 Part 1 Chapter 29 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. Heart Affluence in Household Talk from Social Fountains Never Dry. Tennyson. What a bore! What's the matter now? Here has this old fellow asked me to dinner again. A fine pass we are come to, cried Dr. May, half amused, half irate. I should like to know what I should have said, at your age, if the headmaster had asked me to dinner. Hop I was not so very fond of dining at Dr. Hoxton's, said Ethel, a whipper snapper schoolboy who might be thankful to dine anywhere, continued Dr. May, while the girls burst out laughing and Norman looked injured. It is very ungrateful of Norman, said Flora. I cannot see what he finds to complain of. You would know, said Norman, if, instead of playing those perpetual tunes of yours, you had to sit it out in that perfumey drawing room without anything to listen to worth hearing. If I have looked over that court album once, I have a dozen times, and there is not another book in the place. I am glad there is not, said Flora. I am quite ashamed to see you forever turning over those old pictures. You cannot guess how stupid you look. I wonder Mrs. Hoxton likes to have you, she added, patting your shoulders between jest and earnest. I wish you would not, then. It is only to escort you. Nonsense, Norman, you know better, cried Ethel. You know it is for your own sake, and to make up for their injustice that he invites you, or Flora, either. Hush, Ethel! He gives himself quite errs enough already, said the doctor. Papa, said Ethel, in vexation, though he gave her a pinch to show his all in good humor, while he went on. I am glad to hear they do leave him to himself in a corner. A very good thing, too. Where else should a great, gawky schoolboy be? Safe at home, where I wish he would let me be, muttered Norman, though he contrived a smile and followed Flora out of the room without subjecting himself to the imputation of offended dignity. Ethel was displeased and began her defense. Papa, I wish—and there she checked herself— A. Myth-essles bristles up, said her father, who seemed in a somewhat mischievous mood of teasing. How could you, Papa? cried she. How could I what? missed Etheldred. Played, Norman, the words would come. Accused him of errs. I hate to see young fellows above taking an honor from their elders, said Dr. May. Now, Papa, Papa, you notice no such thing. Dr. Hoxton's parties are very dull. You know they are, and it is not fair on Norman. If he was set up and delighted at going so often, then you would call him conceded. Conceit has a good many lurking places, said Dr. May. It is harder to go and be overlooked than to stay at home. Now, Papa, you are not to call Norman conceded, cried Ethel. You don't believe that he is any such thing. Why, not exactly, said Dr. May, smiling. The boy has missed it marvelously, but, you see, he has everything his subtle imp would wish to feed upon, and it is no harm to give him a lick with the rough side of the tongue, as your canny Scott's grandfather used to say. Ah, if you knew, Papa, began Ethel. If I knew? No, no, I must not tell. What? A secret? Is there? I wish it was not. I should like to tell you very much, but then, you see, it is Norman's, and you are to be surprised. Your surprise is likely to be very much like Blanche's birthday presents, a stage aside. No, I'm going to keep it to myself. Two or three days after, as Ethel was going to the schoolroom after breakfast, Dr. May beckoned her back to the dining room, and, with his merry look of significance, said, Well, ma'am, I have found out your mystery. Thought Norman? Oh, Papa, did he tell you? When I came home from the hospital last night, at an hour when all respectable characters, except doctors and police, should be in their warm beds, I beheld the light in Norman's room, so me thought I would see what gravity was doing out of his bed at midnight. And you found him at his Greek? So that was the meaning of his looking so liking, careworn, just as he did last year, and he, the prince of the school, I could have found it in my heart to fling the books at his head. But you consent, don't you, to his going up for the scholarship? I consent to anything, as long as he keeps within due bounds, and does not work himself to death. I am glad of knowing it, for now I can put a moderate check upon it. And did he tell you all about it? He told me he felt as if he owed it to us to gain something for himself, since I had given up the randle to gratify him, a pretty sort of gratification. Yes, and he will be glad to get away from school. He says he knows it is bad for him, as it is uncomfortable to be singled out in the way Dr. Hoxton does now. You know, pleaded Ethel, it is not ingratitude or elation, but it is, somehow, not nice to be treated as he is, set apart from the rest. True, Dr. Hoxton never had taste or judgment. If Norman were not a lucess not dry, said Dr. May, hesitating for a word, his head would have been turned long ago, and he wants companions too. He has been forced out of boyhood too soon, poor fellow, and harry gone too. He does not get anything like real relaxation, and he will be better among use than boys. Stone borough will never be what it was in my time, added the doctor mournfully. I never thought to see the poor old place come to this, but there, when all the better class send their sons to the great public schools, and leave nothing but riff-raff here, one is forced for a boy's own sake to do the same. Oh, I am so glad! Then you have consented to the rest of Norman's scheme, and will not keep poor little Tom at school here without him? By what he tells me, it would be downright ruined to the boy. I little thought to have to take a son of mine away from a stone borough, but Norman is the best judge, and he is the only person who seems to have made any impressions on Tom, so I shall let it be. In fact, he added, half-smiling, I don't know what I could refuse, old June. That's right, cried Ethel. That is so nice. Then, if Norman gets the scholarship, Tom is to go to Mr. Wilmot first, and then to Eden. If Norman gains the scholarship, that is an if, said Dr. May, as though hoping for a loophole to escape offending the shade of Bishop Wiskott. Oh, Papa, you cannot doubt of that. I cannot tell, Ethel. He is facility of prince-ups here in his own world, but we didn't know how it will be when he is measured with public schoolmen who have had more first-rate tutorship than poor old Hoxton's. Ah, he says so, but I thought that was all his humility. Better he should be prepared. If he had had all those advantages, but it may be as well after all. I always had a haggling to have sent him to Eden, but your dear mother used to say it was not fair on the others, and now, to see him striving in order to give the advantage of it to his little brother. I only hope Master Thomas is worthy of it, but it is a boy I can't understand. Nor I, said Ethel. He never seems to say anything he can help, and goes after Norman without talking to anyone else. I give him up to Norman's management, said Dr. May. He says the boy is very clever, but I have not seen it, and asked more serious matters. However, I must take it on Norman's word that he is wishing to learn truth. We made an utter mistake about him. I don't know who is to blame for it. Have you told Margaret about Norman's plans, asked Ethel? No, he desired me to say nothing. Indeed, I should not like comms leaving school to be talked of beforehand. Norman said he did not want Florida here, because she is so much with the Hoxton's, and he said they would all watch him. I, I, and we must keep his secret. What a boy it is! But it is not safe to say conceited things. We shall have a fall yet, Ethel, not seventeen, remember, and brought up at a Muir grammar school. But we shall still have the spirit that made him try, said Ethel, and that is the thing. And, to tell the truth, said the doctor lingering, for my own part I don't care rush for it, and he dashed off to his work while Ethel stood laughing. Papa was so very kind, said Norman tremulously, when Ethel followed him to his room to congratulate him on having gained his father's assent, of which he had been more in doubt than she. And you see he quite approves of this game for Tom, except for thinking it disrespect to Bishop Wishcoat. He said he only hoped Tom was worthy of it. Tom, cried Norman, take my word for it, Ethel, Tom will surprise you all. He will beat us all to nothing, I know. If only he can be cured of— He will, said Norman, when once he has outgrown his frights, and that he may do at Mr. Walmots, apart from those fellows. When I go out for the scholarship, you must look after his lessons, and see if you are not surprised at his construing. When you go, it will be in a month. He has told no one, I hope. No, but I hardly think he will bear not telling Margaret. Well, I hate a thing being out of one's own keeping. I should not so much dislike Margaret's knowing, but I won't have Flora know. Mind that, Ethel, he said, with disproportionate vehemence. I only hope Flora will not be vexed, but, oh dear, how nice it will be when you have it, telling Mater Rivers and all. And this is a fine way of getting it, standing talking here. Not that I shall. You'll know what public schools can do, but that is no reason against trying. Good night, then. Only one thing more. You mean that, till further orders, Margaret should not know? Of course, said Norman impatiently. She won't take any of Flora's silly affronts, and, what is more, she would not care half so much as before Alan Ernstcliffe came. Oh, Norman, Norman, I'm sure. Why, it is what they always say. Everybody can't be first, and Ernstcliffe has the biggest half of her, I can see. I'm sure I did not, said Ethel, in a mortified voice. But, of course, it always comes with people having lovers. Then I'm sure I won't, exclaimed Ethel. Norman went into a fit of laughing. You may laugh, Norman, but I will never let Popple or any of you be second to anyone, she cried vehemently. A brotherly home truth followed. Nobody asked you, sir, she said, was muttered by Norman, still laughing hardly. I know, said Ethel, not in the least offended. I am very ugly and very awkward, but I don't care. There never can be anybody in all the world that I shall like half as well as Popple, and I'm glad no one is ever likely to make me care less for him and Coxmore. Stay till you are tried, said Norman. Ethel squeezed up her eyes, curled up her nose, showed her teeth in a horrible grimace, and made a sort of starle. Yeah, that's the face I shall make of them. And then, on another good night, ran to her own room. Norman was, to a certain extent, right with regard to Margaret. Her thoughts and interests had been chiefly engrossed by Alan Ernstcliffe, and so far drawn away from her own family, that when the Alcestus was absolutely gone beyond all reach of letters for the present, Margaret could not help feeling somewhat of a void, and as if the home concerns were not so entire an occupation for her mind as formerly. She would feign have thrown herself into them again, but she became conscious that there was a difference. She was still the object of her father's intense tenderness and solicitude. Indeed, she could not be otherwise, but it came over her sometimes that she was less necessary to him than in the first year. He was not conscious of any change, and indeed could hardly amounted to a change, and yet Margaret, lying inactive and thoughtful, began to observe that the fullness of his confidence was passing to Ethel. Now and then it would appear that he fancied he had told Margaret little matters when he had really told him to Ethel, and it was Ethel who would linger with him in the drawing room after the others had gone up at night, or who would be laid at the morning's reading, and disarm his winter by pleading that Papa had been talking to her. The secret they shared together was, of course, the origin of much of this, but