 Part 1, Chapter 13 of the Daisy Chain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Young, Part 1, Chapter 13. The days are sad, it is the holy tide, when flowers have ceased to blow, and birds to sing. F. Tennyson It had been a hard struggle to give up all thoughts of study, and Norman was not at first rewarded for it, but rather exemplified the truth of his own assertion, that he was worse without it. For when this whole occupation for his mind was taken away, he drooped still more. He would willingly have shown his father that he was not discontented, but he was too entirely unnerved to be either cheerful or capable of entering with interest into any occupation. If he had been positively ill, the task would have been easier, but the low, intermittent fever that hung about him did not confine him to bed, only kept him lounging, listless, and forlorn through the weary day, not always able to go out with his father, and on Christmas Day unfit even for church. All this made the want of his mother, and the vacancy in his home, still more evident, and nothing was capable of relieving his sadness but his father's kindness, which was a continual surprise to him. Dr. May was a parent who could not fail to be loved and honored, but, as a busy man, trusting all at home to his wife, he had only appeared to his children either as a merry playfellow or as a stern paternal authority, not often in the intermediate light of guiding friend or gentle guardian, and an affected Norman exceedingly to find himself a tall schoolboy, watched and soothed with a motherly tenderness and affection, with complete comprehension of his feelings and delicate care of them. His father's solicitude and sympathy were round him day and night, and this, in the midst of so much toil, pain, grief, and anxiety of his own, that Norman might well feel overwhelmed with the swelling, inexpressible feelings of grateful affection. How could his father know exactly what he would like? Say the very things he was thinking. See that his depression was not willful repining. Find exactly what bestsoothed him. He wondered, but he could not have said so to anyone, only his eye brightened, and, as his sisters remarked, he never seemed half so uncomfortable when Papa was in the room. Indeed, the certainty that his father felt the sorrow as acutely as himself was one reason of his opening to him. He could not feel that his brothers and sisters did so, for, outwardly, their habits were unaltered, their spirits not lowered, their relish for things around much the same as before, and this had given Norman a sense of isolation. With his father it was different. Norman knew he could never appreciate what the bereavement was to him. He saw its traces in almost every word and look, and yet perceived that something sustained and consoled him, though not in the way of forgetfulness. Now and then Norman codded what gave his comfort, and it might be hoped he would do so increasingly, though on this Christmas day, Margaret felt very sad about him, as she watched him sitting over the fire, cowering with chilliness and headache, while everyone was gone to church, and saw that the reading of the service with her had been more of a trouble than a solace. She tried to think it bodily ailment, and strove hard not to pine for her mother, to comfort them both, and say the fond words of refreshing cheering pity that would have made all light to bear. This home Christmas was so spent in caring for brother, father, and children that she had hardly time to dwell on the sad change that had befallen herself. Christmas was the season that none of them knew well how to meet. Lanch was overheard saying to Mary that she wished it would not come, and Mary, shaking her head, and answering that she was afraid that was naughty, but it was very tiresome to have no fun. Margaret did her best upstairs, and Richard downstairs, by the help of prince and hymns, to make the children think of the true joy of Christmas, and in the evening their father gathered them round and told them the stories of the shepherds and of the wise men, till Mary and Blanche agreed, as they went up to bed, that it had been a very happy evening. The next day Harry discomfited the school room by bursting in with the news that Louise and Fenny Anderson were bearing down on the front door. Ethel and Flora were obliged to appear in the drawing room, where they were greeted by two girls rather older than themselves. A whole shower of inquiries for Dr. May, for Margaret, and for the dear little baby were first poured out, then came hope that Norman was well as they had not seen him at church yesterday. Thank you, he was kept at home by a bad headache, but it is better today. We came to congratulate you on his success. We could not help it, it must have been such a pleasure to you. That it was, exclaimed Ethel, pleased that participation in her rejoicing. We were so surprised. Flora gave a glance of warning that Ethel's short-sighted eyes were beyond the range of correspondence, and Miss Anderson continued, it must have been a delightful surprise We could hardly believe it when Harvey came in and told us. Everyone thought Forder was sure, but they all were put out by the questions of general information. Those were all Mr. Everards doing. Mr. Everard was very much struck with Norman's knowledge and scholarship too, said Flora. So everyone says, it was all Mr. Everards doing. Miss Harrison told Mama, but, for my part, I am very glad for the stake of Stoneboro. I like a town boy to be at the head. Norman was sorry for Forder and Shevio, began Ethel. Flora tried to stop her, but Luisa Anderson caught at what she said and looked eagerly for more. He felt, said she, only thinking of exalting her generous brother, as if it was hardly right when there are so much his seniors that he could scarcely enjoy it. Odd, that is just what people say, replied Luisa, but it must be very gratifying to you, and it makes him certain of the Randall Scholarship too, I suppose. It is a great thing for him. He must have worked very hard. Yes, that he has, said Flora, he is so fond of study, and that goes half way. So is dear Harvey, how earnest he is over his books. Mama sometimes says, Now, Harvey, dear, you'll be quite stupefied, and you'll be ill. I really shall get Doctor May to forbid you. I suppose Norman is very busy too. It is quite the fashion for boys not to be idle now. Poor Norman can't help it, said Ethel piteously. Papa will not hear of his doing any Latin or Greek these whole holidays. He thinks he will come to it better again for entire rest, said Flora, launching another look at her sister, which, again, fell short. A great deal of blood inquiry, whether there were uneasy about him, followed, mixed with a little boasting of dear Harvey's diligence. By the by, Ethel, it is you that are the great patroness of the wild Coxmore children, are you not? Ethel collared and mumbled, and Flora answered for her. Richard and Ethel have been there once or twice. You know our under-nursery maid is a Coxmore girl. Well, Mama said she could not think how Miss May could take one from thence. The whole place is full of thieves, and do you know Bessie Boulder has lost her gold pencil case? Has she, said Flora? And she headed on Sunday when she was teaching her class. Oh, cried Ethel vehemently. Surely she does not suspect any of those poor children. I only know such a thing never happened at school before, said Fanny, and I shall never take anything valuable there again. But is she sure she lost it at school? Oh, yes, quite certain. She will not accuse anyone, but it is not comfortable. And how those children do behave at church? Poor things. They have been sadly neglected, said Flora. They are quite spoiling the rest, and they are such figures. Why don't you at least make them cut their hair? You know it is the rule of the school. I know, but half the girls in the first class wear it long. Oh, yes, but those are the superior people that one would not be strict with, and they dress it so nicely too. Now these are like little savages. Richard thinks it might drive them away to insist at first, said Ethel. We will try to bring it about in time. Well, Mrs. Ledwich is nearly resolved to insist, so you had better be warned, Ethel. She cannot suffer such untidiness and rags to spoil the appearance of the school, and, I assure you, it is quite unpleasant to the teachers. I wish they would give them all to me, said Ethel, but I do hope Mrs. Ledwich will have patience with them, for they are only to be gained gently. The visitors took their leave and the two sisters began exclaiming. Ethel had their dislike of her protégés and Flora at what they had said of Norman. When you, Ethel, how could you go and tell them we were surprised, and Norman thought it was hard on the other boys? They'll have it all over the town that he got it unjustly, and knows it, as they say already it was partiality of Mr. Everards. Oh, no, no, they never give me so bad, cried Ethel. They must have understood better that it was his noble humility and generosity. They understand anything noble? No need. They think everyone like their own beautiful brother. I knew what they came for all the time. They wanted to know whether Norman was able to work these holidays, and you told them the very thing they wanted to hear. How they will rejoice with that Harvey and make sure of the Randall. Oh, no, no, cried Ethel. Norman must get that. I don't think he will, said Flora, losing all this time while they are working. It cannot be helped, of course, but it is a great pity. I almost wish he had not been put up at all if it is to end in this way, said Ethel. It is very provoking and to have them triumphing as they will. There's no bearing it. Norman, certainly, is not at all well, poor fellow, said Flora, and I suppose he wants rest, but I wish Papa would let him do what he can. It would be much better for him than moping about as he is always doing now. And the disappointment of losing his place would be grievous, though now he fancies he does not care for it. I wonder when he will ever care for anything again. All I read and tell him only seems to tease him, though he tries to thank me. There is a strange apathy about him, said Flora, but I believe it is chiefly for want of exertion. I should like to rouse him if Papa would let me. I knew I could, by telling him how these Andersons are reckoning on his getting down. If he does, I shall be ready to run away, that I may never meet anyone here again. Ethel was very unhappy till she was able to pour all this trouble out to Margaret, and worked herself almost into crying about Norman's being passed by that Harvey, and his sisters exalting, and Papa being vexed, and Norman losing time and not caring. There you are wrong, said Margaret. Norman did care very much, and it was not till he had seen clearly that it was a matter of duty to do, as Papa thought right, and not agitate as blind about his chances of keeping up, that he could barely give up his work. And she told Ethel, under the what had passed. Ethel was much struck. But oh Margaret, it is very hard just to have him put up for the sake of being put down, and pleasing the Andersons. Dear Ethel, why should you mind so much about the Andersons? May they not care about their brother as we do ours? Such a brother to care about, said Ethel. But I suppose they may like him the best, said Margaret, smiling. I suppose they do, said Ethel grudgingly. But still, I cannot bear to see Norman doing nothing, and I know Harvey Anderson will beat him. Surely you hid rather he did nothing than made himself ill. You be sure, but I wish it wasn't so. Yes, but Ethel, who's doing is his getting into this state? Ethel looked grave. It was wrong of me, said she. But then Papa is not sure that Greek would hurt him. Not sure, but he thinks it not wise to run the risk. But Ethel dear, why are you so bent on his being ducks at all costs? It would be horrid if he was not. Don't you remember you used to say that outward praise or honor was not to be cared for as long as one did one's duty and that it might be a temptation? Yes, I know I did, said Ethel, faltering, but that was for oneself. It is harder, I think, to feel so about those we care for, said Margaret. But after all, this is just what will show whether our pride in Norman is the right true loving pride or whether it is only the family vanity of triumphing over the Andersons. Ethel hung her head. There's some of that, she said, but