 Part 1 Chapter 5 of the Daisy Chain. Through lawless camp through ocean-wild, her prophet eyes pursues her child, scans mournfully her poet's strain, fears for her merchant, loss alike and gain. Lyra Innocentium Dr. May took the management of himself into his own hands, and paid so little attention to Mr. Ward's recommendations, that his sons and daughters were in continual dread of his choosing to do something that might cause injurious agitation. However, he did not go further than Margaret's bedroom where he sat hour after hour, his eyes fixed upon her, as she continued in a state bordering on insensibility. He took little notice of anything else, and hardly spoke. There were heavy sighs now and then, but Richard and Flora, one or other of whom were always watching him, could hardly tell whether to ascribe them to the oppression of sorrow or of suffering. Their great fear was of his insisting on seeing his wife's face, and it was a great relief, that he never alluded to her, except once, to desire Richard to bring him her ring. Richard silently obeyed, and, without a word, he placed it on his little finger. Richard used to read the Psalms to him in the morning, before he was up, and Flora would bring little Daisy and lay her by his side. For the last moment they dreaded his choosing to attend the funeral, and Flora had decided on remaining at home, though trembling at the thought of what there might be to go through. They tried to let him hear nothing about it, but he seemed to know everything, and when Flora came into Margaret's room without her bonnet, he raised his head and said, I thought you were all going. The others are, but may I not stay with you and her, Papa? I had rather be alone, my dears. I will take care of her. I should wish you all to be there. They decided that his wishes ought to be followed, and that the patience must be entrusted to old nurse. Richard told Flora, who looked very pale, that she would be glad of it afterwards, and she had his arm to lean upon. The grey was in the cloister attached to the minster, a smooth green square of turf, marked here and there with small flat lozenges of stone, bearing the date and initials of those who lay there, and many of them recording former generations of maize to whom their descent from the headmaster had given a rite of burial there. Dr. Hoxton, Mr. Wilmot, and the surgeon were the only friends whom Richard had asked to be with them, but the minster was nearly full, for there was a very strong attachment and respect for Dr. and Mrs. May throughout the neighbourhood, and everyone's feelings were strongly excited. In the midst of life we are in death. There was a universal sound, as of a sort of sob, that Ethel Dredd never disconnected from those words, yet hardly one tear was shed by the young things who stood as close as they could round the grave. Harry and Mary did indeed lock their hands together tightly, and the shoulders of the former shook as he stood, bowing down his head, but the others were still and quiet, in part from awe and bewilderment, but partly too from a sense that it was against her whole nature that there should be clamourous mourning for her. The calm, still day seemed to tell them the same, the sun beaming softly on the grey arches and fresh grass, the sky clear and blue, and the trees that showed over the walls bright with autumn colouring, all suitable to the serenity of a life unclouded to its last moment. Some of them felt as if it were better to be there than in their saddened, desolate home. But home they must go, and before going upstairs, as Flora and Ethel Dredd stood a moment or two with Norman, Ethel said in a tone of resolution, and of some cheerful this, Well, we have to begin afresh. Yes, said Flora, it is a great responsibility. I do trust we may be enabled to do as we ought. And now Margaret is getting better, she will be our stay. Said Ethel, I must go to her, and Flora went upstairs. I wish I could be as useful as Flora, said Ethel, but I mean to try, and if I can but keep out of mischief it will be something. There is an object for all one does in trying to be a comfort to Papa. That's no use, said Norman listlessly. We never can. Oh, but Norman, he won't be always as he is now. I'm sure he cares for us enough to be pleased if we do right and get on. Who used to be so happy, said Norman? Ethel hesitated a little, and presently answered, I don't think it can be right to lament for our own sake so much, is it? I don't want to do so, said Norman, in the same dejected way. I suppose we ought not to feel it, either. Norman only shook his head. We ought to think of her gain. You can't? Well, I'm glad, for no more can I. I can't think of her liking for Papa, and Baby, and all of us to be left to ourselves, but that's not right of me, and of course it all comes right where she is. And I always put that out of my head, and think what is to come next in doing, and pleasing Papa, and learning. That's grown horrid, said Norman. There's no pleasure in getting on, nor in anything. Don't you care for Papa, and all of us being glad, Norman? As Norman could not just then say that he did, he would not answer. I wish," said Ethel, disappointed, but cheering up the next minute, I do believe it is having nothing to do. You will be better when you get back to school on Monday. That is worst of all! You don't like going among the boys again? But that must be done some time or other. Or shall I get Richard to speak to Dr. Hoxton to let you have another week's leave? No, no, don't be foolish. It can't be helped. I am very sorry, but I think you will be better for it. She almost began to fancy herself unfeeling, when she found him so much more depressed than she was herself, and unable to feel it a relief to know that the time of rest and wants of occupation was over. She thought it like-minded, though she could not help it, to look forward to the daily studies where she might lose her sad thoughts and be as if everything were as usual. But suppose she should be to blame, where would now be the gentle discipline? Poor Ethel's feelings were not such as to deserve the imputation of levity, when this thought came over her, but her buoyant mind, always seeking for consolation, recurred to Margaret's improvement, and she fixed her hopes on her. Margaret was more alive to surrounding objects, and when roused she knew them all, answered clearly when addressed, had even, more than once, spoken of her own accord, and shown solicitude at the sight of her father's bandaged helpless arm? But he soon soothed this away. He was more than ever watchful over her, and could scarcely be persuaded to leave her for one moment, in his anxiety to be at hand to answer, when first she should speak of her mother, a moment apprehended by all the rest, almost as much, for his sake as for hers. So clear had her perceptions been, and so much more awake did she appear, on this evening, that he expected the inquiry to come every moment, and lingered in her room, till she asked the hour, and begged him to go to bed. As he bent over her, she looked up in his face, and said softly, Dear Papa! There was that in her tone which showed she perceived the truth, and he knelt by her side kissing her, but not daring to relax his restraint of feeling. Dear Papa! She said again, I hope I shall soon be better, and be some comfort to you. My best, my own, my comfort! he murmured, all he could say without giving way. Baby, is she well? Yes, thank heaven, she's not suffered at all. I heard her this morning, I must see her tomorrow. But don't stay, dear, dear Papa, it is late, and I'm sure you're not at all well. Your arm, is it very much hurt? It is nothing you need think about, my dear, I am much better than I could have imagined possible. And you've been nursing me all the time! Papa, you must let me take care of you now. Do pray go to bed at once, and get up late. Nurse will take good care of me. Good night, dear Papa! When Doctor May had left her, and tried to tell Richard how it had been, the tears cut him short, and had their free course. But there was much of thankfulness, for it might be looked on as the restoration of his daughter, the worst was over, and the next day he was able to think of other things, had more attention to spare for the rest, and when the surgeon came took some professional interest in the condition of his own arm, inquired after his patients, and even talked of visiting them. In the meantime Margaret sent for her eldest brother, begging him to tell her the whole, and it was hurled as calmly and firmly as it was told. Her bodily state lulled her mind, and besides it was not new. She had observed much while her faculties were still too much benumbed for her to understand all, or to express her feelings. Her thoughts seemed cheerfully occupied with her father. She made Richard explain to her the injury he had suffered, and begged to know whether his constricted tendons on her could do him harm. She was much rejoiced when her brother assured her that nothing could be better for him, and she began to say with a smile that very likely her being hurt had been fortunate. She asked, who had taken care of him before Richard's arrival, and was pleased to hear that it was Mr. Ernst Cliff. A visit from the little go-to'd Margaret was happily accomplished. And on the whole the day was most satisfactory. She herself declaring that she could not see that there was anything the matter with her, except that she felt lazy, and did not seem able to move. Thus the next Sunday morning dawned with more cheerfulness. Dr. May came downstairs for the first time, in order to go to the church with his whole flock, except the two Margaret's. He looked very worn and shattered, but they clustered gladly around him. When he once more stood among them, little Blanche securing his hand, and nodding triumphantly to Mr. Ernst Cliff, as much as to say, Now I have him, I don't want you. Norman alone was missing, but he was in his place at church among the boys. Again, in returning he slipped out of the party, and was at home the first. And when this recurred in the afternoon, Ethel began to understand his motive. The high street, led past the spot where the accident had taken place. Though neither she nor any of the others knew exactly where it was, except Norman, on whose mind the scene was branded indelibly, she guessed that it was to avoid it, that he went along what was called Randall's Alley, his usual shortcut to school. The Sunday brought back to the children that there was no one to hear their hymns, but Richard was a great comfort, watching over the little ones more like a sister than a brother. Ethel was ashamed of herself when she saw him taking thought for them, tying Blanche's bonnet, putting Aubrey's gloves on, teaching them to put away their Sunday toys, as if he meant them to be as neat and precise as himself. Dr. May did not encounter the family dinner, nor attempt a second going to church, but Blanche was very glorious, as she led him down to drink tea, and, before going up again, he had a conversation with Alan Ernest Cliff, who felt himself obliged to leave Stoneborough early on the morrow. "'I can endure better to go now,' said he, and I shall hear of you often, Hector will let me know, and Richard has promised to write.' "'Aye, you must let us often have a line. I should guess you were a letter-writing man. I have hitherto had too few friends who cared to hear of me to write much, but the pleasure of knowing that any interest is taken in me here.' "'Well,' said the doctor, mine that a letter will always be welcome, and when you are coming southward, here are your old quarters. We cannot lose sight of you anyway, especially,' and his voice quivered, after the help you gave my poor boys and girls in their distress. "'It would be the utmost satisfaction to think I had been of the smallest use,' said Alan, hiding much under these commonplace words. "'More than I know,' said Doctor May, too much to speak of. "'Well, we shall see you again, though it is a changed place, and you must come and see your god-daughter, poor child. May she only be brought up as her sisters were. They will do their best, poor things, and so must I, but it is sad work.' Both were too much overcome for words, but the doctor was the first to continue, as he took off his dimmed spectacles. He seemed to wish to excuse himself for giving way, saying, with a look that would feign have been a smile, "'The