being in the right, and I did not think then, as I do now,
that it is possible to be most in the right in a quarrel, and at the
same time not least to blame for it.

Matilda certainly did by degrees become very irritable, moody, and
perverse, and her perversity developed itself in ways which puzzled poor
Aunt Theresa.

She became silent and unsociable. She displayed a particular dislike to
the privileges of being in the drawing-room with grown-up "company," and
of accompanying Aunt Theresa when she paid her afternoon calls. She
looked very ill, and stoutly denied that she was so. She highly resented
solicitude on the subject of her health, fought obstinately over every
bottle of medicine, and was positively rude to the doctors.

For her unsociability, I think, Miss Perry's evil influence was partly
to blame. Poor Matilda clung to her belief in our late governess when
she was no more to us than a text upon which Aunt Theresa and her
friends preached to each other against governesses in general, and the
governesses each had suffered from in particular. Our lessons with Major
Buller, and the influence of Miss Airlie's good breeding and
straightforward kindness, gave a healthier turn to our tastes; but when
Miss Airlie went away and Major Buller proclaimed a three weeks' holiday
from the Latin grammar, and we were left to ourselves, Matilda felt the
want of the flattery, the patronage, and the small excitements and
mysteries about nothing, to which Miss Perry had accustomed her. I blush
to think that my companionship was less comfort to her than it ought to
have been. As to Aunt Theresa, she was always too busy to give full
attention to anything; and this does not invite confidence.

Another reason, I am sure, for Matilda's dislike to appearing in company
was a painful sense of her personal appearance; and as she had heard
Aunt Theresa and her friends discuss, approve, and condemn their friends
by the standard of appearances alone, ever since she was old enough to
overhear company conversation, I hardly think she was much to blame on
this point.

Matilda was emphatically at what is called "an awkward age"; an age more
awkward with some girls than with others. I wish grown-up ladies, who
mean to be kind to their friends' daughters, would try to remember the
awkwardness of it, and not increase a naturally uncomfortable
self-consciousness by personal remarks which might disturb the composure
of older, prettier, and bette