Rhoda's education

CHAPTER IX.

MRS. FERRAND'S.

AND Rhoda believed it too. She was not, happily for herself, of a nervous temperament, and was disposed to look on the bright side of everything. By the time Monday morning came round, she was able to bid her friends good-bye with tolerable cheerfulness, and to go to her new home with good courage.

Mrs. Ferrand received her kindly. She was rather a pretty little woman, and attractive, in spite of a certain expression of anxiety and a precise, formal manner.

"We have a small family just now," said she; "only Mr. Ferrand and myself and one daughter, who goes to school. I have always kept two girls, but my cook went away last week, and the other girl was not contented without her. I shall get another cook as soon as I can find one to suit me, and in the mean time, we must manage as well as we can."

"Everything seems very convenient," remarked Rhoda, looking round at the kitchen, with its sink and range and abundance of tables and cupboards.

Mrs. Ferrand looked pleased:

"Well, yes. Everything is very convenient and nice, but somehow the girls don't seem to appreciate it. And really there is not much encouragement to make things right when they won't take any pains to keep them so. Only a week before Eliza went away, I bought a nice new clothes-wringer. She used it once, and the next thing I knew it was lying on the ground, out at the back door. But you look as if you might be careful. If you will go up these stairs, you will find your room at the head of them. I hope you will keep it in nice order, for Mr. Ferrand is very particular."

"I like to have things in order myself," remarked Rhoda, wondering at the same time what Mr. Ferrand would have to do with her room.

She found it a convenient though rather small apartment, having a pleasant window and comfortable furniture.

"This will do very well for one, but it would be pretty close quarters for two," she thought. "I wish I could do all the work myself. I wonder if I could?"

Rhoda found her life for the first week or two sufficiently comfortable. Mr. Ferrand was away, and Isabella, the daughter, was at school from half-past eight to four. The rest of the time she either studied or practised on the piano. She was a pretty, amiable girl, but Rhoda thought she seemed very languid and indifferent. Mrs. Ferrand was kind, and helped about the work herself. She was excessively nice and particular, but not unreasonable; and she soon discovered that Rhoda was bent on doing her best, and treated her accordingly.

Rhoda was well and strong, and she liked to have things neat and comfortable for her own sake. Mrs. Bowers had not neglected Rhoda's education in this respect, as do too many mothers. She had drilled her charge thoroughly in household work, and taught her to use her time and strength to the best advantage. Rhoda knew how to calculate her motions, to save herself steps, and to make her work tell. She felt that she was giving Mrs. Ferrand satisfaction, and that in itself was a great help to her.

She had arranged her room as nicely as possible, with various little ornaments and books which she had bought, or which had been sent from her former home, and it was really a very pretty little retreat. She had usually finished the most of her work by three o'clock, and after that, the time was her own till six, for Mrs. Ferrand never asked her to do any sewing.

Rhoda used to try to spend at least two hours a day over her books; and though she did not make very great progress, she at least kept what she had already gained. She deeply regretted the loss of her music, but there was no help for that. Her fingers used fairly to tingle sometimes when she was alone in the room with the piano, but she never ventured to touch it, and refrained from saying a word, even when Isabella tortured her ears as she did by making the very same blunders in the same places day after day.

"Don't forget your practising, Isa," said her mother, one evening, as she was going out. "Mr. Harvey tells me you ought to practice at least one hour more every day."

"Then I wish Mr. Harvey would mind his business," said Isa, sullenly, as the door closed behind her mother. "I want to learn my Bible-class lessons and to read, and I haven't one minute's time because of Mr. Harvey and that tiresome old piano. I wish they were in the Red Sea together."

"Don't wish that. Wish I had them," said Rhoda, who was clearing the tea-table. "I only wish I had your chance, Miss Isa."

"I'm sure I wish you had if you want it," answered Isa "perhaps you might make something of it. I know you can sing, for I have heard you, and I dare say you could learn to play, but I never shall. Fathers has spent a great deal on my music already, and I don't play decently."

"Oh, you mustn't be discouraged," said Rhoda. "You have come to the hard place, I suppose. Aunt Betsy says there must always be a hard place in everything. Oh, don't cry, please don't," said Rhoda, dismayed, as Isa's head went down on the piano amid a burst of hysterical sobs. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"You didn't," sobbed Isa. "But I am so tired and so discouraged, I can't help crying. It is just school, school, lesson, lesson, all the time from year's end to year's end. I detest it all, and I wish I was a Dutch girl working in Uncle John's nursery: so there!"

"And I only wish I had your chance to go to school and study," said Rhoda. "I would rather do it than anything else in the world. I wouldn't care how hard I worked."

"Wouldn't you?" retorted Isa. "Just look here, Rhoda: do you know any algebra?"

"A little. I have been as far as simple equations. I like it too, but I think it is pretty tough, I must say; especially when I have no teacher."

"Well, just look at my lessons for to-morrow. Three pages of examples in equations—all new, you see—one hundred and fifty lines of Virgil, besides my exercises and six propositions in geometry, all to be learned to-morrow, besides my music and walking to and from school with all my books, more than a mile each way. What do you think of that?"

Rhoda's Education.

"Just look at my lessons for to-morrow * * * besides my music," said Isa.

"I think it is a shame," said Rhoda, warmly. "I have been studying geometry, and I found one proposition as much as I could very well do in a day. Why don't you tell your mother about it?"

"Much use that would be. Besides, it isn't her doing; it's pa. He thinks I can't be overworked because I have only three studies and music. And the worst is, I don't see any end to it," said Isa, who seemed to find comfort in talking. "I shall finish at the academy in a year if I can only keep on, and then papa says he shall send me to a French or German school for two or three years."

"I should think you would like that," said Rhoda. "I read a book about the Moravian school at Konigsfeld, and I thought it seemed lovely."

"Yes, I know what you mean. I had the book too, and I asked papa to send me there. Then he read it—the book, I mean; but he said they did nothing but play, as far as he could see. He didn't think it would answer at all. And I don't have one minute's time to myself from one month's end to another. I do like my Bible lessons—there seems some use in them—and I like to read, but I can't. Pa don't approve of light reading. He says the only true use of reading is to gain information and improve the mind."

"I have noticed that you don't seem to have any story-books," remarked Rhoda.

"No, hardly any; and papa won't even take a magazine for fear I should get some fun out of it. Oh, you'll see when he comes home. It isn't like the same house when he is here."

"Where has he gone?" asked Rhoda.

"To some educational convention or other. Well, I must go at these things, I suppose. Can't you come and sit with me when your work is done? I like to have you even when I can't talk."

"I am afraid your mother would not like it," said Rhoda.

"She won't care; and besides, she won't know: she won't be home till nine. And there's another thing: I like to go to the Wednesday evening service ever so much; but if I say anything, papa always asks, 'What about your lessons, Isabella?' in that provoking way of his. Well, there! You needn't look shocked. I know I ought not to talk so, but it is a comfort to speak one's mind for once."

"I will bring over my algebra next time I go home," said Rhoda. "I should like to go over what I studied. I was always pretty quick at figures, and perhaps I could help you."

"Why, you seem to have a real good education," said Isa, surprised. "I shouldn't think you would be living out. How did it happen?"

