"Indeed, Miss Gravity, but I'm not going to learn manners of you; mamma pays Miss Craven to teach me that, so good-bye;" and the child, with a mocking courtesy towards her sister, runs out of the room laughing. And now let us look into the breakfast-room of "The Shrubbery," as Mrs Franklin's house is called. Mary and her mother are sitting together, the former adding some little adornments to her evening dress, and the latter knitting. "Don't you like Mark Rothwell, mamma?" "No, my child." "Oh! Mamma! What a cruelly direct answer!" "Shouldn't I speak the direct truth, Mary?" "Oh! Yes, certainly the truth, only you might have softened it off a little, because I think you must like some things in him." "Yes, he is cheerful and good-tempered." "And obliging, mamma?" "I'm not so sure of that, Mary; self-indulgent people are commonly selfish people, and selfish people are seldom obliging: a really obliging person is one who will cross his own inclination to gratify yours, without having any selfish end in view." "And you don't think Mark would do this, mamma?" "I almost think not. I like to see a person obliging from principle, and not merely from impulse: not merely when his being obliging is only another form of self-gratification." "But why should not Mark Rothwell be obliging on principle?" "Well, Mary, you know my views. I can trust a person as truly obliging who acts on Christian principle, who follows the rule, `Look not everyone on his own things, but everyone also on the things of others,' because he loves Christ. I am afraid poor Mark has never learned to love Christ." Mary sighs, and her mother looks anxiously at her. "My dearest child," she says, earnestly, "I don't want you to get too intimate with the young Rothwells. I am sure they are not such companions as your own heart would approve of." "Why, no, mamma, I can't say I admire the way in which they have been brought up." "Admire it! Oh! Mary, this is one of the crying sins of the day. I mean the utter selfishness and self-indulgence in which so many young people are educated; they must eat, they must drink, they must talk just like their elders; they acknowledge no betters, they spurn all authority; the holy rule, `Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right,' is quite out of date with too many of them now." "I fear it is so, mamma. I don't like the girls much at `The Firs,' but I cannot help liking Mark; I mean," she added, colouring, "as a light- hearted, generous, pleasant boy." A silence of a few moments, and then she looks up and says, timidly and lovingly, "If you think it better, dearest mamma, I won't go to the party to-night."