“I beg of you to give up that vile trash of doggerel rhyme. And now what was it you said to Mr. Heathcote?” “I told him that I was an only child,--'a violet on a grassy bank, in sweetness all alone,' as the little book says.” “And then he asked about your papa; if you remembered him?” “No, mamma.” “He made some mention, some allusion, to papa?” “Only a little sly remark of how fond he must be of _me_, or _I_ of _him_.” “And what did you answer?” “I only wiped my eyes, mamma; and then he seemed so sorry to have given me pain that he spoke of something else. Like Sir Guyon,-- “'He talked of roses, lilies, and the rest, The shady alley, and the upland swelling; Wondered what notes birds warbled in their nest, What tales the rippling river then was telling.'” “And then you left him, and came away?” said her mother. “Yes, mamma. I said it was my lesson time, and that you were so exact and so punctual that I did not dare to be late.” “Was it then he asked if mamma had always been your governess, Clara?” “No; it was May that asked that question. May Leslie has a very pretty way of pumping, mamma, though you 'd not suspect it She begins with the usual 'Are you very fond of Italy?' or 'Don't you prefer England?' and then 'What part of England?'” Mrs. Morris bit her lip, and colored slightly; and then, laying her work on her lap, stared steadfastly at the girl, still deeply intent on her drawing. “I like them to begin that way,” continued Clara. “It costs no trouble to answer such bungling questions; and whenever they push me closer, I 've an infallible method, mamma,--it never fails.” “What's that?” asked her mother, dryly. “I just say, as innocently as possible, 'I 'll run and ask mamma; I 'm certain she 'll be delighted to tell you.' And then, if you only saw the shame and confusion they get into, saying, 'On no account, Clara dearest. I had no object in asking. It was mere idle talking,' and so on. Oh dear! what humiliation all their curiosity costs them!” “You try to be too shrewd, too cunning, Miss Clara,” said her mother, rebukingly. “It is a knife that often cuts with the handle. Be satisfied with discovering people's intentions, and don't plume yourself about the cleverness of finding them out, or else, Clara,”--and here she spoke more slowly,--“or else, Clara, they will find _you_ out too.” “Oh, surely not, while I continue the thoughtless, guileless little child mamma has made me,” said she. And the tears rose to her eyes, with an expression of mingled anger and sorrow it was sad to see in one so young. “Clara!” cried her mother, in a voice of angry meaning; and then, suddenly checking herself, she said, in a lower tone, “let there be none of this.” “Sir William asked me how old I was, mamma.” “And you said--” “I believed twelve. Is it twelve? I ought to know, mamma, something for certain, for I was eleven two years ago, and then I have been ten since that; and when I was your sister, at Brighton, I was thirteen.”