"I don't want to be grown-up," I said. "I'd like to be a child always-- that is, if I could have birthdays all the same." "Do you think so much of your birthdays?" said Hermione, leaning up against the window-sill as she spoke, and twiddling with a paper-knife. "I think they're rather tiresome. I think birthdays are overdone." "You wouldn't if you knew what my birthday was like," I said. "Oh, then," she exclaimed, "you must tell me all about it." I was just about to explain, wondering if I could get her to see the vivid picture of the bright day, the presents, the anxious little girl, whose heart had been aching for so many long months just because of this glorious time, when a great gong sounded through the house, and Hermione said, "Oh! we can't talk at present; it is dinner-time. Come along, Rachel; come downstairs." Squire Aldyce was a very aristocratic-looking old gentleman, and his wife was the sort that one would describe as a very fine lady indeed. I did not like her half as much as I liked him. He was quite sweet. He congratulated me on being my father's daughter, and asked when the Professor was going to bring out another pamphlet on some appallingly learned subject, the name of which I could not possibly pronounce. I said I did not know, and a minute or two later we found ourselves sitting round the dinner-table. There were a few other guests, and I was introduced to them as Miss Rachel Grant. "The daughter of the well-known Professor," said the Squire after each of these formalities. The ladies did not take much notice of me, but the gentlemen stared at me for a minute or two, and one man said, "I congratulate you, little girl. To be so closely related to so great a man is an honour, and I hope you appreciate it." Dear old father! I did not know that the glories and laurels he had won were to follow me, such a very plain little girl, to such a grand house. When dinner came to an end we again went upstairs, and Hermione showed me her treasures, and forgot to ask me about my birthdays. We were having a long and very serious talk, in which she spoke of books and music and the delights of the higher sort of education, when I broke in by saying suddenly, "You don't understand me a bit." "What in the world do you mean? What is the matter?" she exclaimed. "Because I don't love study, or books, or anything of that sort. I think," I added, my eyes filling with tears, "that I have come here as a sham, for I am not the least morsel like father--not the least." "Perhaps you resemble your mother," said Hermione in her very calm way. I had quite loved her up to now, for she had such beautiful manners and such a nice face; but now when she made this reply I looked at her steadily, and saw that, just because of her wealth and high birth and fine clothes, her knowledge of life was limited. She could not see things from my point of view.