Theodosia practised scales in single tones and thirds, working happily, blending them in her thought with the running autumn and the crisp frost, with the rich new color that had come to her garments in the coat and hat, in certain gowns she devised with her dressmaker, in her autumn stockings and a brilliant scarf. Jane Moore came sometimes to practise with the instruments, inaccurate as before but pretty in her gray fur and bright blue dress. She would laugh at the precision of the music teacher and clatter amiably on the piano, her eyes misty with her own prettiness and tender with the devotion of youth to youth. “You’re too sweet for words,” she would say to Theodosia as she touched the keys lightly, smiling over her shoulder. Her brown hair was softly rolled and centered into low knots. She would tinkle lightly at Albert’s songs, giving them a manner, _Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland_ dribbling from her pert fingers. Catherine Lovell had a bright red hat for the mid-winter, accented with an unsubdued cock’s feather that tilted and swayed as she walked, as she sat lightly moving in her chair. She went to the Seminary every day to teach, but in the evening she would run to Theodosia for a chat or a walk, or she would bring a gift of winter flowers from her mother’s small window garden. Back would come the day for the fiddle lesson. The teacher would enter with a quick smile, tossing aside her coat and her hat. The piano note would cry out briefly under her quick hand and the gut string would follow, slipping and crawling into tune, Theodosia’s heart beating fast with some cruel, fearful pleasure. A skurry of runs and a trill and a few bars from the cadenza of some concerto. The example would clarify her words: each note must stand out like a star in a dark night.... Smoothness in the change of position when the string must be crossed without sound.... The singing tone, the perfect legato.... The bow should be thought of as of indefinite length—no end to it, no break between the up-bow and the down-bow.... “But do not, for all this, be a slave to your fingers. The music must come out of your soul, out of your soul.” * * * * *