"I do not think it wise to do so," Mrs. Ingestre answered gravely. "You are right, Nora; you must see the world. You must go away from here, not just for the sake of the music, the change, and excitement, but in order that your heart may grow wider, in order to learn to love the good that lies outside your own little sphere. There are great things, great people outside Delford, Nora—yes, and outside England. You must learn to know them." The girl’s face flushed crimson. "At the bottom we all despise foreigners and foreign ways," she said in self-defence. "Father does, Miles does, the Squire does. And they have all travelled; they have seen for themselves." "They have travelled with their eyes open and their hearts closed," Mrs. Ingestre answered. "How do you know, mother? You have never been out of England." Mrs. Ingestre shook her head. A rather melancholy smile passed over her wan features. "No," she said; "I have never been out of England, but I have been often, very often, ill, and during the long hours I have travelled great distances, and I have begun to think that God cannot surely have reserved all the virtues for us English. I fancy even the poor benighted Germans must have their share of heaven." Nora laughed outright. "I expect they have, now I come to think of it," she admitted gaily. "Mother, you are a much better Christian than father, though you won’t call every one ’dearly beloved,’ and you are yards better than I am. I can’t help it—I despise all foreigners, especially——" She stopped abruptly, and Mrs. Ingestre smiled. "Still, you will try Karlsburg. It will be an experience for you, and you will hear good music. The family is a very old one, and perhaps the members, being of noble birth, may gobble less than the others." "All Germans are of noble birth," Nora observed scornfully. "So much the better for them," Mrs. Ingestre returned. "Are you willing to try? You know the alternative." "May I think it over, mother?" "Yes, you may think over it, if you like. It is, after all, only a question of your willingness." "That means you have made up your mind?" "Yes." Mrs. Ingestre saw the strong young face set into lines of defiance. She went back to the sofa and lay down with a sigh. "Little Nora," she said, almost under her breath, "you know it is not my custom to preach. You won’t think, therefore, that I am just ’talking’ when I tell you: years ago I would have given anything—anything—to have had this chance." For the first time in their long interview the girl stopped listening to the self-pitying confusion of her thoughts. The elder woman’s voice had penetrated her youthful egoism, and she turned with that curious tugging at the heart which we experience when we have unexpectedly heard a smothered cry of pain break from lips usually composed in lines of peace and apparent content.