also Ethel was no more entirely the doctor's own than Margaret could be after her engagement, and there was a likeness of mine between the father and daughter that could not but develop more in this year than in all Ethel's life when she had made the most rapid progress. Perhaps, too, the doctor looked on Margaret rather as the authority and mistress of his house while Ethel was more of a playfellow, and thus, without either having the least suspicion that the one sister was taking the place of the other, and without any actual neglect of Margaret, Ethel was his chief companion. How excited and anxious Norman looks, said Margaret, one day when he had rushed in at the dinner hour, asking for his father, and when he could not find him shouting out for Ethel. I hope there is nothing amiss. He has looked thin and worn for some time, and yet his work at school is very easy to him. I wish there may be nothing wrong there again, said Flora. There, there's the front door banging. He's off. Ethel, stepping to the door, and calling in her sister, who came from the street door, her hair blowing about with the wind. What did Norman want? Only to know whether Papa had left a note for Dr. Hoxton, said Ethel, looking very confused and very merry. That was not all, said Flora. Now don't be absurd, Ethel. I hate mysteries. Last time I had a secret you would not believe it, said Ethel, laughing. Come, makes claim, Flora. Why cannot you tell us all at once what is going on? Because I was desired not, said Ethel. You will hear it soon enough, and she capered a little. Let her alone, Flora, said Margaret. I see there is nothing wrong. If she is desired to be silent there is nothing to be said, replied Flora, sitting down again, while Ethel ran away to guard her secret. Absurd, muttered Flora. I cannot imagine why Ethel is always making mysteries. She cannot help other people having confidence in her, said Margaret gently. She need not be so important, and said Flora, always having private conferences with Papa. I do not think it is at all fair on the rest. Ethel is a very superior person, said Margaret, with half a sigh. Flora might toss her head, but she attempted no denial in words. And, continued Margaret, if Papa does find her his best companion and friend we ought to be glad of it. I do not call it just, said Flora. I do not think it can be helped, said Margaret. The best must be preferred. As to that, Ethel is often very ridiculous and silly. She is improving every day, and you know, dear Mama always thought her the finest character amongst us. Then you are ready to be left out, and have your third sister always put before you? No, Flora, that is not the case. Neither she nor Papa would ever be unfair. But, as she would say herself, what they can't help, they can't help. And, as she grows older, she must have passed me more and more. And you like it? I like it when I think of Papa and of his dear noble Ethel. I do like it when I am not selfish. Margaret turned away her head, but presently looked up again. Only Flora, she said, pray to not say one word of this on any account to Ethel. She is so happy with Papa, and I would not for anything have her think I feel neglected or had any jealousy. Ah, I thought, Flora, you can give up sweetly, but you have Ellen to fall back upon. Now I, who certainly have the best right, and a great deal more practical sense. Flora took Margaret's advice and did not reproach Ethel, for a letter of reflection convinced her that she should make a silly figure in so doing, and she did not like altercations. It was the same evening that Norman came in from school with his hands full of papers, and, with one voice, his father and Ethel exclaimed, You have them? Yes, and he gave the letter to his father, while Blanche, who had a very inquisitive pair of eyes, began to read from a paper he placed on the table. Norman Walter, son of Richard and Margaret May, High Street, Doctor of Medicine, December 21st, 18, Thomas Bramston. What is that for, Norman? And, as he did not attend, she called Mary to share her speculations and spell out the words. Ha! cried Doctor May. This is capital. The old doctor seems not to know how to say enough for you. Have you read it? No, he only told me he had said something in my favor, and wished me all success. Success! cried Mary. Oh, Norman, you are not going to see, too? No, no, interposed Blanche, knowingly. He is going to be married. I heard Nurse wish her brother success when he was going to marry the washerwoman with a red face. No, said Mary, people never are married till they are twenty. But I tell you, persisted Blanche, people always write like this, in a great book in church, when they are married, I know, for we always go into church with Lucy and Nurse when there is a wedding. Well, Norman, I wish you success with the bride-yard of court, said Doctor May, much diverted with the young lady's conjectures. But is it really, said Mary, making her eyes as round as full moons? Is it really, repeated Blanche? Oh, dear, is Norman going to be married? I wish it was to be made of rivers, for then I could always ride her dear little white pony. Tell them, whispered Norman, a good deal out of continence, as he leaned over Ethel and quitted the room. Ethel cried. Now then, and looked at her father, while Blanche and Mary reiterated inquiries, marriage and going to see, being the only events that, in their imagination, the world could furnish. Going to try for a bolly old scholarship? It was a sad falling off, even if they understood what it meant. The doctor's explanation to Margaret had a tone of apology for having kept her in ignorance, and Flora said few words, but felt herself injured. She had nearly gone to Mrs. Hoxton that afternoon, and how strange it would have been if anything had been said to her of her own brother's projects, when she was in ignorance. Ethel slipped away to her brother, who was in his own room, surrounded with books, flushed and anxious, and trying to glance over each subject on which he felt himself weak. I shall fail! I know I shall! was his exclamation. I wish I had never thought of it. What? Did Dr. Hoxton think you're not likely to succeed? cried Ethel in consternation. Oh, he said I was certain, but what is that? We stone-borrow men only compare ourselves with each other. I shall break down to a certainty, and my father will be disappointed. You will do your best? I don't know that. My best will all go away when it comes to the point. Surely not. It did not go away last time you were examined, and why should it now? I tell you, Ethel, you know nothing about it. I have not got up half what I meant to have done. Here, do take this book. Try me whether I know this properly. So they went on, Ethel doing her best to help and encourage, and Norman, in an excited state of restless despair, which drove away half his senses and recollection, and his ideas of the superior prowers of public schoolboys magnifying every moment. They were somewhat downstairs to prayers, but went up again at once, and more than an hour subsequently when their father paid one of his domiciliary visits. There they still were, with their Latin and Greek spread out, Norman trying to strengthen all doubtful points, but in a desperate, disultery manner, that only confused him more and more, until he was obliged to lay his head down on the table, shut his eyes, and run his fingers through his hair, before he could recollect the simplest matter. His renderings alternated with groans, and, cold as was the room, his cheeks and brow were flushed and burning. The doctor checked all this by saying, gravely and sternly, this is not right, Norman. Where are all your resolutions? I shall never do it. I ought never to have thought of it. I shall never succeed. What if you do not? said Dr. May, laying his hand on his shoulder. What? Why, Tom's chance lost. You will all be mortified, said Norman, hesitating in some confusion. I will take care of Tom, said Dr. May, and he will have been foiled, said Ethel. If he is, the boy and girl will go silent. Are you striving for your victory's sake, Norman? continued his father. I thought not, murmured Norman. Successful or not, you will have done your utmost for us. You would not lose one shot of affection or esteem, and Tom shall not suffer. Is it worth this agony? No, it is foolish, said Norman, with trembling voice, almost as if he could have burst into tears. He was quite unnerved by the anxiety and toil with which he had overtaxed himself, beyond his father's knowledge. Oh, Papa! pleaded Ethel, who could not bear to see him pained. It is foolish, continued Dr. May, who felt there was a moment for bracing severity. It is rendering you unmanly. It is wrong. Again Ethel made an exclamation of entreaty. It is wrong, I know, repeated Norman, but you don't know what it is to get into the spirit of the thing. Do you think I do not? said the doctor. I can tell you exactly what you feel now. If I had not been an idle dog, I should have gone through it all many more times. What shall I do? asked Norman, in a worn-out voice. Put all this out of your mind, sleep quietly, and don't open another book. Norman moved his head as if sleep were beyond his power. I will read you something to calm your tone, said Dr. May, and he took up a prayer book. Know ye not that they which run in a race run all, but one receiveth a prize? So run that ye may obtain, and every man that strives for the mastery is temperate in all things. Now they do it to obtain a corruptible crown, but we an incorruptible. And Norman, that is not the struggle where the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor the contest, where the conqueror only wins vanity and vexation of spirit. Norman had cast down his eyes and hardly made answer, but the words had evidently taken effect. The doctor only further bade him good night, with a whispered blessing and, taking Ethel by the hand, drew her away. When they met the next morning the excitement had passed from Norman's manner, but he looked dejected and resigned. He had made up his mind to lose and was not grateful for good wishes. He ought never to have thought, he said, of competing with men from public schools, and he knew his return of love of englory deserved that he should fail. However, he was now calm enough not to be likely to do himself injustice by nervousness, and Margaret hid hopes that Richard's steady, equitable mind would have a salutary influence. So, commending Tom's lessons to Ethel, and hearing, but not marking, countless messages to Richard, he set forth upon his imprise, while his anxiety seemed to remain as a legacy for those at home. Poor Dr. May confessed that his practice by no means agreed with his precept, for he could think of nothing else, and was almost as bad as Norman in his certainty that the boy would fail from mere nervousness. Margaret was a better companion for him now, attaching less intensity of interest to Norman's success than to Ethel. She was the more able to compose him and cheer his hopes. End of Part 1, Chapter 29, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona Part 1, Chapter 30 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 Weary soul and burdensore, laboring with thy secret load, fear not all thy griefs to pour in this heart, love's true abode. Lyra Innocentium She had just been brought in on the eighth evening from Norman's departure when there was a ring at the bell. There was a start and look of expectation. Only a patient, said the doctor, but it surely was not for that reason that he rose with so much alacrity and opened the door, nor was, well, old fellow, the greeting for his patients. So everybody sprang after him and beheld something tall, taking off a coat, while a voice said, I have got it. The mass of children rushed back to Margaret, screaming, he has got it! And then Aubrey trotted out into the hall again to see what Norman had got. A happy face at least, said Margaret, as he came to her, and that