“Oh yes,” Enid answered for her. “Celia has stayed with the people next door to Uncle Brooke’s--the Friedbergs; and I think that their boys, Montie and Victor, are even worse than ours.” “Which is saying a good deal,” put in Cynthia, with a smile. “Still I hope they will not annoy our guest in any way. Eric is as good as gold when Jack is away at school.” The two boys stared at Celia somewhat awkwardly at first, and the little girls were very shy, but before the day was out she had made friends with them all. They admired her beauty; and she had such an ingratiating manner that each one of them fell captive to her charms. Even Jack, who possessed an avowed aversion to the generality of girls, pronounced her “ripping.” She fell into their ways as easily as if she had been accustomed to them for years. A greater difference to her life in town could not be imagined; but she thoroughly enjoyed the change, and the colour returned to her cheeks. Up at seven every morning for an early bathe with Cynthia and Enid, she spent the rest of the day driving, boating, or engaging in field-sports with the boys. An enjoyable musical evening, to which all the elder members of the family contributed, usually terminated the day. Celia sang her prettiest songs; it was quite a pleasure to sing to such an appreciative little audience. The high spirits and good humour of the Wiltons were contagious; she found herself becoming quite an adept at witty repartee. One thing she noticed: there was never a jarring note in their innocent fun. If any disagreement arose between the boys, it only needed a word from one of the elders to quell it in an instant. Unlike the Friedbergs, they were obedient to authority. In spite of their mischievous proclivities, Jack and Eric could always be prevailed upon to do what was right, not by threats of punishment or parental wrath--as had been the case with Montie and Victor--but simply for right’s own sake. There was something about the whole family--a kind of high moral tone, as it were--which had been entirely lacking among the Friedbergs. Celia could not explain it, but she felt its force. There was a reason for it, however; it was the result of their early training. From their tenderest years they had all been taught to submit to a very high standard of right and wrong, in order to bring their lives into harmony with a life which was, to them, the very acme of perfection--a Divine Life which had been lived just nineteen hundred years ago. It was this which dispelled selfishness, and made them amenable to discipline; which gave them noble ideals, and imbued them with the love of all that was good. Their evident spirituality made a deep impression on Celia: she wanted to find out the reason of it; once again she began to think.