me so urgent in his entreaties, that Harold,
though much hurt, relented so far as to promise at any rate to remain
till Monday, so that Dora should not detect the offence.

We saw the happy pair off, among the old shoes, to spend some months
abroad, while the old house was revivified for them, and then we had
our own drive home, which was chiefly occupied with Dora, who, sitting
on Harold's knee, seemed to expect her full rescue from all grievances,
and was terribly disappointed to find that he had no power to remove
her from her durance in the London school-room, where she was plainly
the dunce and the black sheep, a misery to herself and all concerned,
hating everyone and disliked by all. To the little maiden of the Bush,
only half tamed as yet, the London school-room and walks in the park
were penance in themselves, and the company of three steady prim girls,
in the idealess state produced by confinement to a school-room, and
nothing but childish books, was as distasteful to her as she was
shocking to them, and her life was one warfare with them and with their
Fraulein. The only person she seemed able to endure was Nessy Horsman,
who was allowed to haunt his cousin Randal's house, and who delighted
in shocking the decorous monotony of the trio of sisters, finding the
vehement little Australian far more entertaining, while, whether he
teased or stimulated her, she found him the least uncongenial being she
met in Paddington. But what struck me most was the manner in which
Harold spoke to her, not merely spoiling her, and giving her her own
way, as if he were only a bigger child, but saying "It will all get
better, Dora, if you only try to do your best."

"I haven't got any best to do."

"Everybody has."

"But I don't want it to be better. I want to be with you and Lucy."

Then came some reasoning about impossibilities, too low for me to hear
in the noise of the wheels, but ending with "It is only another thing
to conquer. You can conquer anything if you only try, and pray to God
to help you."

"I haven't said my prayers since I went away. They ordered me, and
said I was wicked; but you don't, Harold, do you?" she cried
triumphantly, little expecting the groan she met in answer, "Yes,
indeed I do, Dora. I only wish I had done so sooner."

"I thought it was no use," she said, crying at his tone. "It was so
unkind to take me away from Lucy," and whereas she hardly ever shed
tears and was now far from resto