“My dear child, what a storm you have had! how wet you must be!” exclaimed Mrs. Larpent, as Meta Rivers came bounding up the broad staircase at Abbotstoke Grange.

“Oh no; I am quite dry; feel.”

“Are you sure?” said Mrs. Larpent, drawing her darling into a luxurious bedroom, lighted up by a glowing fire, and full of pretty things. “Here, come and take off your wet things, my dear, and Bellairs shall bring you some tea.”

“I’m dry. I’m warm,” said Meta, tossing off her plumy hat, as she established herself, with her feet on the fender. “But where do you think I have been? You have so much to hear. But first—three guesses where we were in the rain!”

“In the Stoneborough Cloisters, that you wanted to see? My dear, you did not keep your papa in the cold there?”

“No, no; we never got there at all; guess again.”

“At Mr. Edward Wilmot’s?”

“No!”

“Could it have been at Dr. May’s? Really, then, you must tell me.”

“There! you deserve a good long story; beginning at the beginning,” said Meta, clapping her hands, “wasn’t it curious? as we were coming up the last hill, we met some girls in deep mourning, with a lady who looked like their governess. I wondered whether they could be Dr. May’s daughters, and so it turned out they were.

“Presently there began to fall little square lumps, neither hail, nor snow, nor rain; it grew very cold, and rain came on. It would have been great fun, if I had not been afraid papa would catch cold, and he said we would canter on to the inn. But, luckily, there was Dr. May walking up the street, and he begged us to come into his house. I was so glad! We were tolerably wet, and Dr. May said something about hoping the girls were at home; well, when he opened the drawing-room door, there was the poor daughter lying on the sofa.”

“Poor girl! tell me of her.”

“Oh! you must go and see her; you won’t look at her without losing your heart. Papa liked her so much—see if he does not talk of her all the evening. She looks the picture of goodness and sweetness. Only think of her having some of the maidenhair and cape jessamine still in water, that we sent her so long ago. She shall have some flowers every three days. Well, Dr. May said, ‘There is one at least, that is sure to be at home.’ She felt my habit, and said I must go and change it, and she called to a little thing of six, telling her to show me the way to Flora. She smiled, and said she wished she could go herself, but Flora would take care of me. Little Blanche came and took hold of my hand, chattering away, up we went, up two staircases, and at the top of the last stood a girl about seventeen, so pretty! such deep blue eyes, and such a complexion! ‘That’s Flora,’ little Blanche said; ‘Flora, this is Miss Rivers, and she’s wet, and Margaret says you are to take care of her.’”

“So that was your introduction?”

“Yes; we got acquainted in a minute. She took me into her room—such a room! I believe Bellairs would be angry if she had such a one; all up in the roof, no fire, no carpet, except little strips by the beds; there were three beds. Flora used to sleep there till Miss May was ill, and now she dresses there. Yet I am sure they are as much ladies as I am.”

“You are an only daughter, my dear, and a petted one,” said Mrs. Larpent, smiling. “There are too many of them to make much of, as we do of our Meta.”

“I suppose so; but I did not know gentlewomen lived in such a way,” said Meta. “There were nice things about, a beautiful inlaid work-box of Flora’s, and a rosewood desk, and plenty of books, and a Greek book and dictionary were spread open. I asked Flora if they were hers, and she laughed and said no; and that Ethel would be much discomposed that I had see them. Ethel keeps up with her brother Norman—only fancy! and he at the head of the school. How clever she must be!”

“But, my dear, were you standing in your wet things all this time!”

“No; I was trying on their frocks, but they trailed on the ground upon me, so she asked if I would come and sit by the nursery fire till my habit was dry; and there was a dear little good-humoured baby, so fair and pretty. She is not a bit shy, will go to anybody, but, they say, she likes no one so well as her brother Norman.”

“So you had a regular treat of baby-nursing.”

