of angry meaning; and then,
suddenly checking herself, she said, in a lower tone, "let there be none
of this."

"Sir William asked me how old I was, mamma."

"And you said--"

"I believed twelve. Is it twelve? I ought to know, mamma, something for
certain, for I was eleven two years ago, and then I have been ten since
that; and when I was your sister, at Brighton, I was thirteen."

"Do you dare--" But ere she said more, the child had buried her head
between her hands, and, by the convulsive motion of her shoulders,
showed that she was sobbing bitterly. The mother continued her work,
unmoved by this emotion. She took occasion, it is true, when lifting up
the ball of worsted which had fallen, to glance furtively towards the
child; but, except by this, bestowed no other notice on her.

"Well," cried the little girl, with a half-wild laugh, as she flung back
her yellow hair, "Anderson says,--

"'On joy comes grief,--on mirth comes sorrow;
We laugh to-day, that we may cry to-morrow.'

And I believe one is just as pleasant as the other,--eh, mamma? _You_
ought to know."

"This is one of your naughty days, Clara, and I had hoped we had seen
the last of them," said her mother, in a grave but not severe tone.

"The naughty days are much more like to see the last of _me_," said the
child, half aloud, and with a heavy sigh.

"Clara," said her mother, in the same calm, quiet voice, "I have made
you my friend and my confidante at an age when any other had treated you
with strict discipline and reserve. You have been taught to see life--as
my sad experience revealed it to me, too--too late."

"And for me, too--too soon!" burst in the child, passionately.

"Here 's poor Clara breaking her heart over her exercise," burst in Sir
William, as he came forward, and, stooping over the child, kissed her
twice on the forehead. "Do let me have a favor to-day, and let this be a
holiday."

"Oh, yes, by all means," cried she, eagerly, clapping her hands.

"The lizard can lie in the sun, and bask
'Mid the odor of fragrant herbs;
Little knows he of a wearisome task,
Or the French irregular verbs.

"The cicala, too, in the long deep grass,
All day sings happily,
And I'd venture to swear
He has never a care For the odious rule of three.

"And as for the bee,
And his industry--"

"Oh, what a rhyme" laughed in Mrs. Morris.

"Oh, let her go on," cried Sir William. "Go