"It is a long story and not a very pleasant one," said Rhoda, flushing a little. "I'll tell you some time, but not to-night. I must wash my dishes; and excuse me, Miss Isa, but I think you ought to be practising."

"Well, don't I know it?" asked Isa, irritably. And striking a chord, or discord, which tortured Rhoda's ears, she went on with her music.

"Poor girl!" thought Rhoda as she retired to the kitchen. "I don't think I should like lessons myself if they were crammed down my throat in that way. Oh dear! What work she does make! She can't have the least bit of an ear. I wonder what her father is like? He must be queer, I think."

Rhoda was destined to be fully convinced of Mr. Ferrand's queerness before she had done with him. One morning Mrs. Ferrand came into the kitchen, her cheeks a little paler and more than the usual shade of anxiety in her manner.

"Mr. Ferrand is coming home to-night, Rhoda," said she. "We must have everything about the place in order. He is very particular. Be sure to have the range blackened up and all the ashes taken care of. Don't the tins want cleaning?"

"I cleaned them all yesterday and washed all the shelves," said Rhoda, wondering whether the master of the house was expected to interest himself in basins and cups.

Mrs. Ferrand still lingered, picking up odd bits of paper and making herself anxious over the state of the windows and the fittings of the range. Rhoda saw that she was nervous and apprehensive, and exerted herself to have everything in faultless order.

Mr. Ferrand's expected arrival seemed to discompose the whole household. Isa, the moment she came home from school, sat down to her scales and exercises, which in her agitation she played worse than ever.

"Just hear that child!" said Mrs. Ferrand, who was in the kitchen superintending the frosting of some cake. "What work she does make of it! I don't know what her father will say."

"She is so tired," said Rhoda, whose sensitive ears were being bored with Isa's discords. "I should think she ought to rest and amuse herself when she comes from school, instead of sitting down to practise her music-lessons directly."

Mrs. Ferrand looked rather surprised:

"Do you think so? Mr. Ferrand always says change of occupation is sufficient recreation."

"Well, I don't know. If I have been washing all day, I don't think I should find much recreation in going to ironing," said Rhoda. "And I don't think Miss Isa is very fond of her music. She likes her tatting better."

"Mr. Ferrand has a system for all those things," said the lady, with the same little sigh. "He means that Isa shall have a perfect education. He has had a good deal of experience too. His oldest son, Isa's half-brother, was ready to enter college at twelve years old; only he unluckily took a fever and died. It was just after I was married. I was very fond of the poor little fellow, and he clung to me in his illness and would not have his father near him. He thought he was the indicative mood, and was trying to kill him."

"Poor little thing!" thought Rhoda. "And with that warning before him, he goes on just so with Isa."

"My sister Harriet, Miss Hardy, has a young ladies' school," continued Mrs. Ferrand, who seemed to find comfort in talking. "She has wished to have Isa with her for a year, but Mr. Ferrand will not consent, because he does not approve of her system. He thinks she gives the girls too much liberty and playtime. I must say, though, that Harriet has good success with her girls. There was Helen Kane; she never could get on at the academy and was always being sick, but she has been three years with Harriet, and her health has improved every year. But Mr. Ferrand asked her several questions when she was here one day, and she could not answer any of them."

"What were the questions?" asked Rhoda.

"I don't remember them all, only she did not know the latitude and longitude of San Francisco, nor the year of her reign in which Queen Elizabeth died; only she said she thought it was the last. Her father laughed, I remember, but Mr. Ferrand said he could see nothing to laugh at in such ignorance."

Rhoda laughed too when she was alone, but she could not help feeling uneasy. Mr. Ferrand was a coming event which seemed to cast a very cool shadow before, and she wondered whether she would suit him.

Mr. Ferrand arrived at six, and Rhoda took a good look at him as she carried in the tea. He was a rather small man with iron-gray hair, greenish-gray eyes, and lips that looked, Rhoda thought, as if he were always saying "cabbage."

Isa was looking more scared and awkward, and her mother more uneasy, than usual.

Rhoda felt herself scrutinized in her turn; and feeling a perverse inclination to laugh in the great man's face, she set down her teapot and hastily retreated.

"Who is that young person?" asked Mr. Ferrand as the door closed behind Rhoda.

"She came from 'The Home' to me," answered his wife. "Mrs. Mulford recommended her, and she is really an excellent girl. With a little showing, she can cook a nice dinner."

"I do not approve of showing, as you call it," said Mr. Ferrand. "A good housekeeper does not show; she gives directions, and has them obeyed. Is this young person an orphan—one of the beneficiaries of the institution?"

Mrs. Ferrand related Rhoda's history as she had heard it from Mrs. Mulford.

Mr. Ferrand listened and shook his head.

"I don't like that," said he. "The girl must have misbehaved in some way, or she would not have been so summarily turned off."

"Do you think it is always people's own fault if they are ill-treated, pa?" asked Isa.

"If you will put that question into a grammatical and intelligible form, Isabella, I may perhaps answer it," was the reply.

Isa relapsed into sulky silence, and did not speak again during the meal.

Her father made perpetual comments on her manner of eating, drinking, and sitting, and the quantity of bread and milk she consumed—she was not to be allowed tea or butter—and checked her as she was taking a piece of sponge cake.

"No more, my daughter. You have already eaten heartily, and it is far better to rise from the table with appetite. I have been hearing some admirable lectures on dietetics for young people," he continued, addressing his wife and passing his cup for the third time. "I think it would be a good plan to let Isabella have oatmeal porridge for breakfast and supper."

"Pa, I can't bear it," said poor Isa, just ready to cry at the idea.

"You will learn to bear it, Isabella," was the calm reply. "I shall procure a supply to-morrow."

CHAPTER X.

SYSTEM.

THE oatmeal was procured and duly prepared for breakfast. Now, to people who like oatmeal, and with whom it agrees, it is an agreeable and wholesome diet; but it does not agree with every one, and to those who dislike it, it is usually downright odious. So it was to Isa.

"I can't bear it," she said to Rhoda, passionately. "It gives me the heartburn, and the very smell is disgusting. I can hardly bear to see you eat it."

"I wish I could eat your share and mine too," said Rhoda. "I like it very well if I can have plenty of milk."

"I'm sure I wish you could. Do give me a piece of bread, Rhoda. I am ready to faint away."

Rhoda cut the bread, while Isa put it into her pocket.

At that moment Mr. Ferrand came into the kitchen.

"What are you doing here, Isabella?" he asked, in evident though calm displeasure. "May I ask what brings you into the kitchen at this time?"

"I came for some hot water," said poor Isa, seizing on the first pretext which presented itself.

"I'll get you a pail, Miss Isa," said Rhoda, rising, but Mr. Ferrand checked her.

"Miss Ferrand has her own vessels for hot and cold water," said he, "or should have them. If your room is not properly furnished, Isabella, you should speak to your mother or me, and have the deficiency rectified. It is time you were preparing for school."

"That's just what I want the water for," said Isa, breaking out in rebellion, as she did now and then. "Do let me get some hot water, pa. What is the use of making such a fuss for every little thing?" And snatching a cup from the shelf, she dipped out some hot water and ran up the back stairs to her own room.