“That I had; I could not part with her, the darling. Flora thought we might take her down, and I liked playing with her in the drawing-room and talking to Miss May, till the fly came to take us home. I wanted to have seen Ethel; but, only think, papa has asked Dr. May to bring Flora some day; how I hope he will!”

Little Meta having told her story, and received plenty of sympathy, proceeded to dress, and, while her maid braided her hair, a musing fit fell upon her. “I have seen something of life to-day,” thought she. “I had thought of the great difference between us and the poor, but I did not know ladies lived in such different ways. I should be very miserable without Bellairs, or without a fire in my room. I don’t know what I should do if I had to live in that cold, shabby den, and do my own hair, yet they think nothing of it, and they are cultivated and ladylike! Is it all fancy, and being brought up to it? I wonder if it is right? Yet dear papa likes me to have these things, and can afford them. I never knew I was luxurious before, and yet I think I must be! One thing I do wish, and that is, that I was of as much use as those girls. I ought to be. I am a motherless girl like them, and I ought to be everything to papa, just as Miss May is, even lying on the sofa there, and only two years older than I am. I don’t think I am of any use at all; he is fond of me, of course, dear papa; and if I died, I don’t know what would become of him; but that’s only because I am his daughter—he has only George besides to care for. But, really and truly, he would get on as well without me. I never do anything for him, but now and then playing to him in the evening, and that not always, I am afraid, when I want to be about anything else. He is always petting me, and giving me all I want, but I never do anything but my lessons, and going to the school, and the poor people, and that is all pleasure. I have so much that I never miss what I give away. I wonder whether it is all right! Leonora and Agatha have not so much money to do as they please with—they are not so idolised. George said, when he was angry, that papa idolises me; but they have all these comforts and luxuries, and never think of anything but doing what they like. They never made me consider as these Mays do. I should like to know them more. I do so much want a friend of my own age. It is the only want I have. I have tried to make a friend of Leonora, but I cannot; she never cares for what I do. If she saw these Mays she would look down on them. Dear Mrs. Larpent is better than any one, but then she is so much older. Flora May shall be my friend. I’ll make her call me Meta as soon as she comes. When will it be? The day after tomorrow?”

But little Meta watched in vain. Dr. May always came with either Richard or the groom, to drive him, and if Meta met him and hoped he would bring Flora next time, he only answered that Flora would like it very much, and he hoped soon to do so.

The truth was, it was no such everyday matter as Meta imagined. The larger carriage had been broken, and the only vehicle held only the doctor—his charioteer—and in a very minute appendage behind, a small son of the gardener, to open gates, and hold the horse.

The proposal had been one of those general invitations to be fulfilled at any time, and therefore easily set aside; and Dr. May, though continually thinking he should like to take his girls to Abbotstoke, never saw the definite time for so doing; and Flora herself, though charmed with Miss Rivers, and delighted with the prospect of visiting her, only viewed it as a distant prospect.

There was plenty of immediate interest to occupy them at home, to say nothing of the increasing employment that Cocksmoor gave to thoughts, legs, and needles. There was the commencement of the half-year, when Tom’s schoolboy life was to begin, and when it would be proved whether Norman were able to retain his elevation.

Margaret had much anxiety respecting the little boy about to be sent into a scene of temptation. Her great confidence was in Richard, who told her that boys did many more wrong things than were known at home, and yet turned out very well, and that Tom would be sure to right himself in the end. Richard had been blameless in his whole school course, but though never partaking of the other boys’ evil practices, he could not form an independent estimate of character, and his tone had been a little hurt, by sharing the school public opinion of morality. He thought Stoneborough and its temptations inevitable, and only wished to make the best of it. Margaret was afraid to harass her father by laying the case before him. All her brothers had gone safely through the school, and it never occurred to her that it was possible that, if her father knew the bias of Tom’s disposition, he might choose, for the present, at least, some other mode of education.

