sundry of the family were visiting her after coming home from church in the afternoon. Ethel was in a vehement state of indignation at what had that day happened at school. “Did you ever hear anything like it! When the point was, to teach the poor things to be Christians, to turn them back, because their hair was not regulation length!”
“What’s that! Who did?” said Dr. May, coming in from his own room, where he had heard a few words.
“Mrs. Ledwich. She sent back three of the Cocksmoor children this morning. It seems she warned them last Sunday without saying a word to us.”
“Sent them back from church!” said the doctor.
“Not exactly from church,” said Margaret.
“It is the same in effect,” said Ethel, “to turn them from school; for if they did try to go alone, the pew-openers would drive them out.”
“It is a wretched state of things!” said Dr. May, who never wanted much provocation to begin storming about parish affairs. “When I am churchwarden again, I’ll see what can be done about the seats; but it’s no sort of use, while Ramsden goes on as he does.”
“Now my poor children are done for!” said Ethel. “They will never come again. And it’s horrid, papa; there are lots of town children who wear immense long plaits of hair, and Mrs. Ledwich never interferes with them. It is entirely to drive the poor Cocksmoor ones away—for nothing else, and all out of Fanny Anderson’s chatter.”
“Ethel, my dear,” said Margaret pleadingly.
“Didn’t I tell you, Margaret, how, as soon as Flora knew what Mrs. Ledwich was going to do, she went and told her this was the children’s only chance, and if we affronted them for a trifle, there would be no hope of getting them back. She said she was sorry, if we were interested for them, but rules must not be broken; and when Flora spoke of all who do wear long hair unmolested, she shuffled and said, for the sake of the teachers, as well as the other children, rags and dirt could not be allowed; and then she brought up the old story of Miss Boulder’s pencil, though she has found it again, and ended by saying Fanny Anderson told her it was a serious annoyance to the teachers, and she was sure we should agree with her, that something was due to voluntary assistants and subscribers.”
“I am afraid there has been a regular set at them,” said Margaret, “and perhaps they are troublesome, poor things.”
“As if school-keeping were for luxury!” said Dr. May. “It is the worst thing I have heard of Mrs. Ledwich yet! One’s blood boils to think of those poor children being cast off because our fine young ladies are too grand to teach them! The clergyman leaving his work to a set of conceited women, and they turning their backs on ignorance, when it comes to their door! Voluntary subscribers, indeed! I’ve a great mind I’ll be one no longer.”
“Oh, papa, that would not be fair—” began Ethel; but Margaret knew he would not act on this, squeezed her hand, and silenced her.
“One thing I’ve said, and I’ll hold to it,” continued Dr. May; “if they outvote Wilmot again in your Ladies’ Committee, I’ll have no more to do with them, as sure as my name’s Dick May. It is a scandal the way things are done here!”
“Papa,” said Richard, who had all the time been standing silent, “Ethel and I have been thinking, if you approved, whether we could not do something towards teaching the Cocksmoor children, and breaking them in for the Sunday-school.”
What a bound Ethel’s heart gave, and how full of congratulation and sympathy was the pressure of Margaret’s hand!
“What did you think of doing?” said the doctor. Ethel burned to reply, but her sister’s hand admonished her to remember her compact. Richard answered, “We thought of trying to get a room, and going perhaps once or twice a week to give them a little teaching. It would be little enough, but it might do something towards civilising them, and making them wish for more.”
“How do you propose to get a room?”
“I have reconnoitred, and I think I know a cottage with a tolerable kitchen, which I dare say we might hire for an afternoon for sixpence.”
Ethel, unable to bear it any longer, threw herself forward, and sitting on the ground at her father’s feet, exclaimed, “Oh, papa! papa! do say we may!”
“What’s all this about?” said the doctor, surprised.
“Oh! you don’t know how I have thought of it day and night these two months!”
“What! Ethel, have a fancy for two whole months, and the whole house not hear of it!” said her father, with a rather provoking look of incredulity.
“Richard was afraid of bothering you, and wouldn’t let me. But do speak, papa. May we?”
“I don’t see any objection.”
She clasped her hands in ecstasy. “Thank you! thank you, papa! Oh, Ritchie! Oh, Margaret!” cried she, in a breathless voice of transport.
“You have worked yourself up to a fine pass,” said the doctor, patting the agitated girl fondly as she leaned against his knee. “Remember, slow and steady.”
“I’ve got Richard to help me,” said Ethel.
“Sufficient guarantee,” said her father, smiling archly as he looked up to his son, whose fair face had coloured deep red. “You will keep the Unready in order, Ritchie.”
“He does,” said Margaret; “he has taken her education into his hands, and I really believe he has taught her to hold up her frock and stick in pins.”
“And to know her right hand from her left, eh, Ethel? Well, you deserve some credit, then. Suppose we ask Mr. Wilmot to tea, and talk it over.”
“Oh, thank you, papa! When shall it be? To-morrow?”
“Yes, if you like. I have to go to the town-council meeting, and am not going into the country, so I shall be in early.”
“Thank you. Oh, how very nice!”
“And what about cost? Do you expect to rob me?”
“If you would help us,” said Ethel, with an odd shy manner; “we meant to make what we have go as far as may be, but mine is only fifteen and sixpence.”
“Well, you must make interest with Margaret for the turn-out of my pocket to-morrow.”
“Thank you, we are very much obliged,” said the brother and sister earnestly, “that is more than we expected.”
“Ha! don’t thank too soon. Suppose to-morrow should be a blank day!”
“Oh, it won’t!” said Ethel. “I shall tell Norman to make you go to paying people.”
“There’s avarice!” said the doctor. “But look you here, Ethel, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll make your bargain for Tuesday. I have a note appointing me to call at Abbotstoke Grange on Mr. Rivers, at twelve o’clock, on Tuesday. What do you think of that, Ethel? An old banker, rich enough for his daughter to curl her hair in bank-notes. If I were you, I’d make a bargain for him.”
“If he had nothing the matter with him, and I only got one guinea out of him!”
“Prudence!
