they may
see you clear enough, and believe you're shamming. Or perhaps the dust
was blowing. I've been blind meself with dust before now, and come into
the house looking as though I'd been crying for weeks. Why should she
pretend not to know a friend--least of all when she'd been cockling?
'Deed, I'd have been more affectionate than ever, in the hope she'd say,
`Help yourself, me dear! Lend me your handkerchief, and I'll give ye a
nice little bundle to take home for your tea!'"

The Margaret-girls gave a simultaneous shriek of laughter at the idea of
Miss Lottie carrying a handkerchief full of cockles, and even the
Lottie-girls smiled approvingly at the little speaker, for was she not
advocating the position of their chief? Flora nodded encouragingly
across the hearth and cried, "Good for you, Pixie! Never listen to
second-hand stories against your friends!" And Kate added meaningly,
"Go on believing in human nature as long as you can, my dear. You're
young yet. When you are as old as I am it will be time to open your
eyes. But to go back to the last subject but one, don't you give way to
nerves, girls, and begin worrying about the exams already. I've noticed
that just about the middle of the term there always comes a
`discouragement stage' to anyone who is anxious to do well. The first
energy with which one begins work has worn off, and as it is too soon
for the final spurt, there comes a dull, flat time, when one worries and
frets and gets down in the lowest depths of dumps. I spoke about it at
home, and my father says every worker feels the same--artists when they
are painting pictures, and authors when they are writing books. They
have an idea, and set to work, all delight and excitement, believing
that they are going to do the best thing they have ever done. For a
little time all goes well, and then they begin to grow discouraged and
worried, and think they might as well give it up at once, for it is
going to be a dismal failure. They know _something_ is wrong, but they
can't see what it is, and they mope about, and don't know what to try
next. Father told me a story about Millais, the man who painted
`Bubbles,' you know, and heaps of other beautiful things. He was so
miserable about a picture once that he grew quite ill worrying about it.
His wife tried to persuade him to leave it alone for a few days, and
then take a rest; but no, he would not hear of it, so one fine day, when
he was out, she j