She talked earnestly to Tom, and he listened impatiently. There is an age when boys rebel against female rule, and are not yet softened by the chivalry of manhood, and Tom was at this time of life. He did not like to be lectured by a sister, secretly disputed her right, and, proud of becoming a schoolboy, had not the generous deference for her weakness felt by his elder brothers; he was all the time peeling a stick, as if to show that he was not attending, and he raised up his shoulder pettishly whenever she came to a mention of the religious duty of sincerity. She did not long continue her advice, and, much disappointed and concerned, tried to console herself with hoping that he might have heeded more than he seemed to do.

He was placed tolerably high in the school, and Norman, who had the first choice of fags, took him instead of Hector Ernescliffe, who had just passed beyond the part of the school liable to be fagged. He said he liked school, looked bright when he came home in the evenings, and the sisters hoped all was right.

Every one was just now anxiously watching Norman, especially his father, who strove in vain to keep back all manifestation of his earnest desire to see him retain his post. Resolutely did the doctor refrain from asking any questions, when the boys came in, but he could not keep his eyes from studying the face, to see whether it bore marks of mental fatigue, and from following him about the room, to discover whether he found it necessary, as he had done last autumn, to spend the evening in study. It was no small pleasure to see him come in with his hand full of horse-chestnut and hazel-buds, and proceed to fetch the microscope and botany books, throwing himself eagerly into the study of the wonders of their infant forms, searching deeply into them with Margaret, and talking them over with his father, who was very glad to promote the pursuit—one in which he had always taken great interest.

Another night Dr. May was for a moment disturbed by seeing the school-books put out, but Norman had only some notes to compare, and while he did so, he was remarking on Flora’s music, and joining in the conversation so freely as to prove it was no labour to him. In truth, he was evidently quite recovered, entirely himself again, except that he was less boyish. He had been very lively and full of merry nonsense; but his ardour for play had gone off with his high spirits, and there was a manliness of manner, and tone of mind, that made him appear above his real age.

At the end of a fortnight he volunteered to tell his father that all was right. “I am not afraid of not keeping my place,” he said; “you were quite right, papa. I am more up to my work than I was ever before, and it comes to me quite fresh and pleasant. I don’t promise to get the Randall scholarship, if Forder and Cheviot stay on, but I can quite keep up to the mark in school work.”

“That’s right,” said Dr. May, much rejoiced. “Are you sure you do it with ease, and without its haunting you at night?”

“Oh, yes; quite sure. I can’t think what has made Dr. Hoxton set us on in such easy things this time. It is very lucky for me, for one gets so much less time to oneself as dux.”

“What! with keeping order?”

“Ay,” said Norman. “I fancy they think they may take liberties because I am new and young. I must have my eye in all corners of the hall at once, and do my own work by snatches, as I can.”

“Can you make them attend to you?”

“Why, yes, pretty well, when it comes to the point—‘will you, or will you not?’ Cheviot is a great help, too, and has all the weight of being the eldest fellow amongst us.”

“But still you find it harder work than learning? You had rather have to master the dead language than the live tongues?”

“A pretty deal,” said Norman; then added, “One knows what to be at with the dead, better than with the living; they don’t make parties against one. I don’t wonder at it. It was very hard on some of those great fellows to have me set before them, but I do not think it is fair to visit it by putting up the little boys to all sorts of mischief.”

“Shameful!” said the doctor warmly; “but never mind, Norman, keep your temper, and do your own duty, and you are man enough to put down such petty spite.”

“I hope I shall manage rightly,” said Norman; “but I shall be glad if I can get the Randall and get away to Oxford; school is not what it used to be, and if you don’t think me too young—”

“No, I don’t; certainly not. Trouble has made a man of you, Norman, and you are fitter to be with men than boys. In the meantime, if you can be patient with these fellows, you’ll be of great use where you are. If there had been any one like you at the head of the school in my time, it would have kept me out of no end of scrapes. How does Tom get on? he is not likely to fall into this set, I trust.”

“I am not sure,” said Norman; “he does pretty well on the whole. Some of them began by bullying him, and that made him cling to Cheviot and Ernescliffe, and the better party; but lately I have thought Anderson, junior, rather making up to him, and I don’t know whether they don’t think that tempting him over to them would be the surest way of vexing me. I have an eye over him, and I hope he may get settled into the steadier sort before next half.”

