"Ah, it's different with me, you know. He used to call me to lessons."

"Sometimes he called me when he was displeased with me. But I always dream
that he was calling us in his own kind voice, as he used to do when he
wanted us to walk with him, or to show us something pretty."

Edward was silent, playing with something on the ground. At last he
looked round again, and, having convinced himself that they could not be
overheard, he whispered:

"Maggie--sometimes I don't think I'm sorry that papa is dead--when I'm
naughty, you know; he would have been so angry with me if he had been here;
and I think--only sometimes, you know, I'm rather glad he is not."

"Oh, Edward! you don't mean to say so, I know. Don't let us talk about him.
We can't talk rightly, we're such little children. Don't, Edward, please."

Poor little Maggie's eyes filled with tears; and she never spoke again to
Edward, or indeed to any one, about her dead father. As she grew older, her
life became more actively busy. The cottage and small outbuildings, and the
garden and field, were their own; and on the produce they depended for much
of their support. The cow, the pig, and the poultry took up much of Nancy's
time. Mrs. Browne and Maggie had to do a great deal of the house-work; and
when the beds were made, and the rooms swept and dusted, and the
preparations for dinner ready, then, if there was any time, Maggie sat down
to her lessons. Ned, who prided himself considerably on his sex, had been
sitting all the morning, in his father's arm-chair, in the little
book-room, "studying," as he chose to call it. Sometimes Maggie would pop
her head in, with a request that he would help her to carry the great