“Stupid governess!” Hope’s eyes sparkled. “If you were not a child, Victoria,” she said, with the dignity of a senior, “you would not speak so. Miss Swinton is a lady--Miss Swinton is a gentlewoman! I don’t know any one like Miss Swinton, except mamma, and--” “Oh, come, tell us--tell us!” cried Victoria. Hope drew herself up. “Except mamma and Helen--Miss Buchanan--but you don’t know her.” “Yes I do--she keeps a school; yes I do--a governess and a schoolmistress--and Hope does not know any other ladies! I hope I shall never be one of Hope’s ladies.” “What are you doing now, Hope?” said Adelaide. “Mamma has made me begin to work a cover for something; I don’t know what the shape of it will be, but it’s all in bits like this, and mamma says it will be very pretty--and Charlotte’s bringing such a load of music, and that governess!--you might come up, Hope, and help me, for I’m sure you’re not doing anything yourself.” Hope acknowledged her idleness. “No indeed, Adelaide; but I have only been two days at home; and--what’s the use of working covers? I don’t know why people labour at such things.” “Because their mammas make them,” said Adelaide, gravely, and with a sigh; “but I think I like it too, Hope, for it’s very pretty, you know.” Hope shook her head. She had been visited several times of late by some grave ruminations on this subject, and began to feel that working covers, however pretty, was in reality a quite unsatisfactory mode of life. But the cogitations were inarticulate; they had attained no shape, except at present a decided disinclination to work at all. “And, Hope,” added Adelaide, “how long do you practise every day?” “I don’t practise at all,” answered Hope. The sleepy lids of Adelaide’s eyes were elevated in wonder. “Then what in all the world do you do?” exclaimed Victoria. “I should like to be you, Hope--I should like to play all day; but Adelaide thinks she is too old to play.” “I don’t play all day,” said Hope, with some indignation. “Yesterday I was at Friarsford with my mother, and at Mossgray--” “Oh, Hope!” said Adelaide, “what makes you go to see that girl? she is only a farmer’s daughter.” “I don’t care for her now,” said Hope, with some sadness; “but it’s not because she’s a farmer’s daughter--it’s because she is--I mean it’s because _she_ practises, and knits and works covers, and doesn’t care for anybody--but never mind that. And then we went to Mossgray. We did not see Mr Graeme; but there’s a beautiful pony--the prettiest one ever you saw--and Mrs Mense says I am to give it its name. What should I call it, Adelaide? come and help me.” Adelaide slowly shook her head--this was a stretch of invention quite beyond her. “Call it Mischief,” suggested Victoria. “Mischief,” deliberated Hope. “No, I don’t like that--I want a pretty name--give me a pretty name, Adelaide.” An idea gradually illuminated Adelaide’s stolid countenance. “Call it Pretty, Hope--that would do very well.”