m the
breakfast-table. 'I don't see why,' said Theodora.

'What! Is not this Percy's well-beloved aunt, who nursed Helen, and is
such a friend of John's?'

'I am not going to dance attendance on any one.'

'It is your concern,' said Arthur; 'but, if you don't take care, Percy
won't stand much more of this.'

Vouchsafing no answer, she quitted the room. Arthur made a gesture of
annoyance. 'She treats Percy like a dog!' he said. 'I believe my aunt is
right, and that it never will come to good!'

'Shall you go with her, then?'

'I must, I suppose. She will not let me off now.'

'If we do not vex her by refusing, I hope she will give it up of
herself. I am almost sure she will, if no one says anything about it.'

'Very well: I am the last person to begin. I am sick of her quarrels.'

Two wills were dividing Theodora: one calling on her to renounce her
pride and obstinacy, take up the yoke while yet there was time, earn the
precious sense of peace, and confer gladness on the honest heart which
she had so often pained. Violet was as the genius of this better mind,
and her very presence infused such thoughts as these, disposing her not
indeed openly to yield, but to allow it to drop in silence.

But there was another will, which reminded her that she had thrice
been baffled, and that she had heard the soft tyrant rejoicing with her
brother over her defeat! She thought of Violet so subjugating Arthur,
that he had not even dared to wish for his favourite amusement, as if he
could not be trusted!

Such recollections provoked her to show that there was one whose
determination would yield to no one's caprice, and impelled her to
maintain the unconquerable spirit in which she had hitherto gloried.
Violet's unexpressed opinion was tricked out as an object of defiance;
and if she represented the genius of meekness, wilfulness was not
without outward prompters.

Mrs. Finch and Miss Gardner called, and found her alone. 'There!' said
the former, 'am I not very forgiving? Actually to come and seek you out
again, after the way you served us. Now, on your honour, what was the
meaning of it?'

'The meaning was, that this poor child had been told it was etiquette
for me to have a chaperon at my heels, and made such a disturbance that
I was obliged to give up the point. I am not ashamed. She is a good
girl, though a troublesome one at times.'

'Who would have thought that pretty face could be so prudish!'

'I suppose she is