"Five months," replies Dora, "five long interminable months, twenty-one weeks, one hundred and forty-seven days, three thousand five hundred and twenty-eight hours, twenty-one thousand ———”

"Stop," I cry, putting my fingers in my ears, feeling that though nature can bear a good deal, certainly mine can bear no more. One must draw a line somewhere, so I draw

The above scene requires some explanation, and in order to give it I must ask my readers to allow me to retrace my steps, and give them a short account of our early life.

Our family consisted of my father, three girls, of which Dora, who was fourteen years old, was the eldest, then myself Cecil, who was thirteen, Maude, who was ten, and a little boy Bernard, who was nine. Our mother had died when he was born, so that only we elder ones recollected her, Dora, of course, the best; to me, who had been but four years old at the time, she seemed like some bright vision that had faded away from me. Had she lived, my life, certainly my child-life, would have been very different, and I do not think that I should have fallen into half the troubles which befell me owing to my impetuous, thoughtless disposition. Dora was the one steady one among us children; but then she was so little older than I was, that it was impossible for her to have very much influence, and indeed I was not very much inclined, as I expressed it, to knock under to Dora.

Our father we simply worshipped, but his business took him to London a great deal; indeed, he always slept in town at least one night every week, so that we did not see very much of him; and he contented himself, when he was with us, by spoiling us to our heart's content, and giving us our way in almost everything. Occasionally, when some more glaring fault than usual was brought to his notice, he would murmur, "Ah, if only your dear mother had lived things would have been very different." But here I would. throw m arms round his neck. Dora would lay her soft

cheek against his face, and our father would be comforted. "Well! I will say you are open, affectionate children, and I suppose things will right themselves as you grow older."

Alas! perhaps our father did not realize that the righting process does not always come of itself, and that it may be a very hard one.

We were the most thorough country children that can be imagined; we had really scarcely ever even been away from our home. We were devoted to riding and walking, to woods and lanes, so that the bare idea of going to London and having our freedom curtailed, and being obliged to go for stiff walks instead of running wild, seemed to us too great an evil to be borne.

And yet it was time that something should be done, even father felt that we seemed to be growing out of control altogether. It reached a climax, however, when the sixth governess that we had had in one year came to father and said that it was impossible she could remain. Cecil was so very unmanageable, and made the little ones so naughty. All spoke well of Dora, when she was not led by me.

"It seems

"I cannot think what it can be," said father. extraordinary that no governess can manage four children, the eldest only fourteen. They must be in fault themselves in some way—and yet, six in one year!"

Little knew my father of the various modes we had of tormenting each new governess as she arrived. I will mention a few of them, and you will not then wonder greatly that they were soon anxious to see the last of us.

To begin with, one especial chair was always brought down, for the new governess, from the lumber-room. It possessed only two front legs, the hind ones had vanished long ago. This was placed near the fire, the back resting against a bookcase which was handy. The governess was sure, sooner or later, to sit down on it, when she was immediately precipitated upon the floor. Another chair was also one of our treasures; from this one we had removed all the cane seat. A red cushion would be laid on it to cover defi

ciencies, but woe betide the unfortunate governess who sat down on it, she instantly went through and stuck, for the chair was a large one, and we had to pull her up ignominiously, of course with many profuse apologies that we had not warned her. Not one of them could go in or out of the room without fear of something falling upon her head as soon as the door was opened. Footpans of water would be arranged for her to step into at the bottom of the stairs. Indeed, a martyr's life was nothing compared to the one our governesses led. Punishments they found of no use, for they were never able to carry them out; they might give us extra lessons to do, we never did them; we were desired not to ride, but we rode just the same; and father, who extremely disliked being troubled, always stipulated, when he engaged a governess, that he was never to be appealed to under any circumstance, and the servants all took our part, so that a month or two was as much as any one could endure of our company. "It is rather expensive work, too," said father, "for they all say they would rather forfeit their quarter's salary than remain, and of course I cannot let them do that, so I pay it them just the same, and they go."

