Chapter II

MRS. EVELYN had decided that it was best for Kitty to go to school, a good deal to the young lady's annoyance,—partly because she had looked forward to a summer of play, and partly because it hurt her dignity to think of going to a common country school-house. She found some comfort, however, in the idea that she should probably be a person of considerable consequence. She had very little doubt that she should be the best scholar in the school, and even made some serious resolutions against being proud of her superiority in this and other respects. She fully intended to be very kind to the other children and help them as much as she could. And by the aid of these and similar reflections, she quite reconciled herself to the idea, which had at first been so distasteful to her.

Mrs. Evelyn began to see that in taking charge of Kitty she had undertaken a pretty serious task, but she was a woman of great patience and discernment. She saw that almost all Kitty's faults arose from her overweening idea of her own importance, and that she would have to be thoroughly humbled before there could be much hope of her permanent improvement. But she knew that it would be necessary to proceed with great care and gentleness, lest the little girl should become entirely discouraged. Mrs. Evelyn had a high opinion of Miss Watson, the teacher of the school; and she thought it would be much better for Kitty to be with other girls of her own age, with whom she might compare herself and her attainments.

When Sunday came, Kitty was much more attentive in church than she had been before. Harvey knew how to use his book quite as well as Kitty did, but he was fond of the little girl, as he was of every child, and indeed, every animal that came near him, and was, moreover, somewhat amused with the air with which she took the book out of his hand and gave him her own, pointing at the same time to the proper place. And he did not resent, as Kitty herself would have done, the imputation that he did not understand the service.

Whether Kitty profited by the service or not, she certainly behaved with great propriety, and had the satisfaction of saying her Sunday-school lesson so perfectly that she hoped quite to overcome any unfavourable impression she had made the Sunday before. In the general exercise, her voice quite led the girls. And she was not at all displeased when the superintendent called upon her to stand up and recite the lesson by herself. Another little girl in her aunt's class also recited it by herself, and acquitted herself very laudably, though she did not speak quite so distinctly as Kitty. She was rather a pretty child, about Kitty's own age, and her name was Sylvia Grey.

"Did I say my lesson well, aunt?" asked Kitty, as they were going home in the carriage.

"Very well indeed," replied her aunt. "I was glad to hear you speak so distinctly."

"I do not think the lessons are hard," continued Kitty. "I am sure it was no trouble at all for me to learn mine."

"I think they are rather too easy for girls of your age," said Mrs. Evelyn; "and I am thinking of changing the books for more advanced ones. But, Kitty, is it exactly correct to say that it was 'no trouble at all' for you to learn your lessons? I think you laboured over them a good while, and, if I am not mistaken, you came to me for answers to several of the questions."

"Oh, well, of course it is 'some' trouble to learn any lesson, if it is ever so easy," replied Kitty.

"Then why should you say it was none?" asked Mrs. Evelyn. "Try to say always exactly what you mean."

"Harvey has got a class, hasn't he?" recommenced Kitty, after a short silence.

"Yes: he has taught for more than a year, and seems to get on very nicely."

"It is funny, though, that he should be a teacher. I should not think he would know enough."

"Harvey is an excellent Bible-scholar," remarked Mrs. Evelyn. "He has been in Sunday-school ever since he could talk; and better still, he is a very earnest and sincere Christian. He does a great deal towards supporting his mother and sister, and is always ready to help any one who needs his assistance."

"He has put up a swing for me in the carriage-house," said Kitty. "He swung me ever so long yesterday, and he says he will make me a spring-board. I suppose he wants to make amends to me."

"For what?" asked Mrs. Evelyn, smiling.

"Why, for teasing me so about my hat, and about the eggs."

"I should say that the indebtedness was the other way, there," replied her aunt, "and that you were the one to make amends. I do not think Harvey was in the least to blame in the matter. What are you going to do for him in return for spoiling all his nice chickens?"

Kitty looked a good deal puzzled and annoyed at this view of the case.

"I am sure I did not mean to spoil them, aunt," she said, with something of the air of an injured person.

"I suppose not. No one in their senses would be so foolish as to bring in eggs for cake which had been under the hen for ten days. But that does not alter the case, so long as you spoiled them. If Harvey had meddled with your bird-cage and let your Java sparrows fly away by accident, would you not think that he ought to pay for them, or, at least, say that he was sorry? I think you would hardly feel yourself called upon to make amends to him, even if you had said a good deal more about it than Harvey did about the loss of his eggs."

This was a view which had not occurred to Kitty. And she felt somewhat disturbed by the idea that it was she who had been forgiven and Harvey who had been forbearing and magnanimous.

"Well, aunt, what do you think I ought to do about it?" she asked, after a little reflection. "Shall I pay him for the chickens?"

"I would at least offer to do so."

