Lydia Graham had nothing to fear from comparison with the Misses
Mordaunt. They were tolerable performers. She was a brilliant
proficient in music, and she had the satisfaction of observing that
Lionel Dale perceived and appreciated her superiority. She could
afford, therefore, to be as amiable to the girls as she was captivating
to the gentlemen.
The Misses Mordaunt were singing a duet, when a servant entered, and
approached Lionel Dale.
"There is a person in the hall who asks to see you, sir," said the man,
"on most particular business."
"What kind of person?" asked the rector.
"Well, sir, she looks like an old gipsy woman."
"A gipsy woman! The gipsies about here do not bear the best character."
"No, sir," replied the man. "I bore that in mind, sir, with a view to
the plate, and I told John Andrew to keep an eye upon her while I came
to speak to you; and John Andrew is keeping an eye upon her at this
present moment, sir."
"Very good, Jackson. You can tell the gipsy woman that, if she needs
immediate help of any kind, she can apply in the village, to Rawlins,
but that I cannot see her to-night."
"Yes, sir."
The man departed; and the Misses Mordaunt finished their duet, and rose
from the piano, to receive the usual thanks and acknowledgments from
their hearers.
Again Miss Graham was asked to sing, and again she seated herself
before the instrument, triumphant in the consciousness that she could
excel the timid girls who had just left the piano.
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