Mr. Ferrand looked after her with a glance which boded her no good, and then began a minute investigation of the state of the kitchen. Cupboards, dishes, towels, were all passed in review and commented on, and glad was Rhoda when the survey was finished.

"You seem to have things in tolerable order, though there is not that degree of system which—But what is this?" he exclaimed, if anything so calm could be called an exclamation, and laying hold of Rhoda's slate and algebra, which lay in the kitchen window. "Does Miss Ferrand leave her books in the kitchen?"

"Those are mine," answered Rhoda, briefly.

"Yours! And may I inquire how you came by them and what use you make of them?"

"My father bought them, and I use them to study," said Rhoda, rather crisply, for her patience began to wax threadbare.

"Indeed! I should suppose that you might find studies more suitable to your position than algebra," said Mr. Ferrand. "I should say your time might be more profitably employed."

"Why should not I study algebra as well as Miss Isa—Miss Ferrand, I mean?" asked Rhoda, who began to be more amused than angry. "I never touch it till my work is done, and what harm does it do?"

"Miss Ferrand's position and yours are very different," answered Mr. Ferrand, austerely. "She is, or will soon be, a young lady, and your position is that of a servant—a very different matter. It is proper that you should read, and I will see that you are furnished with suitable books, but—but you must see that there is a great difference between you and Miss Ferrand."

Rhoda thought there was this difference—that she loved study and Miss Ferrand hated it; but she had become conscious that she was growing angry. She therefore prudently held her peace and busied herself with her dishes, and Mr. Ferrand, after again promising to supply her with suitable books, left the kitchen, to Rhoda's great relief. Presently, as she was putting away the dishes, she heard him in conversation with his wife:

"The young person in the kitchen seems to have some strange notions, Mrs. Ferrand. What books do you think I found hidden—that is, not exactly hidden: I wish to do her no injustice; but lying—in the kitchen? Nothing less than an algebra and geometry."

"Was that all?" said Mrs. Ferrand, in tone of relief. "I was afraid you might have found some bad books, there is so much trash afloat. Yes, I know Rhoda studies a great deal, though I must say she never neglects her work for her books. Mrs. Mulford told me that the child was very desirous to acquire an education, and I thought you would be interested in her on that account."

"I am interested in all young persons who try to improve, Mrs. Ferrand, but they must be content to improve in their proper sphere. I don't know—I cannot even guess—what my grandmother would have said at finding one of her maids studying mathematics," said Mr. Ferrand, whose grandmother had been a baronet's daughter, and who therefore professed a great love of everything English.

"Rhoda is a very good girl, and gives me more real help than almost any servant I ever had," said Mrs. Ferrand. "She seems to make a conscience of doing everything in the best way, and she is always so pleasant."

"I would rather hear you say that she is always respectful," said Mr. Ferrand. "However, if you like the girl, we must try to get on with her; only I trust you will not let yourself down by holding familiar conversations with her. It is your place to give directions, and hers to follow them. I am convinced that most of the multitudinous evils of our democratic society arise from people's getting out of their proper spheres. Especially I trust you will see that Isabella does not hold any intercourse with her. I am mistaken if they were not talking quite familiarly this morning when I entered the kitchen. Another thing I wish to mention while I think of it: I met Mr. Harvey on the cars, and he tells me that Isabella makes very little improvement in her music. I wish you would see that she gets up in time to practise an hour before breakfast."

"Really, Mr. Ferrand, I think that will not answer," said his wife, roused in behalf of her child even to the point of contradicting her husband. "Isa's eyes are weak now. She complains of headache, and of being tired all the time. I think she should be doing less rather than more while the warm weather lasts."

Mr. Ferrand smiled superior.

"I thought you knew by this time that my views for Isa's education 'must' be carried out," said he.

"Even if it kills her, as it did Charlie, I suppose," said Mrs. Ferrand.

"My son Charles died of a fever, and not from any over-application," answered Mr. Ferrand, coldly. "I have nothing to regret where he is concerned. I expect that Isabella will rise at half-past five and practise from six till seven hereafter."

"Then you must call her yourself, for I won't," returned his wife. "The child has as much to do now as she can bear."

Mr. Ferrand was amazed. Surely some evil spirit had entered his home during his absence. Never had he met with so much contradiction during one day in his own house. He had resolved already that Isabella should expiate her rebellion by some hours of solitary confinement and low diet, but he could not very well shut up his wife. He began to be scared, and thought he would try a little conciliation.

"Very well. Since you are so decidedly opposed to it, I shall say no more. I wish nothing but our daughter's good, as you must know, and the dearest desire of my heart is to see her well-educated, but I do not wish her to be oppressed. One thing, however, I must insist upon—that she shall hold no unnecessary communication with the servants in the kitchen on any subject whatever."

And having thus saved his dignity, Mr. Ferrand turned for consolation to his writing-table and his treatise on education—a work which had occupied him for several years.

It was Mr. Ferrand's great misfortune that he was very rich and had no profession. If he had been obliged to work for a living, his love of order, accuracy, and system would have found legitimate outlets, and might have made him an excellent master-mechanic or merchant. As it was, the qualities which would have been a very moderate dose if distributed among a hundred workmen were all bestowed on his own family. No details were too small for his supervision, no neglect or omission too trifling to annoy him.

He would talk for a week about an old towel which had been found out of place, and made as much fuss about the mending of a latch as would be necessary for the repairing of a steam-engine. As I have said, he liked everything English, and was very apt to sneer at and contemn "our free and happy country," as he was fond of saying in a contemptuous tone. He believed in people keeping their places and being contented in them, and he had a special horror of servants in particular "getting out of their proper sphere."

But Mr. Ferrand's great hobby was education. On that theme he delighted to dwell for hours, and to his great work on that subject, he gave so much of his time as was not devoted to superintending family affairs and acquiring useful information—that is, to storing his mind with uninteresting facts and dates, arranged in scientific order. Accurate enumeration, logical deduction, and rigid sequence were the sun and moon of Mr. Ferrand's intellectual system, and he made no account of such wandering and comet-like lights as imagination and the poetic faculty.

True, certain poets, such as Shakespeare, Milton, Cowper, and Wordsworth, were to be studied. They were facts in English history, and it was needful, therefore, to have some acquaintance with them. But stories of all kinds—"works of fiction," as he comprehensively classed them—could do nobody any good, and were not to be tolerated for a moment. One of his pet theories was that change of employment was sufficient relaxation; and as his own head and nerves were as hard as cast iron, he never found out the fallacy of his theory.

His only son had been a prodigy of learning—only he died at thirteen of a fever which, as Doctor Morton had said at the time, ought not to have killed a baby. Mr. Ferrand loved his son dearly and mourned for him deeply, but neither his grief nor his love prevented him from trying the same system over again with his daughter.