"I don't know what they were worth," said Kitty.

"He paid two shillings a dozen for the eggs, and there were fifteen of them," said Mrs. Evelyn. "How much does that make?"

"Two-and-sixpence," said Kitty, after calculating a little.

"Have you as much money as that?"

"Oh, yes, aunt! I have five dollars that my father gave me, besides some change."

"Then I think I would at least offer to pay him. Two-and-sixpence is not much to you; but, whether much or little, you should always be prompt in paying your just debts."

"Well," said Kitty, "I will. I do think he is a good-natured boy; and, after all, if it had been my nest, I know I should have said more about it than he did."

Mrs. Evelyn could not suppress a smile at Kitty's condescending tone. But she was glad to see that, once convinced of her error, she was willing to make amends. In fact, this was almost always the case with Kitty, when her eyes were fairly opened to her faults. The trouble was to make her see them.

The next morning she was up early. And as soon as she had finished putting her room in order, she took her little shopping-bag in her hand and went out to find Harvey. He was neither in the barn nor in the stable, though she heard him whistling somewhere. And going through to the back-door, which was open, she saw him milking a brindled cow, while the others stood round, waiting their turns.

"Is that you, Harvey?" she called. "Come here: I want to speak to you."

"I can't get up just now," said Harvey. "You come here."

"I am afraid of the cows," said Kitty, shrinking back.

"Oh, nonsense! What will they do to you? Why should they touch you any more than they do me? Come, and I will teach you to milk. I am going to milk old Strawberries-and-Cream, and she is a gentle creature. Come: I will engage that they sha'n't hurt you."

Finally Kitty conquered her timidity, and went over to Harvey, who was about to milk a beautiful red and white cow, to which he had given the somewhat fanciful name of "Strawberries-and-Cream."

"But, Harvey," said she, argumentatively, "cows do hook people sometimes, because I have read about it in the newspapers."

"People get killed in a great many ways sometimes," replied Harvey. "I read the other day of a man who was choked to death by a piece of beefsteak. I suppose, however, you would not hesitate to eat beefsteak upon that account? But come; I thought you were going to learn to milk."

"If you won't laugh at me," said Kitty, doubtfully.

"I shall not make any promises," returned Harvey. "I laugh very easy sometimes. But suppose I should: what harm would that do you?"

"None: only it is not very pleasant," said Kitty.

"That is as a body may think. I don't mind it."

"Because nobody ever laughs at you, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes, they do, very often, because I am such an awkward, green sort of fellow. One day, when I was in the city, I wanted to get mother some snuff, so I went into the first store I came to and asked for it. But as it happened, they kept only books and papers. And when I asked the clerk for a shilling's-worth of the best snuff, he laughed out in my face."

"And didn't you care for that?"

"No: what was the use? There was nothing disgraceful in asking for snuff in a bookstore, was there?"

"I don't know. I should have been mortified to death if I had made such a mistake. How did you come to do it?"

"Why, you know, they keep all sorts of things in country-stores, and I thought they might do so in the city just as well. The next place I went into was a dry-goods store. I used my eyes this time, and saw nothing lying about but silks and such things. So I asked a gentleman who was standing there if he could tell me where I could get some snuff. And he sent me to the door and showed me where to go. I thought he was much more polite than the other fellow, though he was not dressed half so fine, and did not put on any grand airs.

"But come; sit down,—not that side:—always sit with your right hand towards the cow's head. I have observed that in pictures they almost always put the milkmaid on the wrong side of the cow. Gently, now: it will cramp your hands at first."

Cramp them it did, sadly. But Kitty persevered, and to her great satisfaction, was able, before the lesson was over, to send a very satisfactory stream of milk into the pail.

"There!" said Harvey. "You can say that you have learned one useful thing this week already. I would not try any more now: it will make your hands lame. I guess breakfast is almost ready, too."

Kitty turned to go in, and had got as far as the barn-door when she came skipping back:—"Oh, Harvey! I almost forgot the very thing I came out for. I want to pay you for your chickens,—the nest that I spoiled."

"Never mind that," said Harvey, colouring a little: "I don't want you to pay for them. It was only an accident, and you will know better next time."

"It was my accident, however," persisted Kitty: "and indeed, Harvey, I would much rather pay."

Harvey reflected a moment. He did not want to take the money, but he saw that Kitty was very anxious to get rid of the obligation, and that her sense of justice, once moved, made her feel uneasy till it was paid off.

"I'll tell you what I will do, Kitty," he said, presently. "They are collecting subscriptions for our new parish library; and I want to give something. The eggs were worth about three shillings. And when Miss Watson comes around, you may give her that much for me, if you choose."

"Well," said Kitty, "that will be very nice. I mean to give something for myself, too."

