"I thought of that, last Sunday evening, when father and Sir Keith were talking. They do look upon some things so differently, you know. Only Sir Keith is such a thorough gentleman, he never gets angry in argument, or tries to thrust his opinions down other people's throats, and he always lets other people have their say too. But still, of course one could see that they didn't think just alike. If father were not so fond of Sir Keith, he would mind it more. He doesn't like people not to think exactly the same as he does, generally."
"Perhaps none of us do—by nature," I said. "A strong belief in one's own wisdom is particularly human."
"But I think you have taught me to believe that I may be mistaken sometimes," she said wistfully, even humbly. "I used to be so horridly dogged and determined about everything."
"You were—rather," I replied, smiling. "And the more unimportant the question, the more dogged you were in asserting your own convictions."
"Yes,—I know. Am I quite so bad now, Miss Con?"
"No; I see a marked difference," I said.
"I'm so glad. I will try harder."
"Don't go to the opposite extreme, my dear, of thinking that you are to have no opinions at all, but must always agree with everybody."
She laughed, and asked, "Am I in danger of that?"
"Not at present, I think. But it is a weakness of human nature to be disposed to rebound from one extreme to another. Truth lies more generally in the fair road between,—though it does sometimes include a measure of one or both extremes."