Ethel was in great distress. “To have grieved him again!” said she, “and just as he seemed better and brighter! Everything I do turns out wrong, and always will; I can’t do anything well by any chance.”
“Yes you can, when you mind what you are about.”
“But I never can—I’m like him, every one says so, and he says the heedlessness is ingrain, and can’t be got rid of.”
“Ethel, I don’t really think he could have told you so.”
“I’m sure he said ingrain.”
“Well, I suppose it is part of his nature, and that you have inherited it, but—” Margaret paused, and Ethel exclaimed:
“He said his was long-nurtured; yes, Margaret, you guessed right, and he said he could not change it, and no more can I.”
“Surely, Ethel, you have not had so many years. You are fifteen instead of forty-six, and it is more a woman’s work than a man’s to be careful. You need not begin to despair. You were growing much better; Richard said so, and so did Miss Winter.”
“What’s the use of it, if in one moment it is as bad as ever? And to-day, of all days in the year, just when papa had been so very, very kind, and given me more than I asked.”
“Do you know, Ethel, I was thinking whether dear mamma would not say that was the reason. You were so happy, that perhaps you were thrown off your guard.”