"Just this once," she said; "but you must begin to practice properly.
What I call amateur music can't be allowed here."

"Will this be allowed?" said Kathleen.

She dashed into heavy chords, played lightly a delicate movement, and
then broke into an Irish air, "The Harp that once through Tara's Halls."
From one Irish melody to another her light fingers wandered. She played
with perfect correctness--with fire, with spirit. Soon she forgot
herself. When she stopped, tears were running down her cheeks.

"What is music, after all," she said, looking full into the face of her
teacher, "when you are far from the land you love? How can you stand
music then? No, I don't mean to learn _music_ at the Great Shirley
School; I can't. When I am back again at home I shall play 'The Harp
that once through Tara's Halls,' but I can't do it justice here. You
will excuse me; I can't. I am sorry if I am rude, but it isn't in me.
Some time, if you have a headache and feel very bad, as my dear father
does sometimes, I shall play to you; but I can't learn as the other
girls learn--it isn't in me."

Again she put her fingers on the keys of the piano and brought forth a
few sobbing, broken-hearted notes. Then she started up.

"I expect you will punish me for this, Miss Spicer, but I am sorry--I
can't help myself."

Strange to say, Miss Spicer did not punish her. On the contrary, she
took her hand and pressed it.