"And how did Guy learn to keep accounts?" asked Lizzie. "For I know it was one thing dear mother never could teach us."
"He studied arithmetic out of a book of papa's," answered Clarice. "There is nothing Guy cannot learn if he can only get a good book."
"Where is my father, by the way?" asked Lizzie. "I have not seen him."
"He's in the study," Helen told her.
"How is he? Does he seem sad—does he miss mother at all?"
"How can I tell? He never opens his mouth, except to eat; and indeed of late, he does not eat half enough. I declare, Lizzie, when I see how clever poor Guy is, and remember that papa could teach him all he wants to know, I get quite angry. Only yesterday, Guy asked him a question—something he and Clarice (who is just such another) were puzzling their heads over; and if you will believe me, papa did not even listen, and begged him not to interrupt him again."
"I remember when mother tried to get him to teach us," said Lizzie, "and he answered that 'he was unsuited to such elementary work, and that as the children were doomed to be mere boors, education would only make them discontented;' so she had to teach us herself."
"Guy only wants opportunity," said Clarice; "and we pray every day that he may get it."
Lizzie stared. To say your prayers every morning and evening, is one thing; to say that you want a particular thing, and mean to ask for it, is quite another.
"You pray about that, Clarice?" she said, doubtfully.