But we are forever being disappointed of our direst fears, as well as of our dearest hopes. She found that she soon got the "hang" of the lessons; that her next-door neighbor, Julia Otway, was the nicest girl in school, and very soon her "best friend"; that Val herself could run faster than anybody in the games at recess; and that she had fallen blissfully under the spell of pretty Miss Matson, the primary teacher, who, strange to say, seemed to like Val. The bustling life at the Plymouth Seminary for Young Ladies, full, varied, delightful, would perhaps be considered by the professional biographer of vital importance in moulding a young person's character; for was this not the time and the place of her education? One is inclined, in Val's case, at any rate, to say no. She learned by rote, at that excellent institution, certain more or less useful things, and, more important still, she made two or three dear friends, who taught her much of value about the human heart; but for the most part she was _educated_ at home. There, and not at school, she, in common with many young people, found the influences that made her what she ultimately became. Her father, if he understood the matter so, naturally did not so express himself. Perhaps he thought this child of his had too little of the Gano love of books, and was over-fond of running breathless races, and playing ball with the neighbor's boy. "You came here to go to school, you know. You've played all your life up to this. Now you must begin to work. This is a very important time in your life." "Is it?" Val sat up very straight, with shining eyes and an air of pleased responsibility. "Oh, very important, indeed. For now you have still time to decide what kind of a woman you're going to make of Val Gano." "Oh, have I?" He nodded. "You can make up your mind you won't be a dull, ignorant person, all your life bound in shallows and in miseries." "No, indeed," she said, with vigor. "It's in your power now to take the necessary steps towards some better fate. By-and-by it will be too late: you'll be like the crooked catalpa in the terrace, grown awry and too old to straighten out." "No, I shall be like the tulipifera rhododendron." He laughed. "You are ambitious, my dear"; and then he sighed. "Few come up to tulipifera. Now, I am far enough from being a rich man, and I can't give my daughters a fortune; but I can give them something far more valuable." "Now?" "Yes, I've begun giving it. I mean an education." "Oh!" This was a blow. "See that you make the most of it. It will put a key in your hands that can unlock a hundred doors to happiness. I am doing with you--only a little more helpfully perhaps--what the Swedish peasant did with his eldest son." "What did he do?"