it is not all. No, I don't want to triumph over them. Nobody would do that. Not outwardly, perhaps, but in their hearts. I can't tell, said Ethel, but it is the being triumphed over that I cannot bear. Perhaps this is all a lesson in humility for us, said Margaret. It is teaching us, whosoever exalted himself shall be abased, and he that humblest himself shall be exalted. Ethel was silent for some little space, then suddenly exclaimed, and you think he will really be put down? Margaret seemed to have been talking with little effect, but she kept her patience and answered. I cannot guess, Ethel, but I'll tell you one thing. I think there's much more chance if he comes to his word fresh and vigorous after rest than if he went on dulling himself with it all this time. With which Ethel was so far appeased that she promised to think as little as she could of the Andersons, and a walk with Richard to Coxmore turned the current of her thoughts. They had caught some more Sunday school children by the help of Margaret's broth, but it was uphill work. The servants did not like such guests in the kitchen, and they were still less welcome at school. What do you think I heard, Ethel, said Flora, the next Sunday, as they joined each other in the walk from school to church? I heard Miss Graves say to Miss Boulder, I declare I must remonstrate. I undertook to instruct a national, not a ragged, school. And then Miss Boulder shook out her fine-wattered silk and said, it positively is improper to place ladies in contact with such squalid objects. Ladies, cried Ethel, a stationer's daughter and a banker's clerks, why do they come to teach a school at all? Because our example makes it genteel, said Flora. I hope you did something more in hopes of making it genteel. I caught one of your ragged regiment with her frock gaping behind and pinned it up. Such rags as there were under it. Oh, Ethel! Which was it? That merry Irish-looking child. I don't know her name. Oh, it is a real charming Irish name, Luna McCarthy. I am so glad you did it, Flora. I hope they were ashamed. I doubt whether it will do good. We are sure of our station and can do anything. They are struggling to be ladies. But we ought not to talk of them anymore, Flora. Here we are almost at the churchyard. The Tuesday of this week was appointed for the visit of the London surgeon, Sir Matthew Fleet, and the expectation caused Dr. May to talk much to Margaret of old times and the days of his courtship when it had been his favorite project that his friend and fellow student should marry Flora McKenzie, and there had been a promising degree of liking, but Matt had been obliged to be prudent and had ended by never marrying at all. This the doctor, as well as his daughters, believed was for the sake of Aunt Flora and thus the girls were a good deal excited about his coming, almost as much on his own account as because they considered him as the arbiter of Margaret's fate. He only came in time for a seven o'clock dinner, and Margaret did not see him that night but heard enough from her sisters when they came up to tell the history of their guests, and of the first set dinner when Flora had acted as Lady of the House. The dinner it appeared had gone off very well. Flora had managed admirably, and the only mishap was some awkward carving of Ethel's which had caused the dish to be changed with Norman. As to the guest, Flora said he was very good looking and agreeable. Ethel abruptly pronounced, I am very glad Aunt Flora married Uncle Arnot instead. I can't think why, said Flora. I never saw a person of pleasant or manners. Did they talk of old times, said Margaret? No, said Ethel. That was the thing. You would not have them talk of those manners in the middle of dinner, said Flora. No, again, said Ethel, but Papa has a way, don't you know, Margaret? How one can tell in a moment if it is company talk. What was the conversation about, said Margaret? They talked over some of their fellow students, said Flora. Yes, said Ethel, and then when Papa told him that beautiful history of Dr. Spencer, going to take care of those poor immigrants in the fever, what do you think he said? Yes, Spencer was always doing extravagant things. Fancy that to Papa, who can hardly speak of it without having to wipe his spectacles, and who so longs to hear of Dr. Spencer. And what did he say? Nothing. So Flora and Sir Matthew got to pictures and all that sort of thing, and it was all company talk after that. Most entertaining in his kind, said Flora, but, oh, Norman, as he entered. Why, they're not out of the dining room yet. No, they are talking of some new invention, and most likely will not come out for an hour. Are you going to bed? Papa followed me out of the dining room to tell me to do so after tea. Then sit down there, and I'll go and make some, and let it come up with Margaret's. Come, Ethel, good night, Norman. Is your head aching tonight? Not much. Now I have got out of the dining room. It would have been wiser not to have gone in, said Flora, leaving the room. It was not the dinner, but the man, said Norman. It is incomprehensible to me how my father could take to him. I'd as soon have Harvey Anderson for a friend. You're like me, said Ethel, and being glad he is not our uncle. He presumes to think of falling in love with Aunt Flora, cried Norman indignantly. Why, what is the matter with him? asked Margaret. I can't find much ground for Ethel's dislike, and Flora is pleased. She did not hear the worst, nor you either, Ethel, said Norman. I could not stand the cold hard way he spoke of hospital patients. I am sure he thinks poor people nothing but a steady and rich ones nothing but a profit. And his half sneers. But what I hated most was his way of avoiding discussions, and he saw he had said what would not go down with Papa. He did not honestly stand up to the point, and argue it out, but seemed to have no mind of his own, and to be only talking to please Papa, but not knowing how to do it. He understands my father indeed. Norman's indignation had quite revived him, and Margaret was much entertained with the conflicting opinions. The next was Richards, when he came in late to wish her good night, after he had been attending on Sir Matthew's examination of his father's arm. He did nothing but admire the surgeon's delicacy of touch and understanding of the case, his view agreeing much better with Dr. May's own than that of Mr. Ward's. Dr. May had never been entirely satisfied with the present mode of treatment, and Richard was much struck by hearing him say, in answer to Sir Matthew, that he knew his recovery might have been more speedy and less painful if he had been able to attend to it at first, or to afford time for being longer laid up. A change of treatment was now to be made, likely soon to relieve the pain, to be less tedious and troublesome, and to bring about a complete cure in three or four months at latest. In hearing such tidings, there could be little thought of the person who brought them, and Margaret did not, till the last moment, learn that Richard thought Sir Matthew was very clever and sensible, and certain to understand her case. Her last visitor was her father. A sleep, Margaret? I thought I'd better go to Norman first in case he should be awake. Was he? Yes, but his pulse is better tonight. He was lying awake to hear what Fleet thought of me. I suppose Richard told you? Yes, dear Papa, what a comfort it is. Those fellows in London do keep up to the mark, but I would not be there for something. I never saw a man so altered, however, if he can only do for you as well, but it is of no use talking about it. I may trust you to keep yourself calm, my dear. I am trying, indeed I am, dear Papa. If you could help being anxious for me, though I know it is worse for you, for I only have to lie still, and you have to settle for me. But I have been thinking how well off I am, able to enjoy so much and be employed all day long. It is nothing to compare with that poor girl you told me of, and you did not be unhappy for me. I have some verses to say over to myself tonight. Oh, Lord, my God, do thou thy holy will. I will lie still. I will not stir, lest I forsake thine arm, and break the charm that lulls me, clinging to my father's breast in perfect rest. Is not that comfortable? My child, my dear child, I will say no more, lest I should break your sweet peace with my impatience. I will strive for the same temper, my Margaret. Bless you, dearest. Good night. After a night spent in waking intervals of such thoughts, Margaret found the ordinary mourning and the talk she could not escape somewhat oppressive. Her brothers and sisters disturbed her by their open expressions of hope and anxiety. She dreaded to have the balance of tranquility over set, and then blamed herself for selfishness and not being as ready to attend to them as usual. Ethel and Norman came up after breakfast, their aversion by no means decreased by further acquaintance. Ethel was highly indignant at the tone in which she had exclaimed, What, Mae, have you won as young as this? On discovering the existence of the baby, and when Norman observed that was not so atrocious either, she proceeded, You did not hear the contemptuous, compassionate tone when he asked Papa what he meant to do with all these boys. I'm glad he has not to settle, said Norman. Papa said Harry was to be a sailor, and he said it was a good way to save expenses of education, a good thing. No doubt, said Norman, he thinks Papa only wants to get rid of us, or if not, that it is an amiable weakness. But I can't see anything so shocking in this, said Margaret. It is not the words, said Norman. The look and tone convey it, but there are different opinions. Flora is quite spent with him. He talks so politely to her. And Blanche, said Ethel. The little affected pussycat made a set at him, bridal and talked in her menacing voice, with all her airs, and made him take a great deal of notice of her. Others here came to prepare for the surgeon's visit. It was over, and Margaret awaited the judgment. Sir Matthew had spoken hopefully to her, but she feared to fasten hopes on what might have no meaning, and could rely on nothing till she had seen her father, who never kept back his genuine opinion, and would lease of all from her. She found her spirits too much agitated to talk to her sisters, and quietly begged them to let her be quite alone till the consultation was over, and she lay trying to prepare herself to submit, thankfully, whether she might be bitten to resign herself to helplessness or to let her mind open once more to visions of joyous usefulness. Every step she hoped would prove to be her father's approach, and the longest hour of her life was that before he entered her room. His face said that the tidings were good, and yet she could not ask. Well, Margaret, I am glad we had him down. He thinks she may get about again, though it may be a long time first. Does she—oh, papa!