“I suppose she finds that you are a more formidable person as you grow older. It was all very well scolding you when you were a clerk in the bank, but it does not do to scold the manager. These are the penalties men pay for becoming great.” “It is not my greatness that stands in my way, but—” “Then I’m sure I cannot say what it is. But Patty will scold you if you do not mind the figure, though you were the whole Board of Directors packed into one. She won’t respect you if you neglect your present work.” When Bessy went to bed that night she began to feel that she had attempted too much. “Mamma,” she said, “could I not make some excuse and go away to Aunt Mary?” “What now?” “Yes, mamma; now; to-morrow. I need not say that it will make me very unhappy to be away at such a time, but I begin to think that it will be better.” “What will papa say?” “You must tell him all.” “And Aunt Mary must be told also. You would not like that. Has he said anything?” “No, nothing;—very little, that is. But Bella has spoken to me. Oh, mamma, I think we have been very wrong in this. That is, I have been wrong. I feel as though I should disgrace myself, and turn the whole party here into a misfortune.” It would be dreadful, that telling of the story to her father and to her aunt, and such a necessity must, if possible, be avoided. Should such a necessity actually come, the former task would, no doubt, be done by her mother, but that would not lighten the load materially. After a fortnight she would again meet her father, and would be forced to discuss it. “I will remain if it be possible,” she said; “but, mamma, if I wish to go, you will not stop me?” Her mother promised that she would not stop her, but strongly advised her to stand her ground. On the following morning, when she came down stairs before breakfast, she found Frank standing in the hall with his gun, of which he was trying the lock. “It is not loaded, is it, Frank?” said she. “Oh dear, no; no one thinks of loading now-a-days till he has got out of the house. Directly after breakfast I am going across with Godfrey to the back of Greystock, to see after some moor-fowl. He asked me to go, and I couldn’t well refuse.” “Of course not. Why should you?” “It will be deuced hard work to make up the time. I was to have been up at four this morning, but that alarum went off and never woke me. However, I shall be able to do something to-night.” “Don’t make a slavery of your holidays, Frank. What’s the good of having a new gun if you’re not to use it?” “It’s not the new gun. I’m not such a child as that comes to. But, you see, Godfrey is here, and one ought to be civil to him. I’ll tell you what I want you girls to do, Bessy. You must come and meet us on our way home. Come over in the boat and along the path to the Patterdale road. We’ll be there under the hill about five.” “And if you are not, we are to wait in the snow?”