"Lay down your pencils and talk to me," said Beatrice, imperiously. "How unkind of you, the only human being in this place who can talk, to come here all by yourself! What do you think was to become of me?" "I thought you were reading to mamma," said Lillian, quietly. "Reading!" exclaimed Beatrice. "You know I am tired of reading, tired of writing, tired of sewing, tired of everything I have to do." Lillian looked up in wonder at the beautiful, restless face. "Do not look 'good' at me," said Beatrice, impatiently. "I am tired to death of it all. I want some change. Do you think any girls in the world lead such lives as we do--shut up in a rambling old farm house, studying from morn to night; shut in on one side by that tiresome sea, imprisoned on the other by fields and woods? How can you take it so quietly, Lillian? I am wearied to death." "Something has disturbed you this morning," said Lillian, gently. "That is like mamma," cried Beatrice; "just her very tone and words. She does not understand, you do not understand; mamma's life satisfies her, your life contents you; mine does not content me--it is all vague and empty. I should welcome anything that changed this monotony; even sorrow would be better than this dead level--one day so like another, I can never distinguish them." "My dear Beatrice, think of what you are saying," said Lillian. "I am tired of thinking," said Beatrice; "for the last ten years I have been told to 'think' and 'reflect.' I have thought all I can; I want a fresh subject." "Think how beautiful those far-off white sails look," said Lillian--"how they gleam in the sunshine. See, that one looks like a mysterious hand raised to beckon us away." "Such ideas are very well for you, Lillian," retorted Beatrice. "I see nothing in them. Look at the stories we read; how different those girls are from us! They have fathers, brothers, and friends; they have jewels and dresses; they have handsome admirers, who pay them homage; they dance, ride, and enjoy themselves. Now look at us, shut up here with old and serious people." "Hush, Beatrice," said Lillian; "mamma is not old." "Not in years, perhaps," replied Beatrice; "but she seems to me old in sorrow. She is never gay nor light-hearted. Mrs. Vyvian is very kind, but she never laughs. Is every one sad and unhappy, I wonder? Oh, Lillian, I long to see the world--the bright, gay world--over the sea there. I long for it as an imprisoned bird longs for fresh air and green woods." "You would not find it all happiness," said Lillian, sagely.