—and the color spread over her face, as she squeezed his hand very fast. He has known the use of the limb's return almost suddenly after even a year or two, and Dr. May gave her the grounds of the opinion, and an account of other, like cases, which he said had convinced him. Though, my poor child, he said, I feared the harm I had done you was irremediable, but thanks he turned away his face and the clasp their hand spoke the rest. Presently he told Margaret that she was no longer to be kept prostrate, but she was to do exactly as was most comfortable to her, avoiding nothing but fatigue. She might be lifted to the sofa the next day, and if that agreed with her, she might be carried downstairs. This, in itself, after she had been confined to her bed for three months, was a release from captivity, and all the brothers and sisters rejoiced as if she was actually on her feet again. Richard retook himself to constructing a reading frame for the sofa. Harry tormented Miss Winter by insisting on a holiday for the others, and gained the day by an appeal to his father, then declared he should go and tell Mr. Wilmot the good news, and Norman, quite enliven, took of his hat and said he would come too. In all his joy, however, Dr. May could not cease bewailing the alteration in his old friend, and spent half the evening in telling Margaret how different he had once been, in terms little less measured than Ethel's. I never saw such a change. Matt Fleet was one of the most warm, open-hearted fellows in the world, up to anything. I can hardly believe he is the same, turned into a mere machine with a moving spring of self-interest. I don't believe he cares a rush for any living thing, except for your sake, Margaret. I wish I had never seen him again, and only remembered him as he was at Edinburgh, as I remember dear old Spencer. It is a grievous thing, ruined entirely. No doubt that London life must be trying. The constant change and bewilderment of patients preventing much individual care and interest. It must be very hardening. No family ties, either, nothing to look to but pushing his way. Yes, there's great excuse for poor Matt. I never knew fully till now the blessing it was that your dear mother was willing to take me so early, and that this place was open to me with all its home connections and interests. I am glad I never had anything to do with London. And when he was alone with Norman he could not help saying, Norman, my boy, I'm more glad than ever you yielded to me about your Greek these holidays, and for the reason you did. Take care of the love of rising and pushing never gets hold of you. There's nothing that faster changes a man from his better self. Meanwhile Sir Matthew Fleet had met another old college friend in London, and was answering his inquiries for the Dic may of ancient times. Before May I never saw a man so thrown away. With his talent and acuteness he might be the most eminent man of his day if he had only known how to use them. But he was always the same careless, soft-hearted fellow, never knowing how to do himself any good, and he is the same still, not a day older nor wiser. It was a fatal thing for him that there was that country practice ready for him to step into, and even of that he does not make a good thing as he might. Of course he married early, and there he is, left a widower with houseful of children, screaming babies and great tall sons growing up, and he without a notion what he shall do with them, as heedless as ever, saving nothing, of course. I always knew it was what he would come to if he would persist in bearing himself in that wretched little country town, but I hardly thought, after all he has gone through, to find him such a mere boy still. And yet he is one of the clearest men I ever met, with such talent, and such thorough knowledge of his profession, that it does one good to hear him talk. Poor me! I am sorry for him. He might have been anything, but that early marriage and country practice were the ruin of him. End of Part 1, Chapter 13, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Young, Part 1, Chapter 14. To thee, dear maid, each kindly while, Was known that elder sisters know, To check the unceasedable smile, With warning hand and serious bra. From dream to dream, with her to rove, Like fairy nurse with hermit-child, Be sure to think, to pray, to love, Make grief less bitter, joy less wild. Lines on a Monument at Litchfield Sir Matthew Fleet's visit seemed like a turning point with the May family, Rousing and giving them revived hopes. Norman began to shake off his extreme Langer and depression. The doctor was relieved from much of the wearing suffering from his hurt, And his despondency as to Margaret's ultimate recovery had been driven away. The experiment of taking her up succeeded so well that on Sunday she was fully attired, fit to receive company, As she lay on the sofa there seemed in advance toward recovery. Much sweet coca-tree was expended in trying to look her best for her father, And her best was very well, for though the brilliant bloom of health was gone, her cheeks had not lost their pretty rounded contour, And still had some rosiness, while her large bright blue eyes smiled and sparkled. A screen shut out the rest of the room, making a sort of little parlour round the fire, where a sundry of the family were visiting her after coming home from church in the afternoon. Ethel was in a vehement state of indignation at what had that day happened at school. Did you ever hear anything like it, when the point was to teach the poor things to be Christians, to turn them back because their hair was not regulation length? What's that? Who did, said Dr. May, coming in from his own room where he had heard a few words. Mrs. Ledwich, she sent back three of the coxmore children this morning. It seems she warned them last Sunday without saying a word to us. Sent them back from church, said the doctor? Not exactly from church, said Margaret. It is the same in effect, said Ethel, to turn them from school, for if they did try to go alone, the few openers would drive them out. It is a wretched state of things, said Dr. May, who never wanted much provocation to begin storming about parish affairs. When I am churchward again, I'll see what can be done about the seats. But it's no sort of use, while Ramston goes on as he does. Now my poor children are done for, said Ethel. They will never come again. And it's horrid, Papa. There are lots of town children who wear immense long plates of hair, and Mrs. Ledwich never interferes with them. It is entirely to drive the poor coxmore ones away. For nothing else. And all out of Fanny Anderson's chatter. Ethel, my dear, said Margaret pleadingly. Didn't I tell you, Margaret, how, as soon as Flora knew what Mrs. Ledwich was going to do, she went and told her this was the children's only chance, and if we affronted them for our trifle, there would be no hope of getting them back. She said she was sorry if we were interested for them, but rules must not be broken. And when Flora spoke of all who do wear long hair unmolested, she shuffled and said, for the sake of the teachers, as well as the other children, rags and dirt could not be allowed. And then she brought up the old story of Mrs. Boulder's pencil. Though she has found it again, and ended up by saying Fanny Anderson told her it was a serious annoyance to the teachers, and she was sure we should agree with her that something was due to voluntary assistance and subscribers. I am afraid there has been a regular set at them, said Margaret, and perhaps they are troublesome for things. As if schoolkeeping were for luxury, said Dr. May. It is the worst thing I have heard of Mrs. Ledwich yet. Mrs. Ledboiles to think of those poor children being cast off because our fine young ladies are too grand to teach them. The clergymen leaving his work to a set of conceited women, and they turning their backs on ignorance, when it comes to their door. Voluntary subscribers indeed. I have a great mind, I'll be one no longer. Oh, Papa, that would not be fair, began Ethel. But Margaret knew he would not act on this, squeezed her hand, and silenced her. One thing I've said, and I'll hold to it, continued Dr. May. If they outvote will not again in your ladies' committee, I'll have no more to do with them, as sure as my name's Dick May. It is a scandal the way things are done here. Papa, said Richard, who had all the time in standing silent. Ethel and I have been thinking, if you approved, whether we could not do something towards teaching the Cosmore children and breaking them in for the Sunday school. What a bound Ethel's heart gave, and how full of congratulation and sympathy was the pressure of Margaret's hand. What did you think of doing? said the doctor. Ethel burned to reply, but her sister's hand admonished her to remember her compact. Richard answered, We thought of trying to get a room and going perhaps once or twice a week to give them a little teaching. It would be little enough, but it might do something towards civilizing them and making them wish for more. How do you propose to get a room? I have reconordered, and I think I know a cottage with a tolerable kitchen, which I dare say we might hire for an afternoon for six pence. Ethel, unable to bear it any longer, threw herself forward and sitting on the ground at her father's feet, exclaimed, Oh, Papa, Papa, do say we may. What's all this about? said the doctor, surprised. Oh, you don't know how I have thought of it day and night these two months. What? Ethel have a fancy for two whole months. And the whole house not hear of it? said her father with a rather provoking loop of incredulity. Richard was afraid of bothering you and wouldn't let me. But do speak, Papa. May we? I don't see any objection. She clasped her hands in ecstasy. Thank you, thank you, Papa. Oh, Richie, oh Margaret, cried she in a breathless voice of transport. You have worked yourself up to a fine past, said the doctor, patting the agitated girl fondly as she leaned against his knee. Remember, slow and steady. I've got Richie to help me, said Ethel. Sufficient guarantee, said her father, smiling harshly as he looked up to his son, whose fair face had colored deep red. You will keep the unready in order, Richie. He does, said Margaret. He has taken her education into his hands, and I really believe he has taught her to hold up her frock and stick in pins. And to know her right hand from her left, eh, Ethel? Well, you deserve some credit, then. Suppose we ask Mr. Wilmot to tea and talk it over. Oh, thank you, Papa. When shall it be, tomorrow? Yes, if you like. I have to go to the town council meeting, and I'm not going into the country, so I shall be in early. Thank you. Oh, how very nice. And what about cost? Do you expect to rob me? If you would help us, said Ethel, with an odd, shy manner. We meant to make what we have go as far as may be, but mine is only fifteen and six pins. Well, you must make interest with Margaret for the turnout of my pocket tomorrow. Thank you. We are very much obliged, said the brother and sister earnestly. That is more than we expected. Ha! Don't thank too soon. Suppose tomorrow should be a blank day. Oh, it won't, said Ethel. I shall tell Norman to make you go to paying people. There's, Avers, said the doctor. But look you here, Ethel. If you'll take my advice, you'll make your bargain for Tuesday. I have a note appointing me to call an Abbot Stoke Grange on Mr. Rivers at twelve o'clock on Tuesday. What do you think of that, Ethel? An old banker rich enough for his daughter to curl her hair and bank-nose. If I were you, I'd make a bargain for him. If he had nothing to matter with him, and I only got one guinea out of him. Prudence! Well, it may be wiser. Ethel ran up to her room, unable to believe that the money proposal was made, and it had been so readily granted that it seemed as if Richard's caution had been vain in making such a delay that even Margaret had begun to fear that the street of by and by was leading to the House of Never. Now, however, it was plain that he had been wise. Opportunity was everything. At another moment their father might have been harassed and oppressed, and unable to give his mind to concerns which now he could think of with interest, and Richard could not have caught a more favourable conjuncture. Ethel was in a wild state of felicity all that evening and the next day, very unlike her brother, who, dismayed at the open step he had taken, shrank into himself, and in his shyness dreaded the discussion in the evening, and would almost have been relieved if Mr. Wilmot had been unable to accept the invitation. So quiet in grave was he that Ethel could not give him to talk over the matter at all with her, and she was obliged to bestow all her transports and grand projects on Flora or Margaret when she could gain their ears besides conning them over to herself as an accompaniment to her lessons, by which means she tried Mrs. Winter's patience almost beyond measure. But she cared not. She saw a gathering school and rising church, which eclipsed all thought of present inattentions and gusheries. She monopolized Margaret in the twilight, and rhapsodized to her heart's content, talking faster and faster and looking more and more excited. Margaret began to feel a little overwhelmed, and while answering yes at intervals was considering whether Ethel had not been flying about in an absent, inconsiderate mood all day and whether it would seem unkind to damp her ardor by giving her a hint that she was relaxing her guard over herself. Before Margaret had steeled herself, Ethel was talking of a story she had read of a place something like Coxmore. Margaret was not ready with her recollection and Ethel, saying it was in a magazine in the drawing room she funneé declared she would fetch it. Margaret knew what it was to expect her visitors to return in one moment, and with a now or never feeling she began, Ethel, dear, wait! But Ethel was too impetuous to attend. I'll be back in a twinkling, she called out, and down she flew, in her