was not peculiar to Norman. The radiance had shown out upon everyone in that moment, and it was one buzz of happy exclamation, query, and answer. The only tone of regret when Mary spoke of Harry, and all at once took up the strain, how glad poor Harry would be. As to the examination, that had been much less difficult than Norman had expected. In fact, he said, it was lucky for him that the very subjects had been chosen in which he was most up. Luck which, as the doctor could not help observing, generally did attend Norman. And Norman had been so happy with Richard, the kind, wise elder brother had done exactly what was best for him, in soothing his anxiety, and had fully shared his feelings, and exalted in his success. Margaret had a most triumphant letter, dwelling on the abilities of the candidates whom Norman had outstripped, and the idea that everyone had conceived of his talent. Indeed, wrote Richard, I fancy the men had never believed that I could have a clever brother. I am glad they have seen what Norman can do. Margaret could not help reading this aloud, and it made Norman blush with the compunction that Richard's unselfish pride in him always excited. He had much to tell of his ecstasy with Oxford. Stonebar Minster had been a training in appreciation of his horrid beauty, but the essentially prosaic Richard had never prepared him for the impression that the reverend old university made on him, and he was already, heart and soul, one of her most loyal and loving sons, one of his college and of the whole university as one who had a right of property in them, and looking, all the time, not elated, but contented, as if he had found his fear and was satisfied. He had seen Chivio too, and had been very happy in the renewed friendship, and had been claimed as a cousin by a baliol man, a certain Norman Ogilvy, a name well known among the maize. And how has Tom been getting on, he asked, when he returned to home affairs. Oh, I don't know, said Ethel, he will not have my help. Not let you help him, exclaimed Norman. No, he says he wants no girls, said Ethel, laughing. Foolish fellow, said Norman, I wonder what sort of work he has made. Very funny, I should think, said Ethel, judging by the verses I could see. The little, pale, rough-haired Tom, in his perpetual coating of dust, softly crept into the room as if he only wanted to elude observation. But Mary and Blanche were at once vociferating their news in his ears, though with little encouragement, he only shook them off abruptly and would not answer when they required him to be glad. Norman stretched out his arm, intercepting him as he was making for his hiding place behind Dr. May's armchair. Come, August, how are things gone on? Oh, I don't know. What's your place? Thirteenth, might have Tom in his throat. And while he might, for two or three voices cried out that was too bad, and that it was all his own fault, for not accepting Ethel's help. He took little heed but crept to his corner without another word, and Mary knew she should be thumped if she should torment him there. Norman left him alone, but the coldness of the little brother for whom he had worked gave a greater chill to his pleasure than he could have supposed possible. He would rather have had some cordiality on Tom's part than all the congratulations that met him the next day. He could not rest contented while Tom continued to shrink from him, and he was more uneasy when, on Saturday morning, no calls for Mary availed to find the little boy and bring him to the usual reading and catechism. Margaret decided that they must begin without him, and poor Mary's verse was read, in consequence, with a most o'er his tone. As soon as the books were shut, she ran off, and a few words passed among the elder ones about the truant, Laura opining that the Andersons had led him away, Ethel suggesting that his glue must arise from his not being well, and Margaret looking wistfully at Norman, and saying she feared they had judged much amiss last spring. Norman heard in silence, and walked thoughtfully into the garden. Presently he caught Mary's voice in ex postulation. How could you not come to read? Girls work, growled another voice, out of sight. But Norman and Richard and Harry always come to the reading. Everybody ought. Norman, who was going round the shrubs that concealed the speakers from him, heard lost their voices, but, as he emerged in front of the old toolhouse, he heard a little scream from Mary, and, at the same moment, she darted back and fell over a heap of cabbage thumps in front of the old toolhouse. It was no small surprise to her to be raised by him, and tenderly asked whether she was hurt. She was not hurt, but she could not speak without crying, and when Norman begged to hear what was the matter, and where Tom was, she would only plead for him, that he did not intend to hurt her, and that she had been teasing him. What had he done to frighten her? Oh, he had only run at her with a hoe, because she was troublesome. She did not mind it, and Norman must not, and she clung him, as if to keep him back, while he pursued his researches in the toolhouse, where, nearly concealed by a great bushel basket, lurked Master Thomas, crouching down, with a volume of gill-blast in his hand. You hear, Tom, what have you hidden yourself here for? What can make you so savage to marry? She should not bother me, said Tom, sulkily. Norman sent Mary away, pacifying her by promises that he would not revenge her quarrel upon Tom, and then, turning the basket upside down and perching himself astride on it, he began, that is the kindest, most forgiving old sister I ever did see, what possesses you to treat her so ill. I wasn't going to hurt her. But why drive her away? Why don't you come to read? No answer, and Norman, for a moment, felt as if Tom will really hopelessly ill-condition and sullen, but he persevered in restraining his desire to cuff the ill humor out of him, and continued, Come, there's something wrong, and you will never be better till it is out. Tell me, don't be afraid. Those fellows have been at you again? He took Tom by the arm to draw him nearer, but a cry and start of pain were the result. So they have licked you? Eh? What have you been doing? They said they would splifficate me if I told, Sidetown. They shall never do anything to you. And, by and by, a sobbing confession was drawn forth, muttered at intervals, as low as if Tom expected the strings of onions to hear and betray him to his foes. Looking on him as a deserter, these town-boys had taken advantage of his brother's absence to heap on him every misery they could inflict. There had been a wager between Edward Anderson and Sam X-worthy as to what Tom could be made to do, and his personal timidity made him a miserable victim, not merely beaten and bruised, but forced to transgress every rule of right and wrong that had been enforced on his conscience. On Sunday they had profited by the absence of their ducks to have a jollification at a little public house, not far from the playing fields, and here had Tom been dragged in, forced to partake with them and frighten with their threats that he had treated them all, and was liable to pay the whole bill, which, of course, he firmly believed, as well as that he should be at least half-murdered if he gave his father any suspicion that the whole had not been consumed by himself. Now, though poor Tom's conscience had lost many scruples during the last spring, the offense, into which he had been forced, was too heinous to a child, brought up as he had been, to be paliated even in his own eyes. The profanation of Sunday and the carousel in a public house had combined to fail him with a sense of shame and degradation, which was the real cause that he felt himself unworthy to come and read with his sisters. His grief and misery were extreme, and Norman's indignation was such as could find no utterance. He sat silent, quivering with anger, and clenching his fingers over the handle of the hoe. I knew it, sighed Tom. None of you will ever speak to me again. You? Why, August man, I have better hopes of you than ever. You are more really sorry now than ever you were before. I have never been at the Green Man before, said poor Tom, feeling his future life stained. You never will again. When you are gone and the poor victim's voice died away. Tom, you will not stay after me. It is settled that when I go to Balliol you will leave Stoneboro and go to Mr. Wollmont as pupil. Those scamps shall never have you in their clutches again. It did not produce the ecstasy Norman had expected. The boy still sat on the ground, staring at his brother, as if the good news hardly penetrated the gloom. Then, after disappointing silence, recurred to the immediate cause of distress. Eight shillings and ten pence half-penny. Norman, if you would only lend it to me, you shall have all my ten till I have made it up. Six pence a week and half a crown on New Year's Day. I am not going to pay Mr. Axworthy's reckoning, said Norman, rather angrily. You will never be better till you have told my father the whole. Do you think they will send in the bill to my father, ask Tom, an alarm? No indeed. That is the last thing they will do, said Norman, but I would not have you come to him only for such a sneaking reason. But the girls would hear it. Oh, if I thought Mary and Margaret would ever hear it, Norman, I can't. Norman assured him that there was not the slightest reason that these passages should ever come to the knowledge of his sisters. Tom was excessively afraid of his father, but he could not well be more wretched than he was already. And he was brought to his scent when Norman showed him that he had never been happy since the affair of the blotting paper, when his father's looks and tones had been objects of dread to his guilty conscience, was not the only means of recovering a place in Papa's esteem to treat him with confidence? Tom answered not and would only shudder when his brother took upon him to declare that free confession would gain pardon even for the doings at the Green Man. Tom had grown stupefied and passive, and his sole dependence was on Norman, so, at last, he made no opposition when his brother offered to conduct him to his father and speak for him. The danger now was that Dr. May should not be forthcoming, and the elder brother was as much relieved as the younger was dismayed to see through the drawing window that he was standing beside Margaret. Papa, can you come and speak to me? said Norman at the door. What's coming? What now? said the doctor, entering the hall. What, Tom, my boy, what is it? As he saw the poor child, white, cold, almost sick with apprehension, with every pulse throbbing, and looking positively ill, he took the chilly, damp hand, which shook nervously, and would feign have withdrawn itself. Tom, my dear, let us see what is a mess. And before Tom knew what he was doing, he had seated him on his knee, in the armchair in the study, and was feeling his pulse. There, rest your head. Has it not been aching all day? I do not think he is ill, said Norman, but there is something he thinks I had better tell you. Tom would feign have been on his feet, yet the support of that shoulder was inexpressibly comfortable to his aching temples, and he could not but wait for the shock of being roughly shaken and put down. So, as his brother related would have occurred, he crouched and trembled more and more on his father's breast, till, to his surprise, he found the other arm pass round him in support, drawing him more tenderly close. My poor little fellow, said Dr. May, trying to look into the drooping face. I grieve to expose you to such usage as this. I little thought it of stone-borrow fellows. He is very sorry, said Norman, much distressed by the condition of the culprit. I see it. I see it plainly, said Dr. May. Tom, my boy, why should you tremble when you are with me? He has been in great dread of you being displeased. My boy, do you not know how