Michael Angelo Buonarroti | Page 2

the price--thirty-five cents
an hour; and she graciously accepted the name of her new pupil,
entering "Penelope Martin" on her books for Saturday mornings at ten
o'clock. Then Hester went home 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