speed whisking away, without seeing it, the basket with Margaret snitting in all her notes and papers, which lay scattered on the floor far out of reach, vexing Margaret at first, and then making her grieve at her own impatient feeling. Ethel was soon in the drawing room, but the right number of the magazine was not quickly forthcoming, and in searching she became embarked in another story. Just then, Aubrey, whose stout legs were apt to carry him into every part of the house where he was neither expected nor wanted, marched in at the open door, trying to identify the vehement gestures to make her understand, in his imperfect speech, something that he wanted, very particularly troublesome, she thought him, more especially as she could not make him out, otherwise than that he wanted her to do something with the newspaper and the fire. She made a boat for him with an old newspaper, very hasty and frail performance, and told him to seal it on the carpet and be Mr. Ernst Cliff going away, and she thought him thus safely to dispose of. Returning to her book and her search, with her face to the cupboard and her book held up to catch the light, she was soon lost in her story, and thought of nothing more till suddenly roused by her father's voice in the hall, loud and peremptory, with alarm. Aubrey, put that down! She looked, and beheld Aubrey brandishing a great flaming paper. He dropped it at the exclamation. It fell burning on the carpet. Aubrey's white penifor. Ethel was springing up, but in her cramped, twisted position she could not do so quickly, and even as he called, her father strode by her, snatched at Aubrey's merino frock, which he crushed over the scarcely-lighted penifor, and trampled out the flaming paper with his foot. It was a moment of dreadful fright, but the next assured them that no harm was done. Ethel, cried the doctor, are you mad? What were you thinking of? Aubrey, here recollecting himself enough to be frightened at his father's voice and manner, burst into loud cries. The doctor pressed him closer on his breast, caressed and soothed him. Ethel stood by, pale and transfixed with horror. Her father was more angry with her than she had ever seen him, and with reason, as she knew, as she smelled the singeing, and saw a large burnt hole in Aubrey's penifor, while the front of his frock was gorged and Dr. May's words were not needed. What could make you let him? I didn't see, she faltered. Didn't see, didn't look, didn't think, didn't care. That's it, Ethel. It's very hard, one can't trust you in a room with a child any more than the baby himself. His frock perfect tender. He would have been burned to a cinder if I had not come in. Aubrey roared afresh, and Dr. May, kissing and comforting him, gathered him up in his left arm, and carried him away, looking back at the door to say, There's no bearing it. I'll put a stop to all schools and Greek if it is to lead to this, and make you good for nothing. Ethel was too much terrified to know where she was, or anything, but that she had let her little brother run into a fearful peril, and grievously angered her father. She was afraid to follow him, and stood still, annihilated, and in despair, till roused by his return. Then, with a stifled sob, she exclaimed, Oh, Papa, and could get no further for a gush of tears. But the anger of the shock of terror was over, and Dr. May was sorry for her tears, though still he could not but manifest some displeasure. Yes, Ethel, he said, it was a frightful thing, and he could not but shudder again. A moment later, it is an escape to be for everything for poor little fellow, but Ethel, Ethel, do let it be a warning to you. Oh, I hope I'll try, sobbed Ethel. You have said you would try before. I know I have, said Ethel, choked. If I could but— Poor child, said Dr. May sadly, then looking earnestly at her. Ethel, my dear, I'm afraid of its being with you as—as it has been with me. He spoke very low, and drew her close to him. I grew up, thinking my inbred heedlessness a sort of grace, so to say, rather manly. The reverse of Finneken. I was spoiled as a boy, and my Maggie carried on the spoiling by never letting me feel its effects. By the time I had sensed enough to regret this as a fault, I had grown too old for changing of ingrained, long-nurtured habits. Perhaps I never wished it, really. You have seen, and his voice was nearly inaudible. But my carelessness has come to, let that suffice at least, as the lesson that may spare you, what your father must feel as long as he lives. He pressed his hand tightly on her shoulder and left her, without letting her see his face. Shocked and bewildered, she hurried upstairs to Margaret. She threw herself on her knees, felt her arms round her, and heard her kind soothing, and then, in broken words, told how dreadful it had been, and how kind Papa had been, and what he had said, which was now the uppermost thought. Oh, Margaret, Margaret, how very terrible it is! And does Papa really think so? I believe he does, whispered Margaret. How can he—can he bear it? said Ethel, clasping her hands. Oh, it is enough to kill one. I can't think why it did not. He bears it, said Margaret, because he is so very good, that help and comfort do come to him. Dear Papa, he bears up because it is right, and for our sakes, and he has a sort of rest in that perfect love they had for each other. He knows how she would wish him to cheer up and look to the end, and support and comfort are given to him. I know they are, but, oh, Ethel, it does make one tremble and shrink to think what he has been going through this autumn, especially when I hear him moving about late at night, and now and then comes a heavy groan whenever any special care has been on his mind. Ethel was in great distress. To have grieved him again, said she, and just as they seem better and brighter, everything I do turns out wrong and always will. I can't do anything well by any chance. Yes, you can, when you mind what you are about, but I never can. I'm like him. Everyone says so, and he says that heedlessness is a grain and can't be got rid of. Well, I don't really think he could have told you so. I'm sure he said in grain, well, I suppose it is part of his nature, and that you have inherited it, but Margaret paused and Ethel exclaimed. He said his was long nurtured. Yes, Margaret, you guessed right, and he said he could not change it, and no more can I. Surely, Ethel, you have not had so many years. You are fifteen instead of forty-six, and it is more a woman's work than a man's to be careful. You need not begin to despair. You were growing much better, Richard said so, and so did Miss Winter. What's the use of it, if in one moment it is as bad as ever? And today, of all days in the year, just when Papa has been so very, very kind, and given me more than I asked. Do you know, Ethel, I was thinking whether dear Mama would not say that was the reason. You were so happy that perhaps you were thrown off your guard. I should not wonder if that was it, said Ethel, thoughtfully. You know, it was the sort of probation that Richard put me on. I was to learn to be steadied before he spoke to Papa, and now it seemed to be all settled and right, and perhaps I forgot I was to be careful still. I think it was something of the kind. I was a little afraid before, and I wish I had tried to caution you, but I did not like to seem unkind. I wish you had, said Ethel. Dear little Aubrey, oh, if Papa had not been there, and I cannot think how, as it was, he could contrive to put the fire out with his one hand and not hurt himself. Margaret, it was terrible. How could I mind so little? Did you see how his frock was singed? Yes, Papa showed it to me. How can we be thankful enough? One thing I hope, that Aubrey was well-frightened, poor little Dwight. I know. I see now, cried Ethel. He must have wanted me to make the fire blaze up, as Richard did one evening when we came in, and found it low. I remember Aubrey clapping his hands and shouting at the flame, but my head was in that unhappy story, and I never had sense to put the things together and reflect that he would try to do it himself. I only wanted to get him out of my way, dear little fellow. Oh, dear, how bad it was of me, all from being uplifted and my head turned, as it used to be when we were happier. Oh, I wish Mr. Wilmot was not coming. Ethel sat for a long time with her head hidden in Margaret's pillows, and her hand clasped by her good elder sister. At last she looked up and said, Oh, Margaret, I am so unhappy. I see the whole meaning of it now. Do you not? When Papa gave his consent at last, I was pleased and set up and proud of my plans. I never recollected what a silly, foolish girl I am, and how unfit. I thought Mr. Wilmot would think great things of it. It was all wrong and self-satisfied. I never prayed at all that it might turn out well, and so now it won't. Dearest Ethel, I don't see that. Perhaps it will do all the better, for you're being humbled about it now. If you were wild and high-flying, it would never go right. Its hope is in Richard, said Ethel. So it is, said Margaret. I wish Mr. Wilmot was not coming tonight, said Ethel again. It would serve me right if Papa were to say nothing about it. Ethel lingered with her sister till Harry and Mary came up with Margaret's tea, and summoned her, and she crept downstairs and entered the room so quietly that she was hardly perceived behind her boisterous brother. She knew her eyes were in no presentable state, and cast them down, and shrank back as Mr. Wilmot shook her hand and greeted her kindly. Mr. Wilmot had been wont to come to tea whenever he had anything to say to Dr. or Mrs. May, which was about once in ten or twelve days. He was Mary's godfather, and their most intimate friend in the town, and he had often been with them, both as friend and clergyman, through their trouble. No later than Christmas Day he had come to bring the feast of that day to Margaret in her sick room. Indeed, it had been chiefly for the sake of the Mays that he had resolved to spend the holidays at Stoneboro, taking the care of Abbot Stoke, while his brother, the vicar, went to visit their father. This was, however, the first time he had come in his old familiar way to spend an evening, and there was something in their resumption of former habits that painfully marked the change. Ethel, on coming in, found Flora making tea, her father leaning back in his great chair in silence, Richard diligently cutting bread and blanch sitting on Mr. Wilmot's knee, chattering fast and confidentially. Flora made Harry dispense the cups and called everyone to their places. Ethel timidly glanced at her father's face as he rose and came into the light. She thought the lines and hollows were more marked than ever, and that he looked fatigued and mournful, and she felt cut to the heart. But he began to exert himself and to make conversation, not, however, about Coxmore, but asking Mr. Wilmot what his brother thought of his new squire, Mr. Rivers. He likes him very much, said Mr. Wilmot. He is a very pleasing person, particularly kindhearted and gentle, and likely to do a great deal for the parish. They have been giving way beef and blankets at a great rate this Christmas. What family is there, asked Flora. One daughter, about Ethel's age, is there with her governess. He has been twice married, and the first wife left a son, who is in the dragoons, I believe. This girl's mother was Lord Koshum's daughter. So the top lingered on, without much interest or life. It was rather keeping from saying nothing than conversation, and no one was without the sensation that she was missing, round whom all had been free and joyous. Not that she had been wanting to speak much herself, but nothing would go on smoothly or easily without her. No longer this last, that Ethel began to think her father meant to punish her by not beginning the subject that night, and though she owned that she deserved it, she could not help being very much disappointed. At ling power, her father began, we wanted you to talk over a scheme that these young ones have been concocting. You see, I'm obliged to keep Richard at home this next term. It won't do to have no one in the house to carry poor Margaret. It can't do without him anyway, so he and Ethel have a scheme of seeing what can be done for that wretched place, Coxmore. Indeed, said Mr. Wilmot, brightening and looking interested, it is sadly destitute. It would be a great thing if anything could be done for it. You have brought