hould like to go to school--I long to go--I want to get on
with my music, and Miss Briggs can't teach me any more."

"Father, when girls are at boarding-schools they have parties and
theatricals, and go to concerts, and have all sorts of fun. We never
have anything like that."

"Father, I am not a child; I am nearly eighteen. Chrystabel Maynard was
only seventeen at the beginning of the book?"

Mr Bertrand stirred uneasily, and brushed the hair from his forehead.
Chrystabel Maynard was one of his own heroines, and the allusion brought
home the reality of his daughter's age as nothing else could have done.
His glance passed by Norah and Lettice and lingered musingly on Hilary's
face.

"Ha, what's this? The revolt of the daughters!" he cried. "Well,
dears, you are quite right to be honest. If you have any grievances on
your little minds, speak out for goodness' sake, and let me hear all
about them. I am not an ogre of a father, who does not care what
happens to his children so long as he gets his own way. I want to see
you happy.--So you are seventeen, Hilary! I never realised it before.
You are old enough to hear my reason for keeping you down here, and to
judge if I am right. When your mother died, three years ago, I was left
in London with seven children on my hands. You were fourteen then, a
miserable, anaemic creature, with a face like a tallow candle, and lips
as white as paper. The boys came home from school and ran wild about
the streets. I could not get on with my work for worrying about you
all, and a man must work to keep seven children. I saw an advertisement
of this house in the papers one day, and took it on the impulse of the
moment. It seemed to me that you would all grow strong in this fine,
mountain air, and that I could work in peace, knowing that you were out
of the way of mischief. So far as the boys and myself are concerned,
the plan has worked well. I get on with my work, and they enjoy running
wild in their holidays; but the little lasses have pined, have they?
Poor little lasses! I am sorry to hear that. Now come--the post
brought me some cheques this morning, and I am inclined to be generous.
Next week, or the week after, I must run up to London on business, and I
will bring you each a nice present on my return. Choose what it shall
be, and I will get it for you if it is to be found in the length and
breadth of the city. Now then, wish in turns. What will you have?"

"It