obleness will
need but few trials of pain in each outbreak to refine and chastise its
expression. Fear not then; be but noble thyself, thou art safe!

Yet what in childhood is often called, rebukingly, "temper" is but the
cordial and puissant vitality which contains all the elements that
make temper the sweetest at last. Who amongst us, how wise soever, can
construe a child's heart? who conjecture all the springs that secretly
vibrate within, to a touch on the surface of feeling? Each child, but
especially the girl-child, would task the whole lore of a sage deep as
Shakspeare to distinguish those subtle emotions which we grown folks
have outlived.

"She has a strong temper," said the Mayor, when Soppy snatched the doll
from his hand a second time, and pouted at him, spoiled child, looking
so divinely cross, so petulantly pretty! And how on earth could the
Mayor know what associations with that stupid doll made her think it
profaned by the touch of a stranger? Was it to her eyes as to his,--mere
waxwork and frippery; or a symbol of holy remembrances, of gleams into
a fairer world, of "devotion to something afar from the sphere of
her sorrow?" Was not the evidence of "strong temper" the very sign of
affectionate depth of heart? Poor little Sophy! Hide it again,--safe out
of sight, close, inscrutable, unguessed, as childhood's first treasures
of sentiment ever are!

CHAPTER XXII.

The object of civilization being always to settle people one way or
the other, the Mayor of Gatesboro' entertains a statesmanlike
ambition to settle Gentleman Waife; no doubt a wise conception, and
in accordance with the genius of the Nation. Every session of
Parliament England is employed in settling folks, whether at home or
at the Antipodes, who ignorantly object to be settled in her way; in
short, "I'll settle them," has become a vulgar idiom, tantamount to
a threat of uttermost extermination or smash; therefore the Mayor of
Gatesboro' harbouring that benignant idea with reference to
"Gentleman Waife," all kindly readers will exclaim, "Dii meliora!
What will he do with it?"

The doll once more safe behind the pillow, Sophy's face gradually
softened; she bent forward, touched the Mayor's hand timidly, and looked
at him with pleading, penitent eyes, still wet with tears,--eyes that
said, though the lips were silent, "I'll not hate you. I was ungrateful
and peevish; may I beg pardon?"

"I forgive yo