“What did my father say, if you please, that possessed such odious sameness?” “There, there, I am so glad to see you in a passion, dear; because I thought you never could be. Uncle John only said that no doubt somebody would like me better, if I gave up all that, and stayed in–doors all day. And I have been trying hard to do it; but he is worse than he was before. I sat on a bench in the chase last Monday, and he went by and never noticed me, though I made quite a noise with my hat on the wood until I was nearly ashamed of myself. But I need not have been alarmed, for my lord went by without even looking.” “And what do you mean to do about it?” Amy took the deepest interest in Eoaʼs love–affair. “Oh, you need not smile, Amy. It is all very well for you, I dare say; but it makes me dreadfully angry. Just as if I were nobody! And after I have told Uncle Cradock of my intentions to settle.” “You premature little creature! But my father was quite right in his advice, as he always is; and not for that reason only. You belong to a well–known family, and, for their sake as well as your own, you are bound to be very nice, dear, and to do only what is nice, instead of making a tomboy of yourself.” “Tomboy, indeed! And nice! Nice things they did, didnʼt they—shooting one another?” Almost before she had uttered the words, she was thoroughly ashamed of herself, for she knew about Amy and Cradock from the maidenʼs own confession. Amy arose without reply, and, taking her little basket, turned into the homeward path, with a little quiet sigh. Eoa thought for a moment, and then, having conquered herself, darted after the outraged friend. “I wish to have no more to do with you. That is all,” cried Amy, with Eoaʼs strong arms round her waist. “But, indeed, you shall. You know what a brute I am. I canʼt help it; but I will try. I will bite my tongue off to be forgiven.” “I simply wish, Miss Nowell, to have nothing more to do with you.” “Then you are a great deal worse than I am; because you are unforgiving. I thought you were so wonderfully good; and now I am sorry for you, even more than for myself. I had better go back to the devilʼs people, if this is the way of Christians.” “Could you forgive any one in a moment who had wounded you most savagely?” “In a moment,—if they were sorry, and asked me.” “Are you quite sure of that?” “Sure, indeed! How could I help it?” “Then, Eoa, you cannot help being more like a Christian than I am. I am very persistent, and steadily bitter to any one who wrongs me. You are far better than I am, Eoa; because you cannot hate any one.” “I donʼt know about being better, Amy; I only know that I donʼt hate any one—with all my heart I mean—except Mrs. Nowell Corklemore.”