She now turned and went into the house, feeling very much relieved at having the matter off her mind, and quite proud of her exploit in the milking-affair. She gave an account of the whole matter to her aunt, who was much pleased, for two reasons,—first, that Kitty had overcome her pride and owned herself in the wrong, and secondly, that Harvey had shown so much generosity and delicacy in the way he had received her advances.

Harvey was indeed a great favourite with Mrs. Evelyn. He had lived with her several years, making the most of his opportunities and steadily improving in knowledge and character, and she prophesied that he would turn out a very useful man.

"What shall I wear to school, aunt?" asked Kitty, after breakfast.

"Just what you have on," was Mrs. Evelyn's reply. "Only you had better brush your hair and put on a clean apron."

Kitty looked doubtfully at the pretty French calico dress and white apron. "Cannot I wear my blue muslin dress, aunt? I think this hardly looks fit."

"Why not? It is clean, is it not? I think it is much more suitable than the delicate muslin," her aunt continued, seeing Kitty still hesitated. "You will want to go out and play with the other girls in recess, and your thin dress would be very likely to suffer."

"Do all the girls wear calico frocks, aunt?"

"Really, my dear, I cannot say," replied Mrs. Evelyn, gravely. "I should think, perhaps, that some of them might even wear gingham. But I do not like to speak positively upon such an important point. I am inclined to think, however, that you will find shilling and ten-cent calicoes the most fashionable material. But go and get your books and your hat, and by that time I will be ready."

"You are not going to wear your sunbonnet, are you, aunt?" exclaimed Kitty, as she came down with her books in her hands and met her aunt in the hall.

"Why, yes; I believe so. Don't you think it is a pretty one?"

"Pretty for a sunbonnet," replied Kitty. "But I should not like to wear it through the street in the city."

"Nor I; but, as we are going by a cross-road where we shall meet nobody except perhaps two or three cows, I think it will answer."

Kitty agreed that it might do for the cows, though she thought within herself that she should hardly be willing to wear it, or to carry the gingham parasol, even if there were nobody to see her. It was nearly a quarter of a mile from the farm-gate to the school-house, and the walk was a very pleasant one, being closely shaded by elm and maple trees, large and small, which lined the sides of the road. About half-way, a large brook crossed the road under a pretty rustic bridge, and on its bank lay some large brown stones, partly covered with moss, and conveniently disposed for seats. Kitty decided that this would be a nice place to stop and rest on her way home.

The school-house itself was prettier than country school-houses often are. It was built of stone, and shaded by large butternut and chestnut trees, and the yard was nicely fenced in and divided by a high partition into separate play-grounds for the boys and girls. The furniture of the school-room was of the very plainest description, and a good deal the worse for wear. A stained table and one arm-chair stood upon a platform, behind which was a blackboard, and a high shelf, on which were a large ink-bottle, some books and a pile of writing-paper. One long deal desk, with a shelf underneath it for books, ran round the outside of the room, and before it stood plain wooden chairs for the older scholars. About a dozen older girls, from twelve to sixteen, occupied these seats, while an equal number of small boys and girls sat upon two benches in the middle of the room. There were no large boys.

Miss Watson was hearing a class as they entered. But she put down her book and came forward to meet them, while all the children rose and stood up for a moment.

Kitty glanced round disdainfully at the bare walls and pine benches, and then at Miss Watson herself. She was a tall, thin lady,—about forty, Kitty thought,—very plainly and rather primly dressed, with her hair, which was just beginning to turn gray, put up in curious little round curls.

"I shall not like her," was Kitty's silent decision; "and yet I rather think I shall, too. But I wonder why she wears those funny little prim curls? She would look so much younger and better if she would dress like other people."

She replied with great politeness to Miss Watson's kind greeting, and then listened attentively to what her aunt was saying, though a little confused by the consciousness that all the girls were looking at her.

"Kitty will study geography and grammar. And if you have a class in Colburn's Arithmetic, I should like to have her go into it," said Mrs. Evelyn. "Of course, she will write copies every day; and I think that, together with reading and spelling, will fill up her time sufficiently for the present, as I do not wish her to have any lessons out of school."

"The older girls write compositions," said Miss Watson. "I presume you will wish to have her do the same?"

"Certainly," replied Mrs. Evelyn; and, having thus arranged matters, she took her leave.

"Where would you like to sit, my dear?" asked Miss Watson.

Kitty looked around and selected a seat by the window, from which she could look abroad over the fields and catch a glimpse of her aunt's house peeping through the trees. The seat next her own had a pile of books neatly arranged upon it, but the owner of them had not yet appeared. Kitty arranged her own books according to her fancy, mentally contrasting her present seat with the black-walnut desk and cane-bottomed chairs to which she had been accustomed at Miss Burlingame's, and wondering what Josephine Powers would say to finding herself in such a school-room!

