make such a figure of yourself. Those muddy ankles and petticoats
are not fit to be seen--there, now you are sweeping the pavement.
Have you no medium? One would think you had never worn a gown in
your life before!"

Poor Ethel stepped on before with mud-encrusted heels, and her father
speaking sharply in the weariness and soreness of his heart; her
draggle-tailed petticoats weighing down at once her missionary
projects at Cocksmoor, and her tender visions of comforting her
widowed father; her heart was full to overflowing, and where was the
mother to hear her troubles?

She opened the hall door, and would have rushed upstairs, but nurse
happened to be crossing the hall. "Miss Ethel! Miss Ethel, you
aren't going up with them boots on! I do declare you are just like
one of the boys. And your frock!"

Ethel sat submissively down on the lowest step, and pulled off her
boots. As she did so, her father and brother came in--the former
desiring Richard to come with him to the study, and write a note for
him. She hoped that thus she might have Margaret to herself, and
hurried into her room. Margaret was alone, maids and children at
tea, and Flora dressing. The room was in twilight, with the red
gleam of the fire playing cheerfully over it.

"Well, Ethel, have you had a pleasant walk?"

"Yes--no--Oh, Margaret!" and throwing herself across the bottom of
the bed, she burst into tears.