After a silence, Norman said, “Papa, there is a thing I can’t settle in my own mind. Suppose there had been wrong things done when older boys, and excellent ones too, were at the head of the school, yet they never interfered, do you think I ought to let it go on?”

“Certainly not, or why is power given to you?”

“So I thought,” said Norman; “I can’t see it otherwise. I wish I could, for it will be horrid to set about it, and they’ll think it a regular shame in me to meddle. Oh! I know what I came into the study for; I want you to be so kind as to lend me your pocket Greek Testament. I gave Harry my little one.”

“You are very welcome. What do you want it for?”

Norman coloured. “I met with a sermon the other day that recommended reading a bit of it every day, and I thought I should like to try, now the Confirmation is coming. One can always have some quiet by getting away into the cloister.”

“Bless you, my boy! while you go on in this way, I have not much fear but that you’ll know how to manage.”

Norman’s rapid progress affected another of the household in an unexpected way.

“Margaret, my dear, I wish to speak to you,” said Miss Winter, reappearing when Margaret thought every one was gone out walking. She would have said, “I am very sorry for it”—so ominous was the commencement—and her expectations were fulfilled when Miss Winter had solemnly seated herself, and taken out her netting. “I wished to speak to you about dear Ethel,” said the governess; “you know how unwilling I always am to make any complaint, but I cannot be satisfied with her present way of going on.”

“Indeed,” said Margaret. “I am much grieved to hear this. I thought she had been taking great pains to improve.”

“So she was at one time. I would not by any means wish to deny it, and it is not of her learning that I speak, but of a hurried, careless way of doing everything, and an irritability at being interfered with.”

Margaret knew how Miss Winter often tried Ethel’s temper, and was inclined to take her sister’s part. “Ethel’s time is so fully occupied,” she said.

“That is the very thing that I was going to observe, my dear. Her time is too much occupied, and my conviction is, that it is hurtful to a girl of her age.”

This was a new idea to Margaret, who was silent, longing to prove Miss Winter wrong, and not have to see poor Ethel pained by having to relinquish any of her cherished pursuits.

“You see there is that Cocksmoor,” said Miss Winter. “You do not know how far off it is, my dear; much too great a distance for a young girl to be walking continually in all weathers.”

“That’s a question for papa,” thought Margaret.

“Besides,” continued Miss Winter, “those children engross almost all her time and thoughts. She is working for them, preparing lessons, running after them continually. It takes off her whole mind from her proper occupations, unsettles her, and I do think it is beyond what befits a young lady of her age.”

Margaret was silent.

“In addition,” said Miss Winter, “she is at every spare moment busy with Latin and Greek, and I cannot think that to keep pace with a boy of Norman’s age and ability can be desirable for her.”

“It is a great deal,” said Margaret, “but—”

“I am convinced that she does more than is right,” continued Miss Winter. “She may not feel any ill effects at present, but you may depend upon it, it will tell on her by-and-by. Besides, she does not attend to anything properly. At one time she was improving in neatness and orderly habits. Now, you surely must have seen how much less tidy her hair and dress have been.”

“I have thought her hair looking rather rough,” said Margaret disconsolately.

“No wonder,” said Miss Winter, “for Flora and Mary tell me she hardly spends five minutes over it in the morning, and with a book before her the whole time. If I send her up to make it fit to be seen, I meet with looks of annoyance. She leaves her books in all parts of the school-room for Mary to put away, and her table drawer is one mass of confusion. Her lessons she does well enough, I own, though what I should call much too fast; but have you looked at her work lately?”

“She does not work very well,” said Margaret, who was at that moment, though Miss Winter did not know it, re-gathering a poor child’s frock that Ethel had galloped through with more haste than good speed.

“She works a great deal worse than little Blanche,” said Miss Winter, “and though it may not be the fashion to say so in these days, I consider good needlework far more important than accomplishments. Well, then, Margaret, I should wish you only just to look at her writing.”

