‘He’ll steer,’ said Florry; ‘it’s better to have some one to steer. And don’t you see it will keep him out of mischief for one afternoon.’ ‘You have always another reason behind,’ said Mab. ‘It never is just the thing you think of, but something at the back of it.’ ‘Well,’ said Florry soothingly, ‘it’s always so, don’t you know, where there’s a family. You are so lonely, you have no brothers and sisters. If you do well, then everything is all right. But our being right depends upon so many things: First, if papa is in good humour, and if Jim is going straight. Emmy and I have little questions between ourselves, of course, but these are the chief ones. Now, you have only Aunt Emily to think of, and she neither gets into rages nor goes wrong.’ ‘I should hope not,’ said Mab, indignantly. ‘It is all very well for you to throw up your head like that; but we cannot do it. We must manage the best we can. Mab, I do often wish there could be a change.’ This was said when she had at last torn herself away from the road to the Hall, and the two girls were walking towards the Rectory and the river. ‘What sort of change?’ ‘Oh! anything. That Jim should go away, or that he should do something dreadful that couldn’t be forgiven--or that Emmy should marry. I would even marry myself--any one! to make a change in the family and get away.’ ‘I should think, however bad things may be, that they would be worse if you were all separated and not knowing what happened to each other. And what is there so very bad? You are all happy enough for anything one can see.’ ‘That is the worst of it,’ said Florry, ‘we are all pretending about everything. It’s just one big lie all round--and it isn’t right to tell lies, or at least the Bible says so. There is papa breaks every one of the commandments, you know.’ ‘Florry, don’t tell stories of Uncle James; I am very fond of him, and I won’t have it.’ ‘It’s true all the same. I don’t say it’s his fault, it’s Jim’s fault. Papa swears--he does, he can’t help it, at Jim, and then pretends it’s something else--the gardener, or the overseer, or the poor people, or even poor Dash--that makes him so angry. Isn’t that lying? Then mamma pretends Jim has doubts and won’t go in for the Church because of them, when she knows very well what it is really he has been sent down for. And Jim pretends that he is going back to Cambridge next term, and that he is quite friendly with all the dons, and came down to read--I’ve heard him say that.’ ‘It may not be true,’ said Mab, doubtfully, ‘but I shouldn’t call that lying--why should we all go and tell that poor Jim has not been good? What have the other people to do with it? Mother says we’re not called upon to give them any information--and she just says the same as you do: but that is not to lie.’