"Yes! I remember all the copies you ever set me. Teachers should be very careful what sentiments they write, for they are never forgotten. Don't you recollect how all the pupils once laughed at a mistake in punctuation of mine? The copy was, 'Hate not, but pity the wicked, as well as the poor.' As the line was not quite filled, you added Gabriella, after making a full period. I forgot the stop and wrote, 'Hate not, but pity the wicked, as well as the poor Gabriella.' The ridicule of the scholars taught me the importance of punctuation. Our mistakes are our best lessons, after all."
"And do you remember these trifles?" he repeated. "How strange! It shows you have the heart of a child still. I love to hear you recall them."
"I could fill a volume with these reminiscences. I believe I will write one, one of these days, and you shall be the hero."
A merry altercation at the door attracted our attention. Dr. Harlowe was endeavoring to persuade Madge to go back with him, but she strenuously refused.
"I never could stay more than ten days at a time in one place in my life. Besides, I have worn out my welcome, I know I have. Your house is not new. It jars too much when I walk. I saw Mrs. Harlowe looking ruefully at some cracked glass and china, and then at me, as much as to say, 'It is all your doings, you young romp.'"
"Very likely," cried the doctor, laughing heartily, "but it only makes me more anxious to secure you. You are a safety-valve in the house. All my misdemeanors escape unreproved in the presence of your superior recklessness."
I never saw any one enjoy a jest more than Dr. Harlowe. He really liked the dashing and untamable Madge. He was fond of young companions; and though his wife was such a superior woman, and such an incomparable housekeeper, there was nothing very exhilarating about her.
"I can't go," said Madge; "I must stay and take care of Gabriella."
"If you play any of your wild pranks on her again," said the doctor, "it were better for you that you had never been born."
With this threat he departed; and it seemed as if a dozen people had been added to the household in the person of the dauntless Meg. I never saw any one with such a flow of animal spirits, with so much oxygen in their composition. I should think the vital principle in such a constitution would burn out sooner than in others, like a flame fed by alcohol. She was older than myself, and yet had no more apparent reflection than a child of five years old. It was impossible to make her angry. The gravest rebuke, the most cutting sarcasm, were received with a merry twinkle of the eye or a rich swell of laughter. She was bold, masculine, wild, and free, and I feared her as much as I would the wild-cat, after whom the doctor had christened her,—yet there was something about her that I liked. It was probably the interest she professed in me, which must have been genuine. It was impossible for her to affect any thing.