some children to school already, I think. I saw some rough-looking boys who said they came from Coxmore. This embarked the doctor in the history of the ladies being too fine to teach the poor Coxmore girls, which he told me with kindling vehemence and indignation, growing more animated every moment as he stormed over the wanted subject of the bad system of management, ladies' committee negligent incumbent, insufficient clergy, misappropriated ties, while Mr. Wilmot, who had mourned over it within himself a hundred times already, and was during a curious work on sufferance with no pay and little but mistrust for Mr. Hansden, and observed false reports among more foolish part of the town, sat listening patiently, glad to hear the doctor in his old strain, though it was a hopeless matter for discussion, and Ethel dreaded that the lamentation would go on till bedtime and Coxmore be quite forgotten. After a time they came safely back to the project and Richard was called on to explain. Ethel left it all to him, and he, with rising color and quiet, unhesitating, though diffident manner, detailed designs that showed themselves to have been well matured. Mr. Wilmot heard, cordially approved, and, as all agreed, that no time was to be lost, while the holidays lasted, he undertook to speak to Mr. Ramston on the subject the next morning, and if his consent to their schemes could be gained, to come in the afternoon to walk with Richard and Ethel to Coxmore and set their affairs in order. All the time Ethel said not a word, except when referred to by her brother, but when Mr. Wilmot took leave he shook her hand warmly, as if he was much pleased with her. Ah, she thought, if he knew how ill I have behaved, it is all show and hollowness with me. She did not know that Mr. Wilmot thought her silence one of the best signs for the plan, nor how much more doubtful he would have thought her perseverance if he had seen her wild and vehement. As it was he was very much pleased, and when the doctor came out with him into the hall he could not help expressing his satisfaction in Richard's well-judged and sensibly described project. I, I, said the doctor, there's much more in the boy than I used to think. He's a capital fellow, and more like his mother than any of them. He is, said Mr. Wilmot. There was a just, well-wayed sense and soberness in his plans that put me in mind of her every moment. Dr. May gave his hand a squeeze, full of feeling, and went up to tell Margaret. She, on the first opportunity, told Richard, and made him happier than he had been for months, not so much in Mr. Wilmot's words, as in his father's assent, too, and pleasure in them. Chapter 14. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. Part 1, Chapter 15 of The Daisy Chain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Young. Part 1, Chapter 15. Pitch thy behavior low, thy projects high, so shall thou humble and magnanimous be. Sink not in spirit, who ameth at the sky shoots higher much than he that means a tree. A grain of glory mixed with humbleness cures both of fever and lethargicness. Herbert. Norman, do you feel up to a long day's work, said Dr. May, on the following morning? I have to set off after breakfast to see old Mrs. Gould and to be at Abbot Stoke Grange by twelve. Then I thought of going to Fort Holm and getting Miss Cleveland to give us some luncheon. There are some poor people on the way to look at, and that girl at Fairview Hill. And there's another place to call in at coming home. You'll have a good deal of sitting in the carriage, holding whitefoot, so if you think you shall be cold or tired, don't scruple to say so, and I'll take Adams to drive me. No, thank you, said Norman briskly. This frost is famous. It will turn to rain, I expect. It is too white, said the doctor, looking out at the window. How will you get to Coxmore, good people? Eltha won't believe it rains unless it is very bad, said Richard. Norman set out with his father and prosperously performed the expedition, arriving at Abbot Stoke Grange at the appointed hour. Ha! said the doctor, as the iron gates of ornamental scrollwork were swung back. There is a considerable change in this place since I was here last. Well kept up, indeed. Not a dead leaf left under the old walnuts, and the grass looks as smooth as if they had a dozen gardeners rolling it every day. And the drive, said Norman, more like a garden walk than a road. But, oh, what a splendid cedar! Isn't it? I can't remember that as long as I remember anything. All this fine rolling of turf and trimming up of the place does not make much difference to you, old fellow, does it? You don't look altered since I saw you last, when old jurist was letting the place go to rack and ruin. So they have a new entrance, very handsome conservatory, flowers. The banker does things in style. There, as Norman helped him off with his plaid, wrap yourself up well, don't get cold. The sun has gone in, and I should not wonder if the rain were coming after all. I'll not be longer than I can help. Dr. May disappeared from his son's sight through the conservatory, where, through the plate glass, the exotics looked so fresh and perfumy that Norman almost fancied that the scent reached him. How much poor Margaret would enjoy one of those camellias, thought he, and these people have bushels of them from your show. If I were Papa, I should be tempted to be like Beauty's father and carry off one. How should I admire it? Norman had plenty of time to meditate on the camellias, and then to turn and speculate on the age of the cedar, whether it could have been planted by the monks of Stoneboro Abbey, to whom the Grange had belonged, brought from Lebanon by a pilgrim, perhaps, and then he tried to guess at the longevity of cedars and thought of asking Margaret, the botanist of the family. Then he yawned, moved the horse a little about, opined that Mr. Rivers must be very prosy, or have some abstruse complaint, considered the sky, an augured rain, button another button of his rough coat, and thought of Miss Cleveland's dinner. Then he thought there was a very sharp wind, and drove about till he found a sheltered place on the lee side of the great cedar, looked up at it, and thought it would be a fine subject for verses, if Mr. Wilmot knew of it, and then proceeded to consider what he should make of them. In the midst he was suddenly roused by the deep-toed note of a dog, and beheld a large black Newfoundland dog, leaping about in the horse in great indignation. Ro-yo! Ro-yo! called a clear young voice, and he saw two ladies returning from a walk. Ro-yo, at the first call, galloped back to his mistress, and was evidently receiving an admonition, and promising good behavior. The two ladies entered the house, while he lay down on the step, with his lion-like paw hanging down, watching Norman with a brilliant pair of hazel eyes. Norman, after a little more wondering when Mr. Rivers would have done with his father, betook himself to civil demonstrations to the creature, who received them with dignity, and presently, after acknowledging with his tail various whispers of good old fellow and here ol' Ro-yo, having apparently satisfied himself that the young gentleman was respectable, he rose and vouched safe to stand up with his forepaws in the gig, listening amably to Norman's delicate flatteries. Norman even began to hope to allure him into jumping on the seat, but a great bell rang, and Ro-yo immediately turned round, and dashed off at full speed to some back region of the house. So, old fellow, you know what the dinner bell means, thought Norman. I hope Mr. Rivers is hungry, too. Miss Cleveland will have eaten up her whole luncheon if this ol' boar won't let my father go soon. I hope he is desperately ill, to his only excuse. Hi-ho! I must jump out to warm my feet soon. There, there's a drop of rain. Well, there's no end to it. I wonder what Ethel is doing about Coxmore. It is setting in for a wet afternoon, and Norman disconsolidately put up his umbrella. At last, Dr. May and another gentleman were seen in the conservatory, and Norman gladly proceeded to clear the seat. But Dr. May called out, jump out, Norman. Mr. Rivers is so kind as to ask us to stay for luncheon. With boyish shrinking from strangers, Norman privately wished Mr. Rivers at Jericho as he gave the reins to a servant and entered the conservatory, where a kindly hand was held out to him by a gentleman of about fifty, with a bald, smooth forehead, soft blue eyes, and gentle pleasant face. Is this your eldest son, said he, turning to Dr. May, and the manner of both was as if they were already well acquainted? No, this is my second. The eldest is not quite such a long-legged fellow, said Dr. May, and then followed the question addressed to Norman himself, where he was at school. At Stoneboro, said Norman, a little amused at the thought how angry Ethel and Harry would be that the paragraph of the county paper, where N. W. May was recorded as priestly and foremost in the examination, had not penetrated even to avid stroke range, or rather to his owner's memory. However, his father could not help adding, he is the head of the school, a thing we Stoneboro men think much of. This and Mr. Rivers' civil answer made Norman so hot that he did not notice much in passing through a hall full of beautiful vases, stuffed burns, buss, etc., tastefully arranged, and he did not look up till they were entering a handsome dining room, where a small square table was laid out for lunch in near a noble fire. The two ladies were there, and Mr. Rivers introduced them as his daughter and Mrs. Larpent. It was the most luxurious meal that Norman had ever seen. The plate, the porcelain, and all the appointments of the table so elegant, and the lians, all partaking of the Christmas character, and of a rosherish delicate description quite new to him. He had to serve as his father's right hand, and was so anxious to put everything as Dr. May liked it, and without attracting notice, that he hardly saw or listened till Dr. May began to admire a fine clode on the opposite wall, and embarked in a picture discussion. The doctor had much taste for art, and had made the most of his opportunities of seeing paintings during his time of study at Paris, and in a brief tour of Italy. Since that time few good pictures had come in his way, and these were a great pleasure to him, while Mr. Rivers, a regular connoisseur, was delighted to meet with one who could so well appreciate them. He then perceived how his father was enjoying the conversation, and was much interested, both by the sight of the first fine paintings he had ever seen, and by the talk about their merits. But the living things in the room had more of his attention and observation, especially the young lady who sat at the head of the table, a girl about his own age. She was on a very small scale, and seemed to him, like a fairy, in the airy lightness and grace of her movements, and the blith gladsomeness of her gestures and countenance, form and features, though perfectly healthful and brisk, had the peculiar finish and delicacy of a miniature painting, and were enhanced by the sunny glance of her dark, soft-smining eyes. Her hair was in black, silky braids, and her dress, with this gaiety of well-assorted color, was positively refreshing to his eye, so long accustomed to the deep mourning of his sisters. A little Italian greyhound, perfectly white, was at her side, making infinite variations of the line of beauty and grace, with this elegant outline and S-like pale, as it raised its slender nose in hopes of a fragment of bread, which she from time to time dispensed to it. Lunching over, Mr. Rivers asked Dr. May to step into his library, and Norman guessed that they had been talking all this time, and had never come to the medical opinion. However, a good meal and a large fire made a great difference in his toleration, and it was so new a scene that he had no objection to a prolonged waiting, especially when Mrs. Larpent said, in a very pleasant tone, will you come into the drawing with us? He felt somewhat as if he was walking in enchanted ground, as he followed her into the large room, the windows opening into the conservatory, the whole air fragrant with flowers, the furniture and ornaments so exquisite of their kind, and all such a fit scene for the beautiful little damsel, who, with her slender dog by her side, tripped on to merely, and rather shyly, but with a certain skipping lightness in her step. A very tall, overgrown