le I was
here. But it is no use grieving about that now; it seems to me I am come
to what our rector calls a 'turning point.' I can begin from to-day to
act in a different way, and I will. I will just think in everything how
I can help them all at home. I will try to please Aunt Rachel, and get
her to like me, and then perhaps I shall grow in time to bear the
thought of staying with her for a long, long while. Only, my poor boys
and my dear little Johnnie and Francie--I did think I should have had
you always. But it will be good for you, too, if I get on well at
Silchester."

When she had gone so far, Nancy, the housemaid, came out with broom and
bucket, and the mingled sounds of laughing and crying, and babel of many
voices that floated out through the opened windows, told Edith that the
family were rising for the last breakfast together.

It was a good thing when all the farewells were over, and for the first
few miles of the journey she was thankful to sit in silence in the
stuffy second-class carriage, and use all her strength of will to keep
back the tears that would try to come.

"Papa," she said shyly, as her father laid down his newspaper, and woke
up to the fact that the two ladies who had begun the journey with them
had got out at the last station--"papa, I want you to promise me
something, please."

"Well, Edith, what is it?"

"I want you to promise not to tell Aunt Rachel about all the things that
I have done--while I was at home, I mean."

"You have never done anything very dreadful, child," said the doctor
with a smile. "Your Aunt Rachel has not been accustomed to little girls,
it is true; but I suppose she won't expect you to be quite like an old
woman."

[Sidenote: "I will do my very best"]

"No; but if she knew about Johnnie and Francie falling into the water,
and about the chickens, and how Alfred and I let Farmer Smith's cow into
the potato-field, and the other things, she might not understand that I
am going to be different; and I shall be different--I shall indeed,
papa."

"Yes, Edith, it is time you began to be more thoughtful, and to remember
that there are things in the world, even for boys and girls, far more
important than play. If it will be any comfort to you, I will readily
promise not to mention the cow, or the chickens, or even that famous
water escapade. But I shall trust to your own good sense and knowledge
of what is right, and shall expect you to make for yourself a good
c