The Girls of St. Wode's. Meade L. T.

a man of extraordinary character and determination, and had all his life been the victim of fads. Mrs. Chetwynd felt quite certain that their father was to blame for Marjorie’s and Eileen’s peculiar appearance. She was thankful that she had not asked any friends to meet the girls on their first evening home from school. She determined to make herself as pleasant as possible, and not to allude to the untidy wardrobes, the gauche appearance, and the cropped heads until the following morning.

      Dinner passed quickly, for all three girls were hungry; and when they retired to the drawing-room Mrs. Chetwynd suggested a little music.

      “Eileen, my darling, you sing, don’t you?” she said, turning to the younger of the twins.

      “Oh, dear me, no, mother; I have not the ghost of a voice,” replied Eileen.

      “But I thought that your teacher, Miss Fox, spoke highly of your musical talents?”

      “She said I should play well if I practiced hard; but I did not think my very moderate gift worth cultivating,” replied Eileen, yawning slightly as she spoke. “You see, unless one has genius, there is not the least use in the present day in being musical. Only genius is tolerated; and then I don’t ever mean to be ornamental. My vogue in life is the useful. The music of the ordinary school-girl, after years of toil, is merely regarded as an accomplishment, and generally as an unpleasant one; therefore I have let my music drop.”

      “Dear, dear! How extraordinary of Miss Fox not to let me know,” said Mrs. Chetwynd. “Well, Marjorie, you at least play?” said her mother.

      “Yes, mother,” in a somewhat solemn style. “I can give you one of Bach’s fugues, if you like.”

      “Do so, my dear. I have spent a great deal of money on your music, and should like to hear the result.”

      Marjorie rose, went to the piano, sat down, and began to thunder loudly. She had scarcely any taste for music, and she played several wrong notes. Mrs. Chetwynd had a carefully trained ear, and she quite shuddered when Marjorie crashed out some of her terrible discords.

      Having finished the fugue, which took a considerable time, the young girl rose from the piano amid a profound silence. Eileen had turned away and was engrossed in a book on cookery which she had picked up from a side-table. She was muttering to herself half-aloud:

      “Take of flour one ounce, butter, cream, three eggs, and – ”

      “What are you doing, Eileen?” said the mother.

      Eileen made no reply.

      Marjorie seated herself on a chair near her mother.

      “I hope you liked that fugue?” she said. “I took tremendous pains learning it. I got up every morning an hour earlier than the others during the whole of last term, simply because I intended to play that fugue of Bach’s to you.”

      “It was a great pity, dear,” began Mrs. Chetwynd; then she sighed and stopped.

      “A pity, mother? What in the world do you mean?”

      “Nothing, love; we will talk of all those things to-morrow.”

      “What a terrible day to-morrow promises to be,” said Marjorie, glancing towards Eileen. “I can see that mother is going to let the vials of her wrath loose. Oh yes, you dear old mammy, you are – you cannot deny it. But we are not such dreadful girls after all. All we want to do is this: we want to go our own way.”

      “Your own way, Eileen – your own way?”

      “Yes, mammy, our own way; and you can go yours. Then we shall get on together like a house on fire. Now, what are you winking at me for, Letitia?”

      “I was not winking at you,” said Letitia. “I was wondering if Aunt Helen would like to hear me sing.”

      “Certainly, my dear; but I never knew before that you had a voice.”

      “I have only a little voice; but I have made the most of my opportunities. I won’t sing if you would rather not.”

      “On the contrary, dear; I should like to hear you.”

      “A ballad, I suppose?” said Letitia.

      “Yes; I am fond of ballads. What do you know?”

      “All the usual ones, I think,” replied Letitia. “I will sing ‘Robin Adair’ if that will suit you.”

      “I am fond of ‘Robin Adair,’” said the widow; “but few people can render those beautiful words to satisfaction.”

      Letitia volunteered to try. She sat down to the piano; her accompaniment was fresh and rippling, her voice clear, not particularly strong, but wonderfully true. It had a note of sympathy in it too, which rang through the old room.

      Mrs. Chetwynd put down her knitting with a sigh of pleasure. The two girls sat with their hands lying idly in their laps, and gazed at their cousin.

      When the old ballad came to an end, Mrs. Chetwynd felt tears not far from her eyes.

      Oh, if only Eileen and Marjorie were like Letitia!

      Marjorie suddenly jumped to her feet.

      “Are you crying, mother?” she said, going up to her mother. “Oh, it’s just like that wicked Lettie. To hear her sing you would suppose that she was the most sentimental creature in the world: but don’t you believe a word of it, mammy. She has not one scrap of sentiment in her composition; she is the most worldly-wise little soul that I have ever come across. – Now, Lettie, don’t be a humbug; sing something in which your real feelings appear – a modern love-song, for instance, or something about fine dress, or nothing to wear, or anything else in your real style. It’s positively wrong of you to deceive mother in the way you are doing.”

      Letitia looked gently reproachful. She said she did not know any song about nothing to wear, nor any song either about dress; but she would sing “Shadowland” if Mrs. Chetwynd wished it.

      This song again brought the widow to the verge of tears. Lettie then rose and shut the piano.

      “You at least, my dear, have derived benefit from your education,” she said. “How I wish your dear father and my dear husband were alive to hear you.”

      “Father could always see through humbugs,” said Eileen to Marjorie.

      “Yes,” replied Marjorie; “but don’t you see whatever mother is she is not a humbug?”

      “Only we don’t want Lettie to twist her round her little finger, do we?” said Eileen.

      “No; not that it greatly matters. Poor mother. I expect Lettie will do very much what we do; but I’m not sure. We must only wait and see.”

      The girls retired to bed; but Mrs. Chetwynd sat up late, wishing much that she had Mrs. Acheson to consult with.

      What was to be done if Marjorie and Eileen went on in this peculiar manner which they had done that evening? Really, when everything was considered, they were very little better than Belle, and Belle happened to be Mrs. Chetwynd’s bête noire.

      “If only pretty, graceful, accomplished Letitia were my own daughter! She is a dear child, and yet I cannot quite cordially take to her,” thought the widow. “I don’t know what is the matter with her. I have no fault whatever to find. I suppose it is because she is not my own. Now Marjorie and Eileen rub me the wrong way every time they open their lips, and yet I love them with all my heart and soul. How handsome they are too! Anything could be done with them if only they would submit to the ordinary regulations of polite society. What terrible times these modern days are! Mothers have little or no influence over their own children. The children take the upper hand and – keep it. But I just vow that Marjorie and Eileen shall submit to me in my own house. Poor darlings, they are as loving as possible; but they have been under some dreadful pernicious influence. I could never guess that a school so highly recommended as Miss Marchland’s was would send back girls in the condition Marjorie and Eileen are in. No manners, disgraceful in appearance, and no accomplishments. What agony I went through while Marjorie was playing that fugue! She must never attempt to play in public. Eileen, who really had a taste