schoolboy did Norman feel himself for one bashful moment, when he found himself alone with the two ladies. But he was ready to be said at ease by Mrs. Larpent's good natured manner, when she said something of Royo's discourtesy. He smiled and answered that he had made great friends with the final dog, and spoke of his running off to the dinner, at which Little Miss Rivers laughed and looked delighted, and began to tell of Royo's perfections and intelligence. Norman ventured to inquire the name of the little Italian, and was told it was nip in, because it had once stolen a cake, much like the wind spirit in feats on the fjord. His beauty and tricks were duly displayed, and the most beautiful Australian parrot was exhibited, Mrs. Larpent taking full interest in the talk, in so lively and gentle a manner, and she and her pretty pupil evidently on such sister-like terms that Norman could hardly believe her to be the governess when he thought of Miss Winter. Miss Rivers took up some brown leaves, which she was cutting out with scissors and shaping. Our holiday works, said Mrs. Larpent, in answer to the inquiring look of Norman's eyes. METHA has been making a drawing for her papa, and is framing it in leatherwork. Have you ever seen any? Never! And Norman looked eagerly, asking questions, and watching while Miss Rivers cut out her ivy leaf and marked its veins, and showed how she copied it from nature. He thanked her, saying, I wanted to learn all about it, for I thought it would be such nice work for my eldest sister. A glance of earnest interest from little METHA's bright eyes at her governess, and Mrs. Larpent, in a kind, soft tone that quite gained his heart, asked, is she the invalid? Yes, said Norman. New fancy work is a great gain to her. Mrs. Larpent's sympathetic questions, and METHA's softening eyes, gradually drew from him a great deal about Margaret's helpless state, and her patience and capabilities, and how everyone came to her with all their cares. And Norman, as he spoke, mentally contrasted the life untouched by trouble and care, led by the fair girl before him, with that atmosphere of constant petty anxieties round her namesake's couch, at years so nearly the same. How very good she must be, said little METHA, quickly and softly, and a tear was sparkling on her eyelashes. She is indeed, said Norman earnestly, I don't know what Papa would do but for her. Mrs. Larpent asked kind questions whether his father's arm was very painful, and the hopes of its cure, and he felt as if she was a great friend already. Thence they came to books. Norman had not read for months past, but it happened that METHA was just now reading Woodstock, with which he was of course familiar, and both grew eager in discussing that and several others. Of one METHA spoke in such terms of delight that Norman thought it had been very stupid of him to let it lie on the table for the last four nights without looking into it. He was almost sorry to see his father and Mr. Rivers come in, and hear the carriage ordered, but they were not off yet, though the rain was now only scotch-missed. Mr. Rivers had his most joyous little picture still to display, his beautiful early Italian masters, finished like illuminations, and over these there was much lingering and admiring. METHA had whispered something to her governess, who smiled, and advanced to Norman. METHA wishes to know if your sister would like to have a few flowers, said she. No sooner said than done the door into the conservatory was open and METHA, cutting sprays of beautiful geranium, delicious heliotrope, fragrant calacanthus, beet-blue tree violet, and exquisite hot-house ferns, perfect wonders to Norman, who, at each addition to the bouquet, exclaimed by turns, Oh, thank you, and how she will like it! Her father reached a magnolia blossom from on high, and the quick, warm, grateful emotion trembled in Dr. May's features and voice. As he said, it is very kind in you. You have given my poor girl a great treat. Thank you with all my heart. Margaret Rivers cast down her eyes, half-smiled, and shrank back, thinking she had never felt anything like the left-handed grasp, so full of warmth and thankfulness. It gave her confidence to venture on the one question on what she was bent. Her father was in the hall, showing Norman his great nymph, and lifting her eyes to Dr. May's face, then casting them down. She colored deeper than ever, as she said, in a stammering whisper. Oh, please, if you would tell me, do you think, is Papa very ill? Dr. May answered in his softest, most reassuring tones. You need not be alarmed about him, I assure you. You must keep him from too much business, he added, smiling. Make him ride with you, and not let him tire himself, and I am sure you can be his best doctor. But do you think, said Mehta, earnestly looking up, do you think he will be quite well again? You must not expect doctors to be absolute oracles, said he. I will tell you what I told him. I hardly think his will ever be sound health again, but I see no reason why he should not have many years of comfort, and there is no cause for you to disquiet yourself on his account. You have only to be careful of him. Mehta tried to say thank you, but not succeeding, looked imploringly at her governess, who spoke for her. Thank you. It is a great relief to have an opinion, for we were not at all satisfied about Mr. Rivers. A few words more, and Mehta was skipping about like a sprite finding a basket for the flowers. She had another shake of the hand, another grateful smile, and thank you from the doctor. And then, as the carriage disappeared, Mrs. Larpin exclaimed, what a very nice, intelligent boy that was. Particularly gentleman-like, said Mr. Rivers. Very clever, the head of the school, as his father tells me, and so modest and unassuming, though I see his father is very proud of him. Oh, I am sure they are so fond of each other, said Mehta. Didn't you see his attentive ways to his father at luncheon? And Papa, I am sure you must like Dr. May, Mr. Wilmots doctor, as much as I said you would. He is the most superior man I have met with for a long time, said Mr. Rivers. It is a great acquisition to find a man of such taste and acquirements in this country neighborhood, when there is not another who can tell a clod from up who's in. I declare when once we began talking there was no leaving off. I have not met a person of so much conversation since I left town. I thought you would like to see him, Mehta. I hope I shall know the Miss May sometime or other. That is the prettiest little fairy I ever did see, was Dr. May's remark, as Norman drove from the door. How good-natured they are, said Norman. I just said something about Margaret, and she gave me all these flowers. How Margaret will be delighted. I wish the girls could see it all. So you got on well with the ladies, did you? They were very kind to me. It was very pleasant, said Norman, with a tone of enjoyment that it is father's heart good. I was glad you should come in. Such a curiosity shop is a sight, and those pictures were some of them well worth seeing. That was a splendid Titian. That cast of the Pallas of the Parthenon, how beautiful it was. I knew it from the pictures in Smith's Dictionary. Mr. Rivers said he would show me all his antiques if you would bring me again. I saw he liked your interest in them. He is a good, kind-hearted dilettante sort of an old man. He has got all the talk of the literary cultivated society in London, and must find it dullish work here. You liked him, didn't you? He is very pleasant. I found he knew my old friend Benson, whom I had not seen since we were at Cambridge together, and we got on that and other matters. London people have an art of conversation not learned here, and I don't know how the time slipped away, but you must have been tolerably tired of waiting. Not to signify, said Norman. I only began to think he must be very ill. I hope there is not much to matter with him. I can't say. I am afraid there is organic disease. But I think it may be kept quiet a good while yet. And he may have a pleasant life for some time to come, arranging his prints and petting his pretty daughter. He has plenty to fall back upon. Do you go there again? Yes, next week. I am glad of it. I shall like to have another look at that little Madonna of his. It is the sort of picture that does one good to carry away in one's eye. Wait, stop. There's an old woman in here. It is too late for for the home, but these cases won't wait. He went into the cottage and soon returned, saying, find new blankets and a great kettle of soup, and such praises of the ladies at the Grange. And at the next house, it was the same story. Well, tis no mockery now to tell the poor creatures they want nourishing food. Slices of meat and bottles of port wine rained down on Abbott stoke. A far more talkative journey than usual ensued. The discussion of the paintings and antiques was almost equally delightful to the father and son and lasted till about a mile from Stoneborough. They decried three figures in the twilight. Ah, how are you, Wilmot? So you brave the rain, Ethel. Jump in, called the doctor, as Norman drew up. I shall crowd you. I shall hurt your arm, Papa. Thank you. No, you won't. Jump in. There's room for three threadpapers in one gig. Why, Wilmot, your brother has a very jewel of a squire. How did you fare? Very well on the whole, was Mr. Wilmot's answer, while Ethel scrambled in and tried to make herself small, an art in which she was not very successful, and Norman gave an exclamation of horrified warning as she was about to step into the flower basket. Then she nearly tumbled out again in dismay and was relieved to find herself safely wedged in without having done any harm, while her father called out to Mr. Wilmot as they started, I say you're coming back to tea with us. That cheerful tone and the kindness to herself were a refreshment and revival to Ethel, but was still sober and shocked by her yesterday's adventure and by the sense of her father's sorrowful displeasure. Expecting further to be scolded for getting in so awkwardly, she did not venture to volunteer anything, and even when he kindly said, I hope you were prosperous in your expedition, she only made answer in a very grave voice, yes, Papa, we have taken a very nice, tidy room. What do you pay for it? Four pens for each time. Well, here's for you, said Dr. May, it is only two guineas today, that banker at the Grange beguiled us by our time, but you had better close the bargain for him, Ethel, he will be a revenue for you for this winter at least. Oh, thank you, Papa, was all Ethel could say, overpowered by his kindness and more repressed by what she felt so unmerited, then she would have been by coldness, she said few words and preferred listening to Norman, who began to describe their adventures at the Grange. All her eagerness revived, however, as she sprang out of the carriage full of tidings for Margaret, and it was almost a race between her and Norman to get upstairs and unfold their separate budgets. Margaret's lamp had just been lighted when they made their entrance, Norman holding the flowers on high. Oh, how beautiful, how delicious! For me, where did you get them? From Abbot Stoke Grange, Miss Rivers sent them to you. How very kind, what a lovely geranium, and oh, that fern, I never saw anything so choice. How came she to think of me? They asked me in because it rained and she was making the prettiest things, leather leaves and flowers for picture frames. I thought it was work that would just suit you and learn how to do it. That made them ask about you and it ended by her sending you to Snow's Gate. How very kind everybody is. Well, Ethel, are you come home too? Papa, pick me up. Oh, Margaret, we have found such a nice room, a clean sanded kitchen. You never saw such a conservatory. And it is to be let to us for four pence of time. The house is full of beautiful things, pictures and statues. Only think of a reltician and a cast of the Apollo. Twinted children to begin with and Richard is going to make some forms. Mr. Rivers is going to show me all his casts. Oh, is he? But only think how lucky we were to find such a nice woman. Mr. Wilmot was so pleased with her. Norman found one story at a time was enough and relinquished the field, contenting himself with silently helping Margaret to arrange the flowers, holding the basket for her and pleased with her gestures of admiration. Ethel went on with her history. The first place we