“Marguerite! there is not in this wide world a teacher, man or woman, so, in all respects, and for all reasons, competent to educate your daughter as yourself. You delight, also, in the occupation of instructing her; therefore, she shall not leave you.” “But her isolation--her loneliness? Her evident depression of spirits?” “She feels the loss of her companions, as she must feel it for some days, after which she will get over it. For the rest, a child abroad with nature as she is, cannot suffer from loneliness; and even if she did, her sufferings would be less than nothing compared with what you would feel in losing her for years.” “I pray you do not consider me in this affair.” “Cease, dear Marguerite; the child is better with you, and shall not leave you,” said Mr. Helmstedt. And as little Margaret entered at the same moment to take her music lesson, the subject was dropped, and Mr. Helmstedt left the room. But Marguerite did not yield the point. After giving her young daughter her lesson on the harp, and while sitting exhausted on her sofa, she suddenly said: “My dear, you miss Grace and Clare very much, don’t you?” “Yes, dear mother.” “Wouldn’t you like to go to Richmond and enter the same school they are in?” she inquired, pushing aside the dark clustering curls from the child’s fair forehead, and looking wistfully into her face, which was suddenly shadowed by a cloud of grief or fear. “Say, would you not, my Margaret?” The little red lip quivered, and the dark eyes melted into tears; but she answered by asking, softly: “Do you want me to go, mamma?” “I think, perhaps, it might be best that you should do so, my love.” “Well, then, I will go,” she said, meekly, struggling to govern her feelings, and then, losing all self-control, she burst into a fit of irrepressible weeping; in the midst of which her father re-entered the room, and learning the cause of her emotion, said: “Cease crying this moment, Madge. You shall not leave your mother.” “But--sir, mamma prefers that I should go,” said the little girl, quickly swallowing her sobs and wiping her eyes, for she feared even more than she loved her father, though she loved him very much. “Your mother prefers that you should go, only because she sees you look sad, and fears that you feel lonesome here without companions of your own age.” “Oh, but--I should be more lonesome at Richmond, away from my dear mamma,” said the little maiden, with a look of amazement, that her mother should, for a moment, think otherwise. “Of course you would; so then let the matter rest. Mrs. Helmstedt, are you at length satisfied?” Marguerite bowed and smiled to her husband, and then turned upon her daughter a look of ineffable tenderness, while forming the secret resolution that her own devoted love and care should compensate to the maiden for the absence alike of teachers and companions.