world has run so light and easy with me hither, too, that you see I don't know how to bear with trouble. All thinking and managing fell to my maggies' share, and I had as little care on my hands as one of my own boys, poor fellows. I don't know how it is to turn out, but of all the men on earth to be left with eleven children, I should choose myself as the worst.' Women tried to say somewhat of confidence, affection, daughters, and broke down, but it did as well as if it had been connected. "'Yes, yes,' said the doctor, they are good children, every one of them. There is much to be thankful for, if one could only pluck up heart to feel it.' "'And you are convinced that Miss May is recovering?' "'She has made a great advance to-day. The head is right, at least, but the doctor looked anxious and spoke low as he said, I am not satisfied about her yet. That want of power over the limbs is more than the mere shock and debility, as it seems to me, though Ward thinks otherwise, and I trust he is right, but I cannot tell yet as to the spine. If this should not soon mend, I shall have fleet to see her. He was a fellow student of mine, very clever, and I have more faith in him than in any one else in the line. "'By all means, yes,' said Alan, excessively shocked, but you will let me know how she goes on. Richard will be so kind.' "'We will not fail,' said Dr. May, more and more touched at the sight of the young sailor struggling in vain to restrain his emotion. You shall hear. I'll write myself as soon as I can use my hand, but I hope she may be all right long before that is likely to be.' "'Your kindness,' Alan attempted to say, but began again, feeling as I must, then interrupting himself, I beg your pardon, it is no fit time, nor fit, but you'll let me hear.' "'That I will,' said Dr. May, and as Alan hastily left the room he continued, half-allowed to himself. "'Poor boy, poor fellow, I see. No wonder! Heaven grant I have not been the breaking of their two young hearts, as well as my own.' Maggie looked doubtful. As much as she ever did when my mind was set on a thing, when I spoke of bringing him here. But after all, she liked him as much as the rest of us did. She could not wish it otherwise. He is one of a thousand, and worthy of our Margaret. That he is, and Maggie thinks so. If he gets on in his profession, why then we shall see?' But the sigh of anguish of mind here showed that the wound had but been forgotten for one moment. "'Pshh! What am I running on to? I am all astray for once of her, my poor girl. Mr. Ernst Cliff set out before sunrise. The boys were up to wish him good-bye, and so were Ethel Dredd and Mary, and someone else. For while the shaking of hands was going on in the hall there was a call. "'Mr. Ernst Cliff!' And over the balusters peeped a little rough curly head, a face glowing with carnation deepened by sleep, and a round plump bare arm and shoulder, and down at Alan's feet there fell a construction of white and pink paper, while a voice list out, "'Mr. Ernst Cliff, there's a white rose for you!'' An indignant, Miss Blanche was heard behind, and there was no certainty that any thanks reached the poor little heroine, who was evidently born of summarily to the nursery, while Ethel gave way to a paroxysm of the breast laughter, joined in, more or less, by all the rest, and thus Alan, promising faithfully to preserve the precious token, left Dr. May's door, not in so much outward sorrow as he had expected. Even their father laughed at the romance of the white rose, and declared Blanche was a dangerous young lady, but the story was less successful with Miss Winter, who gravely said it was no wonder since Blanche's elder sister had been setting her the example of forwardness in coming down in this way after Mr. Ernst Cliff. Ethel was very angry, and was only prevented from vindicating herself by remembering there was no peacemaker now, and that she had resolved only to think of Miss Winter's late kindness, and bear with her tie some ways. Ethel Dredd thought herself too sorrowful to be liable to her usual faults, which would seem so much worse now, but she found herself more irritable than usual, and doubly heedless, because her mind was preoccupied. She hated herself, and suffered more from sorrow than even at the first moment. For now she felt what it was to have no one to tame her, no eye over her. She found herself going at tort et travers all the morning, and with no one to set her right. Since it was so the first day, what would follow? Mary was on the contrary, so far subdued as to be exemplary in goodness and diligence, and Blanche was always steady. Flora was too busy to think of the school-room, but the whole house was on her hands, besides the charge of Margaret, while Dr May went to the hospital, and to sundry patients, and they thought he seemed the better for the occupation, as well as gratified and affected by the sympathy he everywhere met with from high and low. The boys were at school, unseen except when at the dinner play-hour Norman ran home to ask after his father and sister, but the most trying time was at eight in the evening, when they came home. That was once to be the merriest part of the whole day. The whole family collected, papa at leisure, and ready to talk or for play, mama smiling over her work-basket, the sisters full of chatter, the brothers full of fun, all the tidings of the day discussed, and nothing unwelcomed at bedtime. How different now! The doctor was with Margaret, and though Richard tried to say something cheerful as his brothers entered, there was no response, and they sat down, on the opposite sides of the fire, full on and silent, till Richard, who was printing some letters on cardboard to supply the gaps in Aubrey's ivory alphabet, called Harry to help him, but Ethel, as she sat at work, could only look at Norman, and wish she could devise anything likely to gratify him. After a time Flora came down, and laying some sheets of closely written note-paper before her sister, said, Here is dear mama's unfinished letter to aunt Flora. Papa says we, elder ones, ought to read it. It is a description of us all, and very much indeed we ought to learn from it. I shall keep a copy of it. Flora took up her work, and began to consult with Richard, while Ethel moved to Norman's side, and kneeling so as to lean against his shoulder, as he sat on a low cushion, they read their mother's last letter, by the fire-light, with indescribable feelings, as they went through the subjects that had lately occupied them, related by her, who would never be among them again. After much of this kind, for her letters to Mrs. Arnott were almost journals, came, You say it is long since you had a portrait gallery of the chicken daisies, and if I do not write in these leisure days, you will hardly get it, after I am in the midst of business again. The new daisy is like Margaret at the same age. May she continue like her. Pretty creature, she can hardly be more charming than at present. Aubrey, the moon-faced, is far from reconciled to his disposition from maybehood. He is a sober, solemn gentleman, backward in talking, and with such a will of his own, as will want much watching. Very different from Blanche, who is flora over again, perhaps prettier and more fairy-like, unless this is only one's admiration for the buds of the present season. None of them has ever been so winning as this little maid, who even attracts Dr. Hoxton himself, and obtains sugar-plums and kisses. Rather she than I, says Harry, but notice his notice to the white Mayflower, and there is my anxiety. I am afraid it is not wholesome to be too engaging ever to get a rebuff. I hope having a younger sister and out-growing baby chums may be salutary. Flora soon left off thinking about her beauty, and the fit of vanity does less harm at five than fifteen. My poor Tom has not such a happy life as Blanche. He is often in trouble at lessons, and bullied by Harriet play, in spite of his champion Mary. And yet I cannot interfere, for it is good for him to have all this preparatory teasing before he goes into school. He has good abilities, but not much perseverance or energy, and I must take the teaching of him into my own hands, till his school days begin, in hopes of instilling them. The girlishness and timidity will be knocked out of him by the boys, I suppose. Harry is too kind and generous to do more than tease him moderately, and Norman will see that it does not go too far. It is a common saying that Tom and Mary made a mistake, that he is the girl, and she the boy, for she is a rough Mary creature, the noisiest in the house, always skirmishing with Harry in defence of Tom, and yet devoted to him, and wanting to do everything he does. Those two, Harry and Mary, are exactly alike, except for Harry's curly mane-of-line coloured dwig. The yellow-haired laddie is Papa's name for Harry, which he does not mind from him, though furious if the girls attempt to call him so. She is the thorough-boy of the family, all spirit, recklessness and mischief, but so true and kind, noble-hearted, that one loves him the better after every freely confessed scrape. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to my boy for his perfect confidence. The thing that chiefly lessens my anxiety for him in his half-school, half-home life, which does not seem to me to work quite well with him, there are two sons of Mrs. Anderson's at the school, who are more his friends than I like, and he is too easily led by the desire not to be outdone, and to show that he fears nothing. Lately our sailor-guest had inspired him with a vehement wish to go to sea. I wish it was not necessary that the decision should be made so early in life, for this fault is just what would make us most fear to send him into the world very young, though in some ways it might not do miss for him. So much for the younger bands whom you never beheld, dear Flora. The three whom you left, when people used to waste pity on me for their being all babies together. Now look as if any pair of them were twins, for Norman is the tallest, almost outgrowing his strength, and Ethel's sharp face, so like her puppers, makes her look older than Flora. Norman and Ethel do indeed take after their pupper, more than any of the others, and are much alike. There is the same brilliant cleverness, the same strong feeling, not easy of demonstration, though impetuous in action, but poor Ethel's old foibles, her harem-scurrem nature, quick temper, uncouth manners, and heedlessness of all but one absorbing object have kept her back, and caused her much discomfort. Yet I sometimes think these manifest defects have occasioned discipline that is the best thing for the character in the end. They are faults that show themselves, and which one can tell how to deal with, and I have full confidence that she has the principle within her that will conquer them. If wonfully sighed Ethel, but her brother pointed on further. My great hope is her entire indifference to praise. Not approval, but praise. If she had not come up to her own standard, she works on, not always with good temper but perseveringly and entirely unheeding of commendation till she has satisfied herself, only thinking it's stupid not to see the faults. It is this independence of praise that I want to see in her brother and sister. They justly earn it, and are rightly pleased with it, but I cannot feel sure whether they do not depend on it too much. Norman lives, like all schoolboys, a life of emulation, and has never met with anything but success. I do believe Dr. Hoxton and Mr. Wilmot are as proud of him as we are. And he has never shown any tendency to concede, but I am afraid he has the love of being full most, and pride in his superiority, caring for what he is, compared with others, rather than what he is himself. I know, said Norman. I have done so, but that's over. I see what it is worth. I'd give all the quam optimes I ever got in my life to be the help Richard is to Papa. You would if you were his age. Not I. I'm not the sort. I'm not like her. But are we to go on about the elders? Oh yes, don't let us miss a word. There can't be anything but praise of them. Your sweet God-daughter, I almost feel as if I had spoken in disparagement of her, but I meant no such thing, dear girl. It would be hard to find a fault in her, since the childish love of admiration was subdued. She is so solid and steady, as to be very valuable with a younger ones, and is fast growing