Miss Watson appointed her a lesson in geography; and she set about it with all proper diligence, fully determined to astonish her companions and win the commendation of her teacher by her superior recitation. She was a good deal annoyed at her aunt's choice of studies for her. Arithmetic,—Colburn's, above all,—geography and grammar seemed very commonplace and uninteresting to a young lady who had commenced French and studied "Watts on the Mind;" and as to the copies and spelling, the very idea was an affront. She determined to write to her mother about it. And in the mean time, she would show Miss Watson and the girls that such studies were nothing to her.

However, as she opened her book and ran her eye over the questions, she began to be aware that, in order to make the distinguished figure she intended, it would be necessary for her to begin studying at once, as she did not know the answers to half of them. She had not been once through the lesson, when a little girl came quietly in, and slipping into the seat next to her, began taking out her books at once, as if she were in a hurry to make up for lost time.

"You are late this morning, Sylvia," remarked Miss Watson.

"Yes, ma'am. Mother is quite sick this morning, and I could not get away."

Kitty peeped over the edge of her book and recognised the face of Sylvia Grey, the little girl who had recited so well in Sunday-school. She was about Kitty's own age, but pale and thin, and her features wore a peculiarly subdued and gentle expression. She was very plainly dressed, and her dark calico frock was mended in several places; but in spite of this and of the freckles which injured her complexion, Kitty thought there was something very pleasing about her, and felt glad that she was to have her for a neighbour.

The geography-class was called up before Kitty had time to go over her lesson more than once, but she made out very well. Her next exercise was in "Colburn's Arithmetic," which did not come till after recess, so she had plenty of time to study. But Kitty took up the book and looked over the lesson with utter contempt, deciding that it would not be worth her while to spend much time upon it: accordingly, she spent the interval before recess in arranging and re-arranging her books and in gazing out of the window.

At recess, Sylvia did not go out, but remained busily engaged with her arithmetic, and Kitty at first felt rather awkward. But by-and-by, one of the oldest girls in the school, whom Kitty had observed looking very curiously at her, came up and accosted her:—

"You are Mrs. Evelyn's niece, are you not?" she asked, politely enough.

"Yes," replied Kitty. And then feeling as though she had answered very shortly, she added, "I am spending the summer with her."

"I should think you would find it very dull after the city," said her new acquaintance, whose name she found was Selina Henshaw. "There is such a noise and bustle there, and so much that is interesting and exciting going on all the time."

"There is very little noise where we live," replied Kitty. "Carroll Street is almost as quiet as this road is. But don't you think there are some interesting things here too?"

"Why, I don't know," said Selina. "It is all pretty much alike, 'take' the year round, except that sometimes it is winter and sometimes summer. Haying and harvest and ploughing and sowing, and making butter and cheese, all come right over and over. There is not much variety in that. I suppose you wont to school in the city?"

"Yes," replied Kitty; "I went to Miss Burlingame's school."

"Is not that a very fashionable school?" asked Selina.

"Oh, yes," replied Kitty, eagerly; "and so different from this! We have walnut desks and cane-bottomed chairs, and there is a carpet on the floor, and a piano; and then we have four teachers. There are a hundred young ladies up-stairs sometimes, besides the little girls in the lower room."

"And what did you study when you were there?" said Selina.

Kitty ran over a list of books, the contents of which, if she had mastered them thoroughly, would certainly have made her a very good scholar for her age.

"I should not think you would care about coming to school here. I don't see what you expect to learn. Why don't your aunt send you to school in the village? There is a school there, kept by Mrs. Smith, where they study some of those things, I know; and I am going to ask mother to send me there after vacation. But I suppose Mrs. Evelyn, like every one else, thinks that there is nobody like Miss Watson. I do not see any thing so wonderful about her, for my part."

"I am sure her curls are wonderful," said Kitty, laughing. "At least, I never saw any like them before. But she seems very good-natured, I think."

"Wait till you know," said Selina, with a significant glance. "For my part, I should not care if she only treated every one alike. But I do think it is too provoking to see a teacher so partial."

"Who is she partial to?" asked Kitty.

"Oh, she has two or three favourites, but I think Sylvia Grey is the principal one,—that girl with the freckles that sits next to you. She never can do any thing wrong, in Miss Watson's eyes."

"She is in our class in Sunday-school," remarked Kitty; "and Aunt Sarah thinks she is a very good girl. Perhaps that is the reason Miss Watson is partial to her."

"Wait till you see," said Selina. "If any other girl had come in as late as she did this morning, they would have heard enough about it. But not one word did Miss Watson say, except to ask what had kept her."

"Well, she said her mother was worse: that was excuse enough."

