"I think that might be better expressed."

"I know," said Ethel, bending her brow, with the fullness of her
thought--"I mean caring to do a thing only because nobody else can do
it--wanting to be first more than wanting to do one's best."

"You are quite right, my dear Ethel," said her mother; "and I am glad
you have found in the Gospel a practical lesson, that should be
useful to you both. I had rather you did so than that you read it in
Greek, though that is very nice too," she added, smiling, as she put
her hand on a little Greek Testament, in which Ethel had been reading
it, within her English Bible. "Now, go and mend that deplorable
frock, and if you don't dream over it, you won't waste too much of
your holiday."

"I'll get it done in no time!" cried Ethel, rushing headlong
upstairs, twice tripping in it before she reached the attic, where
she slept, as well as Flora and Mary--a large room in the roof, the
windows gay with bird-cages and flowers, a canary singing loud enough
to deafen any one but girls to whom headaches were unknown, plenty of
books and treasures, and a very fine view, from the dormer window, of
the town sloping downwards, and the river winding away, with some
heathy hills in the distance. Poking and peering about with her
short-sighted eyes, Ethel lighted on a work-basket in rare disorder,
pulled off her frock, threw on a shawl, and sat down cross-legged on
her bed, stitching vigorously, while meantime she spouted with great
emphasis an ode of Horace, which Norman having learned by heart, she
had followed his example; it being her great desire to be even with
him in all his studies, and though eleven months younger, she had