I forgive you? Tom clung round his neck as if to steady himself. Oh, Papa, I thought you would never— Nay, you need never have thought so, my boy. What have I done that you should fear me? Tom did not speak, but nestled up to him with more confidence. There, that's better. Poor child, what he must have suffered. He was not fit for the place. I had thought him looking ill. Little did I guess the cause. He says his head has ached ever since Sunday, said Norman, and I believe he has hardly eaten or slept properly since. He shall never be under their power again. Thanks to you, Norman. Do you hear that, Tommy? The answer was hardly audible. The little boy was already almost asleep, worn out with all he had undergone. Norman began to clear the sofa that they might lay him down, but his father would not hear of disturbing him, and, sending Norman away, sat still for more than an hour, until the child slowly awoke and, scarcely recalling what had happened, stood up between his father's knees, rubbing his eyes, and looking bewildered. You are better now, my boy. I thought you would be very angry, slowly murmured Tom, as the past returned on him. Never, while you are sorry for your faults and own them freely. I'm glad I did, said the boy, still half asleep. I did not know you would be so kind. Ah, Tom, I fear it was as much my fault as yours that you did not know it. But, my dear, there is a pardon that can give you better peace than mine. I think, muttered Tom, looking down, I think I could say my prayers again now if— If what, my dear? If you would help me, as Mama used, there could be but one response to this speech. Tom was still giddy and unwell, his whole frame affected by the troubles of the last week, and Doctor May arranged him on the sofa and desired him to be quiet, offering to send Mary to be his companion. Tom was languidly pleased, but renewed his entreaty, that his confession might be a secret from his sisters. Doctor May promised, and Mary, quite satisfied at being taken into favor, asked no questions, but spent the rest of the morning in playing at drafts with him, and, in having inflicted on her the history of the bloody Fire King's Ghost, a work of Tom's imagination, which he was want to extemporize to the extreme terror of much-enduring Mary. When Doctor May had called Mary, he next summoned Norman, who found him in the hall, putting on his hat, and looking very stern and determined. Norman, said he hastily, don't say a word, it must be done, Hoxton must hear of this. Norman's face expressed utter consternation. It is not your doing, it is no concern of yours, said Doctor May, walking impetuously into the garden. I find my boy ill, broken down, shattered. It is the usage of this crew of fellows. What right have I to conceal it? Leave other people's sons to be so served? I believe they did so to Tom out of ill will to me, said Norman, and because they thought he had ratted. Hush, don't argue against it, said Doctor May almost petulantly. I have stood a great deal to oblige you, but I cannot stand this. When it is a matter of corruption, base cruelty, no, Norman, it is not right. Not another word. Norman's words had not been many, but he felt a conviction that, in spite of the dismay and pain to himself, Doctor May ought to meet with submission to his judgment, and he acquiesced by silence. Don't you see, continued the Doctor, if they act thus, when your back is turned, what is to happen next half? It is not for Tom's sake, but how could we justify it to ourselves to expose other boys to this usage? Yes, said Norman, not without a sigh. I suppose it must be. That is right, said Doctor May, as if much relieved. I knew you must see it in that light. I do not mean to abuse your confidence. No indeed, answered Norman warmly. But you see yourself that, where the welfare of so many is at stake, it would be wickedness. Yes, wickedness, to be silent. Could I see that little fellow prostrated, trembling in my arms, and think of those scamps inflicting the same on other helpless children away from their homes? I see, I see, said Norman, carried along by the indignation and tenderness and agitated his father's voice and his vehemence. It is the only thing to be done. It would be sharing the guilt to hide it, said Doctor May. Very well, said Norman, still reluctantly. What do you wish me to do? You see, as ducks, I know nothing about it. It happened while I was away. True, true, said his father, you have learned it as a brother, not as a senior boy. Yes, we had better have you out of the matter. It is I who complained of their usage of my son. Thank you, said Norman, with gratitude. You have not told me the names of these fellows. No, I had best not know them. I think it might make a difference, hesitated Norman. No, no, I will not hear them. It ought to make none. The fact is the same, be they who they may. The Doctor let himself out at the garden gate and strode off at a rapid pace, conscious perhaps, in secret, that if he did not at once yield to the impulsive resentment, good nature would overpower the sense of justice. His son returned to the house with a heavy sigh, yet honoring the generosity that had respected his scruples, when merely his own worldly loss was involved, but set them aside when the good of others was concerned. By and by Doctor May reappeared. The headmaster had been thoroughly roused to anger and had begged at once to examine May, Jr., for whom his father was now come. Tom was quite unprepared for such formidable consequences of his confession and began by piteous tears and sobs, and when these had with some difficulty been pacified he proved to be really so unwell and exhausted that his father could not take him to Minster Street and was obliged to leave him to his brother's keeping while he returned to the school. Upon this Doctor Hoxton came himself and the sisters were extremely excited and alarmed by the intelligence that he was in the study with Papa and Tom. Then away went the gentleman and Mary was again called to comfort Tom, who, broken down into the mere longing for sympathy, sobbed out all his troubles to her while her eyes expanded more and more in horror and her soft heart giving way. He cried quite as pitifully and a great deal more loudly and so the other sisters learned the whole and Margaret was ready for her father when he came in in the evening, harassed and sorrowful. His anger was all gone now and he was excessively grieved at finding that the ringleaders, Samuel Axworthy and Edward Anderson, could, in Doctor Hoxton's opinion, receive no sentence but expulsion, which was to be pronounced on them on Monday. Sam Axworthy was the son of a low, uneducated man and his best chance had been the going to the school, but he was of a surly, obstinate temper and showed so little compunction that even such super-abundant kindness as Doctor Mays could not find compassion for him, especially since it had appeared that Tom had been by no means the only victim and that he had often been the promoter of the like malpractices, which many boys were relieved to be forced to expose. For Edward Anderson, however, or rather for his mother, Doctor May was very sorry and had even interceded for his pardon, but Doctor Hoxton, though slow to be roused, was far less placable than the other Doctor and would not hear of anything but the most rigorous justice. Poor Mrs. Anderson, with her pride in her children, Flora spoke it with a shade of contemptuous pity, but it made her father groan. I shall never be able to look her in the face again. I shall never see that boy without feeling that I have ruined him. He needed nobody to do that for him, said Flora. With every disadvantage, continued Doctor May, unable even to remember his father, why could I not be more patient and forbearing? Oh, Papa was a gentle cry, Norman's voice giving decision to the sister's exclamation. Perhaps, said Margaret, the shock may be the best thing for him. Right, Margaret, said her father, sometimes such a thing is the first it shows when a course of evil really is. They are an affectionate family, too, said Margaret, and his mother's grief may have an effect on him. If she does not treat him as an injured hero, said Flora, besides, I see no reason for regret. These are but two, and the school is not to be sacrificed to them. Yes, said Norman. I believe that Ash will be able to keep much better order without actsworthy. It is much better as it is, but Harry will be very sorry to hear it, and I wish this half was over. Poor Mrs. Anderson. Her shower of notes rent the heart of the one doctor, but were tossed carelessly aside by the other. On that Sunday, Norman held various conversations with his probable successor, Ash, a gentle, well-disposed boy, hitherto in much dread of the post of authority, but owning that, in actsworthy's absence, the task would be comparatively easy and that Anderson would probably originate far less mischief. Edward Anderson himself fell on Norman's way in the street and was shrinking aside when a word of not unfriendly greeting caused him to quicken his steps and say hesitatingly, I say, how was August? Better, thank you. He will be all right in a day or two. I say we would not have bullied him so if he had not been in such a fright at nothing. I dare say not. I did not meet at all, but that sort of thing makes a fellow go on, continued Edward, hanging down his head, very sorrowful and downcast. If it had only been a fair bullying, but to take him to that place, to teach him falsehood, said Norman. Edward's eyes were full of tears. He almost owned the whole. He had not thought of such things, and then actsworthy. It was more evident from manner than words that the boy did repent and was greatly overcome, both by his own disgrace and his mother's distress, wishing earnestly to redeem his character and declaring, from the bottom of his heart, that he would avoid his former offenses. He was emboldened at last to say with hesitation, could not you speak to Dr. Hoxton for me? My father has had all he could in your behalf. Edward's eye glanced towards Norman in wonder, as he recollected that the maze must know that a word from him would have saved Norman from unjust punishment and the loss of the scholarship, and he said, good night, and turned his side to his own home with a heavy sigh. Norman took another turn, looked up at the sky, twisted his hands together in perplexity, mumbled something about hating to do a thing when it was all for no use, and then marched off toward Minster Street, with a pace like his father's the day before. When he came forth again from Dr. Hoxton's study, he did not believe that his intersection had produced the least effect, and there was a sense of vexation of the position which he had assumed. He went home and said nothing on the subject, but when, on Monday, the school was assembled and the judgment announced it was actsworthy alone whose friends had been advised to remove him. Anderson received a severe punishment as did all those who had shared in the revel at the Green Man. Even Tom, and another little boy who had been likewise drawn in, were obliged to stay within narrow bounds and to learn heavy impositions, and a stern reprimand and exhortation were given to the school collectively. Anderson, who had seen from the window that turned towards Minster Street, drew his own conclusions, and was not insensible to the generosity that had surpassed his hopes, though to his faltering attempt at thanks, Norman replied that he did not believe it was owing to him and never exposed himself to floor's wonder by declaring at home what he had done. So the last weeks of the half-year passed away with a boys and a subdued but a hopeful manner, and the Reformation, under Norman's auspices, progressed so well that Ash might fairly expect to reap the benefit of the discipline established at so much cost. Mr. Wilmot had looked on, and given his help, but he was preparing to leave Stoneborough, and there was great