so lovely that I wish you could behold her. I do not see any vanity, but there lies my dread, not of beauty, vanity, but that she will find temptation in the being everywhere liked and sought after. As to Margaret, my precious companion and friend, you have heard enough of her to know her, and as to telling you what she is like, I could have soon set about describing her Papa. When I thought of not being spared to them this time, it was happiness indeed to think of her at their head, fit to be his companion with so much of his own talent as to be more up to conversation with him, than he could ever have found his stupid old Maggie. It was rather a trial of her discretion to have Mr. Ernst Cliff here while I was upstairs, and very well she seems to have come out of it. Poor Richard's last disappointment is still our chief trouble. He has been working hard with a tutor all through the vacation, and has not even come home to see his new sister on his way to Oxford. He had made a resolution that he would not come to us till he had passed, and his father thought it best that it should be kept. I hope he will succeed next time, but his nervousness renders it still more doubtful. With him it is the very reverse of Norman. He suffers too much for once of commendation, and I cannot wonder at it, when I see how much each failure vexes his father, and Richard little knows how precious is our perfect confidence in him, how much more valuable than any honours he could earn. You would be amused to see how little he has altered from the pretty little fair fellow, that you used to say was so like my old portrait, even the wavy rings of light glossy hair sit on his forehead, just as you like to twist them, and his small trim figure is of fine contrast to Norman's long legs and arms, which, there the letter broke off, the playful affection of the last words, making it almost more painful to think that the fond hand would never finish the sentence. CHAPTER VI. A drooping daisy changed into a cup, in which her bright-eyed beauty is shut up, Wordsworth. So there you are up for the day. Really, you look very comfortable, said Ethel, coming into the room where Margaret lay, on her bed, half raised by pillows, supported by a wooden frame. Yes, is not it a charming contrivance of Richard's? It quite gives me the use of my hands, said Margaret. I think he is doing something else for you, said Ethel. I heard him carpenturing at six o'clock this morning, but I suppose it is to be a secret. And don't you admire her nightcap, said Flora? Is it anything different, said Ethel, peering closer? Oh, I see. So she has a fine day nightcap. Is that your taste, Flora? Partly, said Margaret, and partly my own. I put in all these little white puffs, and I hope you think they do me credit. Wasn't it grand of me? She only despises you for them, said Flora. I'm very glad you could, said Ethel gravely. But do you know? It is rather like that horrid old lady in some book, who had a paralytic stroke, and the first thing she did that showed she had come to her senses was to write rose-colored curtains for the doctors. Well, it was for the doctors, said Margaret, and it had its effect. He told me I looked much better when he found me trying it on. And did you really have the looking glass and try it on, cried Ethel? Yes, really, said Flora. Don't you think one may as well be fit to be seen if one is ill? It is no use to depress one's friends by being more forlorn and disconsolate than one can help. No, not disconsolate, said Ethel, but the white puffiness and the hemming and the glass. Or Ethel can't get over it, said Margaret. But Ethel, do you think there is nothing disconsolate and untidiness? You could be tidied without the little puffs. Your first bit of work, too. Don't think I'm tiresome. If they were an amusement to you, I am sure I am very glad of them, but I can't see the sense of them. Poor little things, said Margaret, laughing. It is only my foible for making a thing look nice. And Ethel, she added, drawing her down close over her. I did not think the trouble wasted if seeing me look fresher and cheer to up dear Papa a moment. I spoke to Papa about Nurse's proposal, said Margaret, presently to Flora, and he quite agrees to it. Indeed, it is impossible that Anne should attend properly to all the children while Nurse is so much engaged with me. I think so, said Flora, and it does not answer to bring Aubrey into the schoolroom. It only makes Mary and Blanche idle, and Miss Winter does not like it. Then the question is, who shall it be? Nurse has no one in view, and only protests against one of the girls out of the school here. That's a great pity, said Flora. Don't you think we could make her take to Jane White? She is so very nice. I thought of her, but it will never answer if we displease Nurse. Besides, I remember the time Anne came. Dear Mama thought there was danger of a girl's having too many acquaintances, especially taking the children out walking. We cannot always be sure of sending her out with Anne. Do you remember, said Ethel, their stopping? Well, said both sisters. Don't you recollect, Flora? That girl whose father was in the hospital? That girl at Coxmore? I do, said Flora. She was a very nice girl. I wonder whether Nurse would approve of her. How old, said Margaret? Fourteen and tall. Such a clean cottage! The girls went on and Margaret began to like the idea very much and consider whether the girl could be brought for inspection before Nurse was prejudiced by hearing of her Coxmore extraction. At that moment Richard knocked at the door and entered with Tom, helping him to bring a small, short-legged table such as could stand on the bed at the right height for Margaret's meals or employment. There were great exclamations of satisfaction and gratitude. It was the very thing wanted, only how could he have contrived it? Don't you recognize it? Said he. Oh, I see. It is the old drying desk that no one used, and you have put legs to it. How famous! You are the best contriver, Richard. Then see, you can raise it up for reading or writing. Here's a corner for your ink to stand flat, and there it is down for your dinner. Charming! You have made it go so easily when it used to be so stiff. There! Give me my work-basket, please, Ethel. I mean to make some more white puffs. What's the matter now, Ethel? Said Flora. You look as if you did not approve of the table. I was only thinking it was as if she was settling herself to lie in bed for a very long time, said Ethel. I hope not, said Richard, but I don't see why she should not be as comfortable as she can while she is there. I am sure I hope you will never be ill, Ethel, said Flora. You would be horrid to nurse. She will know how to be grateful when she is, said Margaret. I say, Richard, exclaimed Ethel. This is hospital meeting day, so you won't be wanted to drive Papa. No, I am at your service. Do you want to walk? So it was determined that Richard and Ethel should walk together to Coxmore. No two people could be much more unlike than Richard and Ethel Dredd-May. But they were very fond of each other. Richard was sometimes seriously annoyed by Ethel's heedlessness, and did not always understand her sublimities, but he had a great deal of admiration for one who partook so much of his father's nature, and Ethel had a due respect for her eldest brother, gratitude and strong affection for many kindnesses, a reverence for his sterling goodness, and his exemption from her own besetting failings, only a little damped by compassionate wonder at his deficiency in talent, and by her vexation at not being always comprehended. They went by the road, for the plantation gate was far too serious to undertaking, for anyone not in the highest spirit for enterprise. On the way there was a good deal of that desultory talk, very sociable and interesting, that is that to prevail between two people who would never have chosen each other for companions if they were not of the same family, but who are nevertheless very affectionate and companionable. Ethel was anxious to hear what her brother thought of Papa's spirits, and whether he talked in their drives. Sometimes, said Richard, it is just as it happens, now and then he goes on just like himself, and then at other times he will not speak for three or four miles. And he sighs, said Ethel. Those sighs are so very sad and long and deep. They seem to have whole volumes in them as if there was such a weight on him. Some people say he is not as much altered as they expected, said Richard. Oh, do they? Well, I can't fancy anyone feeling it more. He can't leave off his old self, of course, but Ethel stopped short. Margaret is a great comfort to him, said Richard. That she is. She thinks of him all day long, and I don't think either of them is ever so happy as in the evening when he sits with her. They talk about Mama, then. It was just what Richard could not do, and he made some observation to change the subject, but Ethel returned to it, so far as to beg to know how the arm was going on, for she did not like to say anything about it to Papa. It will be a long business, I am afraid, said Richard. Indeed, he said the other day, he thought you should never have the free use of the elbow. And do you think it is very painful? I saw the other day, when Aubrey was sitting on his knee and fidgeting, he shrank whenever he even came towards it, and yet it seemed as if he could not bear to put him down. Yes, it is excessively tender, and sometimes it's very bad at night. Ah, said Ethel. There is a line. Here, round his eyes, that there never used to be, and when it deepens, I am sure he is in pain, or has been kept awake. You are very odd, Ethel. How do you see things in people's faces when you miss so much at just the same distance? I look after what I care about, said Ethel. One sees more with one's mind than one's eyes. The best sight is inside. But do you always see the truth? said Richard gravely. Enough. What is less common than the ordinary world, said Ethel. Richard shook his head, not quite satisfied, but not sure enough that he entered into her meaning to question it. I wonder you don't wear spectacles, was the result of his meditation, and it made her laugh by being so inappropriate to her own reflections, but the laugh ended in a melancholy look. Dear Mama did not like me to use them, she said in a low voice. Thus they talked till they arrived at Coxmore, where poor Mrs. Taylor, inspired by better reports of her husband and the hopes for her daughter, was like another woman. Richard was very careful not to raise false expectations, saying it all dependent on Miss May and Nurse, and what they thought of her strength and steadiness, but these cautions did not seem capable of damping the hopes of the smooth-haired Lucy, who stood smiling and curtsy. The twins were growing and improved, and Ethel supposed they would be brought to church on the next christening Sunday, but their mother looked helpless and hopeless about getting them so far, and how was she to get gossips? Ethel began to grow very indignant, but she was always shy of finding fault with poor people to their faces, when she would not have done so to persons in her own station, and so she was silent. While Richard hoped they would be able to manage, and said it would be better not to wait another month for still-worth-weather and shorter days. As they were coming out of the house, a big, rough-looking, uncivilized boy came up before them and called out. I say, bench you the young doctor up at Stoneboro? I am Dr. May's son, said Richard, while Ethel startled, clung to his arm in dread of some rudeness. Granny's bad, said the boy, proceeding without further explanation to lead the way to another hovel, though Richard tried to explain that the knowledge of medicine was not in his case hereditary. A poor old woman sat groaning over the fire, and two children crouched, half-clothed, on the bare floor. Richard's gentle voice and kind manner drew forth some wonderful descriptions. Her head was all of a goggle, her legs all of a fur. She felt as if someone was cutting right through her. Well, said Richard kindly, I am no doctor myself, but I'll ask my father about you, and perhaps he can give you an order for the hospital. No, no, thank you, sir. I can't go to the hospital. I can't leave these poor children. They have no father nor mother, sir, and no one to do for them but me. What do you live on, then, said Richard, looking