Which way do you think the nicest?" She had rattled all this off as fast as she could speak, looking and pointing towards the various things she mentioned as she proceeded, the sea, the grass, the trees, the distance; now she looked up to her father for an answer. He was looking at her so queerly, she was filled with alarm. "Am I naughty, papa?" she exclaimed. "Oh no," he said, with a smile that reassured her. "I was just thinking. I like to hear how 'things come' to you. You must always tell me--when new things come. By the way, who told you that fuchsia was salmon-coloured?" "I _saw_ it was," she said, surprised that he needed to ask such a question. "I saw it one day when we had boiled salmon for dinner. Isn't it nice when you see that one thing's like another? I have a pebble, and it's just the shape of a pear--now you know what shape it is, don't you?" He nodded. "But if I said it's thick at one end and thin at another, you wouldn't know what shape it is a bit, would you?" "No, I should not," he answered, beginning to prune again, thoughtfully. "Beth," he said presently, "I should like to see you grow up." "Shan't I grow up?" said Beth in dismay. "Oh yes--at least I should hope so. But--it's not likely that _I_ shall be--looking on. But, Beth, I want you to remember this. When you grow up, I think you will want to do something that only a few other people can do well--paint a picture, write a book, act in a theatre, make music--it doesn't matter what; if it comes to you, if you feel you can do it, just do it. You'll not do it well all at once; but try and try until you _can_ do it well. And don't ask anybody if they think you can do it; they'll be sure to say no; and then you'll be disheartened--What's disheartened? It's the miserable feeling you would get if I said you would never be able to learn to play the piano. You'd try to do it all the same, perhaps, but you'd do it doubtfully instead of with confidence." "What's confidence?" said Beth. "You are listening to me now with confidence. It is as if you said, I believe you." "But I can't say 'I believe you' to arithmetic, if I want to do it." "No, but you can say, I believe I can do it--I believe in myself." "Is that confidence in myself?" Beth asked, light breaking in upon her. "That's it. You're getting quite a vocabulary, Beth. A vocabulary is all the words you know," he added hastily, anticipating the inevitable question. Beth went on with her weeding for a little. "And there is another thing, Beth, I want to tell you," her father recommenced. "Never do anything unless you are quite sure it is the right thing to do. It doesn't matter how much you may want to do it, you mustn't, if you are not quite, quite sure it is right." "Not even if I am just half sure?" "No, certainly not. You must be quite, quite sure." Beth picked some more weeds, then looked up at him again: "But, papa, I shall never want to do anything I don't think right when I'm grown up, shall I?"