erhaps, at this time, they were joined by Mr. Simcox, the old
writing-master. Alice went in to prepare her books; but Maltravers laid
his hand upon the preceptor's shoulder.

"You have a quick pupil, I hope, sir?" said he.

"Oh, very, very, Mr. Butler. She comes on famously. She practises a
great deal when I am away, and I do my best."

"And," asked Maltravers, in a grave tone, "have you succeeded in
instilling into the poor child's mind some of those more sacred notions
of which I spoke to you at our first meeting?"

"Why, sir, she was indeed quite a heathen--quite a Mahometan, I may say;
but she is a little better now."

"What have you taught her?"

"That God made her."

"That is a great step."

"And that He loves good girls, and will watch over them."

"Bravo! You beat Plato."

"No, sir, I never beat any one, except little Jack Turner; but he is a
dunce."

"Bah! What else do you teach her?"

"That the devil runs away with bad girls, and--"

"Stop there, Mr. Simcox. Never mind the devil yet a while. Let her first
learn to do good, that God may love her; the rest will follow. I would
rather make people religious through their best feelings than their
worst,--through their gratitude and affections, rather than their fears
and calculations of risk and punishment."

Mr. Simcox stared.

"Does she say her prayers?"

"I have taught her a short one."

"Did she learn it readily?"

"Lord love her, yes! When I told her she ought to pray to God to bless
her benefactor, she would not rest till I had repeated a prayer out of
our Sunday School book, and she got it by heart at once."

"Enough, Mr. Simcox. I will not detain you longer."

Forgetful of his untasted breakfast, Maltravers continued his meerschaum
and his reflections: he did not cease, till he had convinced himself
that he was but doing his duty to Alice, by teaching her to cultivate
the charming talent she evidently possessed, and through which she might
secure her own independence. He fancied that he should thus relieve
himself of a charge and responsibility which often perplexed him. Alice
would leave him, enabled to walk the world in an honest professional
path. It was an excellent idea. "But there is danger," whispered
Conscience. "Ay," answered Philosophy and Pride, those wise dupes that
are always so solemn and always so taken in; "but what is virtue without
trial?"

And now every evening, when the windows were closed, and the hearth
bur