round the desolate hut? On Sam's wages, sir. That's that boy. He is a good boy to me, sir, and his little sisters. He brings it all he gets, home to me, wriggler, but his but six chillings a week, and they make him take half of it out in goods and beer, which is a bad thing for a boy like him, sir. How old are you, Sam? Sam scratched his head and answered nothing. His grandmother knew he was the age of her black bonnet, as he looked about fifteen. Ethel honored him and the bonnet accordingly. While Richard said he must be very glad to be able to maintain them all at his age, and, promising to try to bring his father that way, since prescribing at second hand for such curious symptoms was more than could be expected, he took his leave. A wretched place, said Richard, looking round. I don't know what help there is for the people. There's no one to do anything for them, and it is of no use to tell them to come to church when it is so far off, and there is so little room for them. It is miserable, said Ethel, and all her thoughts during her last walk thither began to rush over her again, not afaced, but rather burned in by all that had subsequently happened. She had said it should be her aim at effort to bake Cachmore a Christian place. Such a resolve must not pass away lightly. She knew it must be acted on, but how? What would her present means, one sovereign, affect? Her fancies, rich and rare, had nearly been forgotten of late, but she might make use of them in time. In time, in here were hives of children growing up in heathenism. Suddenly an idea struck her. Richard, when at home, was a very diligent teacher in the Sunday school at Stoneboro, though it was a thankless task, and he was the only gentleman so engaged except the two clergymen, the other male teachers being a formal, grave, little baker, and one or two monitors. Richard, said Ethel, I'll tell you what. Suppose we were to get up a Sunday school at Cachmore. We could get a room, and walk there every Sunday afternoon, and go to church in the evening instead. He was so confounded by the suddenness of the project that he did not answer till she had time for several exclamations, and, well, Richard, I cannot tell, he said. Going to church in the evening would interfere with tea time, put out all the house, make the evening uncomfortable. The evenings are hard now, especially Sundays, said Ethel, but missing two more would make them worse for the others. Papa is always with Margaret, said Ethel. We are of no use to him. Besides, these poor children are not they of more importance? And then what is to become of Stoneboro school? I hate it, exclaimed Ethel. Then seeing Richard shock and finding she had spoken more vehemently than she intended, it is not as bad for you among the boys. But while that committee goes on, it is not the least used to try to teach the girls right. Oh, the fuss is about the books and one's way of teaching. And fancy how Mrs. Ledwich used us. You know I went again last Sunday for the first time, and there I found, that class of Margaret's, that she had just managed to get into some degree of nice order, taken so much pains with, taught so well. She had been telling me what to hear them. There it is, given away to Fannie Anderson, who is no more fit to teach than that stick, and all Margaret's work will be undone. No notice to us, not even the civility, to wait and see when she gets better. If we left them now for Coxmore, would it not look as if we were affronted? Ethel was slightly taken aback, but only said, Papa would be very angry if he knew it. I am glad you did not tell him, said Richard. I thought it would only tease him, said Ethel, and that he might call it a petty female squabble. And when Margaret is well, it will come right, if Fannie Anderson has not spoiled the girls in the meantime. It is all Mrs. Ledwich is doing. How I did hate it when everyone came up and shook hands with me, and asked after Margaret and Papa, only just out of curiosity. Hush, hush, Ethel, what's the use of thinking such things? A silence, then she exclaimed. But indeed, Richard, you don't fancy that I want to teach it, Coxmore, because it is disagreeable at Stoneborough? No indeed. The rendering of full justice conveyed in his tone so open Ethel's heart that she went on eagerly. The history of it is this. Last time we walked here, that day, I said, and I meant it, that I would never put it out of my head. I would go on doing and striving and trying till this place was properly cared for and has a church and a clergyman. I believe it was a vow, Richard, I do believe it was, and if one makes one, one must keep it. There it is. So I can't give money, I have but one pound in the world, but I have time, and I would make that useful if you would help me. I don't see how, was the answer, and there was a fragment of a smile on Richard's face, as if it struck him as a wild scheme that Ethel should undertake, single-handed, to evangelize Coxmore. It was such a damper as to be most mortifying to an enthusiastic girl, and she drew into herself in a moment. They walked home in silence, and when Richard warned her that she was not keeping her dress out of the dirt, it sounded like a sarcasm on her projects, and, with a slightly penish manner, she raised the unfortunate skirt. This crape-trimming greatly was battered with ready mud, then recollecting how Mama would have shaken her head at that very thing. She regretted the temper she had betrayed, and in a larmayante voice sighed, I wish I could pick my way better. Some people have the gift, you have hardly a splash, and I'm up to the ankles in mud. It is only taking care, said Richard, besides your frock is so long and full. Can't you tuck it up and pin it? My pins always come out, said Ethel, disconsolently, crumpling the black folds into one hand while she hunted for a pin with the other. No wonder if you stick them in that way, said Richard. Oh, you'll tear that crape. Here, let me help you. Don't you see? Make it go in and out. That way. Give it something to pull against. Ethel laughed. That's the third thing you have taught me. To thread a needle, tie a bow, and stick in a pin. I never could learn those things of anyone else. They show, but don't explain the theory. They met Dr. May at the entrance of the town, very tired, and saying he had been a long tramp, all over the place, and Mrs. Hawkson had been boring him with her fancies. As he took Richard's arm, he gave the long, heavy sigh that always fell so painfully on Ethel's ear. Dear, dear, dear, Papa, thought she. My work must also be to do all I can to comfort him. Her reflections were broken off. Dr. May exclaimed, Ethel, don't make such a figure of yourself. Those muddy ankles and pedicots are not fit to be seen. There. Now you are sweeping the pavement. Have you no medium? One would think you had never worn a gown in your life before. Poor Ethel stepped on before with mud-encrusted heels, and her father speaking sharply in the weariness and soreness of his heart. Her draggled, tailed pedicotes weighing down at once her missionary projects at Cocksmoor, and her tender visions of comforting her widowed father. Her heart was full to overflowing, and where was the mother to hear her troubles? She opened the hall door and would have rushed upstairs, but nurse happened to be crossing the hall. Miss Ethel! Miss Ethel! You aren't going up with them boots on. I do declare you are just like one of the boys. And you're frock! Ethel sat submissively down on the lowest step and pulled off her boots. As she did so, her father and brother came in, the former desiring Richard to come with him to the study and write a note for him. She hoped that thus she might have Margaret to herself and hurried into her room. Margaret was alone, mazing children at tea, and Flora dressing. The room was in twilight, with the red gleam of the fire playing cheerfully over it. Well, Ethel, have you had a pleasant walk? Yes. No. Oh, Margaret! And throwing herself across the bottom of the bed, she burst into tears. Ethel, dear! What is the matter? Papa? No. No. Only I draggled my frock, and Richard threw cold water. And I am good for nothing. Oh! If Mama was but here. Darling Ethel, dear Ethel, I wish I could comfort you. Come a little nearer to me. I can't reach you. Dear Ethel, what has gone wrong? Everything, said Ethel. No. I'm too dirty to come on your white bed. I forgot. You won't like it, added she, in an injured tome. You are wet, you are cold, you are tired, said Margaret. Stay here and dress. Don't go up in the cold. There. Sit by the fire. Pull off your frock and stockings, and we will send for the others. Let me see you look comfortable. There. Now tell me, who threw cold water? It was figurative cold water, said Ethel, smiling for a moment. I was only silly enough to tell Richard my plan, and it's horrid to talk to a person who only thinks one high-flying and nonsensical, and then came the dirt. But what was the scheme, Ethel? Coxmore, said Ethel, proceeding to unfold it. I wish we could, said Margaret. It would be an excellent thing. But how did Richard vex you? I don't know, said Ethel, only he thought it would not do. Perhaps he said right, but it was coldly, and he smiled. He is too sober-minded for our flights, said Margaret. I know the feeling of it, Ethel, dear, but you know if you did see that some of your plans might not answer, it is no reason you should not try to do something at once. You have not told me about the girl. Ethel proceeded to tell the history. Here, said Margaret cheerfully, there are two ways of helping Coxmore already. Could you not make some clothes for the two grandchildren? I could help you a little, and then, if they were well-clothed, you might get them to come to the Sunday school. And as to the twins, I wonder what the hire of a car would be to bring the christening party. It is just what Richard could manage. Yes, said Ethel, but those are only little isolated individual things. That one must make a beginning. Then, Margaret, you think it was a real vow? You don't think it's silly of me, said Ethel wistfully. Ethel, dear, I don't think Dear Mama would say we ought to make vows, except what the church decrees for us. I don't think she would like the notion of your considering yourself pledged, but I do think that after all you have said and felt about Coxmore and being led there on that day, it does seem as if we might be intended to make it our special charge. Oh, Margaret, I am glad you say so. You always understand. But you know we are so young that now we have not heard to judge for us. We must only do little things that we are quite sure of, or we shall get wrong. That's not the way great things were done. I don't know, Ethel. I think great things can't be good unless they stand on a sure foundation of little ones. Well, I believe Regen was right, and it would not do to begin on Sunday, but he was so tame. And then my frock and the horrid deficiency and those little neatnesses. Perhaps that is good for you in one way. You might get very high flying if you had not the discipline of those little tiresome things. Correcting them will help you and keep your high things from being all romance. I know, dear Mama used to say so, that the trying to conquer them was a help to you. Oh, here's Mary. Mary, will you get Ethel's dressing things? She has come home wet-footed and cold, and has been warming herself by my fire. Mary was happy to help, and Ethel was dressed and cheered by the time Dr. May came in, for a hurried visit and report of his doings. Laura followed on her way from her room. Then all went to tea, leaving Margaret to have a visit from the little ones under charge of nurse. Two hours stayed with her, that precious time when she knew that sad as the talk often was, it was truly a comfort to him. It ended when ten o'clock struck, and he went down. Margaret hearing the bell, the sounds of the assembling servants, the shutting of the door, the stillness of prayer time, the opening again, the feet moving off in different directions, then brothers and sisters coming in to kiss her and bid her good night. Grace and Flora arranged her for the night, Flora coming to sleep in her little bed in the corner of the room, and lastly her father's tender good night, and Mel and Collie look at her, and always quiet except the low voices and movements as Richard attended him in his own room. Margaret could think, dear, dear Ethel, how noble and high she