of the old stone jar all these years, and had never told Penelope of her high destiny. She pictured now the child's joy, unconsciously putting her own nine-year-old music-hungry self in Penelope's place.
"Penelope," she called gently.
There was a scurrying of light feet down the uncarpeted back stairs, and Penelope, breathless, rosy, and smiling, appeared in the doorway.
"Yes, mother."
"Come with me, child," said Hester, her voice sternly solemn in her effort to keep from shouting her glad tidings before the time.
The woman led the way through the kitchen and dining-room and threw open the parlor door, motioning her daughter into the somber room. The rose-color faded from Penelope's cheeks.
"Why, mother! what--what is it? Have I been--naughty?" she faltered.
Mrs. Martin's tense muscles relaxed and she laughed hysterically.
"No, dearie, no! I--I have something to tell you," she answered, drawing the child to her and smoothing back the disordered hair. "What would you rather have--more than anything else in the world?" she asked; then, unable to keep her secret longer, she burst out, "I've got it, Penelope!--oh, I've got it!"
The little girl broke from the restraining arms and danced wildly around the room.
"Mother! Really? As big as me? And will it talk--say 'papa' and 'mamma,' you know?"
"What!"
Something in Hester's dismayed face brought the prancing feet to a sudden stop.
"It--it's a doll, is n't it?" the child stammered.
Hester's hands grew cold.
"A--a doll!" she gasped.
Penelope nodded--the light gone from her eyes.
For a moment the woman was silent; then she threw back her head with a little shake and laughed forcedly.
"A doll!--why, child, it's as much nicer than a doll as--as you can imagine. It's a piano, dear--a pi-a-no!" she repeated impressively, all the old enthusiasm coming back at the mere mention of the magic word.
"Oh!" murmured Penelope, with some show of interest.
"And you're to learn to play on it!"
"Oh-h!" said Penelope again, but with less interest.
"To play on it! Just think, dear, how fine that will be!" The woman's voice was growing wistful.
"Take lessons? Like Mamie, you mean?"
"Yes, dear."
"But--she has to practice and--"
"Of course," interrupted Hester eagerly. "That's the best part of it--the practice."
"Mamie don't think so," observed Penelope dubiously.
"Then Mamie can't know," rejoined Hester with decision, bravely combating the chill that was creeping over her. "Come, dear, help mother to clear a space, so we may be ready when the piano comes," she finished, crossing the room and moving a chair to one side.
But when the piano finally arrived, Penelope was as enthusiastic as even her mother could wish her to be, and danced about it with proud joy. It was after the child had left the house, however, that Hester came with reverent step into the darkened room and feasted her eyes to her heart's content on the reality of her dreams.
Half fearfully she extended her hand and softly pressed the tip of her fourth finger to one of the ivory keys; then with her thumb she touched another a little below. The resulting dissonance gave her a vague unrest, and she gently slipped her thumb along until the harmony of a major sixth filled her eyes with quick tears.
"Oh, if I only could!" she whispered, and pressed the chord again, rapturously listening to the vibrations as they died away in the quiet room. Then she tiptoed out and closed the door behind her.
During the entire hour of that first Saturday morning lesson Mrs. Martin hovered near the parlor door, her hands and feet refusing to perform their accustomed duties. The low murmur of the teacher's voice and an occasional series of notes were to Hester the mysterious rites before a sacred shrine, and she listened in reverent awe. When Miss Gale had left the house, Mrs. Martin hurried to Penelope's side.
"How did it go? What did she say? Play me what she taught you," she urged excitedly.
Penelope tossed a consequential head and gave her mother a scornful glance.
"Pooh! mother, the first lesson ain't much. I've got to practice."
"Of course," acknowledged Hester in conciliation; "but how?--what?"
"That--and that--and from there to there," said Penelope, indicating with a pink forefinger certain portions of the page before her.
"Oh!" breathed Hester, regarding the notes with eager eyes. Then timidly, "Play--that one."
With all the importance of absolute certainty Penelope struck C.
"And that one."
Penelope's second finger hit F.
"And that--and that--and that," swiftly demanded Hester.
Penelope's cheeks grew pink, but her fingers did not falter. Hester drew a long breath.
"Oh, how quick you've learned 'em!" she exclaimed.
Her daughter hesitated a tempted moment.
"Well--I--I learned the notes in school," she finally acknowledged, looking sidewise at her mother.
But even this admission did not lessen for Hester the halo of glory about Penelope's head. She drew another long breath.
"But what else did Miss Gale say? Tell me