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into crying about Norman’s being passed by “that Harvey,” and his sisters exulting, and papa being vexed, and Norman losing time and not caring.

      “There you are wrong,” said Margaret, “Norman did care very much, and it was not till he had seen clearly that it was a matter of duty to do as papa thought right, and not agitate his mind about his chances of keeping up, that he could bear to give up his work;” and she told Ethel a little of what had passed.

      Ethel was much struck. “But oh, Margaret, it is very hard, just to have him put up for the sake of being put down, and pleasing the Andersons!”

      “Dear Ethel, why should you mind so much about the Andersons? May they not care about their brother as we do for ours?”

      “Such a brother to care about!” said Ethel.

      “But I suppose they may like him the best,” said Margaret, smiling.

      “I suppose they do,” said Ethel grudgingly; “but still I cannot bear to see Norman doing nothing, and I know Harvey Anderson will beat him.”

      “Surely you had rather he did nothing than made himself ill!”

      “To be sure, but I wish it wasn’t so.”

      “Yes; but, Ethel, whose doing is his getting into this state?”

      Ethel looked grave. “It was wrong of me,” said she, “but then papa is not sure that Greek would hurt him.”

      “Not sure, but he thinks it not wise to run the risk. But, Ethel, dear, why are you so bent on his being dux at all costs?”

      “It would be horrid if he was not.”

      “Don’t you remember you used to say that outward praise or honour was not to be cared for as long as one did one’s duty, and that it might be a temptation?”

      “Yes, I know I did,” said Ethel, faltering, “but that was for oneself.”

      “It is harder, I think, to feel so about those we care for,” said Margaret; “but after all, this is just what will show whether our pride in Norman is the right true loving pride, or whether it is only the family vanity of triumphing over the Andersons.”

      Ethel hung her head. “There’s some of that,” she said, “but it is not all. No—I don’t want to triumph over them, nobody would do that.”

      “Not outwardly perhaps, but in their hearts.”

      “I can’t tell,” said Ethel, “but it is the being triumphed over that I cannot bear.”

      “Perhaps this is all a lesson in humility for us,” said Margaret “It is teaching us, ‘Whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.’”

      Ethel was silent for some little space, then suddenly exclaimed, “And you think he will really be put down?”

      Margaret seemed to have been talking with little effect, but she kept her patience, and answered, “I cannot guess, Ethel, but I’ll tell you one thing—I think there’s much more chance if he comes to his work fresh and vigorous after a rest, than if he went on dulling himself with it all this time.”

      With which Ethel was so far appeased that she promised to think as little as she could of the Andersons, and a walk with Richard to Cocksmoor turned the current of her thoughts. They had caught some more Sunday-school children by the help of Margaret’s broth, but it was uphill work; the servants did not like such guests in the kitchen, and they were still less welcome at school.

      “What do you think I heard, Ethel?” said Flora, the next Sunday, as they joined each other in the walk from school to church; “I heard Miss Graves say to Miss Boulder, ‘I declare I must remonstrate. I undertook to instruct a national, not a ragged school;’ and then Miss Boulder shook out her fine watered silk and said, ‘It positively is improper to place ladies in contact with such squalid objects.’”

      “Ladies!” cried Ethel. “A stationer’s daughter and a banker’s clerk’s! Why do they come to teach at school at all?”

      “Because our example makes it genteel,” said Flora.

      “I hope you did something more in hopes of making it genteel.”

      “I caught one of your ragged regiment with her frock gaping behind, and pinned it up. Such rags as there were under it! Oh, Ethel!”

      “Which was it?”

      “That merry Irish-looking child. I don’t know her name.”

      “Oh! it is a real charming Irish name, Una M’Carthy. I am so glad you did it, Flora. I hope they were ashamed.”

      “I doubt whether it will do good. We are sure of our station and can do anything—they are struggling to be ladies.”

      “But we ought not to talk of them any more, Flora; here we are almost at the churchyard.”

      The Tuesday of this week was appointed for the visit of the London surgeon, Sir Matthew Fleet, and the expectation caused Dr. May to talk much to Margaret of old times, and the days of his courtship, when it had been his favourite project that his friend and fellow-student should marry Flora Mackenzie, and there had been a promising degree of liking, but “Mat” had been obliged to be prudent, and had ended by never marrying at all. This the doctor, as well as his daughters, believed was for the sake of Aunt Flora, and thus the girls were a good deal excited about his coming, almost as much on his own account, as because they considered him as the arbiter of Margaret’s fate. He only came in time for a seven o’clock dinner, and Margaret did not see him that night, but heard enough from her sisters, when they came up to tell the history of their guest, and of the first set dinner when Flora had acted as lady of the house. The dinner it appeared had gone off very well. Flora had managed admirably, and the only mishap was some awkward carving of Ethel’s which had caused the dish to be changed with Norman. As to the guest, Flora said he was very good-looking and agreeable. Ethel abruptly pronounced, “I am very glad Aunt Flora married Uncle Arnott instead.”

      “I can’t think why,” said Flora. “I never saw a person of pleasanter manners.”

      “Did they talk of old times?” said Margaret.

      “No,” said Ethel; “that was the thing.”

      “You would not have them talk of those matters in the middle of dinner,” said Flora.

      “No,” again said Ethel; “but papa has a way—don’t you know, Margaret, how one can tell in a moment if it is company talk.”

      “What was the conversation about?” said Margaret.

      “They talked over some of their fellow-students,” said Flora.

      “Yes,” said Ethel; “and then when papa told him that beautiful history of Dr. Spencer going to take care of those poor emigrants in the fever, what do you think he said? ‘Yes, Spencer was always doing extravagant things.’ Fancy that to papa, who can hardly speak of it without having to wipe his spectacles, and who so longs to hear of Dr. Spencer.”

      “And what did he say?”

      “Nothing; so Flora and Sir Matthew got to pictures and all that sort of thing, and it was all company talk after that.”

      “Most entertaining in its kind,” said Flora: “but—oh, Norman!” as he entered—“why, they are not out of the dining-room yet!”

      “No; they are talking of some new invention, and most likely will not come for an hour.”

      “Are you going to bed?”

      “Papa followed me out of the dining-room to tell me to do so after tea.”

      “Then sit down there, and I’ll go and make some, and let it come up with Margaret’s. Come, Ethel. Good-night, Norman. Is your head aching to-night?”

      “Not much, now I have got out of the dining-room.”

      “It would have been wiser not to have gone in,” said Flora, leaving the room.

      “It

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