is, but I am afraid it is what people call a difficult, dangerous age, and the grander she is, the greater danger of not managing her rightly. If those high purposes should run only into romance like mine, or grow out into eccentricities and unfemininesses, what a grievous pity it would be, and I, so little older, so much less clever, with just sympathy enough not to be a wise restraint. I am the person who has the responsibility, and, oh, what shall I do? Mama trusted to me to be a mother to them. Papa looks to me, and I, so unfit, besides this helplessness. But God sent it, and put me in my place. He made me lie here, and will raise me up if it is good, so I trust he will help me with my sisters, grant me to have a right judgment in all things, and ever more to rejoice in thy holy comfort. End of Part 1, Chapter 6, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. Part 1, Chapter 7, 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 7. Something between a hindrance and a help. Wordsworth. A faltered awoke long before time for getting up, and lay pondering over her visions. Margaret has sympathized, and therefore they did not seem entirely ari-o. To earn money by writing was her favorite plan, and she called her various romances in turn before her memory, to judge which might be brought down to sober pen and ink. She considered till it became not too unreasonably early to get up. It was dark, but there was little light close to the window. She had no writing paper, but she would interline her old exercise book. Down she ran, and, crafting in the school room window seat, she wrote on in a trance of eager composition, till Norman called her as he went to school to help him to find a book. Just done, she went up to visit Margaret, to tell her the story, and consult her. But this was not so easy. She found Margaret with little Daisy lying by her, and Tom sitting by the fire over his Latin. Oh, Ethel, good morning, dear. You are come just in time. To take baby, said Ethel, as the child was fretting a little. Yes, thank you. She has been very good, but she was tired of lying here, and I can't move her about, said Margaret. Oh, Margaret, I have such a plan, said Ethel, as she walked about with little Gertrude. But Tom interrupted. Margaret, will you see if I can say my lesson? And the thumb Latin grammar came across her just as Dr. May's door opened, and he came in exclaiming, Latin Grammar, Margaret, this is really too much for you. Good morning, my dears. Ha! Tommy, take your book away, my boy. You must not inflict that on sister now. How is your regular master, Richard, in my room, if it is fit for his years yet? What, the little one here, too? How is your arm, Papa, said Margaret? Did it keep you awake? Not long. It set me dreaming, though, and a very romantic dream it was, worthy of Ethel herself. What was it, Papa? Oh, it was an odd thing, joining on strangely enough with one I had three or four and twenty years ago, when I was a young man, hearing lectures at Edinburgh and courting. He stopped and felt Margaret's pulse, asked her a few questions, and talked to the baby. Ethel longed to hear his dream, but thought he would not like to go on. However, he did presently. The old dream was the night after a picnic on Arthur's seat with the McKinsey's. Mama and Aunt Flora were there. It was a regular boy's dream, a tournament, or something of that nature, where I was Victor, the queen. You know who she was, giving me her token, a daisy chain. That is why you'd like to call us your daisy chain, said Ethel. Did you write it in verse, said Margaret? I think I once saw some verses like it in her desk. I was in love, and three and twenty, said the doctor, looking drollly guilty in the midst of his sadness. I. Those fixed it in my memory. Perhaps my fancy made it more distinct than it really was. And evening or two ago I met with them, and that stirred it up, I suppose. Last night came the tournament again, but it was the melee, a sense of being crushed down, suffocated by the throng of arm knights and horses, pain and wounds, and I looked in vain through the opposing overwhelming host for my… my Maggie. Well I got the worst of it. My sword-arm was broken, I fell, was stifled, crushed, in misery, all I could do was to grasp my token, my daisy chain, and he pressed Margaret's hand as he said so. And behold, the tumult and despair were passed. I lay on the grass in the cloisters, and the daisy chain hung from the sky, and was drying me upwards. There, it is a queer dream for a sober old country doctor. I don't know why I told you, don't tell anyone again. And he walked away muttering. For he told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking, leaving Margaret with her eyes full of tears, and Ethel vehemently caressing the baby. How beautiful, said Ethel. It has been a comfort to him, I'm sure, said Margaret. You don't think it ominous, said Ethel, with a slight tremulous voice? More soothing than anything else. It is what we all feel, is it not? That this little daisy bud is the link between us and heaven? But about him. He was victor at first, vanquished the next time. I think, if it is to have an interpretation, though I am not sure we ought to take it so seriously, it would only mean that in younger days people care for victory and distinction in this world, like Norman or his papa must likely did then. But as they grow older, they care less, and others pass them and they know it does not signify, for in our race all may win. But he has a great name. How many people come from a distance to consult him? He is looked upon, too, in other ways. He can do anything with the corporation. Margaret smiled. All this does not sound grand. It is not as if he had set up in London. Oh, dear, I am so glad he did not. But I tell you what mom told me, he said about it, when Uncle McKenzie said he ought. He answered that he thought health and happy-a-home attachments were a better provision for us to set out in life with than thousands. I am sure he was right, said Ethel earnestly. Then you don't think the dreams meant being beaten, only that our best things are not gained by successes in this world? Don't go and let it dwell on your mind as a vision, said Margaret. I think dear mama would call that silly. An interruption occurred, and Ethel had to go down to breakfast with a mind floating between romance, sorrow, and high aspirations, very unlike the actual world she had to live in. First there was a sick man walking into the study, and her father, laying down his letter, saying, I must dispatch him before prayers, I suppose. I have a great mind to say I never will see anyone who won't keep to my days. I can't imagine why they don't, said Flora, as he went. He is always saying so, but never acting on it. If he would once turn one away, the rest would mind. Richard went on in silence, cutting bread and butter. There's another ring, said Mary. Yes, he is caught now. They'll go on in a stream. I shall not keep Margaret waiting for her breakfast. I shall take it up. The morning was tiresome, though Dr. May had two regular days for seeing poor people at his house. He was too good-natured to keep strictly to them, and this day, as Flora had predicted, there was a procession of them not soon got rid of, even by his rapid queries and the talismanic figures made by his left hand on scraps of paper, with which he sent them off to the infirmary. Ethel tried to read. The children lingered about. It was a trial of temper to all but Tom, who obtained Richard's attention to his lessons. He liked to say them to his brother, and was an incentive to learn them quickly, that none might remain from his winter when Richard went out with his father. If Mama had been there, she would have had prayers, but now no one had authority enough, though they did at last even finish breakfast. Just as a gig came to the door, Dr. May dismissed his last patient, rang the bell in haste, and as soon as prayers were over, declared he had an appointment, and had no time to eat. There was a general upcry, that it was bad enough when he was well, and now he must not take liberties. Flora made him drink some tea, and Richard placed morsels in his way, while he read his letters. He ran up for a final look at Margaret, almost upset the stayed Miss Winter as he ran down again, called Richard to take the reins, and was off. It was French day, always a trial to Ethel, and Balop, the master, knew what was good and bad French, but could not render a reason, and Ethel, being versed in the principles of grammar from her Latin studies, chose to know the why and wherefore of his corrections. She did not like to see her pages defaced, and have no security against future errors, while he thought her a troublesome pupil, and was put out by her questions. They wrangled, Miss Winter was displeased, and Ethel felt injured. Mary's inability to catch the pronunciation, and her hopeless dull look when she found that cur, must not be pronounced cour, nor cur, but something between, to which her rosy English lips could never come. All this did not tease Mr. Balonc, for he was used to it. His mark for Ethel's lesson was de le mur. I am sorry, said Miss Winter, when he was gone. I thought you had outgrown that habit of disputing over every phrase. I can't tell how language is to be learned without knowing the reasons of one's mistakes, said Ethel. That is what you always say, my dear. It is of no use to renew it all, but I wish you would control yourself. Now, Mary, call Blanche, and you and Ethel take your arithmetic. So Flor went to read to Margaret, while Blanche went lightly and playfully through her easy lessons, and Mary floundered piteously over the difficulties of compound long division. Ethel's mind was in too irritated and tumultuous estate for her to derive her usual solace from cube root. Her sum was wrong, and she wanted to work it right, but Miss Winter, who had little liking for the higher branches of arithmetic, said she had spent time enough over it, and summoned her to an examination such as the governess was very fond of and often practiced. Ethel thought it useless, and was teased by it. And though her answers were chiefly correct, they were given in an irritated tone. It was of this kind. What is the date of the invention of paper? What is the latitude and longitude of Ota-hate? What are the component parts of brass? Whence is Cocheneal imported? When this was over, Ethel had to fetch her mending basket and marry her book of selections. The piece for today's lesson was the quarrel of Brutus and Cassius, and Mary's dull, droning tone was a trial to her ears. She presently exclaimed, Oh, Mary, don't murder it! Murder what? said Mary, opening wide her light blue eyes. That use of exaggerated language began Miss Winter. I've heard Papa say it, said Ethel, only wanting to silence Miss Winter. In a cooler moment she would not have used the argument. All that a gentleman may say may not be a precedent for a young lady, but you are interrupting Mary. Only let me show her. I can't bear to hear her. Listen, Mary, what shall one of us, that struck the foremost, that is declaiming, said Miss Winter? It is not what we wish for in a lady. You are neglecting your work and interfering. In a fretful contortion and obeyed. So it went on all the morning. Ethel's eagerness, checked by Miss Winter's dry matter, producing pettishness till Ethel, in a state between self-approach and a sense of injustice, went up to prepare for dinner and to visit Margaret on the way. She found her sister picking a merino froth to pieces. See here, she said eagerly, I thought you would like to make up this whole froth for one of the Coxmore children. But what is the matter? As Ethel did not show the lively interest that she expected. Oh, nothing, only Miss Winter is so tiresome. What is it? Everything. It was all horrid. I was cross, I know, but she and Mr. Balon made me so, and Ethel was in the midst of the narration of her grievances when Norman came in. The school was half a mile off, but he had not once failed to come home, and the interval allowed for play after dinner to inquire for his sister. Well, Norman, you are out of breath. Sit down and rest. What is doing at school? Are you ducks of your class? Yes, said the boy wearily. What mark for the verses, said Ethel? Quambane. Not optime? No, they were tame, Dr. Ochston said. What is Harry doing, said Margaret? He is forth in his form. I left him at football. Dinner, said