"Oh, yes; that is the excuse for every thing. I believe her mother might be as well as any one, if she had any ambition. I should think she would be ashamed to lie abed half the time and let her girls work for her as they do. Anne Grey does over bonnets and takes in sewing to get along; and they have hard work to do that, sometimes, I expect. Then there is Myra Clark: she is another of Miss Watson's favourites. Miss Watson gives her drawing-lessons, because, she says, Myra has so much talent!"

"Can Miss Watson draw?" asked Kitty. "I wish she would give me lessons. I have always wanted to learn; and mother said I might, if I had an opportunity."

"I dare say she would," said Selina. "She likes to have drawing scholars. It sounds much grander than teaching geography and arithmetic. By-the-by, have you learned your Colburn?"

"I only just looked at it," said Kitty. "It seemed to be so easy, I thought I should not have to study it much."

"Some of it is hard enough, I can tell you. I don't believe that you will get along at all if you have not studied it. But you will be at the foot anyway: so it won't matter."

"But I should not like to miss," said Kitty, rather alarmed. "I wish I had studied it. I wonder if I should have time now?"

"It comes directly after recess, so I don't believe you will. There is the bell ringing now. Come; we must hurry in, or Miss Watson will scold. She always does, if we stay out a single minute."

The arithmetic-class was called. And Kitty waited, in some trepidation, till the question came to her,—

"Nineteen is how many times five?"

After a little hesitation, she answered, "Three times."

"Is that right?" asked Miss Watson. "How much is three times five?"

"Fifteen," was the answer.

"And how many does it take to make nineteen?"

"Four."

"Well, then, nineteen is how many times five?"

But, having missed the preliminary steps of the lesson, Kitty was still puzzled. And the question passed to the head, when Sylvia answered it correctly. Kitty missed almost every question that came to her, and at the end of the lesson was still at the foot of the class. She was very much mortified when Miss Watson said to her,—

"I shall excuse you this time, Kitty, because you are a new scholar. But hereafter, I shall expect you to study your lesson before you come to the class."

She was so much occupied in thinking about it, that when they came to spell (which was soon after) she missed a word which she knew perfectly well, and a little girl only ten years old, who had been at the head the day before, went above her.

Kitty cried with shame and vexation as she was going home. And, as usual, she was disposed to throw the blame upon anybody but herself. Miss Watson did not give her any time in the spelling-class; she did not wait for her half as long as she did for some of the others; and, as for the arithmetic, Miss Watson ought to have told her how hard it was.

She was determined, however, not to let her aunt know that she had missed. And when Mrs. Evelyn asked her how she liked the school, she answered, carelessly, that she "liked it very well so far."

In the afternoon, things went better. She studied her grammar-lesson faithfully, and succeeded not only in keeping her place, but in going up three places. There was one thing in which she excelled: she read better than any girl in the school; and Miss Watson commended her highly, and held her up as an example to the rest of the school. She praised her writing, too, which was very neat and legible, and thus smoothed the ruffled plumes of her vanity,—so that she went home quite satisfied with the school, herself and her teacher.

Myra Clark and Sylvia Grey stayed after school to draw, and Kitty thought she should like to draw too, and determined to ask her aunt about it. She was walking slowly homeward, when she was joined by Selina.

"Well, how do you think you shall like the school?" was her first question.

"I think I shall like it very well when I get used to it," replied Kitty,—"especially if aunt will let me take drawing-lessons."

"I should not think you would want to do that," said Selina, looking rather annoyed. "Miss Watson is very strict with the girls, and I don't believe that you would like Myra and Sylvia very much,—Silver Grey the little girls call her. Not but that she is a good little thing enough, but she is so precise and tiresome; and—only think—Myra lived out in the village last winter, like any common hired girl!"

"Did she?" asked Kitty, in surprise. "She does not look at all like a servant."

"She certainly did," replied Selina, positively. "She lived at Mrs. Stewart's, and did her work, for I heard Mrs. Stewart tell mother that Myra was the only girl she ever had that she felt it really safe to leave the baby with. And besides that, she opened the door one day when mother and I called there! Mother laughed when she heard that Miss Watson was teaching her drawing, and said it would be more sensible to give her lessons in cooking. I dare say Sylvia would work out too, only her mother cannot spare her; and so Miss Watson is educating her for a teacher.

"If I were you, Kitty, I would let it alone. I am sure you can learn to draw easily enough any time, you are so quick; and you don't want to spend all your time studying while you are in the country. You can have a drawing-master when you go home, I dare say; and you will soon learn more than Miss Watson knows. I don't believe she draws so very well, after all."

Whatever Selina's motive was, she had touched Kitty's weak point and gained her purpose. Kitty said nothing about the drawing-lessons when she went home.

