Edith saw plainly that though the poor father offered her any of them
she liked to take, he suffered in parting with them, so calling Dick and
Mary, she asked if they would hunt for some for her, like those in
grandfather's stores. They consented joyfully, and Edith promising often
to come and see the old man, ran down the cliff briskly, and hastened
home. She thought a good deal as she walked, and asked herself if she
should have had the patience and the gentleness of that poor cottage
girl; if she should have soothed Susy, and comforted Dick and Mary; if
she should have troubled herself to kneel down in the broiling sun and
build up a few trumpery shells into a grotto, to be upset and destroyed
presently. She came to the conclusion that for good, pleasant, prettily
behaved children, she might have done so, but for shrieking, passionate,
quarrelsome little things as they appeared to her then, she certainly
should not. She felt humbled at the contrast between herself and Sarah;
and when she arrived at home, for the first time, perhaps, in her life,
she patiently bore her mamma's reproaches for being so late, and for the
impropriety of walking away from her sisters, no one knew where. She was
not yet quite skilled enough in the art of peace, to give the "soft
answer;" but her silence and quietness turned away Mrs. Parker's wrath,
and after dinner, Edith prepared herself for the visit of her dear
Emilie.




CHAPTER FOURTH.

THE HOLIDAYS.