Ethel pouted. 'I wish you would not borrow metaphors from our tiresome Mentor. I declare, Mildred, your words have always more or less a flavour of Dr. Heriot's.' Mildred quietly took up her work. 'You know how to reduce me to silence.' But Ethel playfully impeded the sewing by laying her crossed hands over it. 'Dr. Heriot's name seems an apple of discord between us, Mildred.' 'You are so absurd about him.' 'I am always provoked at hearing his opinions second-hand. I have less comfort in talking to him than to any one else; I always seem to be airing my own foolishness.' 'At least, I am not accountable for that,' returned Mildred, pointedly. 'No,' returned Ethel, with her charming smile, which at once disarmed Mildred's prudery. 'You wise people think and talk much alike; you are both so hard on mere visionaries. But I can bear it more patiently from you than from him.' 'I cannot solve riddles,' replied Mildred, in her old sensible manner. 'It strikes me that you have fashioned Dr. Heriot into a sort of bugbear--a _bête noir_ to frighten naughty, prejudiced children; and yet he is truly gentle.' 'It is the sort of gentleness that rebukes one more than sternness,' returned Ethel in a low voice. 'How odd it is, Mildred, when one feels compelled to show the worst side of oneself, to the very people, too, whom one most wishes to propitiate, or, at least--but my speech threatens to be as incoherent as Olive's.' 'I know what you mean; it comes of thinking too much of a mere expression of opinion.' 'Oh no,' she returned, with a quick blush; 'it only comes from a rash impulse to dethrone Mentor altogether--the idea of moral leading reins are so derogatory after childhood has passed.' 'You must give me a hint if I begin to lecture in my turn. I shall forget sometimes you are not Olive or Chriss.' The soft, brilliant eyes filled suddenly with tears. 'I could find it in my heart to wish I were even Olive, whom you have a right to lecture. How nice it would be to belong to you really, Mildred--to have a real claim on your time and sympathy.' 'All my friends have that,' was the soft answer. 'But how dark it is growing--the longest day must have an end, you see.' 'That means--you are going,' she returned, regretfully. 'Mother Mildred is thinking of her children. I shall come down and see you and them soon, and you must promise to find me some work.' Mildred shook her head. 'It must not be my finding if it is to satisfy your exorbitant demands.' 'We shall see; anyhow you have left me plenty to think about--you will leave a little bit of sunshine behind you in this dull, rambling house. Shall you go alone? Richard or Royal ought to have walked up to meet you.'