The next day, she was careful to study her arithmetic-lesson beforehand, and did not miss once in that or any other class, besides going up two places in spelling. The week passed away quietly, with no very important events, and Kitty began to think she should enjoy going to school very much, after all. She had struck up a violent intimacy with Selina Henshaw; and they walked to and from school together, played together in recess, used each other's books and pencils, and met every morning with as many kisses as if they had been parted for years.

Selina had brought about an exchange of seats with the girl who sat on the other side of Kitty, and now shared the same desk with her friend,—not much, it must be confessed, to the advantage of her lessons, for Selina was in inveterate whisperer, and Kitty was only too ready to be led away by her bad example.

Miss Watson was considerably annoyed, but she reflected that Selina's friendships were not apt to be of long duration, and the evil would probably cure itself before long.

"Aunt," said Kitty, on Saturday, "may I go over and spend the afternoon with Selina? She asked me."

"I have no objections," said Mrs. Evelyn, "provided you are careful not to get into any mischief, and are sure to come home before dark."

"I will," promised Kitty.

And away she went rejoicing, to spend the afternoon with her friend. They passed it very pleasantly, as Kitty thought, rambling over the fields and in the woods, gathering flowers, and wading in the brook with their shoes and stockings off. At last, Selina proposed that, as they were so near, they should go over and see Sylvia Grey.

"She lives in that little bit of a red house under the hill. Isn't it a funny little place?"

"I think it is very pretty," said Kitty: "but what a long way she has to go to school! I wonder she can come as regularly as she does, I am sure."

"Well, Sylvia is very persevering, I will say that for her," said Selina; "and, besides, she is anxious to get a good education, so that she can be a teacher herself by-and-by. I heard Anne tell mother that she did not mean to have Sylvia sew for a living, as 'she' had been obliged to do. Isn't it ridiculous?"

Kitty could not see the absurdity, but she laughed because her friend did. And they proceeded together across the fields, Selina entertaining her companion with anecdotes of the absurd pride of the Greys, who would get along any way rather than ask for any thing, though every one knew that they had hard work to get through the winter.

"And do you believe, Kitty, that when Mrs. Stewart sent them a load of wood, Anne insisted on doing sewing for Mrs. Stewart to pay for it. And when Mrs. Stewart would not let her do that, she worked a beautiful handkerchief on some grass linen she had—some that was given to her mother before she was married, I believe—and sent it to Mrs. Stewart as a present! Now, that is just a sample of them. For my part, I don't believe in such pride. I think it is sinful."

Indeed, Selina had no pride which prevented her receiving presents to any amount, as Kitty well knew; for she had already begged two of her books, besides availing herself largely of Kitty's liberal supply of writing-paper, pencils, &c.

They entered Mrs. Grey's little front yard, filled to overflowing with aim sorts of flowers, common and rare, and saw Sylvia very busy weeding a border, with her head so closely bent over her work that she did not see her visitors till Kitty playfully clapped her hands over her eyes, saying,—

"Guess whose fingers are all these!"

"Kitty Maynard's," replied Sylvia, joyously: "I know the voice. I wondered whether you were ever coming to see me."

"And somebody else," said Kitty. "Here is Selina, too."

Kitty could not help thinking that Sylvia was not quite so glad to see Selina, but she welcomed her with all due kindness.

"Come into the house and rest yourselves," she said, leading the way into the front room and placing chairs for them. "I am sure you must be tired with such a long walk, especially as you are not used to walking."

"'I' am used to it," said Kitty. "I walk a great deal farther than this when I am at home. I think people walk much more in the city than you do in the country."

"Of course they do," said Selina; "because there is so much more to see that they do not think of the distance."

"More to see in the city?" repeated Sylvia, doubtfully.

"Why, yes, of course,—the shops, and people, and all. In the country there is nothing to be seen but fields and trees and rocks; and it is stupid work to walk, isn't it, Kitty?"

"I don't think so," replied Kitty. "It is a great deal pleasanter to walk on the grass than on the pavements. And I would rather go to school by the cross-road than down Euston Street, where there is nothing to be seen but high brick houses. And I think cows are a great deal prettier than milk-carts, though I am afraid of them."

Sylvia laughed merrily, but Selina drew herself up as if she was rather offended, and changed the subject by asking how Mrs. Grey was.

"She is about the same," said Sylvia, her bright look vanishing as she spoke. "I do not think she has felt as well for three or four days. I will go and tell her that you are here, for I am sure she would like to see you, Kitty, if she feels able to talk. I told her about you, and she says she used to know your mother when she was a little girl, and went to school with her."

Sylvia was gone some time, and Selina amused herself by making sarcastic comments upon the room and its furniture.