Isa was of a different stamp from her brother. Charlie had loved study for its own sake—Isa hated it; Charlie was uncommonly and precociously intelligent—Isa was by no means bright, and was rather young for her age: nevertheless, both must be put through exactly the same process. The system was everything—the individual nothing. Mr. Ferrand had begun by teaching Isa himself, but he had found the confinement too great, and he could not make her study unless he were over her. So he gave up the idea of home education, and sent her to a school whose master was a man after his own heart—a man who revelled on a plenteous diet of "facts and figures," and looked upon Virgil and Homer, Milton, Cowper, and Young, as so much material for parsing.

Professor Sampson certainly "got his pupils on" wonderfully fast. The great trouble was that those of them who did not faint by the way—fall sick and have to be taken out of school—left him with an inexpressible disgust for books and information of all sorts.

Professor Sampson had done his best with Isa, feeling quite sure that, however tightly he might put on the screws, her father would always be ready to give them another turn. The consequence was that Isa, who under proper treatment might have turned out a very good woman, with a healthy body and a sound mind, was fast becoming morose, feverish, and hysterical, utterly discontented, and ready to consider any change a gain. Moreover, she became sly and deceitful.

Rhoda saw this, and it gave her a good deal of trouble. Mr. Ferrand had said that Isa was not to associate with a servant, and had told Isa so, yet Isa did not scruple to come to Rhoda's room for help about her algebra, and to talk to Rhoda on every occasion.

One night, as Rhoda was getting ready for bed, Isa came round to her room in great glee.

"Marion Campbell is coming back, and oh, ain't I glad?" said she, in a joyous whisper.

"Who is Marion Campbell?" asked Rhoda.

"She is the Scotch cook who used to live here two years ago. She went away because her sister was sick; and now her sister is dead, she is coming back. Why, you don't look as if you were glad one bit."

"I can't say I am," said Rhoda.

"But why not? She is real good-natured and you won't have half so much work to do as you have now."

"I don't mind the work—it is not hard at all," said Rhoda; "and I like to have my room to myself. It is none too large for one."

"Oh, but Marion won't sleep in your room. She has the one on the other side. Don't you know it's part of pa's system that every one should have a room to themselves?"

"'Every one having a room to themselves' is a very good system, but it isn't very good grammar," said Rhoda, smiling.

"Who cares?" returned Isa. "But I want you to like Marion; she is very 'Scotchy,' but she is awful good-natured. There! I wonder what pa would say to such a sentence as that? I know," she added, laughing: "he would say, 'Isabella, will you give me the definition of awful?'"

"Miss Isa, you ought not to make fun of your father," said Rhoda, reprovingly; "and you ought not to be here. You know he does not like it."

"He isn't home," answered Isa. "Now, Rhoda, do show me how to do these sums. I know you understand them, and I don't the least in the world. Come, now, be good. I know I shall fail, and I have failed twice this week already. I believe I am growing a perfect idiot," said she, despairingly. "I don't seem to understand anything, especially in the morning, my head is so dizzy and confused."

"That's because you don't eat any breakfast or supper," said Rhoda.

"Well, I can't eat porridge—I fairly loathe it; and if I do eat it, it makes me sick, so I might as well feel badly for one thing as for another. Come, do help me, Rhoda, please."

Rhoda suffered herself to be persuaded. She knew it was not right to help Isa in deceiving and disobeying her father, but she felt very sorry for the poor oppressed girl, and she had not strength to resist her pleadings. Perhaps such strength was hardly to be expected of a girl of sixteen. Rhoda had been well drilled in common arithmetic, and she had a natural gift for mathematics, as she had for music. She soon made Isa's perplexities plain.

"You are the best girl that ever lived," said Isa, kissing her. "I am sure you were born for a teacher. But there goes half-past nine, and I must be in bed before pa comes home. I shall have to hurry."

"Don't forget your prayers, Miss Isa," said Rhoda.

And then she turned to her own devotions, but she did not find much comfort in them. She knew she was doing wrong in keeping up this kind of secret intercourse with Isa, and yet she could not quite make up her mind to abandon it. She said to herself that she only did it to help Isa, but in her secret soul she knew better. She found her own comprehension and memory greatly assisted by going over the lessons with another, and she hated to forego the advantage.

The truth was, Rhoda was getting into a bad way. She had one grand object in life, and it was a very good object, but she looked at it till it grew so large as to be in danger of eclipsing everything else.

Indeed, the atmosphere of the family where she found herself was not favourable to truthfulness. Mrs. Ferrand, if she did not absolutely deceive, certainly managed, her husband. Isa had no scruple about making a false excuse or telling a tolerable sized fib to escape the penalty of any infraction of Mr. Ferrand's numerous "rules."

Marion Campbell did not make matters any better when she came. She was a tall, thin Scotchwoman, an excellent cook, a superlative laundress, and neat and quick at all sorts of work. She was always good-natured, even in the agony of dishing up a company dinner, and she was strictly and scrupulously honest in all that pertained to her employer's property.

But she thought it no harm to gain her own way by a little canny management, and she had no scruple in bestowing on Isa, of whom she was very fond, all the indulgence that came in her way. Many a delicate sandwich and dainty cake and savoury pickle found its way into Isa's school satchel by Marion's means.

"You would na have me send her away hungry, and she such a slender lass?" she said, one day, when Rhoda ventured to hint a remonstrance. "She canna thole the porridge."

"I know, and it does seem cruel," answered Rhoda, "and yet it can't be quite right, either, to help her to deceive her father."

"It's just his ain fault, then, and no hers," said Marion, who had slipped into Rhoda's room on her way from Isa's. "I'm no that fond of the oatmeal myself, though I was brought up on it. Laws! How many books ye have! Are ye fond of reading?"

"Yes, indeed, I am."

"Aweel, ye must read to me whiles. I'm fond of a book myself, but my eyes are failed, and I canna see very well. I have a grand history of Scotland that I bought cheap at a stall the ither day. I'll bring it the next time I go home, and we'll have some readings. Eh! What a fine Bible!"

"Isn't it?" asked Rhoda. "Dear Aunt Hannah gave it to me the very last time I ever saw her." And Rhoda's eyes overflowed at the remembrance of her last interview with Aunt Hannah.

"Ah, well, dinna greet for her, my doo," said Marion, sympathetically. "She was a good woman, na doubt, and gane to a better place. Lass, your room looks fine, with all these pictures and little things about it. I ay like a young lass to be neat and dainty. I think you and I will 'gree very well."

CHAPTER XI.

"THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP."

IN the course of a few days Marion produced her book, which turned out to be a fine edition of Robertson's history of Scotland, a very charming book, though strongly partisan, as is the case with most readable histories. Rhoda found it as interesting as a novel, and Marion was equally pleased.

"Lass, never mind the things," she would say on ironing days, when it was Rhoda's business to help her. "I can do your share as well as my own. Get your book and read."

Then Rhoda would get out Robertson and read aloud for hours while Marion, with marvellous dexterity, ironed and pleated and did two hours' work in the time of one. She listened to the clear, sounding periods with critical satisfaction, and made her odd remarks. She was a woman of fine mind; and though her schooling, as she called it, had not been long, she had always been a reader and a thinker.

"Eh, but that's grand!" said she, one day, as Rhoda closed the book. "He would have made a fine preacher, that doctor."

"He was a preacher," answered Rhoda. "I remember reading about him in a book Flora Fairchild lent me. It said he had a colleague, and they did not agree about church discipline, but for all that they never had a quarrel. I should like to see his sermons. I never read such an interesting history.