And Miss Winter opened a French exercise-book, certainly containing anything but elegant specimens of penmanship. Ethel’s best writing was an upright, disjointed niggle, looking more like Greek than anything else, except where here and there it made insane efforts to become running-hand, and thereby lost its sole previous good quality of legibility, while the lines waved about the sheet in almost any direction but the horizontal. The necessity she believed herself under of doing what Harry called writing with the end of her nose, and her always holding her pen with her fingers almost in the ink, added considerably to the difficulty of the performance. This being at her best, the worst may be supposed to be indescribable, when dashed off in a violent hurry, and considerably garnished with blots. Margaret thought she had seen the worst, and was sighing at being able to say nothing for it, when Miss Winter confounded her by turning a leaf, and showing it was possible to make a still wilder combination of scramble, niggle, scratch, and crookedness—and this was supposed to be an amended edition! Miss Winter explained that Ethel had, in an extremely short time, performed an exercise in which no fault could be detected except the writing, which was pronounced to be too atrocious to be shown up to M. Ballompre. On being desired to write it over again, she had obeyed with a very bad grace, and some murmurs about Cocksmoor, and produced the second specimen, which, in addition to other defects, had some elisions from arrant carelessness, depriving it of its predecessor’s merits of being good French.

Miss Winter had been so provoked that she believed this to be an effect of ill temper, and declared that she should certainly have kept Ethel at home to write it over again, if it had not so happened that Dr. May had proposed to walk part of the way with her and Richard, and the governess was unwilling to bring her into disgrace with him. Margaret was so grateful to her for this forbearance, that it disposed her to listen the more patiently to the same representations put in, what Miss Winter fancied, different forms. Margaret was much perplexed. She could not but see much truth in what Miss Winter said, and yet she could not bear to thwart Ethel, whom she admired with her whole heart; and that dry experience, and prejudiced preciseness, did not seem capable of entering into her sister’s thirst for learning and action. When Miss Winter said Ethel would grow up odd, eccentric, and blue, Margaret was ready to answer that she would be superior to every one; and when the governess urged her to insist on Cocksmoor being given up, she felt impatient of that utter want of sympathy for the good work.

All that evening Margaret longed for a quiet time to reflect, but it never came till she was in bed; and when she had made up her mind how to speak to Ethel, it was five times harder to secure her alone. Even when Margaret had her in the room by herself, she looked wild and eager, and said she could not stay, she had some Thucydides to do.

“Won’t you stay with me a little while, quietly?” said Margaret; “we hardly ever have one of our talks.”

“I didn’t mean to vex you, dear Margaret; I like nothing so well, only we are never alone, and I’ve no time.”

“Pray do spare me a minute, Ethel, for I have something that I must say to you, and I am afraid you won’t like it—so do listen kindly.”

“Oh!” said Ethel, “Miss Winter has been talking to you. I know she said she would tell you that she wants me to give up Cocksmoor. You aren’t dreaming of it, Margaret?”

“Indeed, dear Ethel, I should be very sorry, but one thing I am sure of, that there is something amiss in your way of going on.”

“Did she show you that horrid exercise?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I know it was baddish writing, but just listen, Margaret. We promised six of the children to print them each a verse of a hymn on a card to learn. Ritchie did three, and then could not go on, for the book that the others were in was lost till last evening, and then he was writing for papa. So I thought I would do them before we went to Cocksmoor, and that I should squeeze time out of the morning; but I got a bit of Sophocles that was so horridly hard it ate up all my time, and I don’t understand it properly now; I must get Norman to tell me. And that ran in my head and made me make a mistake in my sum, and have to begin it again. Then, just as I thought I had saved time over the exercise, comes Miss Winter and tells me I must do it over again, and scolds me besides about the ink on my fingers. She would send me up at once to get it off, and I could not find nurse and her bottle of stuff for it, so that wasted ever so much more time, and I was so vexed that, really and truly, my hand shook and I could not write any better.”

