es; so easy to see
faults in those about us, and to be blind to their goodness."

The squire laughed; between this father and daughter there existed a
sympathetic friendship wholly independent of the natural tie of parent
and child.

"You are right, Joyce, quite right; but I am afraid one does not need
glasses to find out the bad things."

"Father, let us put them on to find the good ones, then," Joyce
rejoined.

The squire leaned back, and let the old horse go her own pace, and her
own way.

"Ah! my little Joyce, that is wise advice. Thank God, I need no
spectacles to find out the good in _you_. I look to you to keep things
smooth at home for the next few days, and to help me to do the same. I
am quick-tempered, I know, and when I flare out, I am sorry afterwards."

"You don't often 'flare out,' as you say, to _me_, dear dad."

"What did your aunt say to you to-day?--called you her 'rustic,' I'll
answer for it."

"Oh, yes, of course she did; and she wants me to pay a grand visit to
Barley Wood."

"To Barley Wood!--to Mrs. Hannah More! Mother won't hear of it. Your
aunt had better not meddle. What do you think about it yourself?"

"I should like to pay a visit--a _short_ visit--to Barley Wood. That is
quite different from going to school. But with the boys coming home, and
Melville and his friend at Fair Acres, I doubt if I could be spared. It
might do me good to go, father; I mean, make me all the more useful at
home afterwards."

"What do you expect Mrs. Hannah More to do to you?--cut you into a
pattern, as she would cut an old woman's cloak, eh? However, if you wish
to go, and any more is said, I'll manage it for you. Perhaps no more
_will_ be said; your aunt is just as likely to forget all about it."

"Yes, I know that," Joyce said, with a little ring of disappointment in
her voice.

"I'll tell you what pattern I would not have you cut into on any
account; and that is poor die-away, languishing Charlotte Benson. Poor
thing! if she is a specimen of boarding-schools and accomplishments, I
would sooner have Jane Watson for a daughter."

"Charlotte paints flowers very well, father," Joyce said; "and she has
worked a figure in Berlin wool of a woman in a red gown feeding
chickens; and----"

They had been jogging along at a very leisurely pace, and the sound of
fast-trotting horses made Joyce look back.

"To the right, father! quick! it's the post-chaise from the Swan."

The squire pulled up towards