"But, Marion, Mr. Ferrand does not approve of young people reading history—I heard him read that out from the book he is writing; and I am sure he would not think well of my reading it. He said he would select some books suitable for me, and you ought to see them. Such silly little stories, all about wicked servant-girls that wore pink ribbons, and went straight to destruction in consequence, and about good labourers that were contented on ten shillings a week, and wicked labourers that wanted more. Do people really live on ten shillings a week over there, Marion?"

"Ay, do they, and far less than that," said Marion. "Ten shilling a week would be high wages in our parts, and it's called very good, even in England."

"But what do they live on?"

"Aweel, they don't see much of butcher's meat or tea and coffee, ye may guess. If they get kirnmilk—that's buttermilk—for their porridge, and butter for their potatoes, they ay think themselves well off. But come, lass, help me with the vegetables, or I shall be late with my dinner, and yon man's as petted as a bairn if his dinner is behindhand a minute. He behooves to please his own palate, let what will become of his daughter."

"He isn't stingy, either," said Rhoda.

"No, he is a good provider. It's only these nonsense maggots he gets in his head. Now, attend and see me make the pudding, and ye 'll know how yourself. Book-learning is a fine thing, but it's not all the learning worth knowing. It's fine to be a good cook, specially if you have a man to manage."

"Yon man," as Marion usually designated her employer, did not make his appearance in the kitchen so often, now that it was under the rule of Mrs. Campbell. In truth, he was a good deal afraid of the Scotch woman, having come off second best in more than one encounter. He would hardly have borne so much from any other servant, but Marion was, as I have said, a superlative cook, and Mr. Ferrand was fond of dinner company and liked to have a good and elegant table.

Rhoda, on the contrary, was no favourite with her employer. Mr. Ferrand had a great horror of feminine independence in any shape, and he felt quite sure that Rhoda had, as he said, "ideas of her own." He strongly suspected that she continued her studies in spite of his disapproval, and it was a real annoyance to him that a servant-girl should love study for its own sake, while his daughter hated it.

He watched Rhoda closely, but as yet he had been unable to detect any flaw in her conduct. She was neat and systematic in her work, and always respectful in her manners, though there was sometimes a twinkle in her eye and a movement of the muscles round her mouth which annoyed Mr. Ferrand.

She was especially apt in waiting on the table, and never interrupted his disquisitions with the noise of clashing plates or dropped silver. She never asked to go out in the evening, except now and then to go to church, and on these occasions she was at home so promptly that it was plain she went nowhere else. There was no fault to be found. Mrs. Ferrand was satisfied, and Mr. Ferrand could not discover any pretext for quarrelling with Rhoda.

Rhoda, on her part, was not satisfied with herself; though, thanks to Marion, she had more leisure than ever for her books, and was making very fair progress with her studies. There was all the time a little rankling thorn in her conscience. She knew she was helping Isa to deceive her father, and no sophistry of her own or Marion's would make deceit seem right to Aunt Hannah's pupil.

Nor was this all: her Bible was neglected from evening to evening while she pored over her mathematics; her prayers were shortened for the same reason; and when she did pray, her devotions were cold and lifeless, or else a mere discomfort. Even her visits to "The Home" and to Miss Brown were few and far between.

"We don't see you very often now-a-days," said Miss Wilkins, one day.

"I am so busy," answered Rhoda. "I hardly go out at all."

"I thought you would have more time, now that there is a cook in the family," remarked Miss Brown.

"I should, only we have so much company—dinner company every other day; and that makes a deal of work, you know. Then there are my lessons, and Marion likes to have me read for her evenings; her eyes are bad."

"What do you read?" asked Miss Brown, rather anxiously.

"History mostly; we have been reading some of Scott's works lately, and a pretty Scotch story called Magdalen Hepburn. I am going to borrow it for you, Miss Brown, I am sure you will like it. Oh, you needn't be afraid. Marion don't like trashy books any better than I do."

"And your music?" asked Miss Wilkins.

"Oh, that will have to wait," said Rhoda, starting up and taking the coal-scuttle from her hand as she moved to replenish the fire. "Mr. Ferrand thinks it is dreadful for a servant to learn geometry. I don't know what he would say to music."

"Then it appears he interests himself about what his servants do?"

"Don't he?" said Rhoda. "The other day I was altering a waist for Marion. I had just got it all contrived out, when I heard the clock strike, so I ran down to set the table, leaving the work lying on my bed. After dinner, as I was washing the dishes, Mr. Ferrand came into the pantry.

"'Rhoda,' said he, 'your room is in great disorder. I do not like to see a young person's bed covered with rags and pieces of cloth.'

"He always calls me 'a young person.' I thought I might say that I didn't like to have an old person prying into my room, particularly a gentleman. But I didn't. I explained it all as demurely as possible, and he was pleased to be satisfied, and to say that he liked to see persons in our position in life helpful to one another. Mrs. Ferrand is lovely; only she is always in a fidget for fear something should be wrong, but she don't worry so much since Marion came."

"I am sorry about your music," remarked Miss Wilkins. "You really have talent, and you had made a very nice beginning. My dear, how flushed your face is!"

"The room is so warm," said Rhoda, "and I have been out in the wind. Can I do anything for you? I am going down town to do some errands for Marion."

Miss Wilkins had several errands connected with worsted, wax, and leather, and Miss Brown wanted some yarn, so Rhoda executed the commissions successfully, and took her leave, promising to come soon again.

"It isn't right, I know," she said to herself as she walked homeward; "I am sure Aunt Hannah would say so. And yet I am getting on so well, and it does nobody any harm. Marion says what people don't know don't hurt them, but I can't think that. Well, I will just finish learning this piece, and then I won't touch it again."

The flush on Rhoda's face had been more than the reflection of Miss Wilkins's open fire or of her exposure to the wind. It was a blush of honest shame. Rhoda had been carrying on a course of deceit on which she could not think without shame and remorse. A celebrated lecturer was giving a course of lectures upon one of Mr. Ferrand's pet sciences—geology. Professor A—'s stay was limited, and in order to complete his course, he lectured every evening. It was no part of Mr. Ferrand's system to have Isa attend lectures for the present, and she was left at home with strict injunctions to practise an hour and a half, and to give at least half the time to her singing.

Isa had very little ear, and less voice, but Mr. Ferrand believed that any person could learn to sing with proper instruction. Her former teacher had bluntly told him that it was a loss of time and money for his daughter to take singing lessons. She might possibly learn to play tolerably, said this impracticable man, though she would never be anything but a mechanical performer at the best; but as for singing, it was all nonsense, and he really could not afford to waste his time on her.

Mr. Ferrand put on his grandest air of dignity, paid Mr. Tyndale's bill, and dismissed him, and then looked for another master who would be more docile. He found one in the person of Mr. Harvey, who was poor and had a family, two arguments which had much more weight with the music-master than any of Mr. Ferrand's.

