Strange to say, Madeline shed some natural tears as she saw the carriage vanish with her governess; but in a few days, the feeling of perfect liberty in which she revelled, obliterated all the regret, and Hector and Selim were again her constant companions. "Dear me, brother," said Aunt Matilda, "what shall we do with the child; she is now nearly eleven, and scarcely any education." "Time enough yet, Matilda; she'll be all right; don't be afraid of Mad-cap, she is bright as a diamond." CHAPTER IV. TOO PROUD TO BEND. "I wish I had something to do; I am tired of playing, tired of riding, tired of everything--I have nobody to speak to but papa, and Aunt Matilda, and Selim, and my other pets." Thus soliloquized Madeline, as, with a weary yawn, she threw herself upon the sofa in the library. "I get so tired of Aunt Matilda, she never talks any sense: nothing but head-dresses, and her complexion, her white hands, and the days when she was young. Miss Prosser did talk sense, and I wish she were back again; I always liked her when she made me do what she commanded. I did not let her know it, though; I am too proud for that." And Madeline tapped her little foot upon the carpet, her usual way of expressing a chafed, impatient spirit. "I think I heard the bell ring," and running to the window, she peeped through the thin curtains, to see who was there. "Oh! dear, if there isn't Roland Bruce--what's that he has got in his basket?" Just then a servant entered. "Miss Madeline, a poor boy wants to see you at the door." "O, yes, I know; I am so glad to see him," and away she flew. Roland took off his cap as soon as he saw the little girl, and with a modest air, he said: "I thought, Miss Madeline, that you would like these pretty doves," uncovering his basket. Madeline peeped in, and there lay the sweetest little ring-doves, with their soft eyes looking up in her face. "Oh, Roland, what a good boy you are! they are so pretty; it's just what I have wanted so long." "Here's some chickweed, too, Miss Madeline, for your canary; we have so much in our garden; and I thought you would like some lilies of the valley." "O, thank you, Roland, how good you are to remember me! Now let us run out into the garden, and you shall plant the lilies." Leaving her doves in the care of Nanny, her own maid, away scampered the child, hair flying, and eyes beaming with innocent delight. "Here, Roland, this is my garden," said the child, pointing to a corner of the grounds which bore many marks of careless culture. "Here I come to dig and weed, but I get tired of it; I get tired of everything, Roland." "If you'll let me, I'll come, Miss, and look after your flowers; I know something about them, for we raise them and sell them to our neighbors. I have not forgotten your kindness, Miss Madeline."