“Conscience! stuff!” said Miss Polly, with some heat. “Child, that’s not what I meant. I meant--for being his father’s and mother’s son I can’t think he’s a bad boy at the bottom--I meant a little trouble and fighting would soon put those idle vagaries out of his head. Now, Mr. Reredos, mind you don’t go and argue with Maurice Harley. I’m an old woman, and I’ve seen such before, many’s the time. Wait till he’s got something to do and something to bear in this world, as he’s sure to have, sooner or later. Ah, Life’s a wonderful teacher! When a man sits among his books, or a woman at her needle--and there isn’t such a great difference as you might suppose--they get mazing themselves with all kinds of foolish questions, and think themselves very grand too for doing it; but only wait till they find out what God means them to do and to put up with in this world--it makes a deal of difference, Clare.” “Miss Polly, you are a philosopher, and we never knew it!” said I, while Mr. Reredos stood looking on, much annoyed, and in no small degree contemptuous of the pale old woman who took upon her to direct so perfect a person as himself--for Mr. Reredos was not unlike Maurice Harley, though after his different fashion; he thought he could do a great deal with his wisdom and his words. “I am not a philosopher; but I have been alone with the dear children since my niece Emmy left me,” said Miss Polly, “and not so able to stir about as I once was; and you know, my dear, one can’t say out everything in one’s mind to children at their age; so, somehow the thoughts come up as if I had been gathering them all my life, and never had time to look at them before.” “I suspect that is how most of the thoughts that are worth remembering do come,” said I. Mr. Reredos did not say anything. He stood, with a faint smile on his lip, which he did not mean us to suspect, much less understand--and while he bent his handsome head towards the mistress of the house, gravely attentive, as it was his duty to be, his eyes turned towards Maurice and Alice Harley. Did not I know well enough what was in his mind? He thought we were a couple of old women dozing over our slow experiences. He was still in the world where words and looks produce unspeakable results, and where the chance of a moment determines a life. His eyes turned to those other young people who, like himself, were speculating upon all manner of questions--he would not laugh at us, but a faint gleam of criticism and superiority just brightened upon his lip. I liked him none the worse, for my own part. “This reads like a Newdigate,” said Maurice Harley. “I suppose Sedgwick brought the book to you, Clara, for a sugar-plum. Listen, how sweetly pretty! These prize poets are really too delicious for anything.”