Good-night.'
Had she been indeed an angel from heaven, Robert could not have
worshipped her more. And why should he? Was she less God's
messenger that she had beautiful arms instead of less beautiful
wings?
He practised his scales till his unaccustomed fingers were stiff,
then shut the piano with reverence, and departed, carefully peeping
into the disenchanted region without the gates to see that no enemy
lay in wait for him as he passed beyond them. He closed the door
gently; and in one moment the rich lovely room and the beautiful
lady were behind him, and before him the bare stair between two
white-washed walls, and the long flagged transe that led to his
silent grandmother seated in her arm-chair, gazing into the red
coals--for somehow grannie's fire always glowed, and never
blazed--with her round-toed shoes pointed at them from the top of
her little wooden stool. He traversed the stair and the transe,
entered the parlour, and sat down to his open book as though nothing
had happened. But his grandmother saw the light in his face, and
did think he had just come from his prayers. And she blessed God
that he had put it into her heart to burn the fiddle.
The next night Robert took with him the miniature of his mother, and
showed it to Miss St. John, who saw at once that, whatever might be
his present surroundings, his mother must have been a lady. A
certain fancied resemblance in it to her own mother likewise drew
her heart to the boy.
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