“The work is full of interest,” I continued, warming to my subject, as Gay’s face wore an expression of intelligent curiosity and sympathy. “The children grow, and one’s love grows also. It is beautiful to watch the baby natures developing, like seedlings, in the early summer; it is not only ministering to their physical wants, a nurse has higher work than that. Forgive me if I am wearying you,” breaking off from my subject with manifest effort, “one must not ride a hobby to death, and this is my hobby.” “You are a strange girl,” she said, slowly, looking at me with large puzzled eyes. “I did not know before that girls could be so dreadfully in earnest, but I like to listen to you. I am afraid my life will shock you, Miss Fenton; not that I do any harm—oh, no harm at all—only I am always amusing myself. Life is such a delicious thing, you see, and we cannot be young for ever.” “Surely it is not wrong to amuse yourself.” “Not wrong, perhaps,” with a little laugh; “but I lead a butterfly existence, and yet I am always busy, too. How is one to find time for reading and improving oneself or working for the poor, when there are all my pets to feed, and the flower vases to fill, and the bees and the garden; and in the afternoon I ride with father; and there is tennis, or archery or boating; and in the evening if I did not sing to him—well, he would be so dull, for Adelaide always reads to herself; and if I do not sing I talk to him, or play at chess; and then there is no time for anything; and so the days go on.” “Miss Gay, I do not consider you are leading a perfectly useless life,” I observed, when she had finished. “Not useless; but look at Violet’s life beside mine.” “In my opinion your sister works too much; she is using up health and energy most recklessly. Perhaps you might do more with your time, but it cannot be a useless life if you are your father’s companion. By your own account you ride with him, sing to him, and talk to him. This may be your work as much as being a nurse is mine.” “You are very merciful in your judgment,” she said, with a crisp laugh, as she rose from the window-seat. “What a strange conversation we have had! What would Adelaide have thought of it! She is always scolding me for being irresponsible and wasting time, and even father calls me his ‘humming bird.’ You have comforted me a little, though I must confess my conscience endorses their opinion. Good night, Miss Fenton. Violet calls you Merle, does she not? and it is such a pretty name. The other sounds dreadfully stiff.” And she took up her lamp and left the room, humming a Scotch ballad as she went, leaving me to take up my neglected work, and ponder over our conversation.