“This is a pretty kettle of fish,” I remarked. “You ought to be proud of yourself,” she said. “Why?” “To have brought her up so well. I don’t mean what you’ve taught her, but to have left so much resolution in her. Most people knock it out.” “More chance than design,” I said. “Anyway, she’s got it,” said Mrs. O’Gorman, “and if she always obeys impulse and cuts her losses so promptly she won’t go far wrong. Her heart’s true.” “Meanwhile?” I asked. “Meanwhile,” she said, “she wants to go to school. When I say ‘wants’ I mean something very different; I mean she’s willing to go to school and she knows she ought to go to school. She doesn’t think, and she won’t admit (you see I’ve been testing her) she did wrong to run away from this one—and I agree with her—but she knows that if she stayed at home now it would be a victory wrongly won. And she doesn’t want to do anything unfair, bless her! although, of course, she’ll have to before she’s through. The world will see to that!” “What school?” I asked. “Well, that’s your affair,” said Mrs. O’Gorman, “but, this time, for the love of God find it yourself. How you came to let that Stratton woman pick out the other for you I shall never understand. And you more or less a sensible fellow too! But there, we’ve all got our blind spots. Even I can’t bring myself to change my medical adviser.” * * * * * At her next school Rose was happy and did well. While she was away, I gave more time to an old toy of mine—the microscope—and was gradually, I doubt not, becoming a fossil. I was beginning also to supplement the collection of prints which my father had left, and buying experience rather dearly. Between the holidays these were my indoor hobbies, while there was always the garden for such daylight hours as my patients left me. Now and then I dined out, at the Hall or the Rectory or with Mrs. O’Gorman; and so the time wore on. To be creatures of habit seems to be our destiny, and if we are to escape we must continually fight. Personally, I did not fight. I was counting on Rose to be my deliverer when, at the end of her last school term, she returned to galvanize her old foster-father and keep him gay once more. Every time Rose came home, three times a year, I saw a change in her, but it was not until the winter holidays when she was nearly sixteen that I suddenly realized that she had grown into a beautiful creature, capable of setting men’s hearts beating, and of disturbing lives and affecting destinies. Not, of course, that one has to be beautiful to affect destiny: we can all do that, and all are doing it continually. But pretty women appear to be busier than other persons, even if they are not.