"Oh, go on, please--go on! It is of the utmost importance." "Indeed!" he replied, colouring. "I should not have thought you understood." "Oh, I do, sir--I do! I love the great Herodotus--the father of all history, is he not?" "Yes, child." Really I believe, for the first time in his whole life, my father was aware of Augusta's society; he now addressed his remarks to her, evidently thinking the rest of us of no importance. He put questions to her which she answered; he drew her out; she had an immense amount of miscellaneous knowledge with regard to the old classics. Her hour had come; her cheeks blazed; her eyes were bright; she was lifted off her feet, metaphorically, by my father's appreciation of her talents. "A remarkable girl," he said afterwards when I was alone in the room. "A friend of yours, Dumps?" "One of my schoolfellows," I said. Then I took hold of his hands. "Father!" "Well, Dumps?" "I want to speak to you." "Yes, my dear." "It was very good of you to do what you did for me, and now you are going to send me to a school in Paris." "Indeed I am not," said my father. "You are," I replied; "it is all arranged. My step-mother said so." "Grace, bless her! She has a great many schemes on hand. But I think you will have discovered for yourself, Dumps, that I cannot possibly do such a thing. Indeed, I don't particularly care for the French mode of education. If you must go abroad, go to Germany. In Germany we find the greatest thinkers of the last three centuries. Put yourself under them, my dear, and it is possible you may come back an intelligent woman." I did not say much more. By-and-by I went up to my room. Augusta had not come upstairs. I had a few moments to myself. I locked the door and flung myself on my bed. Oh, what a silly, silly Dumps I was! for I cried as though my heart would break. It was not father who was sending me to the school in Paris; it was my new mother--my step-mother. Was I beholden to her for everything? Of course, she had bought me the clothes, and she had provided all the new and delightful things in the house. Could I take her gifts and stand aloof from her? It seemed impossible. "I cannot love her," I said to myself. "She is nice, but she ever and ever stands between me and my own mother. I cannot--cannot love her." "Then if you don't love her," said a voice--an inward voice--"you ought not to take her gifts. The two things are incompatible. Either love her with all your heart, and take without grudging what she bestows upon you, or refuse her gifts." I was making up my mind. I sat up on my elbow and thought out the whole problem. Yes, I must--I would refuse. I would find father some day when he was alone, and tell him that I, Rachel, intended to live on the little money he could spare me; that I would still go to the old school, and wear shabby dresses. Anything else would be a slight on my own mother, I thought. PART TWO, CHAPTER SEVEN. A NEW REGIME.