Vain, apparently, for Harry Wilbur, vain for the dashing new-comer, Mr. Lawrence O'Neil, to think time was working the will of each. Time was doing nothing so sensible. CHAPTER XXVI One of the things nobody had been able to get Val to do any more was to sing. This had been at first set down to the death of her father, and a special association of him with music. Even Julia shared that view. The next spring after the summer the Otways had spent at Long Branch, the three girls--Julia, Emmie, and Val--sat one chill afternoon on the hearth-rug before the fire in the blue room. With very buttery fingers they were eating the last of a great bowl of popcorn. Val, who had presided over the popping, was losing the becoming flush that occupation lent her. The years had taken from the face something of its old look of frankness and love of fun, that had been almost boyish in its simplicity. The subtler woman-look, the faint suggestion of brooding in the eyes, had matured the face and lent it meaning. Emmie was the same pretty creature, a little more fragile than before, whereas Julia was blooming and bourgeoning into a very handsome woman of somewhat majestic proportions. Instead of two, she looked five or six years older than Val's twenty-three years. The brown and choral chiné silk Julia wore this afternoon was turned away at the neck, and a lace fichu carefully drawn down over the fine bust left visible the prettiest throat in the world, as well as a little V-shaped space of fair white neck. Emmie was tired of the talk of a party to which she was not going. It was on the night of the choir practice, and, besides, she didn't approve of dancing. She wiped her buttery fingers on her handkerchief. "Let's go down-stairs and try our new hymn," she said, getting up. "All right," agreed Julia. "You two can, if you like," said Val. "You must sing us 'Den lieben langen Tag;' I haven't heard it for years." "Don't care about it any more." Val gathered up and crunched the hard scorched grains that had remained in the bottom of the bowl. "Why not?" "It's absurd to try to sing just after eating pop-corn." "Nonsense!" said Emmie. "Grandma's reading old letters in the pack-room, so she won't hear. If you'll put away the corn popper, I'll get the key of the piano." "It's a great pity not to keep up your music," said Julia, as Emmie went off with the empty bowl. "You'll get hopelessly rusty." "I shall never sing a note as long as I live," said Val, "and I wish you wouldn't bother me about it before people." Julia stared at her. "You ought to understand without my telling you. It kills me to do it half and half. I'll forget I ever wanted to have music in my life." "You mean, I must never ask you to sing again?" "It's the one thing about the whole matter that hurts most. You see," Val said, with an effort to speak in a commonplace tone, "I'm not sulking about it, I'm not angry; I've simply wiped off the score."