Flora, at the door. What will you have, Margaret? I'll fetch it, said Norman, who considered it his privilege to wait on Margaret at dinner. When he had brought the tray, he stood leaning against the bedpost, musing. Suddenly there was a considerable clatter of fire-irons, and his violent start surprised Margaret. Ethel has been poking the fire, she said, as if no more was needed to account for their insecurity. Norman put them up again, but a ringing sound betrayed that it was not with a firm touch, and when, a minute after, he came to take her plate. She saw that he was trying with effort to steady his hand. Norman, dear, are you sure you are well? Yes, very well, said he, as if fixed that she had taken any notice. You had better not come racing home. I'm not worth inquiries now. I am so much better, said she, smiling. He made no reply, but this was not consenting silence. I don't like you to lose your football, she proceeded. I could not, and he stopped short. It would be much better for you, said she, looking up in his face with anxious affectionate eyes, but he shunned her glance and walked away with her plate. Laura had been in such close attendance upon Margaret that she needed some cheerful walks, and though she had some doubts how affairs at home would go on without her, she was overruled and sent on a long expedition with Miss Winter and Mary while Ethel remained with Margaret. The only delay before setting out was that nurse came in saying, If you please, Miss Margaret, there is a girl come to see about the place. The sisters looked at each other and smiled while Margaret asked when she came and who she was. Her name is Taylor, and she comes from Coxmore, but she is the nice, tidy, strong-looking girl, and she says she has been used to children. Nurse had fallen into the trap most comfortably and seemed bent upon taking this girl as the choice of her own. She wished to know if Miss Margaret would like to see her. If you please, nurse, but if you think she will do, that is enough. Yes, Miss, but you should look at them things yourself. If you please, I'll bring her up." So Nurse departed. Charming, cried Ethel. That's your capital management, Flora. Nurse thinks she has done it all herself. She is your charge, though, said Flora, coming from your own beloved Coxmore. Lucy Taylor came in, looking very nice and very shy, cursing so, in extreme awe of the pale lady in bed. Margaret was much pleased with her, and there was no more to be done but to settle that she should come on Saturday and to let nurse take her into the town to invest her with the universal blackness of the household where the two Margaret's were the only white things. This arranged, and the walking party set forth. Ethel sat down by her sister's bed and began to assist in unpicking the marino, telling Margaret how much obliged she was to her for thinking of it, and how grieved it having been so ungrateful in the morning. She was very happy over her contrivances, cutting out under her sister's superintendence. She had forgotten the morning's annoyance, till Margaret said, I have been thinking of what you said about Miss Winter, and really, I don't know what is to be done. Oh, Margaret, I did not mean to worry you, said Ethel, sorry to see her look uneasy. I like you to tell me everything, dear Ethel, but I don't see clearly the best course. We must go on with Miss Winter. Of course, said Ethel, shocked at her murmurs having even suggested the possibility of a change, and having, as well as all the others, a great respect and affection for her governess. We could not get on without her, even if I were well, continued Margaret, and dear Mama had such perfect trust in her, and we all know and love her so well, it would make us put up with a great deal. It is all my own fault, said Ethel, only anxious to make amends to Miss Winter. I wish you would not say anything about it. Yes, it does seem wrong even to think of it, said Margaret, when she has been so very kind. It is a blessing to have anyone to marry and blanch me so entirely be trusted. But for you it is my own fault, repeated Ethel. I don't think it is all quite your own fault, said Margaret, and that is a difficulty. I know, dear Mama, thought Miss Winter an excellent governess for the little ones, but hardly up to you, and she saw that you worried and fidgeted each other so. You know, she used to keep the teaching of you a good deal in her old hands. I did not know that was the reason, said Ethel, overpowered by the recollection of the happy morning's work she had often done in that very room, when her mother had not been equal to the bustle of the whole schoolroom. That watchful, protecting, guarding mother's love, a shadow of Providence, had been round them so constantly on every side that they had been hardly conscious of it till it was lost to them. Was it not like her, said Margaret, but now, my poor Ethel, I don't think it would be right by you or by Miss Winter to take you out of the schoolroom. I think it would grieve her. I would not do that for the world, especially after her kind nursing of me, and even, with more reason, it would not be becoming in us to make changes. Besides, King Ethel read, said Margaret, smiling, we all know you are a little bit of a sloven, and, as Nurse says, someone must be always after you. And do you know, even if I were well, I had rather it was Miss Winter than me. Oh, no, you would not be formal and precise. You would not make me cross. Perhaps you might make me so, said Margaret, or I should let you alone and leave you a slattern. We should both hate it so. No, don't make me your mistress, Ethel, dear. Let me be your sister, and play fellow still, as well as I can. You are, you are. I don't care half so much when I have got you. And will you try to bear with her, and remember it is right in the main, though it is troublesome? That I will. I won't plague you again. I know it is bad for you. You look tired. Pray don't leave off telling me, said Margaret, that it is just what I wish on my own account, and I know it is comfortable to have a good grumble. If it does not hurt you, but I am sure you are not easy now, are you? All in my back, said Margaret, I have been sitting up longer than usual, and it is tired. Will you call Nurse to let me flat again? The nursery was deserted. All were out, and Ethel came back in trepidation, at the notion of having to do it herself, though she knew it was only to put one arm to support her sister. While, with the other, she removed the pillows. But Ethel was conscious of her own awkwardness and want of observation, nor had Margaret entire trust in her. Still, she was too much fatigued to wait, so Ethel was obliged to do her best. She was careful and frightened, and therefore slow and unsteady. She trusted that all was right, and Margaret tried to believe so, though still uneasy. Ethel began to read to her, and Dr. May came home. She looked up smiling and asked where he had been, but it was vain to try to keep him from reading her face. He saw in an instant that something was amiss, and drew from her a confession, that her back was aching a little. He knew she might have said a great deal. She was not in a comfortable position. She must be moved. She shook her head. She had rather weighed. There was a dread of being again lifted by Ethel that she could not entirely hide. Ethel was distressed. Dr. May was angry. And, no wonder, when he saw Margaret suffer, felt his own inability to help, missed her who had been want to take all care from his hands, and was vexed to see a tall, strong girl of 15. With the full use of both arms and plenty of sense, incapable of giving any assistance, and only doing harm by trying. It is of no use, said he. Ethel will give no attention to anything but her books. I have a great mind to put an end to all the Latin and Greek. She cares for nothing else. Ethel could little broken justice, and much as she was grieving, she exclaimed, Papa, Papa, I do care. Now don't I, Margaret. I did my best. Don't talk nonsense, your best indeed. If you had taken the most moderate care, I believe Ethel took rather too much care, said Margaret, much more harassed by the scolding than by the pain. It will be all right presently. Never mind, dear Papa. But he was not only grieved for the present, but anxious for the future, and, though he knew it was bad for Margaret to manifest his displeasure, he could not restrain it and continued to blame Ethel with enough of injustice to set her on vindication, whereupon he silenced her by telling her she was making it worse by self-justification when Margaret ought to be quiet. Margaret tried to talk of other things, but was in too much discomfort to exert herself enough to divert his attention. At last floor returned and saw in an instant what was wanted. Margaret was settled in the right posture, but the pain would not immediately depart, and Dr. May soon found out that she had a headache, of which he knew he was at least as guilty as a Theldred could be. Nothing could be done but keep her quiet, and Ethel went away to be miserable. Flora tried to comfort her by saying it was unfortunate, but no doubt there was a knack, and everyone could not manage those things. Margaret was easier now, and as to Papa's anger, he did not always mean all he said. The consolation came at bedtime. Margaret received her with open arms when she went to wish her good night. My poor Ethel, she said, holding her close. I am sorry I have made such a fuss. Oh, you did not. It was too bad of me. I am grieved. Are you quite comfortable now? Yes, quite. Only a little headache, which I shall sleep off. It has been so nice and quiet. Papa took up George Herbert, and has been reading me choice bits. I don't think I have enjoyed anything so much since I have been ill. I am glad of that, but I have been unhappy all the evening. I wish I knew what to do. I am out of heart about everything. Only try to mind and heed, and you will learn. It will be a step if you will only put your shoes side by side when you take them off. Ethel smiled inside, and Margaret whispered, don't grieve about me, but put your clever head to roll your hands, and you will do for home, and cocks for two. Good night, dearest. I vexed Papa, sighed Ethel, and just then he came into the room. Papa, said Margaret, here's poor Ethel, not half recovered from her troubles. He was now at ease about Margaret, and knew he had been harsh to another of his motherless girls. Ah, we must send her to the infant school to learn this is my right hand, and this is my left, said me, in his half-gay, half-sad manner. I was very stupid, said Ethel, or trial, said her Papa. She is worse off than I am. If I have but one hand left, she has two left hands. I do mean to try, Papa. Yes, you must, Ethel. I believe I was hasty with you, my poor girl. I was vexed, and we have no one to smooth us down. I am sorry, my dear, but you must bear with me, for I never learned her ways with you when I might. We will try to have more patience with each other. What could Ethel do but hang round his neck and cry, till he said, but tenderly, that they had given Margaret quite disturbance enough today, and sent her to bed, bound to watch each little action, lest she should again give pain to such a father and sister. Part 1, Chapter 7, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. Part 1, Chapter 8 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 8. It is not enough that Gregor Roman Page, at stated hours, his freaky thoughts engage, even in his pastimes he requires a friend to warn and teach him safely to unbend, or all his pleasures gently to preside, watch his emotions and control their tide. The misfortunes of that day disheartened and disconcerted at Theldred, to do mischief where she most wished to do good, to grieve where she longed to comfort, seemed to be her fate. It was vain to attempt anything for anyone's good, while all her warm feelings and high aspirations were thwarted by the awkward ungainly hands and heedless eyes that nature had given her. Nor did the following day, Saturday, do much for her comfort by giving her the company of her brothers, that it was Norman's sixteenth birthday seemed only to make it worse. Their father had apparently forgotten it, and Norman stopped Blanche when she was going to put him in mind of it, stopped her by such a look as the child never forgot, though there was no anger in it. In reply to Ethel's inquiry, what