thought of would not do at all. The woman said she would not take half a crown a week to have a lot of children stabbling about as she called it. So we went to another house and there was a very nice woman indeed, Mrs. Green with one little boy whom she wanted to send to school only is too far. She says she always goes to church at Fort Holm because it is nearer and she is quite willing to let us have the room. So we settled it and next Friday we are to begin. Papa has given us two guineas and that will pay for, let me see, 126 times. And Mr. Wilmot is going to give us some books and Richie will print some alphabets. We told a great many of the people and they are so glad. Old Granny Hall said, well, I never and told the girls they must be as good as gold. Now the gentle folks were coming to teach them. Mr. Wilmot is coming with us every Friday as long as the holidays last. Ethel departed on her father's coming in to ask Margaret if she would like to have a visit from Mr. Wilmot. She enjoyed this very much and he sat there nearly an hour, talking of many matters, especially the Coxmore scheme on which she was glad to hear his opinion at first hand. I'm very glad you think well of it, she said. It is most desirable that something should be done for those poor people and Richard would never act rashly. But I have long for advice whether it was right to promote Ethel's undertaking. I suppose Richard told you how bent on it she was long before Papa was told of it. He said it was her great wish and had been so for a long time past. Margaret, in words more adequate to express the possession the project had gained of Ethel's ardent mind, explained the whole history of it. I do believe she looks on it as a sort of call, said she, and I have felt as if I ought not to hinder her and yet I did not know whether it was right, at her age, to let her undertake so much. I understand, said Mr. Wilmot, but from what I have seen of Ethel I should think you had decided rightly. There seems to me to be such a spirit of energy in her that if she does not act, she will either speculate and theorize or pine and prey on herself. I do believe that hard homework, such as this schoolkeeping is the best outlet for what might otherwise run to extravagance. More especially, as you say, the hope of it has already been an incentive to improvement in home duties. That I am sure it has, said Margaret. Moreover, said Mr. Wilmot, I think you were quite right in thinking that to interfere with such a design was unsafe. I do believe that a great deal of harm is done by prudent friends who dread to let young people do anything out of the common way and so force their aspirations to ferment and turn sour for want of being put to use. Still, girls are told they ought to wait patiently and not to be eager for self-imposed duties. I'm not saying that it is not the appointed discipline for the girls themselves, said Mr. Wilmot. If they would submit and do their best, it would doubtless prove the most beneficial thing for them. But it is a trial in which they often fail and I'd rather not be in the place of such friends. It is a great puzzle, said Margaret, sighing. Ah, I dare say you are often perplexed, said her friend kindly. Indeed I am. There are so many little details that I cannot be always teasing Papa with and yet which I do believe form the character more than the great events and I never know whether I act for the best. And there are so many of us, so many duties, I cannot half attend to any. Lately I have been giving up almost everything to keep this from quiet for Norman in the morning because he was so much harassed and hurt by bustle and confusion and I found today that things have gone wrong in consequence. You must do the best you can and try to trust that while you work in the right spirit, your failures will be compensated, said Mr. Wilmot. It is a hard trial. I like your understanding it, said Margaret, smiling sadly. I don't know whether it is silly but I don't like to be pity for the wrong thing. My being so helpless is what everyone laments over but after all that is made up to me by the petting and kindness I get from all of them but it is the being mistress of the house and having to settle for everyone without knowing whether I do right or wrong. That is my trouble. I'm not sure however that it is right to call it a trouble though it is a trial. I see what you mean, said Margaret. I ought to be thankful. I know it is an honor and I'm quite sure I should be grieved if they did not all come to me and consult me as they do. I had better not have complained and yet I'm glad I did for I'd like you to understand my difficulties. And indeed I wish to enter into them and do or say anything in my power to help you but I don't know anything that can be of so much comfort as the knowledge that he who laid the burden on you will help you to bear it. Yes, said Margaret, pausing and then with a sweet look though a heavy sigh she said, it is very odd how things turn out. I always had a childish fancy that I would be useful and important but I little thought how it would be. However, as long as Richard is in the house I always feel secure about the others and I shall soon be downstairs myself. Don't you think they're papa in better spirits? I thought so today and here the doctor returned talking of Abbot Stoke Grange where he had certainly been much pleased. It was a lucky chance, he said, that they brought Norman in. It was exactly what I wanted to rouse and interest him and he took it all in so well that I am sure they were pleased with him. I thought he looked a very lanky specimen of too much leg and arm when I called him in but he has such good manners and is so ready and understanding that they could not help liking him. It was fortunate I had him instead of Richard. Richie is a very good fellow certainly but he had rather look at a steam engine any day than at Raphael himself. Norman had his term by and by. He came up after tea reporting that papa was fast asleep in his chair and the others would go on about Coxmore till midnight if they were let alone and made up for his previous yielding to Ethel by giving with much animation and some excitement a glowing description of the Grange so graphic that Margaret said she could almost fancy she had been there. Oh Margaret, I wonder if you ever will. I would give something for you to see the beautiful conservatory. It is a real bower for a maiden of romance with its rich green fragrance in the midst of winter. It is like a picture in a dream. One could imagine it a fairy land where no care or grief or weariness could come. All choice, beauty and sweetness waiting on the creature within. I can hardly believe that it is a real place and that I have seen it. Though you have brought these pretty tokens that your fairy is as good as she is fair, said Margaret, smiling. End of part one, chapter 15 recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. Chapter 16 of the Daisy Chain. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. The Daisy Chain by Charlotte Mary Young, part one, chapter 16. Evans, peace to your tattlings. What is fair, William? William, culture. Quickly, poll cats. There are fairer things than poll cats, sure. Evans, I pray you have your remembrance, child, accusative. In hang hog. Quickly, hang hog is Latin for bacon, I warned you. Shakespeare. In a large family, it must often happen that since every member of it cannot ride the same hobby, nor at the same time, there are several steeds must sometimes run counter to each other. And so Ethel found it on morning when Miss Winter, having a bad cold, had given her an unwanted holiday. Mr. Wilmot has sent a large parcel of books for her to choose from for Coxmore, but this she could not well do without consultation. The multitude bewildered her. She was afraid of taking too many or too few, and the being brought to these practical details made her sensible that though her schemes were very grand and full for future doings, they passed very lightly over the intermediate ground. The Paolo post-philarum was a period much more developed in her imagination than the future that the present was flowing into. Where was her co-agitor, Richard? Writing notes for Papa and not to be disturbed. She had better have waited tranquilly, but this would not suit her impatience, and she ran up to Margaret's room. There she found a great display of ivy leaves, which Norman, who had been turning half the shops in the town upside down in search of materials, was instructing her to imitate in leatherwork a regular mania with him, and apparently the same with Margaret. In came Ethel. Oh, Margaret, will you look at these first truths? Do you think they would be easy enough? Shall I take some of the parables and miracles at once, or contend myself with a book about Jane Sparks? There's some very easy reading in Jane Sparks, isn't there? I would not make the little books from the New Testament too common. Take care that leaf has five points, said Norman. Shall I bring you up, Jane Sparks, to see, because then you can judge, said Ethel. There, Norman, is that right? What a beauty! I should like to look over them by and by, dear Ethel, very much. Ethel gazed and went away, more put out than was usual with her. When Margaret has a new kind of fancy work, she thought, she cares for nothing else, as if my poor children did not signify more than temporary leather leaves. She next met Flora. Oh, Flora, see here! What a famous parcel of books Mr. Wellmott has sent us to choose from. All those, said Flora, turning them over as they lay heat on the drawing room sofa. What a confusion! See, such a parcel of reading books. I want to know what you think of setting them up with Jane Sparks, as it is weekday teaching. You will be very tired of hearing those spelled over forever. They have some nicer books at the national school. What is the name of them? Do you see any of them here? No, I don't think I do, but I can't wait to look now. I must write some letters. You had better put them together a little. If you were to sort them, you would know what is there. Now, what a mess they're in. Ethel could not deny it and began to deal them out in piles, looking somewhat more fitting, but still felt neglected and aggrieved, and no one being at leisure but Harry, who was not likely to be of any use to her. Presently she heard the study door open and hoped, but though it was Richard who entered the room, he was followed by Tom and each held various books that boated a little good to her. This winter had muched her own satisfaction, been relieved from the charge of Tom, whose lessons Richard had taken upon himself, and thus Ethel had heard so little about them for a long time past that even in her vexation and desire to have them over, she listened with interest, desirous to judge what sort of place Tom might be likely to take in school. She did not perceive that this made Richard nervous and uneasy. He had a great dislike to spectators of Latin lessons. He never had forgotten and unlucky occasion some years back when his father was examining him in the Georgics and he, dull by nature and duller by confusion and timidity, had gone on rendering word for word and in far, sagus acrop, lini of mud, urit burns, campum the field, avane a crop of pipe, urit burns it, when Norman and Ethel had first warned him of the beauty of his translation by an explosion of laughing when his father had shut the book with a bounce, shaken his head in utter despair and told him to give up all thoughts of doing anything and when Margaret had cried with vexation. Since that time he had never been happy when anyone was an earshot of a lesson, but today he had no escape. Harry lay on the rug reading and Ethel sat forlorn over her books on the sofa. Tom, however, was bright enough, declined his Greek nouns irreproachably and construed his Latin so well that Ethel could not help putting in a word or two of commendation and auguring the third form. Do let him off the parsing, Ritchie, said she coaxingly. He has said it so well and I want you so much. I am afraid I must not, said Richard, who, to her surprise, did not look pleased or satisfied with the prosperous translation. But come, Tom, you shan't have many words if you really know them. Tom twisted and looked rather cross, but when asked to parse the word viribus, answered readily and correctly. Very well, only two more. Affuit, third-person singular, preter perfect tense of the verb affo, affus affui affere, Gabbled