“No, I thought it looked as if you had been in one of your agonies.”

“And she thought I did it on purpose, and that made me angry, and so we got into a dispute, and away went all the little moment I might have had, and I was forced to go to Cocksmoor as a promise breaker!”

“Don’t you think you had better have taken pains at first?”

“Well, so I did with the sense, but I hadn’t time to look at the writing much.”

“You would have made better speed if you had.”

“Oh, yes, I know I was wrong, but it is a great plague altogether. Really, Margaret, I shan’t get Thucydides done.”

“You must wait a little longer, please, Ethel, for I want to say to you that I am afraid you are doing too much, and that prevents you from doing things well, as you were trying to do last autumn.”

“You are not thinking of my not going to Cocksmoor?” cried Ethel vehemently.

“I want you to consider what is to be done, dear Ethel. You thought, last autumn, a great deal of curing your careless habits, now you seem not to have time to attend. You can do a great deal very fast, I know, but isn’t it a pity to be always in a hurry?”

“It isn’t Cocksmoor that is the reason,” said Ethel.

“No; you did pretty well when you began, but you know that was in the holidays, when you had no Latin and Greek to do.”

“Oh, but, Margaret, they won’t take so much time when I have once got over the difficulties, and see my way, but just now they have put Norman into such a frightfully difficult play, that I can hardly get on at all with it, and there’s a new kind of Greek verses, too, and I don’t make out from the book how to manage them. Norman showed me on Saturday, but mine won’t be right. When I’ve got over that, I shan’t be so hurried.”

“But Norman will go on to something harder, I suppose.”

“I dare say I shall be able to do it.”

“Perhaps you might, but I want you to consider if you are not working beyond what can be good for anybody. You see Norman is much cleverer than most boys, and you are a year younger; and besides doing all his work at the head of the school, his whole business of the day, you have Cocksmoor to attend to, and your own lessons, besides reading all the books that come into the house. Now isn’t that more than is reasonable to expect any head and hands to do properly?”

“But if I can do it?”

“But can you, dear Ethel? Aren’t you always racing from one thing to another, doing them by halves, feeling hunted, and then growing vexed?”

“I know I have been cross lately,” said Ethel, “but it’s the being so bothered.”

“And why are you bothered? Isn’t it that you undertake too much?”

“What would you have me do?” said Ethel, in an injured, unconvinced voice. “Not give up my children?”

“No,” said Margaret; “but don’t think me very unkind if I say, suppose you left off trying to keep up with Norman.”

“Oh, Margaret! Margaret!” and her eyes filled with tears. “We have hardly missed doing the same every day since the first Latin grammar was put into his hands!”

“I know it would be very hard,” said Margaret; but Ethel continued, in a piteous tone, a little sentimental, “From hie haec hoc up to Alcaics and beta Thukididou we have gone on together, and I can’t bear to give it up. I’m sure I can—”

“Stop, Ethel, I really doubt whether you can. Do you know that Norman was telling papa the other day that it was very odd Dr. Hoxton gave them such easy lessons.”

Ethel looked very much mortified.

“You see,” said Margaret kindly, “we all know that men have more power than women, and I suppose the time has come for Norman to pass beyond you. He would not be cleverer than any one, if he could not do more than a girl at home.”

“He has so much more time for it,” said Ethel.

“That’s the very thing. Now consider, Ethel. His work, after he goes to Oxford, will be doing his very utmost—and you know what an utmost that is. If you could keep up with him at all, you must give your whole time and thoughts to it, and when you had done so—if you could get all the honours in the University—what would it come to? You can’t take a first-class.”

“I don’t want one,” said Ethel; “I only can’t bear not to do as Norman does, and I like Greek so much.”

“And for that would you give up being a useful, steady daughter and sister at home? The sort of woman that dear mamma wished to make you, and a comfort to papa.”

Ethel was silent, and large tears were gathering.

“You own that that is the first thing?”

