Marcia was the youngest, and her mother left her training almost wholly to her father; she sometimes said that she never supposed the child would live. She did not actually urge this in excuse, but she had the appearance of doing so; and she held aloof from them both in their mutual relations, with mildly critical reserves. They spoiled each other, as father and daughter are apt to do when left to themselves. What was good in the child certainly received no harm from his indulgence; and what was naughty was after all not so very naughty. She was passionate, but she was generous; and if she showed a jealous temperament that must hereafter make her unhappy, for the time being it charmed and flattered her father to have her so fond of him that she could not endure any rivalry in his affection. Her education proceeded fitfully. He would not let her be forced to household tasks that she disliked; and as a little girl she went to school chiefly because she liked to go, and not because she would have been obliged to it if she had not chosen. When she grew older, she wished to go away to school, and her father allowed her; he had no great respect for boarding-schools, but if Marcia wanted to try it, he was willing to humor the joke. What resulted was a great proficiency in the things that pleased her, and ignorance of the other things. Her father bought her a piano, on which she did not play much, and he bought her whatever dresses she fancied. He never came home from a journey without bringing her something; and he liked to take her with him when he went away to other places. She had been several times at Portland, and once at Montreal; he was very proud of her; he could not see that any one was better-looking, or dressed any better than his girl. He came into the kitchen, and sat down with his hat on, and, taking his chin between his fingers, moved uneasily about on his chair. “What's brought you in so early?” asked his wife. “Well, I got through,” he briefly explained. After a while he said, “Bartley Hubbard's been out there.” “You don't mean 't he knew she--” “No, he didn't know anything about that. He came to tell me he was going away.” “Well, I don't know what you're going to do, Mr. Gaylord,” said his wife, shifting the responsibility wholly upon him. “'D he seem to want to make it up?” “M-no!” said the Squire, “he was on his high horse. He knows he aint in any danger now.” “Aint you afraid she'll carry on dreadfully, when she finds out 't he's gone for good?” asked Mrs. Gaylord, with a sort of implied satisfaction that the carrying on was not to affect her.