LITMIR.BIZ

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with Norman, he could not help saying, “Norman, my boy, I’m more glad than ever you yielded to me about your Greek these holidays, and for the reason you did. Take care the love of rising and pushing never gets hold of you; there’s nothing that faster changes a man from his better self.”

      Meanwhile, Sir Matthew Fleet had met another old college friend in London, and was answering his inquiries for the Dick May of ancient times.

      “Poor May! I never saw a man so thrown away. With his talent and acuteness, he might be the most eminent man of his day, if he had only known how to use them. But he was always the same careless, soft-hearted fellow, never knowing how to do himself any good, and he is the same still, not a day older nor wiser. It was a fatal thing for him that there was that country practice ready for him to step into, and even of that he does not make as good a thing as he might. Of course, he married early, and there he is, left a widower with a house full of children—screaming babies, and great tall sons growing up, and he without a notion what he shall do with them, as heedless as ever—saving nothing, of course. I always knew it was what he would come to, if he would persist in burying himself in that wretched little country town, but I hardly thought, after all he has gone through, to find him such a mere boy still. And yet he is one of the cleverest men I ever met—with such talent, and such thorough knowledge of his profession, that it does one good to hear him talk. Poor May! I am sorry for him, he might have been anything, but that early marriage and country practice were the ruin of him.”

      CHAPTER XIV

           To thee, dear maid, each kindly wile

             Was known, that elder sisters know,

           To check the unseasonable smile,

             With warning hand and serious brow.

           From dream to dream with her to rove,

             Like fairy nurse with hermit child;

           Teach her to think, to pray, to love,

             Make grief less bitter, joy less wild.

LINES ON A MONUMENT AT LICHFIELD.

      Sir Matthew Fleet’s visit seemed like a turning-point with the May family, rousing and giving them revived hopes. Norman began to shake off his extreme languor and depression, the doctor was relieved from much of the wearing suffering from his hurt, and his despondency as to Margaret’s ultimate recovery had been driven away. The experiment of taking her up succeeded so well, that on Sunday she was fully attired, “fit to receive company.” As she lay on the sofa there seemed an advance toward recovery. Much sweet coquetry was expended in trying to look her best for her father; and her best was very well, for though the brilliant bloom of health was gone, her cheeks had not lost their pretty rounded contour, and still had some rosiness, while her large bright blue eyes smiled and sparkled. A screen shut out the rest of the room, making a sort of little parlour round the fire, where 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

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