best selves as if they had stolen them." If they would show their
colours, they would find that many of the apparently careless people they
meet do care about the real interests of life. If they themselves do care
and yet try to seem careless, are they not responsible for half the
carelessness in those about them?

"The manner of our ordinary conversation," says Bishop Wilson, "is that
which either hardens people in wrong, or awakens them to the right. We
always do good or harm to others by the manner of our conversation."

Aunt Rachel; or, Old Maids' Children.

"What is the matter, my dear" said Aunt Rachel to her favourite niece,
Urith Trevelyan, who was spending the Easter holidays with her. "You look
fit to be a sister in mind, though I hope not in manners, to the Persian
poet, who described himself as 'scratching the head of Thought with the
nails of Despair.'"

"I think life is very difficult," remarked Urith, with a solemn sigh.

"There I partly agree with you," said Aunt Rachel; "especially to people
who insist on doing to-morrow's duty with to-day's strength. I doubt very
much if the holiday task, which I see in your hand, is the cause of this
gloom."

"Oh dear, no! I was thinking what shall I do with myself when I leave
school at Midsummer; it will be so very hard to read by myself."

"My good child, do attend to what you are doing; you are just like the man
in the 'Snark,' who had

"'luncheon at five o'clock tea,
And dined on the following day.'

"I wish you would dine off that unfortunate task to-day, and when you have
finished it we will talk about your future work."

The task did not take long when Urith fairly gave her mind to it, and the
next day she and her aunt started for a distant cottage at the far end of
the parish. Urith seized the opportunity, and began as the door closed
behind them--

"Now, Aunt Rachel, how can I do everything I ought when I leave school? I
shall know nothing of Greek or Roman history, or mythology, or French or
German history, or even of English, except the period we have been just
doing, and I have done only a few books in the literature class, and none
in foreign literature, and I have forgotten all my geography, and I shall
have Latin and Greek to keep up, and French and German and chemistry, and
I don't know anything, hardly, of modern books, or of architecture or
natural history, or philosophy, or of cooking"--here, in her ardour, she
t