the pocket-book, papa. I think
I should tell you I repeated what, perhaps, you did not mean me to
hear--you talked to yourself something of pitying Ernescliffe." The
doctor smiled again at the boy's high-minded openness, which must have
cost an effort of self-humiliation. "I can't say little pitchers have
long ears, to a May-pole like you, Norman," said he; "I think I ought
rather to apologise for having inadvertently tumbled in among your
secrets; I assure you I did not come to spy you."

"Oh, no, no, no, no!" repeated Ethel vehemently. "Then you didn't mind
our talking about it?"

"Of course not, as long as it goes no further. It is the use of sisters
to tell them one's private sentiments. Is not it, Norman?"

"And do you really think it is so, papa?" Ethel could not help
whispering.

"I'm afraid it is", said Dr. May, sighing; then, as he caught her
earnest eyes, "The more I see of Alan, the finer fellow I think him,
and the more sorry I am for him. It seems presumptuous, almost wrong, to
think of the matter at all while my poor Margaret is in this state; and,
if she were well, there are other difficulties which would, perhaps,
prevent his speaking, or lead to long years of waiting and wearing out
hope."

"Money?" said Ethel.

"Ay! Though I so far deserve your compliment, miss, that should be
foolish enough, if she were but well, to give my consent to-morrow,
because I could not help it; yet one can't live forty-six years in
this world without seeing it is wrong to marry without a reasonable
dependence--and there won't be much among eleven of you. It makes my
heart ache to think of it, come what may, as far as I can see, and
without her to judge. The only comfort is, that poor Margaret herself
knows nothing of it, and is at peace so far. It will be ordered for
them, anyhow. Good-night, my dear."

Ethel sought her room, with graver, deeper thoughts of life than she had
carried upstairs.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Saw ye never in the meadows,
Where your little feet did pass,
Down below, the sweet white daisies
Growing in the long green grass?

Saw you never lilac blossoms,
Or acacia white and red,
Waving brightly in the sunshine,
On the tall trees over head?
HYMNS FOR CHILDREN, C. F. A.

"My dear child, what a storm you have had! how wet you must be!"
exclaimed Mrs. Larpent, as Meta Rivers came bounding up the broad
staircase