"She will never learn anything," he said to his wife. "She has no more voice than a sparrow, and she hates music besides. She sets my teeth on edge worse than saw-filing. But her father is determined she shall learn, and two dollars an hour is not to be despised. It is all very well for Tyndale to set up for frankness. He has more pupils than he can attend to at forty dollars a quarter. I shall do the best I can by the girl, and at all events, I sha'n't work her to death, as Brown would."

Certainly the atmosphere around Mr. Ferrand did not seem to be favourable to sincerity.

One of the first times that Isa was left alone to her music, Rhoda came into the little back parlour where the piano stood just as Isa, was blundering over a new piece. It was that pretty little song, "The Origin of the Harp." The accompaniment is peculiarly simple and graceful, requiring delicacy of touch and execution, and Rhoda's ears were distracted by the way in which Isa attacked it.

"Oh, Isa, you do make such work!" she exclaimed, without ceremony, which indeed had been long disused between them.

"I can't help it," returned Isa, pettishly. "I can't see any sense in it. It is all up and down, without any tune at all. Do see if you can make anything of it."

"It can't do any harm just for once," said Rhoda, hesitating, for her fingers tingled to be at the piano.

"Of course not. As if anything could hurt this old piano! Come, do try."

Rhoda sat down. She could sing well at sight, thanks to the pains of her country singing-school master, and she had that real genius for music which is born with one in five hundred. She caught the spirit of the song directly, and in half an hour had mastered the accompaniment; and Isa listened with honest admiration.

"Oh dear!" said she, half envyingly, as Rhoda ceased. "If I had such a voice as that, I wouldn't mind my singing lessons. You don't have to pick it out a bit. You know just how to make your voice go by looking at the notes, don't you?"

"Of course," answered Rhoda. "I can sing any easy music at sight, and this is very easy, though it wants care and taste. I think it is lovely, though the words are not much."

"It is a rather pretty notion, though, to think of the poor things being turned into a harp," said Isa, who had a certain vein of poetry in her. "Now, I should never turn to anything but a miserable hand-organ, or at the best a musical-box, to go when it is wound up. Do play something else, Rhoda. Try this waltz. I thought it was very pretty when Mr. Harvey played it."

This was only the first of a series of surreptitious practisings. It became a regular thing for Rhoda to sit down to the school-room piano and occupy at least half of Isa's lesson-time playing over her pieces. It annoyed Isa that Rhoda would always play the scales first:

"What is the use of them? They are not a bit pretty."

"No, but they are useful, and I want to improve myself. Now I will play this waltz, and then you must play it after me. I must give you some help to pay for the use of the piano, you know; and besides, Mr. Harvey will make a fuss and tell your father if you don't know your lesson. Come, now, do your best."

Then Isa would sit down, and by dint of patient and careful teaching and overlooking, Rhoda would get her creditably through the piece.

"There! That is a great deal better than ever you played it before."

"Mr. Harvey says I improve," remarked Isa. "He told pa so. Pa found fault because he gave me such easy lessons, and Mr. Harvey told him he did it that I might acquire facility of execution. He said it was a part of his system to teach the true method of execution upon easy pieces, that the pupil's mind might be occupied with but one thing at a time; and then pa gave in directly. I think it is a part of his system to get through the lessons and earn his money the easiest he can," added Isa, shrewdly; "but I don't care as long as it saves me work. Come, now, sing this song."

And Rhoda sung the song, comforting herself by the thought that she really was helping Isa and doing nobody any hurt—a comfort which answered tolerably well till she came to say her prayers, when it vanished away and left her with a miserably burdened conscience and a sore heart.

These practisings went on very prosperously for a good while. To the geological lectures succeeded a chemical course, and then, dearest of all to Mr. Ferrand's mind, a course of lectures on education. At least three evenings in the week the girls were left to themselves, and spent their time over the piano. Marion grumbled a little at the loss of so much of her readings, but she liked the piano, and she was too good-natured to interfere with Rhoda's pleasure.

"This is a miserable piano," said Rhoda, one evening. "Mr. Harvey tuned it this morning, and now just hear!"

"Why, what's the matter?" said Isa as Rhoda struck a chord. "I don't see anything wrong."

"Eh, lass, you've no more ear than a brown pig," said Marion.

"Haven't brown pigs as many ears as other pigs?" asked Isa.

Rhoda laughed.

"She means a pitcher," said she. "That's the Scotch of it. But really, Isa, does that sound right to you?"

"I don't see anything out of the way, honestly. But, Rhoda, you might as well play on the grand piano if you want to. Nobody will be the wiser."

"It would be venturesome," observed Marion. "You see, nobody can hear this piano from the street, and your father ay makes such a work scraping his feet that you have time enough to get out of the way. But in the drawing-room, you would be sure to get caught unless you heard the gate shut, and that unlucky baker's boy ay leaves it open. You wouldn't like Mr. Ferrand to come home and catch you?"

Rhoda's very ears tingled with the burning blush which these words brought to her face.

Had it come to that? Was she afraid of being found out, like a boy who has been stealing apples? Some words of Aunt Hannah's, spoken long ago in Sunday-school, rose to her mind:

   "Whenever you are afraid of being found out, be sure you are doing wrong."

What would Aunt Hannah say to her now? Rhoda had weakened her own moral sense and powers of resistance very much lately, but she had not brought herself to think deception right or excusable. She resisted faintly, however, as Isa continued to urge her to try the grand piano in the parlour, and only yielded after a struggle. The piano was a very superior one—by far the finest she had ever seen or touched; and she forgot everything in the fascination of playing Beethoven's grand waltz, which she had just learned.

"I declare, you are beyond everything," said Isa, drawing a long breath as the piece was concluded. "And just to think that you didn't know hardly anything when you came here!"

"Didn't know hardly anything?" repeated Rhoda. "Oh, Isa, what a sentence! But I did know a good deal, you must remember. I could read notes very well, and I had learn some pieces before I came from home. I used to play on Fanny Badger's piano and on the church melodeon, and Miss Wilkins taught me a great deal. Don't make me out quite a prodigy, Isa. But oh, I do wish I could have some lessons."

"Aweel, my dear, don't fret. Maybe they will come some time." And kind-hearted Marion began to consider the possibility of herself paying for some music-lessons for her young friend.

The grand instrument in the drawing-room made the school-room piano seem worse than ever by contrast, and Rhoda was easily persuaded to use it over and over again.

"But I will never touch it after I have learned this piece, I am determined I won't," said Rhoda to herself as she walked homeward after her visit to Miss Brown. "I must learn this piece, so as to show Isa. I am sure she will never get through it alone. Oh dear! I don't care; I do think it is a real abominable shame that I should be used so. I wish I should have been just like the others then. I should not have found out what was in me. And to think, after all, when they could afford to educate me as well as not, they should cast me off for the sake of that miserable baby! It was not his fault, either, poor little fellow! I am sure I don't wish him any ill, but I wish he had never been born, or else that I never had. I think that would be best of all." And Rhoda pulled down her veil to hide the hot tears which would gush out in spite of her.

"What's the matter, my dear?" asked Marion, her quick eye perceiving at once that something was wrong.

"Nothing," said Rhoda; "only I wish there was no such person as I am, that's all."

