uld have cared had she
been in their place. This idea cost her some private tears; she
comforted herself by a poem which she called "Fickleness," and which
began:

"It is wicked to be fickle,
And very, very unkind,
And I'd be ashamed"--

but no rhyme to fickle could she find except "pickle," and it was so
hard to work that in, that she gave up writing the verses, and only
kept away from the girls for a few days. But for all Eyebright's
doubts, the girls did care, only Examination was coming on, and they
were too busy in learning the pieces they were to speak, and
practising for a writing prize which Miss Fitch had promised them, to
realize just then how sorry they were. It came afterward, when the
Examination was over, and Eyebright really gone; and it was a long
time--a year or two at least--before any sort of festival or picnic
could take place in Tunxet without some child's saying, wistfully: "I
wish Eyebright was here to go; don't you?" Could Eyebright have known
this, it would have comforted her very much during those last weeks;
but the pity is, we can't know things beforehand in this world.

So, after all, her chief consolation was Genevieve, to whom she could
tell any thing without fear of making mischief or being contradicted.

"There's just one thing I'm glad about," she said to this chosen
confidante, "and that is that it's an island. I never saw any islands,
neither did you, Genevieve; but I know they must be lovely. And I'm
glad it's in the sea, too. But, oh dear, my poor child, how will you
get along without any other dolls to play with? You'll be very lonely
sometimes--very lonely, indeed--I'm afraid."

CHAPTER VII.

BETWEEN THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW.

"Wealthy," said Eyebright, "I want to tell you something."

Wealthy was kneading bread, her arms rising and falling with a strong,
regular motion, like the piston of a steam-engine. She did not even
turn her head, but dusting a little flour on to the dough, went
straight on saying briefly,--

"Well, what?"

"I've been thinking," continued Eyebright, "that when papa and I get
to the Island, perhaps some days there won't be anybody to do the
cooking but me, and it would be so nice if you would teach me a few
things,--not hard ones, you know,--little easy things. I know how to
toast now, and how to boil eggs, and make shortcake, and stew rhubarb,
but papa would get tired of those if he didn't have any thing else, I
am afraid