"See the darns in the carpet, Kitty," she whispered; "I wonder if I could count them. I suppose they would not use a rag carpet for the world,—they are so genteel. And look at that waiter stuck up behind the table. I thought people generally kept such things in pantries; didn't you? Did you ever see such a quantity of books? I wonder where they got them all. I should think people as poor as they are might get along without taking two or three papers."

Kitty laughed, though rather faintly. She thought the room looked very pretty, in spite of darned carpet and green paper shades. And she instinctively felt that it was very ill-bred in Selina to make such comments in a house where she had been received with so much kindness.

Sylvia returned presently, and led the way into the next room, where they found Mrs. Grey sitting up in a large rocking-chair. She was very neatly dressed in a pretty calico wrapper and plain cap, and looked very nice and ladylike. It might be in the invalid dress and plain cap, but Kitty thought at once that Mrs. Grey resembled her mother, and felt attached to her directly.

"I hope you are better to-day," she said, as Mrs. Grey kissed her. "Sylvia said yesterday that you were not as well."

"I am better, thank you, my dear. This has been a trying week both for me and the girls, but I hope the worst is over by this time."

"I suppose you don't know much about sickness, Miss Kitty?" observed Anne Grey, who was sitting by the window, busily employed in binding shoes.

"Oh, yes!" replied Kitty. "My mother is sick all the time. She had not been out of her room in five months when she went away. I do hope she will be better when she comes back. It is so much pleasanter when she is able to be down-stairs. Sylvia says you used to know my mother, ma'am," she continued, turning to Mrs. Grey.

"Yes: we went to school together for two or three years, and were great friends. Healthy, romping girls we were,—full of life and fun, and always projecting and carrying out some wild scheme or other."

"Oh, please tell me about them!" said Kitty, eagerly. "I do love to hear such stories; and mother is hardly ever strong enough to tell me."

"I am not very well able to talk this afternoon, my dear," replied Mrs. Grey, kindly. "But if you will come over some other time, I will see what I can do to amuse you. Sylvia shall tell you some day when I feel pretty well, and you must come home with her and stay to tea."

Kitty accepted the invitation with great pleasure. And being reminded by Selina that they must get home in time for tea, they took their leave, after Sylvia had gathered a pretty bouquet for each of them, and Anne had given Kitty some fine young snapdragon-plants for her own garden. She offered Selina some, but that young lady refused them, with ill-concealed disdain, observing that they had plenty of flowers at home.

"What a wonderful present!" she remarked, contemptuously, as they were walking towards home. "If I were you, Kitty, I would throw them away and not be bothered with them. I am sure I won't carry these rubbishy flowers all the way home: we have got enough of our own."

And she gave them a toss into the brook, but Kitty rescued them.

"Don't throw them away! Give them to me, if you don't want them. I think it was very kind in Anne and Sylvia. What a lovely woman Mrs. Grey is!"

"Lovely, indeed!" said Selina. "Her skin is as wrinkled as a frozen apple. I hope you think Sylvia is lovely, too, with her face all over freckles?"

"I think she is very pleasant," replied Kitty, resolutely; "and she has very sweet manners. I am sure she was as polite to us as anybody could be; and I mean to ask aunt to let me go and see her again very soon."

"Very well, Kitty," said Selina, colouring deeply. "If you like Sylvia Grey so much better than you do me, you may take her for your friend and leave me alone. I never thought you would act so."

And she burst into tears and sobbed violently,—much to Kitty's amazement as well as distress, for she could not imagine what she had said to produce such an outburst.

"What are you crying about?" she asked.

"I thought you loved me, and were going to be my friend forever," Selina continued, still sobbing. "I'm sure you said you would. I never liked anybody so much as I did you, and I never thought you would forsake me for Sylvia Grey. I wish I was dead, I do; for nobody ever loves me as well as I do them!" And the disconsolate damsel sat down on a log and wept fresh torrents of tears.

"But I haven't deserted you, Selina," said Kitty, much disturbed. "Cannot I like two people at once? Of course I do not like Sylvia as much as I do you, but you need not be jealous of her coming to see me. Come: don't cry any more."

"I can't help being jealous," said Selina, the shower of tears subsiding a little: "it is in my very nature; and if I love any one, I don't want them to care for any one else. Nobody loves me as well as I do them, and I suppose that is the reason."

"Oh, Selina!—Your mother?"

"Mother don't love me much," said Selina. "If she did, she would not find so much fault with me. She cares a great deal more for Mary than she does for me; and so does aunt, and everybody—"

"You should not say so," interrupted Kitty. "It is not right to speak so of your mother."

"And you too," continued Selina, again bursting into tears at this reproof. "You think I am the worst girl in the world because I want to have my mother love me. But I shall always love you, Kitty, whatever you—"

The remainder of the sentence was lost in sobs.

Kitty endeavoured to soothe her friend's wounded sensibilities by new protestations of affection.

