"Daisy is the worse for her bon-bons, I believe, but the overdose of them rests on my shoulders. I do not know how to believe you, Ethel. Of course you told her nothing of the kind crossed my mind, poor thing!"
"I told her so, over and over again, as I have done forty times before but her feelings are always being hurt."
"Poor thing, poor thing! no doubt it is a trying situation, and she is sensitive. Surely you are all forbearing with her?"
"I hope we are," said Ethel; "but how can we tell what vexes her?"
"And what is this, of your telling her she was ill-tempered?" asked Dr. May incredulously.
"Well, papa," said Ethel, softened, yet wounded by his thinking it so impossible. "I had often thought I ought to tell her that these sensitive feelings of hers were nothing but temper; and perhaps-- indeed I know I do--I partake of the general fractiousness of the house to-day, and I did not bear it so patiently as usual. I did say that I thought it wrong to foster her fancies; for if she looked at them coolly, she would find they were only a form of pride and temper."
"It did not come well from you, Ethel," said the doctor, looking vexed.
"No, I know it did not," said Ethel meekly; "but oh! to have these janglings once a week, and to see no end to them!"
"Once a week?"
"It is really as often, or more often," said Ethel. "If any of us criticise anything the girls have done, if there is a change in any arrangement, if she thinks herself neglected--I can't tell you what little matters suffice; she will catch me, and argue with me, till-- oh, till we are both half dead, and yet cannot stop ourselves."
"Why do you argue?"
"If I could only help it!"
"Bad management," said the doctor, in a low, musing tone. "You want a head!" and he sighed.
"Oh, papa, I did not mean to distress you. I would not have told you if I had remembered--but I am worried to-day, and off my guard--"
"Ethel, I thought you were the one on whom I could depend for bearing everything."
"These were such nonsense!"
"What may seem nonsense to you is not the same to her. You must be forbearing, Ethel. Remember that dependence is prone to morbid sensitiveness, especially in those who have a humble estimate of themselves."
"It seems to me that touchiness is more pride than humility," said Ethel, whose temper, already not in the smoothest state, found it hard that, after having long borne patiently with these constant arguments, she should find Miss Bracy made the chief object of compassion.
Dr. May's chivalrous feeling caused him to take the part of the weak, and he answered, "You know nothing about it. Among our own kith and kin we can afford to pass over slights, because we are sure the heart is right--we do not know what it is to be among strangers, uncertain of any claim to their esteem or kindness. Sad! sad!" he continued, as the picture wrought on him. "Each trifle seems a token one way or the other! I am very sorry I grieved the poor thing yesterday. I must go and tell her so at once."
He put Ethel aside, and knocked at the schoolroom door, while Ethel stood, mortified. "He thinks I have been neglecting, or speaking harshly to her! For fifty times that I have borne with her maundering, I have, at last, once told her the truth; and for that I am accused of want of forbearance! Now he will go and make much of her, and pity her, till she will think herself an injured heroine, and be worse than ever; and he will do away with all the good of my advice, and want me to ask her pardon for it--but that I never will. It was only the truth, and I will stick to it."
"Ethel!" cried Mary, running up to her, then slackening her pace, and whispering, "you did not tell Miss Bracy she was ill-tempered."
"No--not exactly. How could you tell papa I did?"
"She said so. She was crying, and I asked what was the matter, and she said my sister Ethel said she was ill-tempered."
"She made a great exaggeration then," said Ethel.
"I am sure she was very cross all day," said Mary.
"Well, that is no business of yours," said Ethel pettishly. "What now? Mary, don't look out at the street window."
"It is Flora--the Grange carriage," whispered Mary, as the two sisters made a precipitate retreat into the drawing-room.
Meanwhile, Dr. May had been in the schoolroom. Miss Bracy had ceased her tears before he came--they had been her retort on Ethel, and she had not intended the world to know of them. Half disconcerted, half angry, she heard the doctor approach. She was a gentle, tearful woman, one of those who are often called meek, under an erroneous idea that meekness consists in making herself exceedingly miserable under every kind of grievance; and she now had a sort of melancholy satisfaction in believing that the young ladies had fabricated an exaggerated complaint of her temper, and that she was going to become injured innocence. To think herself accused of a great wrong, excused her from perceiving herself guilty of a lesser one.
"Miss Bracy," said Dr. May, entering with his frank, sweet look, "I am concerned that I vexed you by taking the children to walk with me yesterday. I thought such little brats would be troublesome to any but their spoiling papa, but they would have been in safer hands with you. You would not have been as weak as I was, in regard to sugar- plums." Such amends as these confused Miss Bracy, who found it pleasanter to be lamentable with Ethel, than to receive a full apology for her imagined offence from the master of the house. Feeling both small and absurd, she murmured something of "oh, no," and "being sure," and hoped he was going, so that she might sit down to pity herself, for those girls having made her appear so ridiculous.
No such thing! Dr. May put a chair for her, and sat down himself, saying, with a smile, "You see, you must trust us sometimes, and overlook it, if we are less considerate than we might be. We have rough, careless habits with each other, and forget that all are not used to them."
Miss Bracy exclaimed, "Oh, no, never, they were most kind."
"We wish to be," said Dr. May, "but there are little neglects--or you think there are. I will not say there are none, for that would be answering too much for human nature, or that they are fanciful--for that would be as little comfort as to tell a patient that the pain is only nervous--"
Miss Bracy smiled, for she could remember instances when, after suffering much at the time, she had found the affront imaginary.
He was glad of that smile, and proceeded. "You will let me speak to you, as to one of my own girls? To them, I should say, use the only true cure. Don't brood over vexations, small or great, but think of them as trials that, borne bravely, become blessings."
"Oh! but Dr. May!" she exclaimed, shocked; "nothing in your house could call for such feelings."
"I hope we are not very savage," he said, smiling; "but, indeed, I still say it is the safest rule. It would be the only one if you were really among unkind people; and, if you take so much to heart an unlucky neglect of mine, what would you do if the slight were a true one?"
"You are right; but my feelings were always over-sensitive;" and this she said with a sort of complacency.
"Well, we must try to brace them," said Dr. May, much as if prescribing for her. "Will not you believe in our confidence and esteem, and harden yourself against any outward unintentional piece of incivility?"
She felt as if she could at that moment.
"Or at least, try to forgive and forget them. Talking them over only deepens the sense of them, and discussions do no good to any one. My daughters are anxious to be your best friends, as I hope you know."
"Oh! they are most kind--"
"But, you see, I must say this," added Dr. May, somewhat hesitating, "as they have no mother to--to spare all this," and then, growing clearer, he proceeded, "I must beg you to be forbearing with them, and not perplex yourself and them with arguing on what cannot be helped. They have not the experience that could enable them to finish such a discussion without unkindness; and it can only waste the spirits, and raise fresh subjects of regret. I must leave you--I hear myself called."