hink Mary ill. In fact, he
said fainting was the most natural and justifiable measure, under the
circumstances. "How many human creatures do you keep there?" he asked.

"Forty-seven to-day," said Mary proudly.

"I shall indict you for cruelty to animals! I think I have known it
hotter at Poonshedagore, but there we had punkahs!"

"It was very wrong of me," said Ethel. "I should have thought of poor
Mary, in that sunny walk, but Mary never complains."

"Oh, never mind," said Mary, "it did not hurt."

"I'm not thinking of Mary," said Dr. Spencer, "but of the wretched
beings you are leaving shut up there. I wonder what the mercury would be
there."

"We cannot help it," said Mary. "We cannot get the ground."

And Mary, having been voted into the seat of honour and comfort by his
side in the carriage, told her version of Cocksmoor and the Committee;
while Ethel sat up in the little narrow seat behind, severely
reproaching herself for her want of consideration towards one so good
and patient as Mary, who proved to have been suffering far more on
Harry's account than they had guessed, and who was so simple and
thorough-going in doing her duty. This was not being a good elder
sister, and, when they came home, she confessed it, and showed so much
remorse that poor Mary was quite shocked, and cried so bitterly that it
was necessary to quit the subject.

"Ethel, dearest," said Margaret that night, after they were in bed, "is
there anything the matter?"

"No, nothing, but that Oxford has spoiled me," said Ethel, resolutely.
"I am very cross and selfish!"

"It will be better by-and-by," said Margaret, "if only you are sure you
have nothing to make you unhappy."

"Nothing," said Ethel. She was becoming too much ashamed of her fancy
to breathe one word about it, and she had spoken the truth. Pleasure had
spoiled her.

"If only we could do something for Cocksmoor!" she sighed, presently,
"with that one hundred and fifty pounds lying idle."

Margaret was very glad that her thoughts were taking this channel, but
it was not a promising one, for there seemed to be nothing practicable,
present or future. The ground could not be had--the pig would not get
over the stile--the old woman could not get home to-night. Cocksmoor
must put up with its present school, and Mary must not be walked to
death.

Or, as Ethel drew her own moral, sacrifice must not be selfish. One
great resolution that has been costly, must not blunt us in