Six to Sixteen

e to go straight through them, partly as a check on a propensity for beginning things and not finishing them, to which we are liable, and partly from the childish habit of "saving up t

ery much wishing to break it, and we have en

why should we tease ourselves by stic

to devour books at a pace unfavourable to book-digestion, so perhaps it will be b

as read it, and I have read hers. She lays down mine

ore what I know of it from other sources than what I positively r

the Ayah, who had a mother's love and care for me, paid very little attention

was left behind in India. And from the time that I passe

t least one of) the principal subjects of conversation during all those working hours of the day which the ladies so freely sacrificed to each other. Mrs. Buller was truly kind, and I am sure that if I had depended in every way upon her, she would have given to my costume as much care as

f its gloom. Mrs. (Colonel) St. Quentin could not refuse to lend one of her youngest little girl's frocks as a copy, for "the p

rs. Minchin; "it will come in for th

ler kept a p

e tucks, of which fact I was very proud, having heard a good deal said about it. The first time Mr. George c

Mr. George," said I; "it

ast-one way: she could repeat grown-

Cut on the bias. They're not real tucks though,

tucks," I sto

cks," Matilda repeated. I think she was not sorry there should be so

Mr. George

real tucks,

erted me. He only said, "Good heavens!" And all my after efforts were v

at look of Mr. George's, and the remembrance never was a pleasant one. It chilled my enthusiasm for

wo in my mind. I did not talk about my father to any one but Mr. George, but at night I often lay awake and cried about him. Thi

new nor fashionable. It was then that Mrs. Minchin ferreted out a dre

were "made in the house,"

n-book, and gets a few h

d, "One of your little ones, Mrs. Buller? What a pretty little thing!" and duly sympathized over the sad story which Aunt Theresa seemed almost to enjoy relating. Sometimes it was agony to me to hear the oft-repeated tale of my parents' death, and then again I enjoyed a sort of gloomy importance which gave me satisfaction. I even rehearsed such scenes in my mind

rs of the regiment called on Mrs. Buller, and would say, "Is that poor Vandaleur's child? Dear me! Very

s eyeglass, "Th' same expressive eyes, you know, and just that graceful gracious little manner

ent. "She had a graceful gracious manner, if you like, and Mrs. Vandaleur was not t

gery dear," said Aunt The

oice, but still I could hear wh

ether I did or did not inherit my mother's graces. I ran to a little looking-glass in the nursery and examined my eyes; but when I tr

curiosity to see this for myself, and, remembering the big glass in Aunt Theresa's room, I stole out to see if I could make use of it unobserved. But the gentlemen had gone

ce, and ran to Au

esult was not favourable to vanity. Then I drew back to the door, and, advancing upon the mirror with mincing steps, I threw all the grace a

?le!" said a soft v

old lady had a bright, delicately cut face, eyes of whose expressiveness there could be no question, and large grey curls.

e ghost of an ancestor-like "somebody out