Mrs. Bates studied her face intently. "Do you look like him--like your
father?"

"No," answered Jane. "Not so very much. Nor like any of the rest of the
family." The statue was beginning to melt. "I'm unique." And another drop
fell.

"Don't slander yourself," She tapped Jane lightly on the shoulder.

Jane looked at her with a protesting, or at least a questioning,
seriousness. It had the usual effect of a wild stare. "I wasn't meaning
to," she said, shortly, and began to congeal again. She also shrugged her
shoulder; she was not quite ready yet to be tapped and patted.

"But don't remain standing, child," Mrs. Bates proceeded, genially. She
motioned Jane back to her chair, and herself advanced to the roomier
sofa. "Or, no; this little pen is like a refrigerator to-day; it's so
hard, every fall, to get the steam heat running as it should. Come; it
ought to be warmer in the music-room.

"The fact is," she proceeded, as they passed through the hall, "that I
have a spare hour on my hands this morning--the first in a month. My
music-teacher has just sent word that she is down with a cold. You shall
have as much of that hour as you wish. So tell me all about your plans; I
dare say I can scrape together a few pennies for Jane Marshall."

"Her music-teacher!" thought Jane. She was not yet so far appeased nor so
far forgetful of her own initial awkwardness as to refrain from searching
out the joints in the other's armor. "What does a woman of fifty-five
want to be taking music-lessons for?"