And she did not. It is five years since she had that talk in the library with Dr. Evans (he died within the year, to our exceeding regret). What battles she fought we never heard; never again was the subject alluded to. For two years she was our constantly loving and joyous home daughter; for three, she has been Arthur Brisbane’s happy-hearted wife; and her little sunbeam of an Elsie--no fear that she will ever enter the cloud in which mother and grandmother were so nearly lost. CHAPTER V _CONSEQUENCES_ Have you ever played at “Consequences,” dear reader? This is how it goes. He said to her, “It’s a cold day.” She said to him, “I like chocolates.” The consequence was, they were both put to death, and the world said, “It serves them right.” Just so exquisitely inconsequent is the game of “consequences” in real life--at which many a child is an unwilling player, and just so arbitrary their distribution. We are all born heirs to all the Russias if a certain aptness at autocratic government can be construed into a title. Watch the children in the street play at keeping school; how the schoolmistress lavishes “handers,” how she corners and canes her scholars! And the make-believe scholars enter into the game. They would do the same if they had the chance, and their turn will come. How does it work in real life, this turn for autocracy, which, you may observe, gives zest to most of the children’s games? Little Nancy is inclined to be fretful; her nurse happens to be particularly busy that morning looking out the children’s summer clothing. She is a kind-hearted woman, and fond of Nancy, but, “Why does the child whine so?” And a hasty box on the little ear emphasises the indignant query. There is mischief already, which is the cause of the whining; and, by that concussion, Nancy is “put to death,” like the people in the game; not for a year or two, though, and nobody associates nurse with the family sorrow; and she, for her part, never thinks again of that hasty blow. But, you object, nurse is ignorant, though kind; with the child’s parents, it is otherwise. Yes, but not entirely otherwise. Mr. Lindsay, who is a book-lover, goes into his den to find his little boy of four, making “card-houses,” with some choice new volumes he has clambered after; down they go bump, and the corners are turned, and the books unsightly objects evermore. “What are you doing here, child? Go to the nursery, and don’t let me see you here again!” Ah, me! Does he know how deep it cuts? Does he know that the ten minutes romp with “father” in his room is the supreme joy of the day for little Dick? And does he know that everything is for ever and ever to a little child, whose experience has not yet taught him the trick of hoping when things look dark? But, “It is for the child’s good;” is it? Dick does not yet know what is wrong. “Never touch books