concern at the parting with such a friend. Ethel, especially, mourned the loss to Coxmore, and, for though hers had been the executive part, his had been the head, and he was almost equally grieved to go from the newly begun work. Margaret lamented the loss of her kind counselor and the ready hearer of her anxieties for the children. Brighton could ill-supply the place of their conversations, and she feared likewise that her father would feel the want of his companionship. The promise of visits and the intercourse kept up by Tom's passing to and fro was the best consolation. Poor Margaret had begun to flag both in strength and spirits as winter approached, but there came a revival in the shape of ships' letters Alan wrote cheerfully and graphically, with excellence accounts of Harry, who, on his side, sent very joyous and characteristic despatches, only wishing that he could present Mary with all the monkeys and parrots he had seen at Rio, as well as the little ruby-quested hummingbirds that always reminded him of Miss Rivers. With the Christmas holidays Hector Ernst Cliff came from Eden, as to a home, and was received by Margaret as a sort of a special charge. It was pretty to see how he turned her as something peculiarly his own, and would sit on a footstool by her, letting himself be drawn into confidence and dwelling on his brother's past-doings and on future schemes from Apelewood. For the rest he restored to the house the atmosphere of Boy, which had somewhat departed with Harry. Mary, who had begun to be tamed down, ran more wild than ever to the utter despair of Miss Winter, and Tom, now that his connection with the Witchcoat Foundation was over, and he was no more cowed by the sight of his tyrants, came out in a new light. He put on his boy-nature, rioted like the rest, acquired color in his cheeks, divested his jacket of perpetual dust, had his hair cut, brushed up a crest on his head, and ran about no longer a little abject but a merry lad. Ethel said it was a change from quarter blocks to a heart-figure. Margaret said little, but, like her father, she blessed Norman in her heart for having given back the boy to his father's confidence, and saved him so far from the terrible course of deceit and corruption. She could not much take to heart the mad exploits of the so-called boys, even though she spent three hours in heart beatings on Christmas Eve, when Hector, Mary, Tom, Blanche, and the dog Toby were lost the whole day. However, they did come back at six o'clock, having been deluded by an old myth of George Varkin's into starting for a common, three miles beyond Coxmore, in search of mistletoe, with scarlet berries and yellow holly, with leaves like a porcupine. Failing these wonders, they had been contending themselves with scarlet holly in the dry-dail plantations, when a rough voice exclaimed, Who gave you leave to take that, whereupon Tom had plunged into a thicket, and nearly scratched out both his eyes? But Hector boldly standing his ground, with Blanche in his hand, the woodman discovered that here was the Miss Mary, of whom his little girls talked so much, thereupon cut down the choices of bows, and promised to leave a full supply at Dr. Mace. Margaret could have been angry at the taking the young ladies on Sumanus Keen, but then Mary was so happy, and asked to Hector, how scold him, when he had lifted Blanche over every ditch, and had carried her home one mile on his back, and another, Queen's Cushion fashion, between him and Mary? Flora, meanwhile, went her own way. The desire of compensating for what had passed with Norman led to great civilities from Dr. and Mrs. Hoxton, which nobody was at liberty to receive except Flora. Pretty graceful and pleasing, she was a valuable companion to a gentle little, inane lady, with more time and money than she knew what to do with, and Mrs. Hoxton, who was of a superior grade to the stone borer ladies in general, was such a chaperone as Flora was glad to secure. Dr. Mace's old, loyal feelings could not help regarding her notice of his daughter as a favorite and kindness, and Margaret could find no tangible objections, nor any precedent, from her mother's conduct, even had anyone had the power to interfere with one so quiet, reasonable, and determined as Flora. So the intimacy became closer and closer, and as the winter passed on, Flora gradually became established as the dear friend and assistant, without whom Mrs. Hoxton could give no party. Further, Flora took the grand step of setting up a copper plate and cards of Mrs. Flora May, went out frequently on morning calls with Mrs. Hoxton and her bay horses, and when Dr. May refused to share of invitations to dinner with the neighbors in the county, Flora generally found that she could go under the Hoxton's guardianship. End of Part 1, Chapter 30, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona Part 2, Chapter 1 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 2, Chapter 1 Now have I then eek this condition, that above all the flories in the mead, then love I most these flories white and red, soach them and call them daisies in our town. To them have I so great affection, as I said erst when coming is the may, that in my bed there doth me no day that I am up and walking in the mead, to see this flora against the sun spread. Chaucer. That is better, said Margaret, contemplating a butterfly of the pen wiper class, whose constitution her dexterous needle had been rendering less frickety than Blanche had left it. Margaret's delay on the sofa and her complexion had assumed the dead white of habitual ill health. There was more languor of manner, and her countenance, when at rest, and not under the eye of her father, had a sadness of expression, as if any hope said she might once have entertained were fading away. The years of Alan Ernstcliff's absence that had elapsed had rather taken from her powers than added to them. Nevertheless the habit of cheerfulness and sympathy had not deserted her, and it was with a somewhat amused glance that she turned towards Ethel as she heard her answer by a sigh. These years had dealt more kindly with Etheldred's outward appearance. They had rounded her angles, softened her features, and tinged her cheeks with a touch of red that took off from the surrounding sourness. She held herself better, had learned to keep her hair in order, and the more womanly dress, plain though it was, improved her figure more than could have been hoped in the days of her lank gawky childhood. No one could call her pretty, but her countenance had something more than ever pleasing in the animated and thoughtful expression on those marked features. She was sitting near the window with a book, a dictionary, and pencil, as she replied to Margaret with the sigh that made her sister smile. Poor Ethel, I condole with you. And I wonder it's you, said Ethel, especially as Flora and Mrs. Hoxton say it is all for your sake. Then, nettle by Margaret's laugh, such a nice occupation for her, poor thing, as if you were Mrs. Hoxton, and had no resource but fancy work. You know I am base enough to be so amused, said Margaret. But seriously, Ethel dear, I cannot bear to see you so much hurt by it. I did not know you were really grieved. Grieved? I am ashamed. Sickened, cried Ethel vehemently. Poor Coxmore. As soon as anything is done there, Flora must needs go about implying that we have set some grand work in hand, and one only means. Stop, Ethel. Flora does not boast. No, she does not boast. I wish she did. That would be straightforward and simple, but she has too good taste for that. So she does worse. She tells a little, and makes that go a long way, as if she were keeping back a great deal. You don't know how furious it makes me. Ethel. So, said Ethel, disregarding. She stirs up all stone borough to hear what the Miss Mays are doing at Coxmore. So the ladies committee must needs have their finger in. Much they cared for the place when it was wild and neglected. But they go to inspect Cherry and her school, Mrs. Ledwich and all, and, back they come, shocked. No system, no order, the mistress untrained, the school too small, with no apparatus. They all run about in despair as if we had ever asked them to help us, and so Mrs. Hoxton, who cares for poor children no more than for puppy dogs, but who can't live without useless work, and has filled her house as full of it as it can hold, devises a bizarre, a feel for her trumpery, and a show-off for all the young ladies, and Flora treats it like an inspiration. Off they trot to the old assembly-rooms. I trusted that the smallness of them would have knocked it on the head. But, still worse, Flora's talking of it makes Mr. Rivers think it our pet scheme. So what does he do but offer his park, and so we are to have a regular fancy fair, and Coxmore School will be founded in vanity and frivolity. But I believe you like it. I am not sure of my own feeling, said Margaret. It has been settled without our interposition, and I have never been able to talk it over calmly with you. Papa does not seem to disapprove. No, said Ethel. He will only laugh and say it will spare him a great many of Mrs. Hoxton's nervous attacks. He thinks of it nearly as I do, at the bottom, but I cannot get him to stop it, not even to say he does not wish Flora to sell. I did not understand that you really had such strong objections, said Margaret. I thought it was only as a piece of folly and interference with my Coxmore, said Ethel. I had better own to what may be wrong personal feeling at first. I can hardly call it wrong, said Margaret tenderly, considering what Coxmore is to you and what the ladies' committee is. Oh, Margaret, if the lawful authority, if a good clergyman would only come, how willingly would I work under him? But Mrs. Ledwich and it is like having all his spaniards and savages spoiling Robinson Crusoe's Desert Island. He does not come to that yet, said Margaret, but about the fancy fare. We all know that the school is very much wanted. Yes, but I hope to wait in patience and perseverance and do it at last. All yourself? No, Margaret, you know I was glad of Allen's help. I should think so, said Margaret. You need not make a favor of that. Yes, but don't you see that came as almsgiving in the way which brings a blessing? We want nothing to make us give money and work to Coxmore. We do all we can already and I don't want to get a fine bag or a ridiculous pen cushion in exchange. Not you, but well for the rest. If they'd like to offer their money well and good, the better for them. But why must they not give it to Coxmore, but for that unnatural butterfly of blanches with black pins for horns, that they will go and sell at an extortionate rate? The price will be given for Coxmore's sake. Poo, Margaret, do you think it is for Coxmore's sake that Lady Lenora Langdale and her fine daughter come down from London? Would Mrs. Hoxton spend the time in making frocks for Coxmore children that she does in cutting out paper and stuffing glass bottles with it? Let people be honest, alms or pleasure or vanity. Let them say which they mean, but don't make charity the excuse for the others and, above all, don't make my poor Coxmore the victim of it. This is very severe, said Margaret, pausing, almost confounded. Do you think no charity worth having but what is given on unmixed motives? Who then could give? Margaret, we see much evil arise in the best-planned institutions, nay, in what are not human. Don't you think we ought to do our utmost to have no flaw in the foundation? Schools are not such perfect places that we can build them without fear, and if the means are to be raised by a bargain for amusement, if they are to come from frivolity instead of self-denial, I am afraid of them. I do not mean that Coxmore has not been the joy of my life and of Mary's, but that was not because we did it for pleasure. No, said Margaret, sighing. You found pleasure, by the way, but why did you not say all this to Flora? It is of no use to