ly evident in all her conscientious
actions."

"You surprise and distress me. This is the first intimation I have
received of your having any cause to complain of Marian."

"Nonsense! I dont complain of her. But what you call her education, as
far as I can make it out, appears to have consisted of stuffing her with
lies, and making it a point of honor with her to believe them in spite
of sense and reason. The sense of duty that rises on that sort of
foundation is more mischievous than downright want of principle. I dont
dispute your right, you who constitute polite society, to skin over all
the ugly facts of life. But to make your daughters believe that the
skin covers healthy flesh is a crime. Poor Marian thinks that a room is
clean when all the dust is swept out of sight under the furniture; and
if honest people rake it out to bring it under the notice of those whose
duty it is to remove it, she is disgusted with them, and ten to one
accuses them of having made it themselves. She doesnt know what sort of
world she is in, thanks to the misrepresentations of those who should
have taught her. She will deceive her children in just the same way, if
she ever has any. If she had been taught the truth in her own childhood,
she would know how to face it, and would be a strong woman as well as an
amiable one. But it is too late now. The truth seems natural to a child;
but to a grown woman or man, it is a bitter lesson in the learning,
though it may be invigorating when it is well mastered. And you know how
seldom a hard task forced on an unwilling pupil _is_ well mastered."

"What is truth?" said the clergyman, sententiously.

"All that we know, Master Pilate," retorted Conolly with a laugh. "And
we know a good deal. It may seem small in comparison with what we dont
know; but it is more than any one of us can hold, for all that. We know,
for instance, that the world was not planned by a sentimental landscape
gardener. If Marian ever learns that--which she may, although I am
neither able nor willing to teach it to her--she will not thank those
who gave her so much falsehood to unlearn. Until then, she will, I am
afraid, do little else than lay up a store of regrets for herself."

"This is very strange. We always looked upon Marian as an exceptionally
amiable girl."

"So she is, unfortunately. There is no institution so villainous but
she will defend it; no tyranny so oppressive but she will make a virtue
of submitting to i