unlike, so much softer and sweeter than Millicent, was yet like her in
being a child of character and of an indomitable will. She never cried,
never argued, or listened to arguments, never demonstrated after the
fashion of wilful children generally, by throwing herself down
screaming and kicking; she simply very gently insisted on having her
own way and living her own life. In the end she always got it, and the
beautiful thing was that she never wanted to be naughty or do anything
really wrong! She took a quite wonderful interest in the life of the
little community, and would always be where others were, especially
when any gathering took place. Thus, long before I knew her at the age
of four, she made the discovery that the village children, or most of
them, passed much of their time in school, and to school she
accordingly resolved to go. Her parents opposed, and talked seriously
to her and used force to restrain her, but she overcame them in the
end, and to the school they had to take her, where she was refused
admission on account of her tender years. But she had resolved to go,
and go she would; she laid siege to the schoolmistress, to the vicar,
who told me how day after day she would come to the door of the
vicarage, and the parlour-maid would come rushing into his study to
announce, "Miss Mab to speak to you Sir," and how he would talk
seriously to her, and then tell her to run home to her mother and be a
good child. But it was all in vain, and in the end, because of her
importunity or sweetness, he had to admit her.

When I went, during school hours, to give a talk to the children, there
I found Mab, one of the forty, sitting with her book, which told her
nothing, in her little hands. She listened to the talk with an
appearance of interest, although understanding nothing, her bugloss
eyes on me, encouraging me with a very sweet smile, whenever I looked
her way.