There was some laughter at this harangue, but no contradiction of its statements. Perhaps Esther was more highly gifted than any of her fellows; beyond question she worked harder. She had motives that wrought upon none of them; the idea of equalling or at least of satisfying Pitt, and the feeling that her father was sacrificing a great deal for her sake, and that she must do her very utmost by way of honouring and rewarding his kindness. Besides still another and loftier feeling, that she was the Lord's servant, and that less than the very best she could do was not service good enough for him. 'Papa,' she said one evening in October, 'don't you think Pitt must have come and gone before now?' 'William Dallas? If he has come, he is gone, certainly.' 'Papa, do you think he _can_ have come?' 'Why not?' 'Because he has not been to see us.' 'My dear, that is nothing; there is no special reason why he should come to see us.' 'Oh, papa!' cried Esther, dismayed. 'My dear, you have put too much water in my tea; I wish you would think what you are about.' Now Esther _had_ thought what she was about, and the tea was as nearly as possible just as usual. 'Shall I mend it, papa?' 'You cannot mend it. Tea must be made right at first, if it is ever to be right. And if it is _not_ right, it is not fit to be drunk.' 'I am very sorry, papa. I will try and have it perfect next time.' It was plain her father did not share her anxiety about Pitt; he cared nothing about the matter, whether he came or no. He did not think of it. And Esther had been thinking of it every day for months, and many times a day. She was hurt, and it made her feel alone. Esther had that feeling rather often, for a girl of her age and sound health in every respect, bodily and mental. The feeling was quite in accordance with the facts of the case; only many girls at seventeen would not have found it out. She was in school and in the midst of numbers for five and a half days in the week; yet even there, as has been explained, she was in a degree solitary; and both in school and at home Esther knew the fact. At home the loneliness was intensified. Colonel Gainsborough was always busy with his books; even at meal times he hardly came out of them; and never, either at Seaforth or here, had he made himself the companion of his daughter. He desired to know how she stood in her school, and kept himself informed of what she was doing; what she might be _feeling_ he never inquired. It was all right, he thought; everything was going right, except that he was such an invalid and so left to himself. If asked by _whom_ he was left to himself, he would have said, by his family and his country and the world generally. His family and his country might probably have charged that the neglect was mutual, and the world at large could hardly be blamed for not taking up the old soldier whom it did not know, and making much of him. The care