“Oh no, no, Papa, you helped me! Aunt Barbara only makes me—oh! may I say?—hate her! for indeed there is no helping it! I can’t be good there.”
“What is it? What do you mean, my dear? What is your difficulty? And I will try to help you.”
Poor Kate found it not at all easy to explain when she came to particulars. “Always cross,” was the clearest idea in her mind; “never pleased with her, never liking anything she did—not punishing, but much worse.” She had not made out her case, she knew; but she could only murmur again, “It all went wrong, and I was very unhappy.”
Mr. Wardour sighed from the bottom of his heart; he was very sorrowful, too, for the child that was as his own. And then he went back and thought of his early college friend, and of his own wife who had so fondled the
