"Then I am more of a child than you — in this, at any rate — for I do care for them. But I have a little headache to-day; I mustn't meddle with sweets." "Then take some for to-morrow, Sir — please do," said Ellen, dealing them out very freely. "Stop, stop!" said he — "not a bit more; this won't do — I must put some of these back again; you'll want them to-morrow, too." "I don't think I shall," said Ellen; "I haven't wanted to touch them to-day." "Oh, you'll feel brighter to-morrow, after a night's sleep. But aren't you afraid of catching cold? This wind is blowing pretty fresh, and you've been bonnetless all day — what's the reason?" Ellen looked down, and coloured a good deal. "What's the matter?" said he, laughing; "has any mischief befallen your bonnet?" "No, Sir," said Ellen, in a low tone, her colour mounting higher and higher — "it was laughed at, this morning." "Laughed at! — who laughed at it?" "Mrs. Dunscombe, and her daughter, and her maid." "Did they! I don't see much reason in that, I confess. What did they think was the matter with it?" "I don't know, Sir; they said it was outlandish, and what a figure I looked in it!" "Well, certainly that was not very polite. Put it on, and let me see." Ellen obeyed. "I am not the best judge of ladies' bonnets, it is true," said he, "but I can see nothing about it that is not perfectly proper and suitable — nothing in the world. So that is what has kept you bareheaded all day? Didn't your mother wish you to wear that bonnet?" "Yes, Sir." "Then that ought to be enough for you. Will you be ashamed of what she approved, because some people, that haven't probably half her sense, choose to make merry with it? — is that right?" he said, gently. "Is that honouring her as she deserves?" "No, Sir," said Ellen, looking up into his face, "but I never thought of that before — I am sorry." "Never mind being laughed at, my child. If your mother says a thing is right, that's enough for you — let them laugh." "I won't be ashamed of my bonnet any more," said Ellen, trying it on; "but they made me very unhappy about it, and very angry, too." "I am sorry for that," said her friend, gravely. "Have you quite got over it, Ellen?" "Oh yes, Sir — long ago." "Are you sure?" "I am not angry now, Sir." "Is there no unkindness left towards the people who laughed at you?" "I don't like them much," said Ellen — "how can I?" "You cannot, of course, _like_ the company of ill-behaved people, and I do not wish that you should; but you can and ought to feel just as kindly disposed towards them as if they had never offended you — just as willing and inclined to please them or do them good. Now, could you offer Miss — what's her name? — some of your candies with as hearty goodwill as you could before she laughed at you?" "No, Sir, I couldn't. I don't feel as if I ever wished to see them again."