at the piano, idly running her fingers over the keys.

The listlessness expressed in the fresh face and rounded figure brought
a look of disapproval into the mother's eyes.

"You must practice that nocturne," she said. "You played it badly just
now, and there is no excuse for it, Eloise."

"If you will let me give lessons I will," responded the girl promptly,
without turning her graceful, drooping head.

The unexpected reply was startling.

"What are you talking about?" asked Mrs. Evringham.

"Oh, I'm so tired of it all," replied the girl wearily.

A frown contracted her mother's forehead. "Tired of what? Turn around
here!" She rose and put her hands on the pretty shoulders and turned her
child until the clear gray eyes met hers. "Now then, tired of what?"

Eloise smiled slightly, and sighed. "Of playing nocturnes to Dr.
Ballard."

"And he is quite as tired of hearing you, I dare say," was the retort.
"It seems to me you always stumble when you play to the doctor, and he
adores Chopin."

Eloise continued to meet her mother's annoyed gaze, her hands fallen in
her lap, all the lines of her nut-brown hair, her exquisite face, and