Ethel smiled, but hurried her departure, for she saw Blanche again tormented by Mr. George Rivers, to know what had become of the guard, telling her that, if she would not say, he should be furiously jealous.

Blanche hid her face on Ethel's arm, when they were in the carriage, and almost cried with indignant "shamefastness." That long-desired day had not been one of unmixed happiness to her, poor child, and Ethel doubted whether it had been so to any one, except, indeed, to Mary, whose desires never soared so high but that they were easily fulfilled, and whose placid content was not easily wounded. All she was wishing now was, that Harry were at home to receive his paper-case.

The return to Margaret was real pleasure. The narration of all that had passed was an event to her. She was so charmed with her presents, of every degree; things, unpleasant at the time, could, by drollery in the relating, be made mirthful fun ever after; Dr. May and the boys were so comical in their observations--Mary's wonder and simplicity came in so amazingly--and there was such merriment at Ethel's two precious jars, that she could hardly wish they had not come to her. On one head they were all agreed, in dislike of George Rivers, whom Mary pronounced to be a detestable man, and, when gently called to order by Margaret, defended it, by saying that Miss Bracy said it was better to detest than to hate, while Blanche coloured up to the ears, and hid herself behind the arm-chair; and Dr. May qualified the censure by saying, he believed there was no great harm in the youth, but that he was shallow-brained and extravagant, and, having been born in the days when Mr. Rivers had been working himself up in the world, had not had so good an education as his little half-sister.

"Well, what are you thinking of?" said her father, laying his hand on Ethel's arm, as she was wearily and pensively putting together the scattered purchases before going up to bed.

"I was thinking, papa, that there is a great deal of trouble taken in this world for a very little pleasure."

"The trouble is the pleasure, in most cases, most misanthropical miss!"

"Yes, that is true; but, if so, why cannot it be taken for some good?"

"They meant it to be good," said Dr. May. "Come, I cannot have you severe and ungrateful."

"So I have been telling myself, papa, all along; but, now that the day has come, and I have seen what jealousies, and competitions, and vanities, and disappointments it has produced--not even poor little Blanche allowed any comfort--I am almost sick at heart with thinking Cocksmoor was the excuse!"

"Spectators are more philosophical than actors, Ethel. Others have not been tying parcels all day."

"I had rather do that than--But that is the 'Fox and the Grapes,'" said Ethel, smiling. "What I mean is, that the real gladness of life is not in these great occasions of pleasure, but in the little side delights that come in the midst of one's work, don't they, papa? Why is it worth while to go and search for a day's pleasuring?"

"Ethel, my child! I don't like to hear you talk so," said Dr. May, looking anxiously at her. "It may be too true, but it is not youthful nor hopeful. It is not as your mother or I felt in our young days, when a treat was a treat to us, and gladdened our hearts long before and after. I am afraid you have been too much saddened with loss and care--"

"Oh, no, papa!" said Ethel, rousing herself, though speaking huskily.

"You know I am your merry Ethel. You know I can be happy enough--only at home--"

And Ethel, though she had tried to be cheerful, leaned against his arm, and shed a few tears.

"The fact is, she is tired out," said Dr. May soothingly, yet half laughing. "She is not a beauty or a grace, and she is thoughtful and quiet, and so she moralises, instead of enjoying, as the world goes by.

I dare say a night's rest will make all the difference in the world."

"Ah! but there is more to come. That Ladies' Committee at Cocksmoor!"

"They are not there yet, Ethel. Good-night, you tired little cynic."

CHAPTER IV.

Back then, complainer...

Go, to the world return, nor fear to cast Thy bread upon the waters, sure at last In joy to find it after many days.--Christian Year.

The next day Ethel had hoped for a return to reason, but behold, the world was cross! The reaction of the long excitement was felt, Gertrude fretted, and was unwell; Aubrey was pettish at his lessons; and Mary and Blanche were weary, yawning and inattentive; every straw was a burden, and Miss Bracy had feelings.

Ethel had been holding an interminable conversation with her in the schoolroom, interrupted at last by a summons to speak to a Cocksmoor woman at the back door, and she was returning from the kitchen, when the doctor called her into his study.

"Ethel! what is all this? Mary has found Miss Bracy in floods of tears in the schoolroom, because she says you told her she was ill-tempered."

"I am sure you will be quite as much surprised," said Ethel, somewhat exasperated, "when you hear that you lacerated her feelings yesterday."

"I? Why, what did I do?" exclaimed Dr. May.

"You showed your evident want of confidence in her."

"I? What can I have done?"

"You met Aubrey and Gertrude in her charge, and you took them away at once to walk with you."

"Well?"

"Well, that was it. She saw you had no confidence in her."

"Ethel, what on earth can you mean? I saw the two children dragging on her, and I thought she would see nothing that was going on, and would be glad to be released; and I wanted them to go with me and see Meta's gold pheasants."

"That was the offence. She has been breaking her heart all this time, because she was sure, from your manner, that you were displeased to see them alone with her--eating bon-bons, I believe, and therefore took them away."

"Daisy is the worse for her bon-bons, I believe, but the overdose of them rests on my shoulders. I do not know how to believe you, Ethel. Of course you told her nothing of the kind crossed my mind, poor thing!"

"I told her so, over and over again, as I have done forty times before but her feelings are always being hurt."

"Poor thing, poor thing! no doubt it is a trying situation, and she is sensitive. Surely you are all forbearing with her?"

"I hope we are," said Ethel; "but how can we tell what vexes her?"

"And what is this, of your telling her she was ill-tempered?" asked Dr.

May incredulously.

"Well, papa," said Ethel, softened, yet wounded by his thinking it so impossible. "I had often thought I ought to tell her that these sensitive feelings of hers were nothing but temper; and perhaps--indeed I know I do--I partake of the general fractiousness of the house to-day, and I did not bear it so patiently as usual. I did say that I thought it wrong to foster her fancies; for if she looked at them coolly, she would find they were only a form of pride and temper."

"It did not come well from you, Ethel," said the doctor, looking vexed.

"No, I know it did not," said Ethel meekly; "but oh! to have these janglings once a week, and to see no end to them!"

"Once a week?"

"It is really as often, or more often," said Ethel. "If any of us criticise anything the girls have done, if there is a change in any arrangement, if she thinks herself neglected--I can't tell you what little matters suffice; she will catch me, and argue with me, till--oh, till we are both half dead, and yet cannot stop ourselves."

"Why do you argue?"

"If I could only help it!"

"Bad management," said the doctor, in a low, musing tone. "You want a head!" and he sighed.

"Oh, papa, I did not mean to distress you. I would not have told you if I had remembered--but I am worried to-day, and off my guard--"