talk to Flora, said Ethel. She would say it was high-flown and visionary. Oh, she wants it for the bizarre's own sake, and that is one reason why I hate it. Now, Ethel, I do believe it was very unfortunate for Flora that the Hoxton's took the patronizing her, because Norman would not be patronized. Ever since it began, her mind has been full of visitings, and parties, and county families, and she has left off the home usefulness she used to care about. But you are old enough for that, said Margaret. It would be hard to keep Flora at home, now that you can take her place, and do not care for going out. One of us must be the representative, Miss May, you know, and keep up the civilities, and you may think yourself lucky it is not you. If it was only that, I should not care, but I may as well tell you, Margaret, for it is a weight to me. It is not the mere pleasure in gaities. Flora cares for them in themselves as little as I do, nor is it neighborliness, as a duty to others, for, you may observe, she always gets off any engagement to the wards, or any of the town folk, to whom it would be a gratification to have her. She either eludes them, or sends me. The thing is, that she is always trying to be with the great people, the county set, and I don't think that is a safe way of going on. Margaret mews sadly. You frighten me, Ethel. I cannot say it is not so, and these are so like the late and false that dear Mama's letter spoke of. Ethel sat meditating, and at last said, I wish I had not told you. I don't always believe in myself, and it is so unkind, and you'll make yourself unhappy, too. I ought not to have thought it of her. Think of her ever-ready kindness and helpfulness, her pretty courteous ways to the very least, her obligingness and tact. Yes, said Margaret, she is one of the kindest people there is, and I'm sure that she thought the gaining funds for Coxmore was the best thing to be done, that you would be pleased, and a great deal of pleasant occupation provided for us all. That is the bright side, the surface side, said Ethel. And not an untrue one, said Margaret, made it will not be vain, and will work the more happily for Coxmore's sake. Mary and Blanche, or Mrs. Boulder, and many good ladies who hitherto have not known how to help Coxmore, will do so now with a good will, and though it is not what we should have chosen, I think we had better take it in good part. You think so? Yes, indeed I do. If you go about with that dismal face and strong disapproval, it will really seem as if it was the having your dominion muddled with that you dislike. Besides, it is putting yourself forward to censor what is not absolutely wrong in itself, and that cannot be desirable. No, said Ethel, but I cannot help being sorry for Coxmore. I thought patience would prepare the way, and the means be granted in good time without hastiness, only earnestness. You have made a picture for yourself, said Margaret gently. Yes, we all make pictures for ourselves, and we are the foremost figures in them, but they are taken out of our hands, and we see others putting in rude touches and spoiling our work, as it seems, but by and by we shall see that all is guided. Ethel sighed. Then having protested to my utmost against this concern, you think out to be amiable about it. And to let poor Mary enjoy it. She would be so happy if you would not bewilder her by your gloomy looks and keep her to the hemming of your endless glazed calico bonnet strings. Poor old Mary, I thought that was by her own desire. Only her dutiful allegiance to you, and as making pincushions is nearly her greatest delight, it is cruel to make her think it, in some mysterious way, wrong and displeasing to you. Ethel laughed and said, I did not think Mary was in such awe of me. I'll set her free then. But Margaret, do you really think out to give up my time to it? Could you not just let them have a few drawings, or a little bit of your company work, just enough for you not to annoy everyone, and seem to be testifying against them? You would not like to vex Meta. It will go hard if I do not tell Meta my mind. I cannot bear to see her deluded. I don't think she is, said Margaret, but she does not set her face against what others wish. As Papa says of his dear little hummingbird, she takes the honey and leaves the poison. Yes, amid all that enjoyment she is always choosing the good and leaving the evil, always sacrificing something and then being happy in the sacrifice. No one would guess it was a sacrifice. It is so joyously done. Least of all Meta herself. Her coming home from London was exactly a specimen of that sacrifice. And no sacrifice, said Ethel. What was that, said Norman, who had come up to the window unobserved and had been listening to their last few sentences. Did you not hear of it? It was a sort of material turning away from vanity that made me respect the little rival Daisy as much as I always admired her. Tell me, said Norman, when was it? Last spring. You know Mr. Rivers is always ill in London? Indeed Papa says it would be the death of him. But Lady Leonora Langdale thinks it dreadful that Meta should not go to all the gayities. And last year, when Mrs. Larpent was gone, she insisted on her coming to stay with her for the season. Now Meta thought it wrong to leave her father alone and wanted not to have gone at all. But to my surprise, Margaret advised her to yield. And go for some short fixed time. Yes, said Margaret. As all her elders thought it right, I did not think we could advise her to refuse absolutely. Besides, it was a promise. She declared she would only stay three weeks and the line bales were satisfied thinking that once in London they should keep her. They little knew Meta with her pretty ways of pretending that her resolution is only spoiled child willfulness. None of you quite trusted her, did you, Margaret? Even Papa was almost afraid, though he wanted her very much to be at home. For poor Mr. Rivers was so low and forlorn without her, though he would not let her know. Because Lady Leonora had persuaded him to think it was all for her good. What did they do with her London, asked Norman. They did their utmost, said Ethel. They made engagements for her and took her to parties and concerts, though she did enjoy very much and she had lessons in drag and music. But whenever she wanted to see any exhibitions or do anything, they always said there was time to spare. I believe it was very charming and she would have been very glad to stay, but she never would promise and she was always thinking of her positive duty at home. She seemed afterwards to think of her wishes to remain almost as if they had been a sin, but she said, dear little Meta, that nothing had ever helped her so much as that she used to say to herself, whenever she was going out, I renounced the world. It came to a crisis at last when Lady Leonora wanted her to be presented. The drawing room was after the end of her three weeks and she held out against it. Though her aunt laughed at her and treated her as if she was a silly, shy child, at last what do you think Meta did? She went to her uncle, Lord Cosham, and appealed to him to say whether there was the least necessity for her to go to court. Then she gained a day, said Norman. He was delighted with that spirited yet coaxing way of hers and admired her determination. He told Papa so himself, for you must know, when he heard all Meta had to say, he called her a very good girl and said he would take her home himself on the Saturday she had fixed and spend Sunday at Abbott Stoke. Oh, he was perfectly won by her sweet ways. Was not it lucky, for before this lady Leonora had written to Mr. Rivers and obtained from him a letter which Meta had the next day designed her to stay for the drawing room. But Meta knew well enough how it was and was not to be conquered that way. So she said she must go home to entertain her uncle and that if her papa really wished it she would return on Monday. Knowing well that Mr. Rivers would be only too glad to keep her. Just so, how happy they both did look when they came in here on their way from the station where he had met her. How she danced in and how she sparkled with glee, said Margaret. And poor Mr. Rivers was quite tremulous with the joy of having her back, hardly able to keep from fumbling her every minute and coming again into the room after they had taken leave to tell me that his little girl had preferred her home and her poor old father to all the pleasures in London. Oh, I was so glad they came. That was a sight that did one good. And then, I fancy Mr. Rivers is a wee bit afraid of his brother-in-law. For he begged papa and Flora to come home and dine with him, but Flora was engaged to Mrs. Hoxton. Ha! Flora! said Norman, as if he rather enjoyed her losing something through her going to Mrs. Hoxton. I suppose she would have given the world to go. I was so sorry, said Ethel, but I had to go instead and it was delightful. Papa made great friends with Lord Cosham while Mr. Rivers went to sleep after dinner. And I had such a delightful wandering with Meta, listening to the nightingales and hearing all about it. I never knew Meta so well before. And there was no more question of her going back, said Norman. No indeed, she said, when her uncle asked her in joke, on Monday morning, whether she had packed up to return with him. Mr. Rivers was quite nervously alarmed the first moment, lest she should intend to. That little Meta, said Margaret. Her wishes for substantial use have been pretty well realized. Um, said Ethel. What do you mean? said Norman sharply. I should call her present position the perfection of feminine usefulness. So perhaps it is, said Ethel. But though she does it beautifully and is very valuable, to be the mistress of a great luxurious house like that does not seem to me. The subject of aspirations like Meta's. Think of the contrast with what she used to be, said Margaret gently. The pretty, gentle, playful toy that her father brought her up to be, living a life of mere accomplishments and self-indulgence. Kind, certainly, but never so as to endure any disagreeables or make any exertion. But as soon as she entered into the true spirit of our calling, did she not begin to seek to live the sterner life and train herself in duty? The quiet way she took always seemed to me the great beauty of it. She makes duties of her accomplishments by making them loving obedience to her father. Not that they are not pleasant to her? Interposed, Norman? Certainly, said Margaret. But it gives them the zest and confidence that they are right, which one could not have in such things merely for one's own amusement. Yes, said Ethel. She does more. She told me one day that one reason she liked sketching was that looking into nature always made psalms and hymns sing in her ears and so with her music and her beautiful copies from the old Italian devotional pictures. She says our papa taught her to look at them so as to see more than the mere art and beauty. Think how diligently she measures out her day, said Margaret, getting up early to be sure of time for reading her serious books and working hard at her tough studies. And what I care for still more, said Ethel. Her being bent on learning plain needlework and doing it for her poor people. She is so useful amongst the cottagers at Abbott Stoke. And the famous little mistress of the house, added Margaret. When the old housekeeper went away two years ago, she thought she ought to know something about the government of the house. So she asked me about it and proposed her father that the new one should come to her for orders and that she should pay the wages and have the accounts in her hands. Mr. Rivers thought it was only a freak, but she has gone on steadily and I assure you she has had some difficulties for she has come to me about them. Perhaps Ethel does not believe in them? No, I was only thinking how I should hate ordering those fenceful dinners for Mr. Rivers. I know what you