nd say, 'I am sorry I
used an ugly word to you, but I still think you were very unkind in what
you said.' Then, if she is a nice girl, she will say she wishes she
hadn't said what she did; and if not--well, you must just leave it,
dear. I will go with you if you like. We can all drive to the village
to-morrow afternoon."

"Oh, how good of you! Thank you so much." And Marjory, much relieved,
went back to Blanche.

As a matter of fact Mrs. Forester had her own reasons for going herself
with Marjory, for that very afternoon Mrs. Smylie, by way of
ingratiating herself with the newcomer, had been making unkind remarks
about Marjory and her bringing-up, and warning Mrs. Forester that she
would not be a suitable companion for her daughter. Mrs. Forester had
known very well how to reply to these statements, but she thought it
would be a very good thing to show the Smylies that their spiteful,
unkind words had no weight with her.

Mrs. Smylie's ambition knew no bounds as far as her daughter was
concerned. She was conscious of the fact that she herself was a plain,
ordinary, country woman, and would never be anything else; but with her
daughter it was different. With her looks and education she ought to be
able to associate with the best of people. Such was this foolish
mother's dream, and she had thought to curry favour with the lady of
Braeside by her remarks on what she considered should be the behaviour
of a well-brought-up young lady, and what she had always aimed at in the
education of her daughter. Mary Ann would have laughed could she have
read her mother's mind and seen to what heights her ambition rose.

Marjory forgot about her for the time being. Blanche had so many
treasures to show her and so much to say to her that the afternoon
passed all too quickly.

They had tea by themselves in the room Mrs. Forester had chosen as a
schoolroom--comfortable and cheerful, with windows looking over the
garden. A new set of shelves had been put up, and all Blanche's books
were arranged on them--her story books on the top and her lesson books
on the lower shelves.

Marjory feasted her eyes upon the collection. Here were Blanche's old
favourites, amongst them Grimm's "Fairy Tales," and Hans Andersen's,
"Alice in Wonderland," "Black Beauty," and many others. One after
another she took them down to show to Marjory.

"You must read every one of them," she said, "and then your mind inside
will be just like mine."

"I should l