"Aweel, there's no use wishing that now, ye ken. A man canna unmake himself by any process that ever I heard of. Best wish for something you have a chance of getting. But what ails ye, lassie? Come, tell me, and ease your mind."

Rhoda poured out all her grief in a flood.

Marion listened with patience and sympathy.

"I'll no deny but it's a hard case," said she. "But, my lass, will you let me tell you one thing? And that's this: if ye mean to give up these music-lessons—and I'm no easy in my own mind about them—but if ye make up your mind to give them up, do it at once. Dinna wait to learn one more tune, no, nor one note more. It's like the poor drunkard that says he will take only one cup more, and that one cup more is just the ruin of him."

"But I do so want to learn this one piece," said Rhoda. "It suits me exactly, and I am sure Isa will never learn it unless I help her."

"Let every herring hang by its own head," said Marion. "You are not Isa's keeper. I said I was no easy in my mind about these lessons, and I'm not. I heard a grand sermon last Sunday on lying and leasing-making, and I have been thinking we have all been to blame in this matter; myself, maybe, worst of all. Come, don't cry any more, but wash your eyes and be ready to wait at dinner."

"Marion just wants me to spend the whole evening reading to her," said Rhoda to herself as she went up stairs. She knew she was unjust and that Marion was right, but in her present frame of mind, she found a certain comfort in blaming everybody. "I don't know but she is right though, about leaving off the music; only this piece is so lovely. Oh, I must finish it, and then I won't touch the piano again. Oh dear! It is too bad."

Rhoda's eyes overflowed again; she checked her tears as soon as she could, and tried to bathe away their traces, but this was never easy. Crying gave her a wretched headache, and made her usually fine complexion look pale and sallow.

Mr. Ferrand, who was not deficient in kind feeling when his system was not in the way, remarked to his wife that the young person was not looking well.

"You had better see that she diets and bathes properly," said he. "Young persons of her class—and indeed of every class—are apt to be careless about such matters."

Rhoda heard the remark, and it brought a new sting to her conscience. She tried to drive it out by resentment at being called a young person, but it stayed all the same.

"Now, Isabella, be faithful in your practising," said Mr. Ferrand as he set out for his customary lecture in the evening. "Mr. Harvey tells me that you are improving, and I am very glad to hear it."

"Then, pa, if you want me to improve still more, you must let me practise in the parlour, or else get a new piano for the school-room," said Isa, casting a glance of triumph at Rhoda. "Mr. Harvey says himself that school-room piano won't keep in tune five minutes."

"I think that must be an exaggeration," remarked Mr. Ferrand. "I should not suppose any instrument would become disordered in so short a time as five minutes. However, I will speak to Mr. Harvey on the subject; and if he thinks it desirable, I will request him to procure a proper instrument. Meantime, as you will not be subject to interruption from company this evening, you may practise in the drawing-room."

"Are ye going at it again?" said Marion as Rhoda turned toward the drawing-room after putting her dishes away.

"Only this once," answered Rhoda; "and then, Marion, I'll read to you all you like."

"It's not for myself I spoke," said Marion, justly offended. "But take your own gait. I'll say no more. If a wilful man must have his way, the byword is doubly true of a wilful lass."

"Oh, please don't be vexed, Marion," exclaimed Rhoda, ashamed of the words the moment they were spoken. "I didn't mean anything. Just come and hear me play this one piece, and I'll sing all the Scotch songs I know for you."

But Marion had "got her Scotch up." She retreated to her kitchen; and shutting the doors between, she sat down to her knitting. Meantime, Rhoda played piece after piece, excusing herself for taking up all the time by the thought that she should never touch the piano again.

"Only one more," pleaded Isa, as Rhoda made a motion to rise. "This is the last lecture-night, you know, and very likely we shall not have another chance for ever so long. Sing 'The Origin of the Harp.' I do think it is so lovely. Come; they won't be here for an hour yet, I know."

Isa was mistaken. The lecture had been very much shortened by an accident to the gas-pipes which had left the hall in darkness. Mr. and Mrs. Ferrand were alighting from the street-car at the corner at that very moment, and they entered the gate just as Rhoda began the second verse of the song.

"Can that be Isabella singing?" said Mrs. Ferrand, astonished at the clear, round notes which reached her ears—notes as different from Isa's as the whistle of the oriole from the twitter of the sparrow. "I never heard her sing like that, or play like that either."

"Perhaps your sister Harriet may have arrived unexpectedly," said Mr. Ferrand.

"Harriet would not be out of school so near the close of the term; and besides, she does not sing. No, that is like no voice in our family."

Mr. Ferrand stepped to the long drawing-room window, which looked out on the lawn, and opened the blind. He could hardly believe his eyes. There sat Rhoda at the grand piano, and there, standing by, with her arm on the "young person's" shoulder, was his own systematically educated daughter Isa, actually abetting this low-born servant's crime—so Mr. Ferrand at once called Rhoda's desecration of his treasured instrument.

"Mrs. Ferrand," said he, in a voice of calm, concentrated anger, "will you do me the favour to look into this window?"

Mrs. Ferrand looked, and at that moment, attracted by some slight noise, or by that curious sense of being looked at which almost every one has experienced, both the girls turned round and saw the faces at the window.

Isa uttered a shriek of dismay, rushed away to her own room, and bolted herself in.

Rhoda stood her ground. She was very much frightened, and equally ashamed also, but it was not in her nature to run.

"What are you doing here?" was Mr. Ferrand's first question.

"I was playing on the piano," answered Rhoda, humbly enough.

Mr. Ferrand turned to his wife:

"Mrs. Ferrand, I believe no words are necessary. You must see now—even you must see, I think—that this young person is no fit inmate of our household. She may remain to-night, and also to-morrow, as it is Sunday, but no longer."

"But, Mr. Ferrand, you know we are expecting company on Monday," pleaded his wife. "She might at least stay till I can find somebody. It will be very inconvenient. I don't mean to excuse her, but—"

"Is it possible?" asked Mr. Ferrand, with sarcastic emphasis. "I believe I have made myself understood, Mrs. Ferrand. The young person will leave on Monday. Meantime, you will please send Isabella to me in the library."

This, however, was more easily said than done. Isa had locked and bolted herself into her room, where she was to be heard sobbing hysterically, but no entreaties of her mother or commands of her father would induce her to unbar the door or get a word out of her till her father threatened to break the door down.

"If you do, I'll jump out of the window and run away," cried Isabella, and she was heard to open her window as if to put her threat into execution. She was crying at the top of her voice, and more than one person had already stopped in the street to listen.

Mr. Ferrand dreaded nothing so much as any publicity of his family affairs, and he was at last persuaded by his wife to let Isa alone for the night.

CHAPTER XII.

AN OLD ENEMY.

RHODA went to her room burning with shame and anger. Her first impulse was to put on her bonnet and go home, but she reflected, as she grew a little cooler, that it was after nine o'clock of a dark night, and too late to undertake a walk of a mile alone, and that she could not possibly take her trunk. And then what would Miss Carpenter say? What would the ladies of the board say when they came to hear the whole story? They would think she had disgraced the institution and herself. Perhaps they would not let her stay there any more. And oh, what would Aunt Hannah say if she knew?

