There was no romance left in her
life, but yet was she without bitterness. She had known suffering and
faced it unblanching. The only mark it had left upon her was that air of
womanly knowledge that clothed her like a garment even in her lightest
moods. Of a quick understanding and yet quicker sympathy, she had
learned to hold her emotions in check, and the natural gaiety of her hid
much that was too sacred to be carelessly displayed. She had a ready
sense of humour that had buoyed her up through many a storm, and the
brave heart behind it never flinched from disaster. As her father had
said of her in the long-ago days of happiness and prosperity, she took
her hedges straight.
For several minutes after Jeanie's weary little confidence, she worked
in silence; then suddenly, with needle poised, she looked across at
the child.
Jeanie's head was bent over her exercise-book. Her hair lay in a heavy
mass all about her shoulders. There was a worried frown between her
brows. Slowly her hand travelled across the page, paused, wrote a word or
two, paused again.
Suddenly from the room above them there came the shrill shriek of a
violin. It wailed itself into silence, and then broke forth again in a
series of long drawn-out whines. Jeanie sighed.
Avery laid down her work with quiet decision, and went to her side.
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