On her entry into the breakfast-room, she was saluted with the customary
remonstrance which her flighty disregard of all punctuality habitually
provoked from the long-suffering household authorities. In Miss Garth's
favorite phrase, "Magdalen was born with all the senses--except a sense
of order."

Magdalen! It was a strange name to have given her? Strange, indeed;
and yet, chosen under no extraordinary circumstances. The name had been
borne by one of Mr. Vanstone's sisters, who had died in early youth;
and, in affectionate remembrance of her, he had called his second
daughter by it--just as he had called his eldest daughter Norah, for his
wife's sake. Magdalen! Surely, the grand old Bible name--suggestive of
a sad and somber dignity; recalling, in its first association, mournful
ideas of penitence and seclusion--had been here, as events had turned
out, inappropriately bestowed? Surely, this self-contradictory girl had
perversely accomplished one contradiction more, by developing into a
character which was out of all harmony with her own Christian name!

"Late again!" said Mrs. Vanstone, as Magdalen breathlessly kissed her.

"Late again!" chimed in Miss Garth, when Magdalen came her way next.
"Well?" she went on, taking the girl's chin familiarly in her hand, with
a half-satirical, half-fond attention which betrayed that the youngest
daughter, with all her faults, was the governess's favorite--"Well?
and what has the concert done for _you?_ What form of suffering has
dissipation inflicted on _your_ system this morning?"

"Suffering!" repeated Magdalen, recovering her breath, and the use of