he was going to do that morning, he gave a yawn and stretch and said, dejectedly, that he had got some Euripides to look over and some verses to finish. I am sorry. This is the first time you ever have not managed so as to make a real holiday of your Saturday. I could not help it, and there's nothing to do, said Norman Weirly. I promised to go and read to Margaret while Flora does her music, said Ethel. I shall come after that and do my Latin and Greek with you. Margaret would not keep her long, saying she liked her to be with Norman, but she found him with his head sunk on his open book, fast to sleep. At dinner time, her and Tom, rushing in, awoke him with a violent start. Hello! Norman, that was a jump, said Harry as his brother stretched and pinched himself. You'll jump out of your skin some of these days if you don't take care. It's enough to startle anyone to be waked up with such a noise, said Ethel. And he ought to sleep at proper times, said Harry, and not be waking me up with tumbling about and hollowing out and talking in his sleep half the night. Talking in his sleep? Why, just now, you said he did not sleep, said Ethel. Harry knows nothing about it, said Norman. Don't I? Well, I only know, if you slept in school and were a junior, you would get a proper good looking for going on as you do at night. And I think you might chance to get a proper good looking for not holding your tongue, said Norman, which hint reduced Harry to silence. Dr. May was not come home. He had gone with Richard far into the country and was to return to tea. He was thought to be desirous of avoiding the family dinners that used to be so delightful. Harry was impatient to depart, and when Mary and Tom ran after him, he ordered them back. Where can he be going, said Mary, as she looked wistfully after him. I know, said Tom. Where? Do tell me. Only don't tell Papa. I went down with him to the playground this morning, and there they settled it. The Andersons and Axworthy and he are going to hire a gun and shoot Piewitz on Coxmore. But they ought not, should they, said Mary. Papa would be very angry. Andersons said there was no harm in it, but Harry told me not to tell. Indeed, Andersons would have boxed my ears for hearing when I could not help it. But Harry would not let him? I, Harry, is quite a match for Harvey Andersons, though he is so much younger, and he said he would not have me bullied. That's a good Harry, but I wish he would not go out shooting, said Mary. Mind you don't tell. And where's Hector Ernst Cliff? Would not he go? No. I like Hector. He did not choose to go, though Andersons teased him, and said he was a poor Scot, and his brother didn't allow him, ten enough, to buy powder and shot. If Harry would have stayed at home, he would have come up here, and we might have had some fun in the garden. I wish he would. We never have any fun now, said Mary. But oh, there he is, as she spied Hector peeping over the gate which led from the field into the garden. It was the first time that he had been to Dr. May's since his brother's departure, and he was rather shy, but the joyful welcome of Mary and Tom took off all reluctance, and they claimed him for a good game at play in the woodhouse. Mary ran upstairs to beg to be excused a formal walk, and luckily for her, Miss Winter was in Margaret's room. Margaret asked if it was very wet and dirty, and hearing not very, gave gracious permission, and off went Mary and Blanche to construct some curious specimens of pottery under the superintendents of Hector and Tom. There was a certain ditch where Yellow Mud was attainable, where of the happy children concocted marbles and faces, which underwent a preparatory baking in the boy's pockets that they might not crack in the nursery fire. Margaret only stipulated that her sister should be well-fanced in Brown-Holland, and when Miss Winter looked grave, said, For things, a little thorough play will do them a great deal of good. Miss Winter could not see the good of groping in the dirt, and Margaret perceived that it would be one of her difficulties to know how to follow out her mother's views for the children without vexing the good governors by not deferring to her. In the meantime, Normand had disconsolently returned to his Euripides and Ethel, who wanted to stay with him and look out his words, was ordered out by Miss Winter, because she had spent all yesterday indoors. Miss Winter was going to stay with Margaret, and Ethel and Flora coax Normand to come with them, just one mile on the turnpike road and back again. He would be much fresher for his Greek afterwards. He came, but he did not enliven his sisters. The three plotted on, taking a diligent constitutional walk, exchanging very few words and those chiefly between the girls. Flora gathered some horiclimatis and redberries, and saw it in the hedge-sides for some crimson furry-bazz to carry home. And at the sight of the amusement Margaret derived from the placing the beauteous little pezzizas in a saucer of damp green moss sows to hide the brown sticks on which they grew, Ethel took shame to herself for want of perception of little attentions. When she told Normand so, he answered, There's no one who does see what is the right thing. How horrid the room looks! Everything is know-how, added he, looking round at the ornaments and things on the tables, which had lost their air of comfort and good taste. It was not disorder, and Ethel could not see what he meant. What's wrong, said she? Oh, never mind. You can't do it. Don't try. You'll only make it worse. It will never be the same as long as we live. I wish you would not be so unhappy, said Ethel. Never mind again, said Normand, but he put his arm down her. Have you done your Euripides? Can I help you? Will you construe it with me, or shall I look out your words? Thank you. I don't mind that. It is the verses. I want some sense, said Normand, running his fingers through his hair, till it stood on end, to such a horrid subject, Coral Islands, as if there was anything to be said about them. Dear me, Normand, I could say ten thousand things, only I must not tell you what mine are, as yours are not done. No, don't, said Normand decidedly. Did you read the description of them in the quarterly? I'm sure you might get some ideas there. Shall I find it for you? It is in an old number. Well, do, thank you. He rested listlessly on the sofa while his sister rummaged in a chiffonier. At last she found the article, and eagerly read him the description of the strange forms of the coral animals and the beauties of their flower-like feelers and branching fabrics. It will once have delighted him, but his first comment was, Nasty little brutes. However, the next minute he thanked her, took the book, and said he could hammer something out of it, though it was too bad to give such an unclassical subject. At dusk he left off, saying he should get it done at night. His senses would come then, and he should be glad to sit up. Only three weeks till the holiday, said Ethel, trying to be cheerful. But his assent was depressing, and she began to fear that Christmas would only make them more sad. Mary did not keep Tom's secrets so inviably, but that, while they were dressing for tea, she revealed to Ethel where Harry was gone. He was not yet returned, though his father and Richard were come in, and the sisters were at once in some anxiety on his account, and doubt whether they ought to let Papa know of his disobedience. Flora and Ethel, who were the first in the drawing-room, had a consultation. I should have told Mama directly, said Flora. He never did so, sighed Ethel. Things never went wrong then. Oh, yes they did. Don't you remember how naughty Harry was about climbing the wall and making faces at Mrs. Richardson's servants? And how ill I behaved the first day of last Christmas holidays? She knew, but I don't think she told Papa. Not that we knew of, but I believe she did tell him everything, and I think, Flora, he ought to know everything, especially now. I never could bear the way the McKinsies used to have of thinking their parents must be like enemies and keeping secrets from them. They were always threatening each other. I'll tell Mama, said Flora, and calling us tell-tales because we told our own dear Mama everything. But it is not like that now. I neither like to worry Papa, nor to bring Harry into disgrace. Besides, Tom and Mary meant it for a secret. Papa would not be angry with him if we told him it was a secret, said Ethel. I wish Harry would come in. There's the door. Oh, it is only you. Whom did you expect, said Richard, entering. The sisters looked at each other, and Ethel, after an interval, explained their doubts about Harry. He has come in, said Richard. I saw him running up to his own room very muddy. Oh, I'm glad. But do you think Papa ought to hear it? I don't know what's to be done. It is the children's secret, said Flora. It will never do to have him going out with those boys continually, said Ethel. Harvey Anderson close by all the holidays. I'll try what I can do with him, said Richard. Papa had better not hear it now, at any rate. He is very tired and sad this evening, and his arm is painful again, so he must not worry him with histories of naughtiness among the children. No, said Ethel, decidedly. I am glad you were there, Richie. I never should have thought of one time being better than another. Just like Ethel, said Flora, smiling. Why should not you learn, said Richard gently? I can't, said Ethel, in a desponding way. Why not? You are much sharper than most people. And if you tried, you would know those things much better than I do, as you know how to learn history. It is quite a different sort of cleverness, said Flora. Recollects are Isaac Newton or Archimedes. Then you must have both sorts, said Ethel, for you can do things nicely, and yet you learn very fast. Take care, Ethel, you are cinching your frock. Well, I really don't think you can help those things, said Flora. Your short side is the reason of it, and it is of no use to try to mend it. Don't tell her so, said Richard. It can't be all short side. It is the not thinking. I do believe that if Ethel would think, no one would do things so well. Don't you remember the beautiful perspective drawings she made of this room for me to take to Oxford? That was very difficult, and wanted a great deal of neatness and accuracy. So why should she not be neat and accurate in other things? And I know you can read faces, Ethel. Why don't you look there before you speak? Ah, before instead of after. When I only see, I have said something malapropo, said Ethel. I must go and see about the children, said Flora. If the tea comes while I'm gone, will you make it, Richie? Flora despairs of me, said Ethel. I don't, said Richard. Have you forgotten how to put in a pen yet? No, I hope not. Well, then, see if you can't learn to make tea. And by the by Ethel, which is the next Christening Sunday. The one after next, surely. The first of December is Monday. Yes, tomorrow week is the next. Then I have thought of something. It would cost 18 pence to hire Joe Leaf's spring cart, and we might have Mrs. Taylor and the twins brought to church in it. Should you like to walk to Coxmore and settle it? Oh yes, very much indeed. What a capital thought! Margaret said you would know how to manage. Then we will go the first fine day, Papa does not want me. I wonder if I could finish my purple frocks. But here's the tea. Now, Richard, don't tell me to make it. I should do something wrong, and Flora will never forgive you. Richard would not let her off. He stood over her, counted her shovelfuls of tea, and watched the water into the teapot. He superintended her warming the cups and putting a drop into each saucer. Ah, said Ethel, with a concluding sigh. It makes one hotter than doubly equations. It was all right, as Flora allowed with a slightly superior smile. She thought Richard would never succeed in making a notable or elegant woman of Ethel, and it was best that the two sisters should take different lines. Flora knew that, though clever and with more accomplishments, she could not surpass Ethel in intellectual attainments, but she was certainly far more valuable in the house, and had been proved to have just the qualities in which her sister was most efficient. She did not relish hearing that Ethel wanted nothing but attention to be more than her equal, and she thought Richard mistaken. Flora's remembrance of their