ul we hardly know, like that which had so often
been her lullaby,--a memory of the sea, as Landor and Wordsworth have
sung.

"You are getting to look like your father," Aunt Silence said one day; "I
never saw it before. I always thought you took after old Major Gideon
Withers. Well, I hope you won't come to an early grave like poor
Charles,--or at any rate, that you may be prepared."

It did not seem very likely that the girl was going out of the world at
present, but she looked Miss Silence in the face very seriously, and
said, "Why not an early grave, Aunt, if this world is such a bad place as
you say it is?"

"I'm afraid you are not fit for a better."

She wondered if Silence Withers and Cynthia Badlam were just ripe for
heaven.

For some months Miss Cynthia Badlam, who, as was said, had been an
habitual visitor at The Poplars, had lived there as a permanent resident.
Between her and Silence Withers, Myrtle Hazard found no rest for her
soul. Each of them was for untwisting the morning-glory without waiting
for the sunshine to do it. Each had her own wrenches and pincers to use
for that purpose. All this promised little for the nurture and
admonition of the young girl, who, if her will could not be broken by
imprisonment and starvation at three years old, was not likely to be
over-tractable to any but gentle and reasonable treatment at fifteen.

Aunt Silence's engine was responsibility,--her own responsibility, and
the dreadful consequences which would follow to her, Silence, if Myrtle
should in any way go wrong. Ever since her failure in that moral coup
d'etat by which the sinful dynasty of the natural self-determining power
was to be dethroned, her attempts in the way of education had been a
series of feeble efforts followed by plaintive wails over their utter
want of success. The face she turned upon the young girl in her solemn
expostulations looked as if it were inscribed with the epitaphs of hope
and virtue. Her utterances were pitched in such a forlorn tone, that the
little bird in his cage, who always began twittering at the sound of
Myrtle's voice, would stop in his song, and cock his head with a look of
inquiry full of pathos, as if he wanted to know what was the matter, and
whether he could do anything to help.

The specialty of Cynthia Badlam was to point out all the dangerous and
unpardonable trangressions into which young people generally, and this
young person in particular, were likely