And then, the clock striking ten, she went away, much to my relief. The book she left was one of devotions and prayers for the seven canonical hours, which seem very good, though to use them all, methinks, would occupy the most of the day. _April 11._ Lady Betty has begun to spell words of two syllables. She learns very fast, and since she has really found out that reading means getting stories out of books, she is so eager to get on that I have to check her. She is usually very good, I must say, but now and then I have a little scene with her. She had a great crying time this morning because the little dog Mr. Corbet promised her has not yet come. I tried to soothe and quiet her, but she only screamed the louder, and struck right and left. As I came near her, she struck me a severe blow, and really hurt me. At last I said to her, "Lady Betty, unless you try to stop crying and be good, I cannot tell you any story to-night." (I have lately told her a story every night.) But she would not be still. Till at last, the door opened suddenly, and there was my Lord. "What's all this?" he said, angrily. "What is this noise—enough to deafen one?" He spoke very harshly, I thought, and Lady Betty stopped crying and seemed to shrink into herself. "What are you about, Mistress Merton, to suffer this uproar?" continued my Lord, turning to me. I said that Lady Betty had been disappointed about her dog, which Mr. Corbet had promised her. "Then, if she does not be quiet, I will have the dog's neck broken when it does come. Mr. Corbet had better mind his own business. He is not master quite yet, I trow. And for you, Betty, I will try what virtue lies in a birch rod, if I hear any more noise. You are cosseted and cockered out of all reason." So saying, he shut the door violently and went away. Poor Betty had sunk down into a shapeless heap in her chair, and was quite silent. I went to her, and found her shivering and trembling, as if in an ague fit. I took her in my arms, and she burst out into a fit of crying—not frantic screaming, as before, but deep drawn sobs, which seemed to rend her bosom. "Oh, if I had only never been born! If I had only never been born!" I heard her say over and over to herself, as her head lay on my shoulder. "You should not wish yourself dead, my love!" I began, but she interrupted me. "I didn't say I wished to die. That would make my mother sorry. I wished I had never been born at all, and then nobody would have cared. I wish God had not made me!" she added, with a fresh burst of sobs. "I don't see why He did. I am of no use to anybody, and now I have angered my father, and you, and—" The poor little head went down again.