a high set."

"Are they higher than we are in Surrey? Have they heard of my father,
who is equal to the President?"

"We are all equal in the sight of God."

"You do not look as if you thought so, Aunt Mercy. Why do you say
things in Barmouth you never said in Surrey?"

"Come downstairs, Cassandra, and help me finish the dishes."

Our conversation was ended; but I still had my thoughts on the clothes
question, and revolved my plans.

After the morning exercises the next day, Miss Black called me in to
her desk. "I think," she said, "you had better study Geology. It is
important, for it will lead your mind up from nature to nature's
God. My young ladies have finished their studies in that direction;
therefore you will recite alone, once a day."

"Yes 'em," I replied; but it was the first time that I had heard of
Geology. The compendium she gave me must have been dull and dry. I
could not get its lessons perfectly. It never inspired me with any
interest for land or sea. I could not associate any of its terms, or
descriptions, with the great rock under grand'ther's house. It was
not for Miss Black to open the nodules of my understanding, with her
hammer of instruction. She proposed Botany also. The young ladies made
botanical excursions to the fields and woods outside Barmouth; I
might as well join the class at once. It was now in the family of the
Legumes. I accompanied the class on one excursion. Not a soul appeared
to know that I was present, and I declined going again. Composition
I must write once a month. A few more details closed the interview. I
mentioned in it that father desired me to study arithmetic. Miss Black
placed me in a class; but her interests were in the higher and more
elegant branches of education. I made no more advance in the humble
walks of learning than in those adorned by the dissection of flowers,
the disruption of rocks, or the graces of composition. Though I
entered upon my duties under protest, I soon became accustomed to
their routine, and the rest of my life seemed more like a dream of the
future than a realization of the present. I refused to go home at the
end of the month. I preferred waiting, I said, to the end of the year.
I was not urged to change my mind; neither was I applauded for my
resolution. The day that I could have gone home, I asked father to
drive me to Milford, on the opposite side of the river which ran by
Barmouth. I shut my eyes tight, when the horse struck the