“Hasn’t Ethel a beautiful face?” I said to Miss Margaret, another friend of the family, who, with myself, was a guest at the Carlisles’. “It is so very bright. Did you notice what a peculiar brightness there is to her eyes when she smiles? And she has a lovely smile.” Miss Margaret looked grave, almost troubled. “It is a sweeter face than it will be in a few years, I am afraid,” she said, shaking her head, which already had threads of silver in it. Miss Margaret was a wise sweet woman, not given to croaking, so I waited somewhat anxiously to hear her words. “Ethel is cultivating habits which will spoil her face,” she said; “I have not been here before for two years, and I notice a very decided change in it since then. She was one of the sweetest little children I ever knew, but if you watch through only one day you will discover what I mean. Unless something occurs to change her habits, there will be another spoiled face in the world in a few years.” I had been in the house but a day, and had been absent from the country for more than two years, so I knew very little of the younger Carlisles. Ethel had always been my favorite, and it made me sad and a trifle annoyed to hear Miss Margaret’s words. I felt sure she must have grown over particular. Of course, with such a warning, it would have been impossible not to have watched. Long before night I knew what Miss Margaret meant. “Where in the world is my French Grammar?” I heard Ethel’s voice, with a very sharp note in it, rasping through the hall. “I left it on the dining-room table while I ran out to speak to Nellie, and somebody has taken it. I declare, I cannot lay down a thing for a second and find it again. I do wish Ann could be taught to let my books alone!” “Indeed, Miss Ethel, I have not touched a book this morning; I have not dusted in the dining-room yet.” This was Ann’s voice; then Ethel’s, by no means sweetened: “That is perfect nonsense, Ann; I left it here not two minutes ago, and now it is gone. What do you think could have become of it? It couldn’t walk off without hands.” “Ethel!” from Mrs. Carlisle, in a reproving tone, “do not speak so to Ann, daughter; she has not been in the dining-room since breakfast.” “Well, but, mother, my French Grammar is gone that I just laid there, and the bell is ringing; I shall be late, and I think it is just too bad!” There was an ugly frown all over the fair forehead, and a sharp and at the same time whining tone to the voice which had been so sweet but a little while before. “Ethel,” called her older sister Nannie from the hall above, “here is your book; you left it on the hat rack a few minutes ago.” Away went Ethel without a word of explanation to mother or to Ann, and we heard her voice, still sharp, saying to Nannie, “Why couldn’t you have told me before, and not kept me hunting half the morning?”