“Yes,” said Ethel faintly.

“And that it is what you fail in most?”

“Yes.”

“Then, Ethel dearest, when you made up your mind to Cocksmoor, you knew those things could not be done without a sacrifice?”

“Yes, but I didn’t think it would be this.”

Margaret was wise enough not to press her, and she sat down and sighed pitifully. Presently she said, “Margaret, if you would only let me leave off that stupid old French, and horrid dull reading with Miss Winter, I should have plenty of time for everything; and what does one learn by hearing Mary read poetry she can’t understand?”

“You work, don’t you? But indeed, Ethel, don’t say that I can let you leave off anything. I don’t feel as if I had that authority. If it be done at all, it must be by papa’s consent, and if you wish me to ask him about it, I will, only I think it would vex Miss Winter; and I don’t think dear mamma would have liked Greek and Cocksmoor to swallow up all the little common ladylike things.”

Ethel made two or three great gulps; “Margaret, must I give up everything, and forget all my Latin and Greek?”

“I should think that would be a great pity,” said Margaret. “If you were to give up the verse-making, and the trying to do as much as Norman, and fix some time in the day—half an hour, perhaps—for your Greek, I think it might do very well.”

“Thank you,” said Ethel, much relieved; “I’m glad you don’t want me to leave it all off. I hope Norman won’t be vexed,” she added, looking a little melancholy.

But Norman had not by any means the sort of sentiment on the subject that she had. “Of course, you know, Ethel,” said he, “it must have come to this some time or other, and if you find those verses too hard, and that they take up too much of your time, you had better give them up.”

Ethel did not like anything to be said to be too hard for her, and was very near pleading she only wanted time, but some recollection came across her, and presently she said, “I suppose it is a wrong sort of ambition to want to learn more, in one’s own way, when one is told it is not good for one. I was just going to say I hated being a woman, and having these tiresome little trifles—my duty—instead of learning, which is yours, Norman.”

“I’m glad you did not,” said Norman, “for it would have been very silly of you; and I assure you, Ethel, it is really time for you to stop, or you would get into a regular learned lady, and be good for nothing. I don’t mean that knowing more than other people would make you so, but minding nothing else would.”

This argument from Norman himself did much to reconcile Ethel’s mind to the sacrifice she had made; and when she went to bed, she tried to work out the question in her own mind, whether her eagerness for classical learning was a wrong sort of ambition, to know what other girls did not, and whether it was right to crave for more knowledge than was thought advisable for her. She only bewildered herself, and went to sleep before she had settled anything, but that she knew she must make all give way to papa first, and, secondly, to Cocksmoor.

Meanwhile Margaret had told her father all that had passed. He was only surprised to hear that Ethel had kept up so long with Norman, and thought that it was quite right that she should not undertake so much, agreeing more entirely than Margaret had expected with Miss Winter’s view, that it would be hurtful to body as well as mind.

“It is perfectly ridiculous to think of her attempting it!” he said. “I am glad you have put a stop to it.”

“I am glad I have,” said Margaret; “and dear Ethel behaved so very well. If she had resisted, it would have puzzled me very much, I must have asked you to settle it. But it is very odd, papa, Ethel is the one of them all who treats me most as if I had real authority over her; she lets me scold her, asks my leave, never seems to recollect for a moment how little older I am, and how much cleverer she is. I am sure I never should have submitted so readily. And that always makes it more difficult to me to direct her; I don’t like to take upon me with her, because it seems wrong to have her obeying me as if she were a mere child.”

“She is a fine creature,” said Dr. May emphatically. “It just shows the fact, the higher the mind the readier the submission. But you don’t mean that you have any difficulty with the others?”

“Oh, no, no. Flora never could need any interference, especially from me, and Mary is a thorough good girl. I only meant that Ethel lays herself out to be ruled in quite a remarkable way. I am sure, though she does love learning, her real love is for goodness and for you, papa.”

Ethel would have thought her sacrifice well paid for, had she seen her father’s look of mournful pleasure.