not be made to listen this evening was plain, and all that Ethel could do, was to search for some books on schools. In seeking for them, she displayed such confusion in the chiffonier, that Flora exclaimed, “Oh, Ethel, how could you leave it so?”
“I was in a hurry, looking for something for Norman. I’ll set it to rights,” said Ethel, gulping down her dislike of being reproved by Flora, with the thought that mamma would have said the same.
“My dear!” cried Flora presently, jumping up, “what are you doing? piling up those heavy books on the top of the little ones; how do you think they will ever stand? let me do it.”
“No, no, Flora;” and Richard, in a low voice, gave Ethel some advice, which she received, seated on the floor, in a mood between temper and despair.
“He is going to teach her to do it on the principles of gravitation,” said Flora.
Richard did not do it himself, but, by his means, Ethel, without being in the least irritated, gave the chiffonier a thorough dusting and setting-to-rights, sorting magazines, burning old catalogues, and finding her own long-lost ‘Undine’, at which she was so delighted that she would have forgotten all; in proceeding to read it, curled up on the floor amongst the heaps of pamphlets, if another gentle hint from Richard had not made her finish her task so well, as to make Flora declare it was a pleasure to look in, and Harry pronounce it to be all neat and ship-shape.
There was no speaking to Margaret the next morning—it was French day—and Ethel had made strong resolutions to behave better; and whether there were fewer idioms, or that she was trying to understand, instead of carping at the master’s explanations, they came to no battle; Flora led the conversation, and she sustained her part with credit, and gained an excellent mark.
Flora said afterwards to Margaret, “I managed nicely for her. I would not let M. Ballompre blunder upon any of the subjects Ethel feels too deeply to talk of in good French, and really Ethel has a great talent for languages. How fast she gets on with Italian!”
“That she does,” said Margaret. “Suppose you send her up, Flora—you must want to go and draw or practice, and she may do her arithmetic here, or read to me.”
It was the second time Margaret had made this proposal, and it did not please Flora, who had learned to think herself necessary to her sister, and liked to be the one to do everything for her. She was within six weeks of seventeen, and surely she need not be sent down again to the school-room, when she had been so good a manager of the whole family. She was fond of study and of accomplishments, but she thought she might be emancipated from Miss Winter; and it was not pleasant to her that a sister, only eighteen months older, and almost dependant on her, should have authority to dispose of her time.
“I practise in the evening,” she said, “and I could draw here, if I wished, but I have some music to copy.”
Margaret was concerned at the dissatisfaction, though not understanding the whole of it: “You know, dear Flora,” she said, “I need not take up all your time now.”
“Don’t regret that,” said Flora. “I like nothing so well as waiting on you, and I can attend to my own affairs very well here.”
“I’ll tell you why I proposed it,” said Margaret. “I think it would be a relief for Ethel to escape from Miss Winter’s beloved Friday questions.”
“Great nonsense they are,” said Flora. “Why don’t you tell Miss Winter they are of no use?”
“Mamma never interfered with them,” said Margaret. “She only kept Ethel in her own hands, and if you would be so kind as to change sometimes and sit in the school-room, we could spare Ethel, without hurting Miss Winter’s feelings.”
“Well, I’ll call Ethel, if you like, but I shall go and practise in the drawing-room. The old school-room piano is fit for nothing but Mary to hammer upon.”
Flora went away, evidently annoyed, and Margaret’s conjectures on the cause of it were cut short by Ethel running in with a slate in one hand and two books in the other, the rest having all tumbled down on the stairs.
“Oh, Margaret, I am so glad to come to you. Miss Winter has set Mary to read ‘To be, or not to be,’ and it would have driven me distracted to have stayed there. I have got a most beautiful sum in Compound Proportion, about a lion, a wolf, and a bear eating up a carcase, and as soon as they have done it, you shall hear me say my ancient geography, and then we will do a nice bit of Tasso; and if we have any time after that, I have got such a thing to tell you—only I must not tell you now, or I shall go on talking and not finish my lessons.”
It was not till all were done, that Ethel felt free to exclaim, “Now for what I have been longing to tell you—Richard is going to—” But the fates were unpropitious. Aubrey trotted in, expecting to be amused; next came Norman, and Ethel gave up in despair; and, after having affronted Flora in the morning, Margaret was afraid of renewing the offence, by attempting to secure Ethel as her companion for the afternoon; so not till after the walk could Margaret contrive to claim the promised communication, telling Ethel to come and settle herself cosily by her.
“I should have been very glad of you last evening,” said she, “for papa went to sleep, and my book was out of reach.”
“Oh, I am sorry; how I pity you, poor Margaret!”
“I suppose I have grown lazy,” said Margaret, “for I don’t mind those things now. I am never sorry for a quiet time to recollect and consider.”
“It must be like the waiting in the dark between the slides of a magic lantern,” said Ethel; “I never like to be quiet. I get so unhappy.”
“I am glad of resting and recollecting,” said Margaret. “It has all been so like a dream, that merry morning, and then, slowly waking to find myself here in dear mamma’s place, and papa watching over me. Sometimes I think I have not half understood what it really is, and that I don’t realise, that if I was up and about, I should find the house without her.”
“Yes; that is the aching part!” said Ethel. “I am happy, sitting on her bed here with you. You are a little of her, besides being my own dear Peg-top! You are very lucky to miss the mealtimes and the evenings.”
“That is the reason I don’t feel it wrong to like to have papa sitting with me all the evening,” said Margaret, “though it may make it worse for you to have him away. I don’t think it selfish in me to keep him. He wants quiet so much, or to talk a little when it suits him; we are too many now, when he is tired.”
“Oh, it is best,” said Ethel. “Nothing that you do is selfish—don’t talk of it, dear Margaret. It will be something like old times when you come down again.”
“But all this time you are not telling me what I want so much to hear,” said Margaret, “about Cocksmoor. I am so glad Richard has taken it up.”
“That he has. We are to go every Friday, and hire a room, and teach the children. Once a week will do a great deal, if we can but make them wish to learn. It is a much better plan than mine; for if they care about it, they can come to school here on Sunday.”
“It is excellent,” said Margaret, “and if he is at home till Easter, it will give it a start, and put you in the way of it, and get you through the short days and dark evenings, when you could not so well walk home without him.”
“Yes,