off Tom with such confidence that though Ethel gave an indignant jump, Richard was almost startled into letting it pass and disbelieving himself. He remonstrated in a somewhat hesitating voice. Did you find that in the dictionary? Said he. I thought affui came from adsum. Oh, to be sure. Stupid fool of a word. So it does, said Tom hastily. I had forgot. Adsum, ads, affui, ades. Richard said no more, but proposed the word apositus. Adjective. Ethel was surprised for sure remembered that it was, in this passage, part of a passive verb, which Tom had construed correctly, it was objected, and she had thought this very creditable to him, whereas he now evidently took it for opposite. However, on Richard's reading the line, he corrected himself and called it a participle, but did not commit himself further to ask for its derivation from oppositor. Hello, cried Harry, who hitherto had been abstracted in his book, but now turned, raised himself on his elbow, and, at the blunder, shook his sick yellow locks and showed his teeth like a yellow lion. No, now Tom, attention, said Richard, resignedly, if you found out its meaning, you must have seen its derivation. Opositus, said Tom, twisting his fingers and gazing first at Ethel, then at Harry, in hopes of being prompted, then at the ceiling and floor. The while, he drawled out the word with a whine. Why, opositus from opossor, opposer, ain't it, said Harry? Don't, Harry, you distract him, said Richard. Come, Tom, say it once, whether you know it or not. It is of no use to invent, from op and a mumble. What, I don't hear op? Tom, again, looked for help to Harry, who made a mischievous movement of his lips. As if prompting and deceived by it, he said boldly, from opossum. That's right, let us hear him decline it, cried Harry, in an ecstasy. Opossum, opotus, opossi, or opotary. Harry, said Richard, in a gentle, reasonable voice. I wish he would be so kind as not to stay if you cannot help distracting him. And Harry, who really had a tolerable share of forbearance and consideration, actually obeyed, contenting himself with tossing his book into the air and catching it again, while he paused at the door to give his last, unsolicited assistance. Decline opossum, you say. I'll tell you how. Opossum reposes up a gum tree. Opot you, I will, says the opossi of Yankees. Come out to catch him. Opossum poses them and declines in opadesse. By any manner of means of opotting, he, though dumb, was quite opositum. Opotitu, in fact, quite contrary. Richard, with the gravity of a victim, heard this sally of schoolboy wit, which drew Ethel back on a sofa in fits of laughing and declaring that the opossum declined, not that he was declined. But in the midst of the disturbance thus created, Tom stepped up to her and whispered, Do tell me, Ethel? Indeed I shan't, said she. Why don't you say fairly, if you don't know? He was obliged to confess his ignorance and Richard made him conjugate the whole verb oponor from beginning to end, in which he wanted a good deal of help. Ethel could not help saying, How did you find out the meaning of that word, Tom, if you didn't look out the verb? I don't know, Droll Tom, in the voice, half sullen, half piteous, which he always assumed went out of sorts. It is very odd, she said, decidedly, but Richard took no notice and proceeded to the other lessons, which went off tolerably well, except the arithmetic, where there was some great misunderstanding into which Ethel did not enter for some time. When she did attend, she perceived that Tom had brought a right answer without understanding the working of the sum and that Richard was putting him through it. She began to be worked into a state of dismay and indignation at Tom's behavior and Richard's common difference, which made her almost forget Jane Sparks and longed to be alone with Richard. But all the world kept coming into the room and going out and she could not say what was in her mind till after dinner when, seeing Richard go up into Margaret's room, she ran after him and entering it, surprised Margaret by not beginning on her books but saying at once, Richie, I wanted to speak to you about Tom. I am sure he shuffled about those lessons. I am afraid he does, said Richard, much concerned. What, do you mean that it is often so? Much too often, said Richard, but I have never been able to detect him. He is very sharp and has some underhand way of preparing his lessons that I cannot make out. Did you know what Margaret, said Ethel? Astonished, not to see her sister looked shocked as well as sorry. Yes, said Margaret, Richie and I have often talked it over and tried to think what was to be done. Dear me, why don't you tell Papa? It is such a terrible thing. So it is, said Margaret, but we have nothing positive or tangible to accuse Tom of. We don't know what he does and have never caught him out. I am sure he must have found out the meaning of that opositum in some wrong way. If he had looked it out, he would only have found opposite. Nothing but a pointer could have shown him to be rendering what he made. That's like what I have said almost every day, said Richard, but there we are, I can't get any further. Perhaps he guesses by the context, said Margaret. It would be impossible to do so always, said both the Latin scholars at once. Well, I can't think how you can take it so quietly, said Ethel. I would have told Papa the first moment and put a stop to it. I have a great mind to do so if you won't. Ethel, Ethel, that would never do, exclaimed Margaret. Pray don't. Papa would be so dreadfully grieved and angry with poor Tom. Well, so he deserves, said Ethel. You don't know what it is to see Papa angry, said Richard. Dear me, Richard, cried Ethel, who thought she knew pretty well what his sharp words were. I'm sure Papa never was very angry with me without making me love him more and at least want to be better. You are a girl, said Richard. You are higher spirited and shake off things faster, said Margaret. Why, what do you think you would do to Tom? I think you would be so very angry that Tom, who you know, is timid and meek, would be dreadfully frightened, said Richard. That's just what he ought to be, frightened out of these tricks. I am afraid it would frighten him into them still more, said Richard, and perhaps give him such a dread of my father as would ever prevent him from ever being open with him. Besides, it would make Papa so very unhappy, added Margaret. Of course, if poor Tom had been found out in any positive deceit, we ought to mention it at once and let him be punished. But while it is all vague suspicion and of what Papa has such a whore of, it would only grieve him and make him constantly anxious without perhaps doing Tom any good. I think all that is expediency, said Ethel, in her bluff abrupt way. Besides, said Richard, we have nothing positive to accuse him of, and if we had, it would be of no use. He will be at school in three weeks, and there he would be sure to sure, even if he left it off here. Everyone does and thinks nothing of it. Richard, cried both sisters, shocked. You never did? No, we didn't, but most others do, and not bad fellows, either. It is not the way of boys to think much of those things. It is mean, it is dishonorable. It is deceitful, cried Ethel. I know it is very wrong, but you'll never get the general run of boys to think so, said Richard. Then Tom ought not to go to school at all till he is well armed against it, said Ethel. That can't be helped, said Richard. He will get clear of it in time when he knows better. I will talk to him, said Margaret, and indeed, I think it would be better than more in Papa. Well, said Ethel, of course I shan't tell, because it is not my business, but I think Papa ought to know everything about us, and I don't like your keeping anything back. It is being almost as bad as Tom himself. With which words, as Flora entered, Ethel marched out of the room in displeasure and went down, resolved to settle Jean's parks by herself. Ethel is out of sorts today, said Flora. What's the matter? We have had a discussion, said Margaret. She has been terribly shocked by finding out what we often thought about poor little Tom, and she thinks we ought to tell Papa. Her principle is quite right, but I doubt. I know exactly how Ethel would do it, cried Flora, and alerted out all on a sudden. Papa, Tom cheats at his lessons. Then there would be a tremendous uproar, Papa would scold Tom till he almost frightened him out of his wits, and then find out it was only suspicion. And never have any comfort again, said Margaret. He would always dread that Tom was deceiving him and then think it was all for want of, oh no, it will never do to speak of it, unless we find out some positive piece of misbehavior. Certainly, said Flora. And it would do Tom no good to make him afraid of Papa, said Richard. Ethel's rule is right in principle, said Margaret thoughtfully, that Papa ought to know all without reserve, and yet it will hardly do in practice. One must use discretion and not tease him about every little thing. He takes them so much to heart that he would be almost distracted. And with so much business abroad, I think at home he should have nothing but rest. And as far as we can, freedom from care and worry. Anything wrong about the children brings on the grief so much that I cannot bear to mention it. Richard and Flora agreed with her, admiring the spirit which made her in her weakness and helplessness, bear the whole burden of family cares alone, and devote herself entirely to spare her father. He was indeed her first object, and she would have sacrificed anything to give him ease of mind. But perhaps she regarded him more as a charge of her own than as, in very truth, the head of the family. She had the government in her hands and had never been used to see him exercise it much in detail. She did not know how much her mother had referred to him in private, and had seceded to her authority at a time when his hell and spirits were in such a state as to make it doubly needful to spare him. It was no wonder that she sometimes carried her consideration beyond what was strictly right and forgot that he was the real authority, more especially as his impulsive nature sometimes carried him away, and his sound judgment was not certain to come into play at the first moment so that it required some moral courage to excite his pleasure, so easy of manifestation, and of such courage there was perhaps a deficiency in her character. Nor had she yet detected her own satisfaction in being the first with everyone in the family. Ethel was put out, as Flora had discovered, and when she was downstairs she founded out and accused herself of having been crossed to Margaret and unkind to Tom of wishing to be a tell-tale, but still, though displeased with herself, she was dissatisfied with Margaret. It might be right, but it did not agree with her notions. She wanted to see everyone uncompromising as girls of 15 generally do. She had an intense disgust and loathing of underhand ways, could not bear to think of Tom's carrying them on and going to a place of temptation with them uncorrected, and she looked up to her father with the reverence and enthusiasm of one like-minded. She was vexed on another score. Norman came home from Abba Stoke Grange without having seen Miss Rivers, but with a fresh basket of choice flowers, rapturous descriptions of Mr. Rivers' prints, and a present of an engraving in shading, such as to give the effect of a cast of a very fine head of Alexander. Nothing was to be thought of but a frame for this, olive, bay, laurel, everything appropriate to the conqueror. Margaret and Norman were engrossed in the subject and to Ethel, who had no toleration for fancy work, who expected everything to be either useful or intellectual, this seemed very frivolous. She heard her father say how glad he was to see Norman interested and occupied, and certainly, though it was only in leather leaves, it was better than drooping and attending to nothing. She knew, too, that Margaret did it for his sake, but, said Ethel to herself, it was very odd that people should find amusement in such things. Margaret always had a turn for them, but it was very strange in Norman. Then came the pang of finding out that this was aggravated by the neglect of herself. She called it all selfishness, and felt that she had had an uncomfortable, unsatisfactory day with everything going wrong. End of Part 1, Chapter 16, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona