"No. That was the only thing Aunt Ella and I didn't think alike about.
She had an old square piano, all tin-panny and thin, you know. I played
some on it, and wanted to take lessons; but I didn't want to practise
on that. I wanted a new one. That's what she wouldn't do--get me a new
piano, or let me do it. She said SHE practised on that piano, and that
it was quite good enough for me, especially to learn on. I--I'm afraid
I got stuffy. I hated that piano so! But I was almost ready to give in
when--when Aunt Ella died."
"And all you play then is just by ear?"
"By--ear? I suppose so--if you mean what I hear. Easy things I can play
quick, but--but those chords ARE hard; they skip around so!"
Cyril smiled oddly.
"I should say so," he agreed. "But perhaps there is something else that
I play--that you like. Is there?"
"Oh, yes. Now there's that little thing that swings and sways like
this," cried Billy, dropping herself on to the piano stool and whisking
about. Billy was not afraid now, nor defiant. She was only eager and
happy again. In a moment a dreamy waltz fell upon Cyril's ears--a waltz
that he often played himself. It was not played correctly, it is true.
There were notes, and sometimes whole measures, that were very different
from the printed music. But the tune, the rhythm, and the spirit were
there.
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