The very thought of Aunt Hannah seemed to bring some peace to Rhoda's tempest-tossed spirit.

"I know what she would say," thought the poor girl. "She would say that I had done very wrong, but that was no reason why I should go on doing wrong. She would tell me to confess my sin and ask forgiveness and grace to do better. But oh, how can I? I knew I was wrong. I knew I was deceiving and helping Isa to deceive, and yet I was so selfish, so bent on having my own way, that I kept on, though something warned me all the time. And yet—Oh yes, I must ask forgiveness for myself and Isa. Poor girl! I wonder what her father will do to her? I feel worse about her than even for myself."

Rhoda knelt down by her bedside, and humbly and with many tears confessed her sin and asked forgiveness in His name who said, "Not seven times, but seventy times seven." She was still kneeling when some one tapped lightly at the door. She started up and opened it, thinking of Isa, but it was Mrs. Ferrand who had knocked. She had been crying as well as Rhoda, and looked even more unhappy.

"Oh, Rhoda, how could you?" said she, in a half whisper. And then, with a fresh burst of tears, "I am sure I liked you and trusted you more than any girl I ever had. I thought you were almost perfect. And now Mr. Ferrand says it is just what he expected and what I might have known. Why wouldn't you be contented to read the books he gave you, and not get out of your station into algebra and geometry and all such things?"

Despite her grief and shame, Rhoda could hardly forbear smiling.

"Mrs. Ferrand, I am very sorry," said she, earnestly—"I am more sorry than I can tell you. You have been very good to me ever since I came here, and it was a shame for me to deceive you so. But I do think it was the deception that was the harm, and not the algebra and geometry, or the music either, for that matter."

"But, Rhoda, don't you see that you wouldn't have been tempted to deceive only for the music?"

"I am not sure of that, Mrs. Ferrand. Did you never hear of servants who didn't care about music or books deceiving their employers?"

"To be sure," said Mrs. Ferrand, considering. "There was Mary Blane. She couldn't even read, and she stole tea and candles, and baked cakes on the sly, and got out of the window and ran away to balls, and got taken up by the police. But I don't think that any excuse for you, Rhoda."

"I know it isn't, Mrs. Ferrand, and I don't mean to excuse myself. I think I was very much to blame—not for playing the piano, but for doing it slyly and helping Miss Isa to deceive her father. I feel worse about that than anything."

"And we all thought she was improving so much," said Mrs. Ferrand, wiping her eyes. "Mr. Harvey told her father that she had gained more in the last six weeks than in all the winter."

"Well, Mrs. Ferrand, honestly, I do think she has; and so far as her music went, I think I was an advantage to her, for I used to play over her lessons and show her how to learn them. Miss Isa—"

"Well, go on," said Mrs. Ferrand, as Rhoda checked herself and coloured. "What were you going to say?"

"I was going to say, if you will excuse me, that Miss Isa needs a great deal of help and showing to learn anything, or so it seems to me. She gets puzzled, and the harder she works, the more puzzled she grows; whereas, if she has some one to show her and make things that she don't understand plain to her, she gets on pretty well."

"I know it," said Mrs. Ferrand, sighing. "Isa isn't bright. She is like me, and I never was one bit of a scholar. I was the only dunce in our family. It used to trouble mother a good deal, but father said it didn't matter.

"'You can't make scholars out of everybody,' I remember his saying; 'Lucilla may make a very good and useful woman without knowing anything about algebra.'

"That was a great comfort to me."

"I am sure he was right," said Rhoda, warmly. "I think you are just as lovely and good as you can be, and it makes me feel all the more ashamed to think how I have treated you."

"Oh, my dear, and I was so fond of you, and trusted you so. I always felt perfectly easy about anything you undertook to do. You never disappointed me. Now, we are going to have ever so much company next week, and very particular company too, and I was thinking all the time what a comfort it was going to be to have you and Marion, and now I shall have a new girl to teach, and I dare say Marion will go away too."

"She mustn't do that," said Rhoda. "I will talk to her." Rhoda swallowed a great lump of pride that rose in her throat at that moment, and added, "I will stay through the week and help you if Mr. Ferrand is willing."

"Oh, if you would! But I am afraid he will not consent, he is so angry with me and Isa and everybody. I am sure I am at my wit's end what to do," continued the poor lady. "If Isa gets one of her obstinate fits, she will half starve before she will give in, and I am afraid she will make herself sick. Well, I mustn't stay any longer. Mr. Ferrand told me to talk to you and see if I could make you see your sin; but I am sure you do see it, don't you, Rhoda?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Rhoda, swallowing the lump again. "Will you please tell Mr. Ferrand that I am very sorry I deceived him about the piano, and that if he is willing I will stay and help you through this week?"

The next morning Isa's door was open, and Mrs. Ferrand found her daughter prostrated with a sick headache, which proved the beginning of a somewhat serious attack of fever and indigestion. Mr. Ferrand at first refused to believe in Isa's illness, declaring it was only another deception—a mere pretext for keeping her room and escaping merited reproof; but when he came to see her, he was compelled to own himself mistaken for once, and consented to send for Doctor Morton.

"She will get over it this time, or so I think," said the blunt doctor, who stood in no awe of Mr. Ferrand's wealth, family, or theories. "She has been working too hard and walking too much and living on too low diet. Her mother tells me that she has been breakfasting on oatmeal, and that she does not like it. That is all nonsense. Let her have meat twice a day, and plenty of it; keep her out of school a while, and let her have plenty of fun and amusement. Get some girl of her own age to stay with her, buy her a croquet set, or send her to some old woman in the country who will coddle and pet her and let her run wild. If you don't mind, she will slip through your fingers some day like the other one."

Mr. Ferrand's feelings were deeply wounded, and also his dignity. As he said to his wife, Dr. Morton really seemed to have no idea of the respect due to a gentleman of his family and social position. Still, he did not like to take the responsibility of disregarding the doctor's advice.

That remark about "the other one" had touched a sensitive place in Mr. Ferrand's heart, for he really had a heart. But he could not bear to give up and own that he had been in the wrong; and as to taking his daughter out of school and letting her run wild, the idea was not to be entertained for a moment. But something might perhaps be done by way of compromise, and Mr. Ferrand began to cast about for a way of saving his daughter and his dignity at the same time.

Mr. Ferrand said nothing to Rhoda all day Sunday, though she went about her work as usual.

On Monday morning, Marion came to her with a message.

"Yon man wants to see you in the library," said she. "He's stalking about like a midden-cock on pattens. The doctor gave him an awful take-down yesterday about Miss Isa, and he will have to be extra dignified to make up for 't. Lass, did ye really tell Mrs. Ferrand you would stay the week out?"

"Yes, I did," answered Rhoda. "I thought it was the best I could do, seeing all the trouble I had made."

"Aweel, it's very well done, and very pretty of you, and I am glad of it for the poor lady's sake as well as my own. I'm grown very fond of you, lass. I think I shall no stop myself when you're gone."

"Oh, please, Marion, don't go away if you can help it," said Rhoda; "Mrs. Ferrand will be so sorry. I am sure you are very good to be fond of me. I haven't treated you very well lately. If I had only taken your advice, all this wouldn't have happened."