The flush on Rhoda's face had been more than the reflection of Miss Wilkins's open fire or of her exposure to the wind. It was a blush of honest shame. Rhoda had been carrying on a course of deceit on which she could not think without shame and remorse. A celebrated lecturer was giving a course of lectures upon one of Mr. Ferrand's pet sciences—geology. Professor A—'s stay was limited, and in order to complete his course, he lectured every evening. It was no part of Mr. Ferrand's system to have Isa attend lectures for the present, and she was left at home with strict injunctions to practise an hour and a half, and to give at least half the time to her singing. Isa had very little ear, and less voice, but Mr. Ferrand believed that any person could learn to sing with proper instruction. Her former teacher had bluntly told him that it was a loss of time and money for his daughter to take singing lessons. She might possibly learn to play tolerably, said this impracticable man, though she would never be anything but a mechanical performer at the best; but as for singing, it was all nonsense, and he really could not afford to waste his time on her. Mr. Ferrand put on his grandest air of dignity, paid Mr. Tyndale's bill, and dismissed him, and then looked for another master who would be more docile. He found one in the person of Mr. Harvey, who was poor and had a family, two arguments which had much more weight with the music-master than any of Mr. Ferrand's. "She will never learn anything," he said to his wife. "She has no more voice than a sparrow, and she hates music besides. She sets my teeth on edge worse than saw-filing. But her father is determined she shall learn, and two dollars an hour is not to be despised. It is all very well for Tyndale to set up for frankness. He has more pupils than he can attend to at forty dollars a quarter. I shall do the best I can by the girl, and at all events, I sha'n't work her to death, as Brown would." Certainly the atmosphere around Mr. Ferrand did not seem to be favourable to sincerity. One of the first times that Isa was left alone to her music, Rhoda came into the little back parlour where the piano stood just as Isa, was blundering over a new piece. It was that pretty little song, "The Origin of the Harp." The accompaniment is peculiarly simple and graceful, requiring delicacy of touch and execution, and Rhoda's ears were distracted by the way in which Isa attacked it. "Oh, Isa, you do make such work!" she exclaimed, without ceremony, which indeed had been long disused between them. "I can't help it," returned Isa, pettishly. "I can't see any sense in it. It is all up and down, without any tune at all. Do see if you can make anything of it." "It can't do any harm just for once," said Rhoda, hesitating, for her fingers tingled to be at the piano. "Of course not. As if anything could hurt this old piano! Come, do try."