All these circumstances began to make father feel that some change must be made, and about this time an aunt of ours, Mrs Vaughan, proposed that he should take us to London.

She would come with her two little girls and be with us for the time, and try if possible to get us into some order. We could have masters and governesses there, and many advantages which we could not get in the country.

The idea was not at all unpleasant to our father, he often wished that he could see a few more of his friends; he found the long railway journeys very cold in winter, and he thought that it would be more cheerful and better for us all. We were also a very long distance from any neighbours that he cared about. At first, after our mother, to whom he was passionately attached, had died, this suited him exactly, he neither cared nor wished to see any one; but now, as time

went on and the bitterness of his grief had subsided, he began to feel that he could bear to mix with his fellow men again, for he was naturally of a sociable disposition.

At first the prospect of the change was rather pleasant to Dora and myself than otherwise. We had never been in London, we had seen very little outside of our own grounds, and being very enthusiastic, the thoughts of visiting the Tower, Westminster Abbey, and other places of note in London filled us with delight.

Unfortunately for us, our Aunt Mildred came to stay with us that summer, with her two little girls-Winefred and Amabel.

I may as well confess it in the beginning; there was no love lost between her and us. She looked upon us as the most unruly, ill-behaved children of her acquaintance, whilst she held up her two little girls as models of good behaviour. We, resenting bitterly any interference, showed invariably the very worst side of our characters when she was with us, and not unfrequently there would be a drawn battle between us, in which, I am sorry to say, we generally came off victorious.

Dora was certainly not so much to blame; without me she would have been a docile, gentle girl, quite ready to yield obedience to any authority; but I was decidedly the leading spirit in any mischief, and so impressed upon her that it would be mean of her to desert us, that I am sure she would have been quite unhappy if we had been in any scrape in which she had no share. Little Maude imitated me in every particular, and Bernard bid fair to do the same.

There was something in our aunt, Mrs Vaughan, that seemed to rub every hair of mine the wrong way. In the sweetest voice, and veiled under the most suave of manners, she contrived to say and do things that were most peculiarly galling to me, all the more as I knew that she had generally the right upon her side.

More especially, she had a way of discussing us and our faults to visitors and strangers before our faces, and making

little pathetic appeals to our feelings, which generally elicited a subdued growl from me, and which would make Dora colour up to the very roots of her hair, whilst the tears would come into her eyes.

"Ah, here is our dear Cecil," she would say, as I entered the drawing-room in a high state of indignation at being sent for from some delightful game in the garden. Consequently I made a point of coming into the room in the dirtiest of brown Holland blouses, a very old pair of boots, a hat, the straw of which was torn in several places, and which I, by way of rendering it still more conspicuous, held in my hand and amused myself by poking my fingers through.

"A dear girl," she would add, in a loud aside to her friends; "a little rough and unpolished, as you see, but a good heart. Yes, my child," turning to me with her sweetest smile, "a good heart, and she means well; do you not, my darling? Come and shake hands with dear Lady Flemming, or perhaps she will excuse you as your hands show some traces of work in the garden. Sit down in this nice little chair and talk."

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'Sadly neglected," this in another loud aside; "allowed to do just as they like; my poor brother-in-law very kind, but no management. I do all I can, but what are a few weeks in the summer?"

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What, with your dear, gentle Winefred and Amabel as models," replied Lady Flemming; "they are most sweet girls, so well behaved, and so neat and tidy always."

"Yes; I think I may say they do me credit, if only these dear girls here would try to be a little like them; you never see a bow crooked or a pin out of place."

"Look as if they came out of a band-box,” I mutter here in an audible tone, whilst I edge my chair a little nearer to my aunt, so that I am able to place one somewhat muddy foot upon the edge of her silk dress. It has the desired effect; Aunt Mildred has had enough of her dear niece.

Speaking sweetly still, but with a glance of indignation at