mean and how she had difficulties about sending the maids to church and in dealing with a cook who did harm to the other servants and yet sent up dinners that he liked and how puzzled she was to avoid annoying him. Oh, she has gotten to a peck of troubles by making herself manager. And had she not been the maid as she is, she would either have fretted or thrown it all up instead of humming bristly through all. She never was afraid to speak to anyone, said Margaret. That is one thing. I believe every difficulty makes the spirit bound higher till she springs over it and finds it, as she says, only a pleasure. She need not be afraid to speak, said Ethel, for she always does it well and winningly. I have seen her give a reproof in so firm and kind of way and so bright in the instant of forgiveness. Yes, said Margaret. She does those disagreeable things as well as Flora does in her way. And yet, said Ethel, doing things well does not seem to be a snare to her. Because, whispered Margaret, she fulfills more than almost anyone, the whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God. Do you know, said Norman suddenly, the derivation of Margarita? No further than those two pretty meanings, the pearl and the daisy, said Ethel. It is from the Persian mervered child of light, said Norman, and with a sudden flush of color he returned to the garden. A fit meaning for one who carries sunshine with her, said Margaret. I feel in better tune for a whole day after her bright eyes have been smiling on me. You want no one to put you in tune, said Ethel, fondly. You, our own pearl of light. No, call me only an old faded daisy, said Margaret sadly. Not a bit, only our moon. La gran Margarita, said Ethel. I hear the real daisy coming, exclaimed Margaret, her face lighting up with pleasure as the two youngest children entered. And, indeed, little Gertrude's golden hair, round open face, fresh red and white complexion, and innocent looks, has so much likeness to the flower. As to promote the use of the pet name, though protests were often made in favor of her proper appellation. Her temper was days like two, serene and loving, and able to bear a great deal of spoiling, and resolve, as they might, who was not her slave. Miss Winter no longer ruled the school room. Her sway had been brought to a happy conclusion by a proposal from a widowed sister to keep house with her. And Ethel had reason to rejoice that Margaret had kept her submissive under authority, which, if not always judicious, was both kind and conscientious. Upon the change, Ethel had thought that the lessons could easily be managed by herself and Flora, while Flora was very anxious for her finishing governess, who might impart singing to herself, graces to Ethel, and accomplishments to Mary and Blanche. Dr. May, however, took them both by surprise. He met with a family of orphans, the eldest of whom had been qualifying herself for a governess, and needed nothing but age and finish, and in ten minutes, after the project had been conceived, he had begun to put it in execution in spite of Flora's prudent mirrors. Miss Bracey was a gentle, pleasing young person, pretty to look at, with her soft olive complexion and languid pensive eyes, obliging and intelligent. And the change from the dry, authoritative Miss Winter was so delightful that unedifying contrast were continually being drawn. Blanche struck up a great friendship for her at once. Mary, always docile, ceased to be piteous at her lessons, and Ethel more lives on the satisfaction of having sympathy needed instead of repelled, and did her utmost to make Miss Bracey feel at home, and, like a friend, in her new position. For herself, Ethel had drawn up a beautiful timetable, with all her pursuits and duties most carefully balanced, after the pattern of that which Margaret Rivers had made by her advice, on the departure of Mrs. Larpent, who had been called away by the ill health of her son. Metta had adhered to hers in an exemplary manner, but she was her own mistress in a manner that could hardly be the lot of one of a large family. Margaret had become subject to languid and palpitations, and the head of the household had fallen entirely upon Flora, who, on the other hand, was a person of multifarious occupations, and always had a great number of letters to write or songs to copy and practice, which, together with her frequent visits to Mrs. Hoxton, made her glad to devolve as much as she could upon her younger sister. And, oh Ethel, you will not mind just doing this for me, was said often enough to be a tax upon her time. Moreover, Ethel perceived that Aubrey's lessons were in an unsatisfactory state. Margaret could not always attend to them, and suffered from them when she did, and he was bandied about between his sisters and Miss Bracey in a manner that made him neither attentive nor obedient. On her own principle, that to embrace a task hardly renders it no longer irksome, she called on herself to sacrifice her studies and her regularity as far as was needful to make her available for home requirements. She made herself responsible for Aubrey, and, after a few battles with his desultory habits, made him a very promising pupil, inspiring so much of herself into him that he was, if anything, over-full of her classical taste. In fact, he had such an appetite for books, and dealt so much in precocious wisdom, that his father was heard to say, six years old, it is a comfort that he will soon forget the whole. Gertrude was also Ethel's pupil, but learning was not at all in her line, and the sight of cobwebs to catch flies, or of the venerated little Charles, were the most serious clouds that made the daisy pucker up her face and infuse a wine into her voice. However, today, as usual, she was half-dragged, half-coaxed, through her day's portion of the discipline of life, and then sent up for her sleep, while Aubrey's two hours were spent in more agreeable work, such as Margaret could not but enjoy hearing, so spirited was Ethel's mode of teaching, so eager was her scholar. His play afterwards consisted in fighting, or again, this siege of Troy on the floor, with wooden bricks, shells, and the survivors of a Noah's Ark, while Ethel read to Margaret until Gertrude's descent from the nursery, when the only means of preventing a dire confusion in Aubrey's camp was for her elder sisters to become her play-fellows, and so spare Aubrey's temper. Ethel good-humoredly gave her own time, till their little tyrant trotted out to make Norman cure her round the garden on his back. So sped the morning till Flora came home, full of the intended bazaar, and Ethel would feign have taken refuge in puzzling out in her Spanish had she not remembered her recent promise to be gracious. The matter had been much as she had described it. Flora had a way of hinting at anything she thought creditable, and thus the Stoneborough public had become aware of the exertions of the May family on behalf of Coxmore. The plan of a fancy fair was started. Mrs. Hoxton became more interested than was her want, and Flora was enchanted at the opening it gave her for promoting the welfare of the Forlorn District. She held a position which made her hope to direct the whole. As she had once declared, with truth, it only had depended on themselves whether she and her sisters should sink to the level of the Anderson's and their set, or belong to the county society, and her tack had resulted in her being decidedly, as the little dressmaker's apprentice amused Ethel by saying, one of our most distinguished patronesses, a name that had stuck by her ever since. Margaret looked on passively, inclined to admire Flora in everything, yet now and then puzzled, and her father, in his simple-hearted way, felt only gratitude and exultation in the kindness that his daughter met with. As to the Bazaar, if it had been started in his own family, he might have weighed the objections, but, as it was not his daughter's own concern, he did not trouble himself about it, only regarding it as one of the many vagaries of the Ladies of Stoneborough. So the scheme had been further developed, till now Flora came in with much to tell. The number of stalls had been finally fixed. Mrs. Hoxton undertook one, with Flora as an aide to camp, and some nieces to assist. Lady Leonora was to chaperone Miss Rivers, and a third, to Flora's regret, had been allotted to Miss Cleveland, a good-natured, merry elderly heiress, who would, Flora feared, bring on them the whole Stoneborough crew. And then she began to reckon up the present resources, drawings, bags, and pincushions. That chip hat you plated for Daisy, Margaret, you must let us have that. It will be lovely trimmed with pink. Do you wish for this? said Ethel, heaving up a mass of knitting. Thank you, said Flora, so ornamental, especially the original performance in the corner, which you would perpetrate in spite of my best efforts. I shall not be offended if you despise it. I only thought you might have no more scruple in robbing Granny Hall than in robbing Daisy. Pray send it. Papa will buy it as your unique performance. No, you shall tell me what I am to do. Does she mean it, said Flora, turning to Margaret? Have you converted her? Well done. Then, Ethel, we will get some pretty bautiste, and you and Mary shall make some of those nice sunbonnets, which you really do to perfection. Thank you. That is a more respectable task than I expected. People may have something worth buying, said Ethel, who, like all the world, felt the influence of Flora's tact. I mean to study the useful, said Flora. The Cleveland set will be sure to deal in ferpery, and I have been looking over Mrs. Hoxton's stores, where I see quite enough premier decoration. There are two splendid vases in Pochimani in an Etruscan pattern, which are coming for me to finish. Mrs. Taylor, at Coxmore, could do that for you, said Ethel. Her two files, stuffed with chins patterns and flower, are quite as original and tasteful. Silly work, said Flora, but it makes a fair show. The essence of vanity fair, said Ethel. It won't do to be satirical over much, said Flora. You won't get on without humoring your neighbor's follies. I don't want to get on. But you want, or at least I want, Coxmore to get on. Ethel saw Margaret looking distressed, and recalling her resolution, she said, Well, Flora, I don't mean to say any more about it. I see it can't be helped, and you all think you intended for good. So there's an end of the matter, and I'll do anything for you in reason. Poor old King Ethel, said Flora, smiling in an elderly sister manner. You will see, my dear, your views are very pretty, but very impracticable. And it is a work-a-day world, after all. Even Papa would tell you so. When Coxmore School is built, then you may thank me. I do not look for it before. End of Part 2, Chapter 1, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. Part 2, Chapter 2 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 2, Chapter 2. Knowledge is second, not the first. A higher hand must make her mild, if all be not in vain, and guide her footsteps, moving side by side, with wisdom, like the younger child, for she is earthly of the mind, but knowledge heavenly of the soul. End of Part 3, Chapter 1, Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona. At Theldred had not answered her sister, but she did not feel at all secure that she should have anything to be thankful for, even if the school were built. The invasion of Coxmore was not only interference with her own field of action, but it was dangerous to the improvement of our scholars. Since the departure of Mr. Womlott, matters at Stoneborough National School had not improved, though the Mrs. Anderson talked a great deal about progress, science, and lectures. The ladies' committee were constantly at war with the mistresses, and that one was a veteran who endured them, or whom they could endure beyond her first half year. No mistress had stayed a year within the memory of any girl now at school. Perpetual change prevented any real education, and as each lady held different opinions and prescribed all books not agreeing there too. Everything dogmatical was excluded, and, as Ethel said, the children learned nothing but facts about lions and steam engines, while their doctrine varied with that of the visitors for the week. If the ten generals could only have given up the Meltiades, but, last, there was no Meltiades. Mr. Ramston's health was failing, and his neglect told upon the parish and the dreadful evils reigning unchecked, and engulfing many a child whom more influential teaching might have saved. Mental arithmetic and the rivers of Africa had little power to strengthen the soul against temptation. The scanty attendance at the National School attested the indifference with which it was regarded, and the borderers voluntarily patronized Cherry Ellwood, and thus had, perhaps, first arouse the emulation that led Mrs. Ledwich on a visit of inspection to what she chose to consider as an offshoot of the National School. The next day she called upon the Mrs. May. It was well that Ethel was not at home. Margaret received the ladies' horrors at the sight of the mere crowded cottage kitchen, the stupid untrained mistress, without an idea of method, and that impertinent woman, her mother. Ms. Flora and Ms. Ethel must have had a great deal to undergo, and she would lose no time in convening the ladies' committee and appointing a successor to that Ellwood as soon as a fit room could be erected for her use. If Margaret had not known that Mrs. Ledwich sometimes threatened more than she could accomplish, she would have been in despair. She tried to say a good word for Cherry, but was top-down and had reason to believe that Mrs. Ellwood had mortally offended Mrs. Ledwich. The sisters had heard the other side of the story at Coxmore. Mrs. Ellwood would not let them enter the school till she had heard how that there Mrs. Ledwich had come in, and treated them all as if it was her own place, how she had found fault with Cherry before all the children, and as good as said she was not fit to keep a school. She had even laid hands on one of the books, and said that she should take it home, and see whether it were a fit one for them to use, whereupon Mrs. Ellwood had burst out in defense. It was Ms. Ethel May's book, and should not be taken away. It was Ms. Ethel as she looked to, and when it seemed that Mrs. Ledwich had said something disparaging of Ms. Ethel, either as to youth, judgment, or doctrine, Mrs. Ellwood had fired up into a declaration that Ms. Ethel was a real lady, that she was, and that no real lady would ever come prying into other folks' work, and finding fault with what was at no business of theirs, with more of a personal major, which Flora could not help enjoying, even while she regretted it. Cherry was only too meek, as her mother declared. She had said not a word, except in quiet reply and being equally terrified by the attack and defense had probably seemed more dull than was her want. Her real feelings did not appear till the next Sunday, when, in her peaceful conference with Margaret, far from the sound of storms, she expressed that she well knew that she was a poor scholar, and that she hoped the young ladies would not let her stand in the children's light when a better teacher could be found for them. Sure, cried Ethel, as she heard of this. It would be hard to find such a teacher in humility. Cherry bears it so much better than I that it is a continual reproof. As to the dullness against which Ethel used to rail, the attacks upon it had made her erect it into a positive merit. She was always comparing the truth, honesty, and respectful demeanor of Cherry's scholars with the notorious faults of the national schoolgirls, as if these defects had been implanted either by Mrs. Ledwidge or by geography. It must be confessed that the violence of partisanship did not make her a pleasant companion. However, the interest of the bazaar began somewhat to divert the current, the ladies' thoughts, and Ethel found herself walking day after day to Coxmore, unmolested by further reports of Mrs. Ledwidge's proceedings. Richard was absent, preparing for ordination, but Norman had just returned home for the long vacation, and, rather than lose the chance of a conversation with her, had joined her and Mary in a walk to Coxmore. His talk was chiefly of Settlesham, old Mr. Wilmot's parish, where he had been making a visit to his former tutor and talking over the removal to Eden of Tom, who had well responded to the care taken of him, and with his good principles confirmed, and his character strengthened, might be, with less danger, exposed to trial. It had been a visit such as to leave a deep impression on Norman's mind. Sixty years ago, old Mr. Wilmot had been what he now was himself, an enthusiastic and distinguished Baleal man, and he had kept up a warm, clear-sided interest in Oxford throughout his long life. His anecdotes, his recollections, and comments on present opinions had been listened to with great eagerness, and Norman had felt it an infinite honour to give the venerable old man his arm, as to be shown by him his curious collection of books. His parish, carefully watched for so many years, had been a study not lost upon Norman, who detailed particulars of the doings there, which made Ethel sigh to think of the contrast with Stonboral. In such conversation that came to the entrance of the Hamlet, and Mary, with a scream of joy, declared that she really believed that he was going to help them, he did not turn away. Thank you, said Ethel, in a low voice, from the bottom of her heart. She used him mercifully and made the lessons shorter than usual, but when they reached the open air again, he drew a long breath, and when Mary eagerly tried for a compliment to their scholars, asked if they could not be taught to use violets. Did they stare, said Ethel? That's one advantage of being blind. No one can stare me out of continence. Why were you answering all your questions yourself, asked Mary? Because no one else would, said Norman. You use such hard words, replied Ethel. Indeed, I thought I was very simple. Oh, cried Mary, there were derive, and instruction, and implicate, and oh, so many. Never mind, said Ethel, seeing him disconcerted. It is better for them to be drawn up, and you will soon learn their language, if we only had Una McCarthy here. Then you don't like it, said Mary, disappointed. It is time to learn not to be fastidious, he answered. So, if you will help me. Norman, I am so glad, said Ethel. Yes, said Norman. I see now that these things that puff us up, and seem the whole world to us now, all end in nothing but such as this. Think of old Mr. Wilmot, once carrying all before him, but deeming all his powers well bestowed in fifty years teaching of clowns. Yes, replied Ethel, very low. One soul is worth, and she paused from the fullness of thought. And these things, about which we are so elated, do not render us so fit to teach, as you, Mary, or as Richard. They do, said Ethel. The ten talents were doubled. Strength tells in power. The more learning, the fitter to teach the simplest thing. You remind me of old Mr. Wilmot, saying that the first thing he learned at his parish was, how little his people knew. The second, how little he himself knew. So Norman persevered in the homely discipline that he had chosen for himself, which brought out his deficiency in practical work, in a manner which lowered him in his own eyes, to a degree almost satisfactory to himself. He was not indeed without humility, but his nature was self-contemplative and self-conscious enough to perceive his superiority of talent, and it had been the struggle of his life to abase this perception, so that it was actually a relief not to be obliged to fight with his own complacency in his powers. He had learned not to think too highly of himself. He had yet to learn to think soberly. His aid was Ethel's chief pleasure through this somewhat trying summer. It might be her last peaceful one at Coxmore. That bizarre! How wild it had driven the whole town and even her own home! Margaret herself, between good nature and feminine love of pretty things, had become ardent in the cause. In her unburied life it was great amusement to have so many bright, elegant things exhibited to her, and Ethel was often mortified to find her excited about some new device, or drawn off from rational employment to complete some trifle. Mary and Blanche were far worse. From the time that consent had been given to the fancy work being carried on in the schoolroom, all interest in study was over. Thenceforth lessons were a necessary form, gone through without heart or diligence. These were reserved for pasteboard boxes, be covered with rice and ceiling wax, for alum baskets, dress dolls, and every conceivable trumpery, and the governess was as eager as the scholars. If Ethel remonstrated, she heard Miss Bracey's feelings, and this was a very serious matter to both parties. The governess was one of those morbidly sensitive people who cannot be stopped when once they have begun arguing that they are injured. Two women together, each with the last word mentioned, have no power to cease, and, when the words are spent in explaining, not in scolding, conscious is not called in to silence them, and nothing but dinner or a thunderstorm can check them. All Ethel's good sense was of no avail. She could not stop Miss Bracey, and, though she might resolve within herself that real kindness would be to make one reasonable reply, and then quit the subject, yet, on each individual occasion, such a measure would have seemed mere impatience and cruelty, she found that if Miss Winter had been too dry, Miss Bracey went to the other extreme, and demanded a manifestation of sympathy, and returned to her passionate attachment that perplexed Ethel's undemonstrative nature. Poor good Miss Bracey! She little imagined how often she added to the worries of her dear Miss Ethel, all for want of self-command. Finally, as the lessons were less and less attended to, and the needs of the stall became more urgent, Dr. May and Margaret concurred in a decision, that it was better to yield to the mania, and give up the studies till they could be pursued with a willing mind. Ethel submitted, and only laughed with Norman at the display of treasures, which the girls went over daily, like the house that Jack built, always starting from the box that Mary made. Come when Dr. May would into the bedroom, there was always a line of pen wipers laid out on the floor, bags pendant to all the table drawers, anti- macassars laid out everywhere. Ethel hoped that the holidays would create a diversion, but Mary was too old to be made into a boy, and blanched Drew Hector over to the feminine party, setting him to gum, guilt, and paste all the contrivances which, in their hands, were mere feeble gim cracks, but which now became fairly sound, or at least salable. The boys also constructed a beautiful little ship from a print of the Alcestus, so successfully that the doctor promised to buy it, and Ethel grudged the very side of it to the bazaar. Tom, who, in person, was growing like a little shadow or model of Norman, had, unlike him, a very dexterous pair of hands, and made himself extremely useful in all such works. On the other hand, the Cleveland stall seemed chiefly to rely for brilliance on the wit of Harvey Anderson, who was prospering at his college and the pride of his family. A great talker and extribute gallant, he was considered a far greater acquisition to a stone-burrow drying-room than was the silent, bashful Norman May, and rather look down on his brother Edward, who, having gone steadily through the school, was in the attorney's office and went on quietly and well, coloring up gratefully whenever one of the May families said a kind word to him. End of Part 2, Chapter 2, recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona.