Margaret, meanwhile, returned to her work, with burning cheeks.

"It is true," she said to herself, "that people have a right to sneer at me. My mother has been a servant and so have I. But we were not born to it, either of us. Even if Mrs. Grey hadn't taken me up, I shouldn't have spent my life in a kitchen. Nobody ever did who could paint like that! And yet, my poor father never got on, and it isn't likely I have more talent than he had. But stop; it was only yesterday aunty was saying that gifts sometimes overleap one generation; it is quite possible that I had a grandfather or grandmother whose abilities have come to me. How horrid it is not to know one's relatives!"

Just here letters were brought in; one for Margaret, several for Mrs. Grey. Margaret seized hers with a thrill of surprise and delight, for this was an era in her life, her first letter! And she has no objection to our reading it:

Dear Margaret:—I cannot help loving you for your love to my mother and to my little Mabel, and wanted to tell you so when I was at home, but have no faculty for showing what I feel. We are all glad mother has your bright face to look at when she misses ours. And, Margaret, don't let her work too hard. She does not realize how dear Maud's death has worn upon her, but I see it plainly, and it almost vexes me to see how she allows herself to be at everybody's beck and call. And yet, I love her for it, too; it is only living out her religion, as we all must learn to do.

Now, a word about my little pet; and don't laugh at me as a silly mother who makes a fuss about trifles, but please watch the lammie, without seeming to do it, and if you see anything dishonorable dawning in her character, write and tell me so. I know it is generally a thankless task to tell mothers of their children's faults, but I can bear it if it is done kindly, though as bad as anybody if it is done unkindly. Just now this is all I have time to say, except that I am your affectionate sister,

Belle.

"'Your affectionate sister, Belle!'" Great, bright tears filled Margaret's eyes as they fell upon the words.

"How could I let those dreadful Grosgrains hurt me so," she asked herself, "when I have such friends? Oh, Belle, how I do admire and love you! But what is this about my pet? Mabel dishonorable? That little white lamb! I'm sure she isn't!"

She handed the letter to Mrs. Grey, and stood leaning over her as she read it.

"Isn't it just lovely in B.—Mrs. Heath—to write me such a letter, and call herself my sister?"

"It is just like her," said Mrs. Grey, "and it is worth having, because it cost her something. Now it is different with Laura. Laura takes everything easy."

"But what a curious question about Mabel!"

"Oh, that is on account of the bit of sugar the child took from the nursery-closet."

"When?"

"On the day you exhibited the children so prettily."

"And who dares say my innocent little darling is a thief?" cried Margaret, her color rising. "I gave her sugar in order to coax her to take her part with the other children, for she was shy about it at first. Did her mother fancy she took it herself?"

"She naturally thought so, but as the child had not eaten it, and said she did not mean to do so, she did not punish her."

"It is a thousand pities. But as Mabel knew herself to be innocent, why didn't she declare it? Why did she blush and cry as if she had done something wrong?"

"Because she had done wrong in accepting it. It never would answer for such a young child to eat whatever injudicious persons chose to give it, therefore Belle forbids her little ones receiving dainties save from herself or some other authorized hand. You can't imagine how recklessly many people behave in such matters. I have known a conscientious child to be almost laughed into eating and drinking forbidden luxuries, such as coffee, mince-pie, and rich cake."

"I did not know one had to be so careful with children."

"It is the case, though, and if it seems to you that Belle has made too much of this affair, you must remember that she must adapt herself to the very small world in which Mabel lives, and whose trivial wants are as great to her as the most serious ones will be, by and by."

"I shall write to B.—Mrs. Heath—this very minute," cried Margaret, "but what shall I call her?"

"I think she has settled that. Call her Belle. But, before you begin I want you to see what a lovely little note the mail has brought me!"

And if Margaret reads it, why shouldn't we?

Dear Mrs. Grey:—I have not the faintest idea that you are pining for a letter from me, but it is a relief to me now and then to say that I love you, and the size of the sheet I write it on is no symbol how much.

I am reading a delightful book to my invalid auntie; in it a lady speaks of a friend as an "Amen to the Bible." That, say I, is what Mrs. Grey has been to me.

Again, "Mrs. Jameson was the consoler of her sex in England." Ah, say I, Mrs. Grey is the consoler of her sex in America.

But you will think I have been kissing the blarney stone. But when people mean things, can't they say them?

I stay with auntie all the time, day and night, and am real happy in a quiet way, for I do feel, in a small degree, I know, but a great deal more than ever before, the loving-kindness of my Heavenly Father, the goodness and severity of God.

Yours, lovingly and gratefully,

Helena.

"What a graceful little note, and on what a tiny sheet!" exclaimed Margaret. "Who is this Helena? Any one I know?"

"You have never seen her, but she often visits me, and I love her much. Her forte is in writing charming letters. I shall want you to know her. But you want to write to Belle now, and I won't detain you."

Margaret rushed off to her room, and rushed, as it were, a shovelful of hot coals at Belle, as reply to her letter. Then what receptacle was worthy to hold this treasure? Her eye fell upon one object after another, and rejected them, till it rested upon her Russian leather mouchoir-case.

"The very thing!" she cried; pulled out the handkerchiefs, thrust them, en masse, into a drawer, replaced them with the letter, and then flew to hug and kiss Mabel, on whom she vented the feeling she could not express.

Ah, Margaret, you will have many, many such idols as you are now making of Belle Heath! How many times they will fall off the altar, and you will put them in their place again! What power they will have to swell your heart with joy, to melt it into tears! And yet—thank God that you have a heart! for even an aching one is better than none at all.

"I want you to get dressed, now," said Mrs. Grey, "for I have ordered the carriage, and am going to make some visits."

Margaret groaned. She did not believe in paying visits, except to very agreeable people, and was very apt to be silent and stupid in company, unless it was congenial. And this was not entirely her own fault. It belonged to her type of character as much as her gifts did.

She went off and dressed now, however, without a word of remonstrance, for she was in a happy mood; Belle's letter warming and brightening her.

As they drove from house to house, she chatted gayly with her aunt of a score of innocent, girlish things, and Mrs. Grey listened, and smiled, amused at her keen observation, her simplicity and naturalness. Her mother had so guarded her life that she was very ignorant of evil, and Mrs. Grey had kept up this care successfully.

"I know how I would arrange things if I had the management of them. I would go to see people I loved, ever so often, and have them come to see me. But I would have nothing to do with anybody else, in the way of visiting them. Why not? Why should those who do not love each other waste their time in meeting?"

"And what reason would you give those you neglected for your conduct?"

"Oh, I would speak the truth; I would just say, out and out, I don't love you, so I am not going to see you; you don't love me, and so you needn't come to see me."

"And how many friends should you have, at that rate?"

"Not so very many, but they would all be after my own heart."

"Well, now, let us see how your scheme will work. Here are two sisters; you love one, and can't bear the other. You make your frank statement to both, asking the one to come to see you, and the other to keep her distance; how much sympathy can exist between them after it? You probably will lose the friendship of both.

"Take another instance. You meet with a person with whom you fall in love, as you term it; she is more cautious than you, and hesitates to give her friendship until she knows you better. She asks questions about you of sister Number Two, who replies, 'All I know about her is, that she is very odd and very rude, and thinks herself capable of reconstructing society.' Now, the fact is simply this. We are all more or less dependent on each other. And therefore we must put up with some people who are not congenial to us, and they must put up with us."

"Yes, I see. Wouldn't it be nice to have an island which no disagreeable or stupid people would be allowed to visit! Everybody in it pleasant, and cultivated, and refined; like Belle, for instance."

"It might be nice, but not possible; and, if possible, not best. In the first place, there would be different opinions as to who would be eligible as inhabitants of your famous island. A. would object to B., and B. to C. Besides, life in this world is not to be just to our minds. We need the discipline of contact with uncongenial characters. But then, we are to stay in this world but a short time. By and by we shall go to a far more delightful and ideal spot than your island; an abode into which will be gathered the best, the wisest, the purest beings that ever adorned earth."

"Still, it seems hard to have to waste so much precious time in driving about from house to house. You have plenty of things to occupy every moment. You have your books to write, and a thousand other things to do; and as for me, with all the time I've lost, it seems almost wicked to be going to see people who care nothing for me, and for whom I don't care a fig."

"The time is not wasted, however. I seldom, if ever, make a morning visit without getting a new thought from somebody; and as for you, you must see something of the world, or be awkward and ill at ease all your life. But here we are at Mrs. Wallace's; she has some pretty little children; they may interest you."

Mrs. Wallace was a sweet-looking young woman, and was followed into the parlor by three girls, who soon gave evidence of being strong-minded females, though the eldest was not more than ten years old. They appropriated Margaret at once. One seized her muff and pelted the others with it. Another insisted on unbuttoning her gloves. A third wanted to know how much her hat cost. Now this may sound like exaggeration, but it is the literal truth. Their mother never seemed to realize that a forward, unabashed child is one of the most annoying and unnatural things in the world; she suffered these little girls, who were not bad children, to form these offensive habits, and victimized all her friends with them. When they had got all the entertainment out of Margaret she was able to render them, they thought she might be permitted to depart, and asked their mother, in audible whispers, how long "they" were going to stay. She whispered back, and Mrs. Grey, finding her too much occupied with them to attend further to her, rose to take leave.

"What dreadful children!" ejaculated Margaret, as they re-entered the carriage. "Aunty, you say you get some thought out of almost every visit you make; now what did you get out of this one?"

Mrs. Grey smiled.

"I know those children of old," she said, "and never had so comfortable a visit there before, as this time you were their prey. Well, my thought was this: How much depends on manners! These little girls are not bad children, and yet they are the terror of all their mother's friends. They ought to be kept in their nursery, and not be allowed to come into the parlor to torment visitors."

"Doesn't she know what annoyance they cause?"

"Perhaps she partially knows it, but fancies their great beauty will atone for that. We must not be hard upon her. The temptation to display those three beautiful faces is very great. We don't know what we should do under similar circumstances."

"Don't we?" cried Margaret. "I know what I should do. I should lock them all up in a box rather than let them behave as they do. Why, I would rather they were shy and awkward than bold and presuming as they are. I suppose people began by noticing them on account of their curling hair, and brown eyes, and bright speeches—for they are bright—and that spoiled them."

"Yes; and manners one can tolerate in a child of three, are intolerable in one of ten. However, these girls will outgrow these outside faults, I dare say, and grow up into agreeable and estimable women. Their mother has this one weak spot of wanting to display them; but, in the main, she is wise and true, and will exert a good influence over them."

"Oh! but, aunty, you did not hear all that passed. They are not merely rude—they are conceited. One of them asked me if I ever saw such pretty hair as hers, and then had a dispute with another who declared hers was prettier!"

"Beauty is a snare, no doubt," said Mrs. Grey; "and I am afraid it is over-valued in that home. And now for the Grosgrains."

"Oh, those Grosgrains! Must I return their visit? We haven't a single idea in common. And they look down upon me so!"

"Yes, I can imagine that. But do not let it disturb you. They will not put on any airs in my presence, for I know, and they know that I know, whence they sprung. Their mother was brought up in a foundling hospital, and after she left it, learned a trade—that of tailoress. She was a hard-working, friendless girl, and had a certain kind of good looks as dowry. A young man took a fancy to, and married her. She kept at work at her trade, and made the first suit of clothes my Frank ever wore. They had no children for some years, so they laid up money, and began to live in more comfort than they ever had dreamed of doing. He had good business capacity, and she was ambitious. They kept rising in the world, and would have liked to have their early history fade out of people's memories. Then came these four girls, by whom they did the best they could. Women rise as men cannot do; they have quick, smart ways, and pick up a certain outside kind of good breeding, and the Grosgrains availed themselves of these advantages to the best of their ability. But the struggle to keep up on the one hand, and unaccustomed luxuries on the other, proved too much for Mrs. Grosgrain, and she sank under it. Now during her career as a woman of means, she had taken a young sister into her home, and educated her as far as money could educate, and it was natural enough for Mr. Grosgrain to marry her. She made as good a mother to the girls as she knew how to be, but in the best sense of the word never made ladies of them. As to Mr. Grosgrain, he had one talent: it was for making money, and money he made; but he had no culture, and no faculty for living in style; and the luxuries which were the delight of his wife and daughters, had no charm for him, especially as they were expensive. There was no end to the family squabbles on the subject of expenditures. He had five females to twit, and to snub, and to set him right—five females to spend his money and ruin him. He became a monomaniac, and worried himself to death on the ground of poverty. His departure was a relief to them all. They immediately went abroad and wandered all over Europe, during a long period. It makes one shudder to think of their being regarded there as representative Americans. Now I have not told you all this for the sake of talking, or to prejudice you against them. I only want you not to allow them to put you in a false position by looking down upon you. Observe a proper self-respect when in their company. You are far less a parvenu than they."

"But, aunty, how did they get in with you?"

"Why, the first Mrs. Grosgrain, mother of the girls, used to come to me as tailoress, by the day, and would bring her sister to sew with her. Then when they became rich they fancied that that put us on a level. The present Mrs. Grosgrain has been instructed and snubbed by turns, until she has acquired a good use of language; and when they set up their carriage, and came and called on me, I thought it would be a silly pride in me not to return the visit. And I have a benevolent interest in them, for one thing. And then if it is any satisfaction to them to boast that they are, oh! so intimate with me, why not let them have it? It does not hurt me. If I should altogether turn a cold shoulder to them, they would think I despised them for their low origin. Now I despise nobody for accidents of birth over which they have had no control; neither do I bow down to royalty itself, unless it is as pure and high-toned as it is noble."

On arriving at Mrs. Grosgrain's ostentatious residence, they were informed that the ladies were all engaged. This was so far true, that they were engaged in peeping over the banisters to see who their visitors were, in dressing-gowns and curl-papers.

"Now, girls, it is too bad," said Mrs. Grosgrain, as the cards were handed her. "Here we have lost a visit from Mrs. Grey! We really ought to be dressed at this time of day. There's no knowing when she will call again. And it is such a distinction to have her carriage at our door! I do hope the Van Tropes saw it."

"I can't bear her books," said Miss Grosgrain.

"Nor I," said Miss Mary.

"But it's the fashion to read 'em," said Mrs. Grosgrain, "and to like 'em, too. And when I think your marmer used to be a tailoress, and your parper—"

"Now do hush!" cried Miss Grosgrain, putting her hand over the maternal mouth. "Why need you be forever alluding to such things? You never let us have the ghost of a chance to forget them."

"If you had gone through all I have, I guess you'd allude to it often enough. Your poor parper and marmer, they—"

"Do, for goodness' sake, stop calling him parper! It is so American! Going abroad hasn't done you a bit of good."