time of distress was less unmixedly wretched than it was with the others, for she knew she had done wonders. The next day Norman told Ethel that he had got on very well with the verses and finished them off late at night. He showed them to her before taking them to school on Monday morning, and Ethel thought they were the best he had ever written. There was too much spirit and poetical beauty for a mere schoolboy task, and she begged for the foul copy to show it to her father. I have not got it, said Norman. The foul copy was not like these, but when I was writing them out quite late, it was all, I don't know how. Flora's music was in my ears, and the room seemed to get larger, and like an ocean cave, and when the candle flickered, it was like the green glowing light of the sun through the waves. As it says here, said Ethel. And the words all came to me of themselves in beautiful flowing Latin, just right, as if it was anybody but myself doing it, and they ran off my pen in red and blue and gold and all sorts of colors and fine branching zigzagging stars, like what the book described. Only stranger came dancing and radiating around my pen and the candle. I could hardly believe the verses would scan by daylight, but I can't find a mistake. Do you try them again? Ethel scanned. I see nothing wrong, she said, but it seems a shame to begin scanning Undyne's verses. They are too pretty. I wish I could copy them. It must have been half a dream. I believe it was. They don't seem like my own. Did you dream afterwards? He shivered. They had got into my head too much. My ears sang like the roaring of the sea, and I thought my feet were frozen onto an iceberg. Then came darkness and sea monsters and drowning. It was too horrid, and his face expressed all, and more than all, he said. But to his a quarter to seven, we must go, said he, with a long yawn and rubbing his eyes. You are sure they are right, Ethel? Harry, come along. Ethel thought those verses ought to make a sensation, but all that came of them was a quama optime, and when she asked Norman if no special notice had been taken of them, he said, in his languid way, no, only Dr. Hawkson said they were better than usual. Ethel did not even have the satisfaction of hearing that Mr. Wilmot, happening to meet Dr. May, said to him, your boy has more of a poet in him than any that has come in my way. He really sometimes makes very striking verses. Richard watched for an opportunity of speaking to Harry, which did not at once occur, as the boy spent very little of his time at home, and, as if by tacit consent, he and Norman came in later every evening. At last on Thursday, in the additional two hours leisure allowed to the boys, when the studious prepared their tasks and the idol had some special diversion, Richard encountered him running up to his own room to fetch a newly invented instrument for projecting stones. I'll walk back to school with you, said Richard. I mean to run, returned Harry. Is there so much hurry, said Richard? I am sorry for it, for I wanted to speak to you, Harry. I have something to show you. His manner conveyed that it related to their mother and the sobering effect was instantaneous. Very well, said he, for getting his haste. I'll come into your room. The awestruck, shy, yet sorrowful look on his rosy face showed preparation enough, and Richard's only preface was to say, it is a bit of a letter that she was in course of writing to Aunt Flora, a description of us all. The letter itself is gone, but here is a copy of it. I thought you would like to read what relates to yourself. Richard laid before him the sheet of note paper on which this portion of the letter was written and left him alone with it while he set out on the promised walk with Ethel. They found the old woman, Granny Hall, looking like another creature, smoke-dried and withered indeed, but all bristness and animation. Well, be it you, sir, and the young lady. Yes, here I come to see you again, said Richard. I hope you are not disappointed that I brought my sister this time instead of the doctor. No, no, sir, I've done with the doctor for this well, said the old woman, to Ethel's great amusement. He have done me a power of good and thank him for it hardly, but the young lady is welcome here, but it is a dirty walk for her. Never mind that, said Ethel a little shyly. I came, where are your grandchildren? Oh, somewhere out among the blocks. They get out with the other children. I can't be always after them. I wanted to know if these would fit them, said Ethel, beginning to undo her basket. Well, upon my word, if ever I see, here, stepping out to the door. Polly, Jenny, come in, I say, this moment. Come in, ye bad girls, or I'll give you the stick. I'll break every bone of you, that I will. All which threats were balled out in such a good-natured, triumphant voice, and with such a delighted air that Richard and Ethel could not help laughing. After a few moments, Polly and Jenny made their parents extremely rough and ragged, but compelled by their grandmother to duck down by way of curtsies and, with finger in mouth, they stood, too shy to show their delight, as the garments were unfolded. Granny talking so fast that Ethel would never have brought in the stipulation that the frocks should be worn to school and church, if Richard, in his mild but steady way, had not brought the old woman to listen to it. She was full of assoverations that they should go. She took them to church sometimes herself when it was fine weather and they had clothes, and they could say their cataclysm as well as anybody already. Yes, they should come, that they should, and next Sunday. Ethel promised to be there to introduce them to the chief lady, the president of the committee, Mrs. Ludwich, and, with a profusion of thanks, they took leave. They found John Taylor, just come out of the hospital, looking weak and ill as he smoked his pipe over the fire, his wife bustling about at a great rate, and one of the infants crying. It seemed to be a great relief that they were not come to complain of Lucy, and there were many looks of surprise on hearing what their business really was. Mrs. Taylor thanked them and appeared not to know whether she was glad or sorry, and her husband, pipe in hand, gazed at the young gentleman as if he did not comprehend the species since he could not be old enough to be a clergyman. Richard hoped they would find sponsors by that time, and there Mrs. Taylor gave little hope. It was a bad lot. There was no one she liked to ask to stand, she said, in a dismal voice, but there her husband put in. I'll find someone if that's all. My Mrs. always thinks nobody can't do nothing. To be sure, said the lamentable Mrs. Taylor, all the elder ones was took to church, and I'm low, the little one shouldn't. But you see, sir, we are poor people, and it's a long way, and they was set down in the gentleman's register book. But you know that it's not the same, Mrs. Taylor. Surely Lucy could have told you that when she went to school. No, sir, it is not the same. I know that, but this is a bad place to live in. Always the old song, Mrs., exclaimed her husband. Thank you kindly, sir. You have been a good friend to us, and so was Dr. May when I was up to the hospital through the thick of his own troubles. I believe you are in the right of it, sir, and thank you. The children shall be ready, and little Jack too, and I'll find gossips and let him christened on Sunday. I believe you will be glad of it, said Richard, and he went on to speak of the elder children coming to school on Sunday, thus causing another whining from the wife about distance and bad weather, and no one else going that way. He said the little halls were coming, but Mrs. Taylor began saying she disliked their company for the children. Granny let them get about so much, and they said bad words. The father again interfered. Perhaps Mr. Wilmot, who acted as chaplain at the hospital, had been talking to him, for he declared at once that they should come, and Richard suggested that he might see them home when he came from church. Then, turning to the boy and girl, told them they would meet their sister Lucy and asked them if they would not like that. On the whole, the beginning was not inauspicious, though there might be a doubt whether old Mrs. Hall would keep all her promises. Ethel was so much diverted and pleased as to be convinced she would. Richard was a little doubtful as to her power over the wild girls. There could not be any doubt that John Taylor was an earnest and had been worked upon just at the right moment, but there was danger that the impression would not last. And his wife is such a horrible whining-dottle, said Ethel. There will be no good to be done if it depends on her. Richard made no answer, and Ethel presently felt remorseful for her harsh speech about a poor, ignorant woman overwhelmed with poverty, children, and weak health. I have been thinking a great deal about what you said last time we took this walk, said Richard, after a considerable interval. Oh, have you, cried Ethel eagerly? And the black P.D. pond she was looking at seemed to sparkle with sunlight. Do you really mean it, said Richard deliberately? Yes, to be sure, she said with some indignation. Because I think I see a way to make a beginning, but you must make up your mind to a great deal of trouble and dirty walks, and you must really learn not to draggle your frock. Well, well, but tell me. This is what I was thinking. I don't think I can go back to Oxford after Christmas. It is not fit to leave you while Papa is so disabled. Oh, no, he could not get on at all. I heard him tell Mr. Wilmot the other day that you were his right hand. Ethel was glad she had repeated this, for there was a deepening color and smiling glow of pleasure on her brother's face, such as she had seldom seen on his delicate, but somewhat impassive features. He is very kind, he said warmly. No, I am sure I cannot be spared till he is better able to use his arm, and I don't see any chance of that just yet. Then if I stay at home, Friday is always at my own disposal while Papa is at the hospital meeting. Yes, yes, and we could go to Coxmore and set up a school. How delightful. I don't think you would find it quite so delightful as you fancy, said Richard. The children will be very wild and ignorant, and you don't like that at the national school. Oh, but they are in such need besides there will be no Mrs. Ledwidge over me. It is just right. I shan't mind anything. You are a capital richie for having thought of it. I don't think if I am ever to be what I wish, that is, if I can get through at Oxford, I don't think it can be wrong to begin this if Mr. Ramston does not object. Oh, Mr. Ramston never objects to anything, and if Mr. Wilmot will come and set us off. You know, we cannot begin without that, or without my father's fully liking it. Oh, there can be no doubt of that. This one thing, Ethel, I must stipulate. Don't you go and tell it all out at once to him. I cannot have him worried about our concerns. But how no one can question that this is right, I am sure he won't object. Stop, Ethel, don't you see? It can't be done for nothing. If we undertake it, we must go on with it, and when I am away, it will fall on you and Flora. Well, then, it ought to be considered whether you are old enough and steady enough, and if it can be managed for you to go continually all this way in this wild place. There will be expanse, too. Ethel looked wild with impatience, but could not gain say these scruples, otherwise than by declaring they ought not to weigh against the good of Coxmore. It will worry him to have to consider all this, said Richard, and it must not be pressed upon him. No, said Ethel, sorrowfully, but you don't mean to give it up. You are always in extremes, Ethel. All I want is to find a good time for proposing it. She fidgeted and gave a long sigh. Mine, said Richard, stopping short, I'll have nothing to do with it except on condition you are patient and hold your tongue about it. I think I can if I may talk to Margaret. Oh yes, to Margaret, of course, we could not settle anything without her help. And I know what she will say, said Ethel. Oh, I am so glad. And she jumped over three puddles in succession. And, Ethel, you must learn to keep your frock out of the dirt. I'll do anything if you'll help me at Coxmore. End of part one, chapter eight, recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona.