"That is fortunate," said Bluebell, "for I mean to be a governess."

"You mean you want a governess," retorted the other. "Why, what in the
world do you know?"

"More than most children of ten years old. I might get a hundred dollars
a year. Mamma, I could buy myself new boots then."

"You are nothing but a self-willed child yourself, unable to bear the
slightest disappointment," said Miss Opie.

"Never mind," said Mrs. Leigh, coaxingly; "I'll see if I cannot get you
the boots. They will give me credit at the store."

"No, no; I know you can't afford it; they were new last April. Mamma is
oil to your vinegar, Aunt Jane."

"And you the green young mustard in the domestic salad--hot enough, and,
like all ill weeds, growing apace."

"Then it is field mustard, and not used for salad," said Bluebell,
anxious for the last word. And, escaping from the room, went to place
some bones in the shed, for a casual in the shape of a starving cur, who
called occasionally for food and a night's lodging.

About twenty years ago, when this melancholy Mrs. Leigh was a lovely
young Canadian of rather humble origin, Theodore Leigh, a graceless
subaltern in the Artillery, had just returned from leave, and, going one
day to the Rink, was "regularly flumocksed," as he expressed it, by the