"Your turn next," the joyous child cried, when she too was out of
breath. "Sing, Sydney--sing!" Alas for Sydney! She had not sung
since those happiest days of her childhood, when her good father
had told her fairy stories, and taught her songs. They were all
forgotten now. "I can't sing, Kitty; I can't sing." The pupil,
hearing this melancholy confession, became governess once more.
"Say the words, Syd; and hum the tune after me." They laughed
over the singing lesson, until the echoes of the hills mocked
them, and laughed too. Looking into the schoolroom, one day, Mrs.
Linley found that the serious business of teaching was not
neglected. The lessons went on smoothly, without an obstacle in
the way. Kitty was incapable of disappointing her friend and
playfellow, who made learning easy with a smile and a kiss. The
balance of authority was regulated to perfection in the lives of
these two simple creatures. In the schoolroom, the governess
taught the child. Out of the schoolroom, the child taught the
governess. Division of labor was a principle in perfect working
order at Mount Morven--and nobody suspected it! But, as the weeks
followed each other, one more remarkable circumstance presented
itself which every person in the household was equally quick to
observe. The sad Sydney Westerfield whom they all pitied had now
become the pretty Sydney Westerfield whom they all admired. It
was not merely a change--it was a transformation. Kitty stole the
hand-glass from her mother's room, and insisted that her
governess should take it and look at herself. "Papa says you're
as plump as a partridge; and mamma says you're as fresh as a
rose; and Uncle Randal wags his head, and tells them he saw it
from the first. I heard it all when they thought I was playing
with my doll--and I want to know, you best of nice girls, what
you think of your own self?"