The Two Sides of the Shield. Yonge Charlotte Mary

said the young lady, ‘I don’t think we get on at all, not even poor Mysie, who works steadily on at her, gets snubbed a dozen times a day, and never seems to feel it.’

      I hoped her father would have sent her to school,’ said Aunt Adeline. ‘I knew she would be troublesome. She has all her mother’s pride.’

      ‘The proudest people are those who have least to be proud of,’ said Aunt Jane.

      ‘School would have hardened the crust and kept up the alienation,’ said Lady Merrifield.

      ‘Perhaps not. It might teach her to value the holidays, and learn that blood is thicker than water,’ said Miss Jane.

      ‘It is always in reserve,’ added Miss Adeline.

      ‘Yes, Maurice told her to send her if I grew tired of her, as he said,’ replied Lady Merrifield, ‘but of course I should not think of that unless for very strong reasons.’

      ‘Oh, mamma!’ and Gillian remained with her mouth open.

      ‘Well?’ said Aunt Jane.

      ‘I meant to have told you mamma, but Mr. Leadbitter came in about the G.F.S. and stopped me, and I have never seen you to speak to since. Yesterday you know, I stayed from evensong to look after the little ones, and you said Dolores might do as she pleased, so she stayed at home. The children were looking at the book of Bible Pictures, and it came out that Dolly knew nothing at all about Joshua and the walls of Jericho, nor Gideon and the lamps in the pitchers, nor anything else. Then, when I was surprised, she said that it was not the present system to perplex children with the myths of ancient Jewish history.’

      Gillian was speaking rapidly, in the growing consciousness that her mother had rather have had this communication reserved for her private ear—and her answer was, ‘Poor child!’

      ‘Just what I should expect!’ said Aunt Jane.

      ‘Probably it was jargon half understood, and repeated in defence of her ignorance,’ said Lady Merrifield. ‘She is an odd mixture of defiant loyalty and self-defence.’

      ‘What shall you do about this kind of talk?’ asked her sister.

      ‘One must hear it sooner or later,’ said Harry.

      ‘That is true,’ returned his mother, ‘but I suppose Fergus and Primrose did not hear or understand.’

      ‘Oh no, mamma. I know they did not, for they were squabbling because Primrose wanted to turn over before Fergus had done with Gideon.’

      ‘Then I don’t think there is any harm done. If it comes before Mysie or Val I will talk to them, and I mean to take this poor child alone for a little while each day in the week and try to get at her.’

      ‘There’s another thing,’ said Gillian. ‘Is she to go down with me always to Casement Cottages on Sunday afternoons when I take the class?’

      ‘To teach or to learn?’ ironically exclaimed Aunt Jane.

      ‘Neither,’ said Gillian. ‘To chatter to Constance Hacket. They both spoke to me about it yesterday before I went home, and I believe Constance has written a note to her to ask her today! Fancy, that goose told me my sweet cousin was a dear, and that we didn’t appreciate her. Even Miss Hacket gave me quite a lecture on kindness and consideration to an orphan stranger.’

      ‘Not uncalled for, perhaps,’ said Aunt Jane. ‘I hope you received it in an edifying manner.’

      ‘Now, Aunt Jane! Well, I believe I said we were as kind as she would let us be, especially Mysie.’

      Lady Merrifield here made the move to conduct her sisters to their rooms; Miss Mohun detained her when they had reached hers, and had left Adeline to rest on her sofa. The two, though very unlike, had still the habits of absolute confidential intimacy belonging to sisters next in age.

      ‘Lily,’ said Miss Mohun, ‘Gillian spoke of a note. Did Maurice give you any directions about this child’s correspondence?’

      ‘You know I did not see him. I was so much disappointed. I would give anything to have talked her over with him.’

      ‘I am not sure that you would have gained much. I doubt whether he knows much about her, poor fellow. But the letters?’

      ‘He wrote that she had been a good deal with Professor Sefton’s family, and he thought they might like to keep up their intercourse.’

      ‘Nothing about Flinders? He ought to have warned you.’

      ‘No. Who is he?’

      ‘A half-brother—no, a step-brother to poor Mary. He was the son by a former marriage of her father’s first wife, and has been always a thorn in their sides. He is a low, dissipated kind of creature; writes theatrical criticisms for third-rate papers, or something of that kind, when he is at his best. I believe Mary was really fond of him, and helped him more than Maurice could well bear, and since her death the man has perfectly pestered him with appeals to her memory. I really believe one reason he welcomed this post was to get out of his reach.’

      ‘You always know everything Jenny. Now how did you know this?’

      ‘I called once in the midst of an interview between him and Mary. And afterwards I came on poor Maurice when he was really very much provoked, and had it all out; ad since her death—well, I saw him get a begging letter from the man, and he spoke of it again. I wish I had advised him to warn you against the wretch.’

      ‘I don’t suppose he knows where the child is. He is no relation to her, you say?’

      ‘None at all, happily. But on that occasion, when I was an uncomfortable third, Maurice was very angry that she should have been allowed to call him Uncle Alfred; and Mary screwed up her little mouth, and evidently rather liked the aggravation to Mohun pride.’

      ‘Poor Maurice, so he had a skeleton! Well, I don’t see how it can hurt us. The man probably knows nothing about us, and even if he could trace the girl, he must know that she can do nothing for him.’

      ‘You had better keep an eye on her letters. He is quite capable of asking for the poor child’s half sovereigns. I wish Maurice had given you authority.’

      ‘Perhaps he spoke to her about it. At any rate, what he said of the Seftons is quite sufficient to imply that there is no sanction to any other correspondence.’

      ‘That is true. Really, Lily, I believe you are the most likely person to do some good with her, though I don’t think you know what you are in for. But Gillian does!’

      ‘I believe it is very good for the children to have to exercise a little forbearance. In spite of all our knocking about the world, our family exclusiveness is pretty much what ours was in the old Beechcroft days—’

      ‘When Rotherwood and Robert Mohun were out only outsiders and the Westons came on us like new revelations!’

      ‘It is curious to look back on,’ said Lady Merrifield. ‘It seems to me that the system, or no system, on which we were brought up was rather passing away even then.’

      ‘Specks we growed,’ said Jane. ‘What do you call the system?’

      ‘Just that people thought it their own business to bring up their children themselves, and let the actual technical teaching depend upon opportunities, whereas now they get them taught, but let the bringing up take it chance.’

      ‘People lived with their children then—yes, I see what you mean, Lily. Poor Eleanor, intending with all her might to be a mother to us, brought us up, as you call it, with all her powers; but public opinion would never have suffered us to get merely the odd sort of teaching that she could give us. It was regular, or course; but oh! do you remember the old atlas, with Germany divided into circles, and everything as it was before the Congress of Vienna?’

      ‘You liked geography; I hated it.’

      ‘Yes, I was young enough to come in for the elder boys’ old school atlases, which had some sense in them. It seems to me that we had more the spirit of working for ourselves according to our individual