saying," said Lillian.

"I am tired of thinking," said Beatrice; "for the last ten years I have
been told to 'think' and 'reflect.' I have thought all I can; I want a
fresh subject."

"Think how beautiful those far-off white sails look," said
Lillian--"how they gleam in the sunshine. See, that one looks like a
mysterious hand raised to beckon us away."

"Such ideas are very well for you, Lillian," retorted Beatrice. "I see
nothing in them. Look at the stories we read; how different those
girls are from us! They have fathers, brothers, and friends; they have
jewels and dresses; they have handsome admirers, who pay them homage;
they dance, ride, and enjoy themselves. Now look at us, shut up here
with old and serious people."

"Hush, Beatrice," said Lillian; "mamma is not old."

"Not in years, perhaps," replied Beatrice; "but she seems to me old in
sorrow. She is never gay nor light-hearted. Mrs. Vyvian is very kind,
but she never laughs. Is every one sad and unhappy, I wonder? Oh,
Lillian, I long to see the world--the bright, gay world--over the sea
there. I long for it as an imprisoned bird longs for fresh air and
green woods."

"You would not find it all happiness," said Lillian, sagely.

"Spare me all truism," cried Beatrice. "Ah, sister, I am tired of all
this; for eleven years the sea has been singing the same songs; those
waves rise and fall as they did a hundred years since; the birds sing
the same story; the sun shines the same; even the shadow of the great
elms fall over the meadow just as it did when we first played there. I
long to away from the sound of the sea and the rustling of the elm
trees. I want to be where there are girls of my own age, and do as
they do. It seems to me we shall go on reading and writing, sewing and
drawing, and taking what mamma calls instructive rambles until our
heads grow gray."

"It is not so bad as that, Beatrice," laughed Lillian. "Lady Earle says
papa must return some day; then we shall all go to him."

"I never believe one word of it," said Beatrice, undauntedly. "At times
I could almost declare papa himself was a myth. Why do we not live
with him? Why does he never write? We never hear of or from him, save
through Lady Earle; besides, Lillian, what do you think I heard Mrs.
Vyvian say once to grandmamma? It was that we might not go to
Earlescourt at all--that if papa did not return, or died young, all
would go to a Mr. Lionel Dacre, and we should