At breakfast Miss Smedley behaved in a most mean and uncalled-for manner. The right divine of governesses to govern wrong includes no right to cry. In thus usurping the prerogative of their victims, they ignore the rules of the ring, and hit below the belt. Charlotte was crying, of course; but that counted for nothing. Charlotte even cried when the pigs' noses were ringed in due season; thereby evoking the cheery contempt of the operators, who asserted they liked it, and doubtless knew. But when the cloud-compeller, her bolts laid aside, resorted to tears, mutinous humanity had a right to feel aggrieved, and placed in a false and difficult position. What would the Romans have done, supposing Hannibal had cried? History has not even considered the possibility. Rules and precedents should be strictly observed on both sides; when they are violated, the other party is justified in feeling injured. There were no lessons that morning, naturally--another grievance! The fitness of things required that we should have struggled to the last in a confused medley of moods and tenses, and parted for ever, flushed with hatred, over the dismembered corpse of the multiplication table. But this thing was not to be; and I was free to stroll by myself through the garden, and combat, as best I might, this growing feeling of depression. It was a wrong system altogether, I thought, this going of people one had got used to. Things ought always to continue as they had been. Change there must be, of course; pigs, for instance, came and went with disturbing frequency-- “Fired their ringing shot and passed, Hotly charged and sank at last,”-- but Nature had ordered it so, and in requital had provided for rapid successors. Did you come to love a pig, and he was taken from you, grief was quickly assuaged in the delight of selection from the new litter. But now, when it was no question of a peerless pig, but only of a governess, Nature seemed helpless, and the future held no litter of oblivion. Things might be better, or they might be worse, but they would never be the same; and the innate conservatism of youth asks neither poverty nor riches, but only immunity from change. Edward slouched up alongside of me presently, with a hang-dog look on him, as if he had been caught stealing jam. “What a lark it'll be when she's really gone!” he observed, with a swagger obviously assumed. “Grand fun!” I replied, dolorously; and conversation flagged. We reached the hen-house, and contemplated the banner of freedom lying ready to flaunt the breezes at the supreme moment. “Shall you run it up,” I asked, “when the fly starts, or--or wait a little till it's out of sight?” Edward gazed around him dubiously. “We're going to have some rain, I think,” he said; “and--and it's a new flag. It would be a pity to spoil it. P'raps I won't run it up at all.”