And Selina at last wiped her eyes and allowed herself to be comforted.

"I know I am very foolish," she said, kissing Kitty; "but I love you so much, and you are so superior to any friend I ever had, that I could not bear to think of your liking any one better than you do me."

Kitty felt very much flattered by all these proofs of affection and admiration, though she could not help thinking it would be rather inconvenient to have them often repeated. The girls walked home with their arms round each other's necks, and exchanged numberless kisses at parting, Selina declaring that she could not forgive herself for thinking Kitty would ever desert her for such a child as Sylvia Grey. She tried to extort from her a promise that she would not accept Mrs. Grey's invitation, but in this she did not succeed. Kitty loved her mother better than anybody else in the world; and the mere idea that she and Mrs. Grey had been girls together was enough to attract her to the latter.

When she got home, she described her visit to Sylvia, and asked her aunt's permission to accept her mother's invitation.

"I shall be very glad to have you go and see Sylvia," said Mrs. Evelyn. "She is one of the loveliest girls I know; and you can gain nothing but good from her. But, Kitty, remember another time that, if I give you permission to go to one place, you must not go to another without coming home and asking first."

"Selina wanted to go," said Kitty.

"Yes, I know; and I do not blame you this time, but take care not to do it again."

"But, aunt, what difference does it make whether I am at Mrs. Henshaw's or Mrs. Grey's, so long as you said I might go out?"

"Because, my dear, I choose to know where you are."

"I don't see what harm I could get into round here," persisted Kitty. "It is not like being in the city; and even there, mother was not nearly so particular as you are, Aunt Sarah."

"I am not at leisure to argue the point, even if I thought it best to do so," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "But now that you know what my wishes are, I expect that you will be guided by them."

Kitty pouted, but just now her curiosity was too strong to allow of her indulging in a fit of obstinate silence, as she might have done at another time.

"Has Mrs. Grey ever been rich, aunt?" she inquired.

"What made you think of that?" asked Mrs. Evelyn, in return.

"I don't know. There is something about them that makes me feel as if they might some time have been better off: they are so—"

"Refined?" said Mrs. Evelyn, as Kitty hesitated. "Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, aunt;—so different from poor people, generally, that work for a living."

"I suspect you have not been in the way of knowing much about people that work for a living," remarked Mrs. Evelyn. "But to answer your question. The Greys have never been rich, though they were at one time comparatively well off. Mrs. Grey was the only daughter of a school-master who was for many years at the head of Barton Academy, and she received an excellent education. She married Mr. Grey when they were both quite young, and for a while they were very prosperous. But his health failed entirely, his mind became affected, and the whole burden of the family-support came upon Mrs. Grey.

"Mr. Grey died soon after Sylvia was born; and about four years after, a distant relative left Mrs. Grey this little place of twenty-five acres and about six hundred dollars in money. It was a most timely provision; for between hard work and the effects of a severe fever, Mrs. Grey's health failed about that time, and she became a confirmed invalid. They rent their land, which brings them in something, but they are often much straitened: and I do not know what would become of them but for the industry and good management of Anne and Sylvia."

"Selina says they have so much pride," observed Kitty. "She says they cannot bear to be helped by anybody."

"They have too much self-respect to accept of assistance so long as they can do without it," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "I have never found them at all unwilling to accept of neighbourly services when they needed them. If you believe all Selina's tales, Kitty, you will have a poor opinion of your neighbours."

"You don't like Selina, aunt?" said Kitty.

"I never have said that I did not like her," said Mrs. Evelyn, smiling. "I think Selina has considerable capabilities, and that her impulses are often very good, but she is quite undisciplined, and has no principle."

"I think that is rather hard, aunt," said Kitty, indignantly, "to say she has no principle!"

"Understand me, Kitty. I did not say that she has bad principles: that is quite another thing. What I mean to say is that she acts entirely from impulse, and has no settled rule of duty to guide her actions. She does not do things because they are right, or leave them undone because they are wrong, but acts just as she feels at the moment, however that may happen to be. Especially, she gives altogether too much license to her tongue, particularly in talking about her elders, as I dare say you have found out by this time."

Kitty could not deny this, remembering what Selina had said about Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Grey, and even about her own mother.

"But don't you think, aunt," she persisted, "that people ought always to say what they think?"

"Not always, by any means," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "In the first place, we ought not to cherish unkind thoughts of or towards our neighbours; and in the second place, if we have such thoughts, we have no right to injure others, or make them uncomfortable, by clothing them in words. If we cannot control our unamiable tempers, we can at least keep them to ourselves."

Kitty went away, thinking that her aunt was very unjust to Selina, and that she understood her friend much better; whereas, she did not understand her at all. And so ended her first week at school.