“Do you think me a conjurer?”
“Well, but what do you think?”
“What do Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wilmot think?”
“I know Mrs. Wilmot thinks I spoil my class. She spoke to me about making favourites, and sometimes has seemed surprised at things which I have done. Last Sunday she told me she thought I had better have a steadier class, and I know whom she will give me—the great big, stupid ones, at the bottom of the first class! I do believe it is only out of good-nature that she does not tell me not to teach at all. I have a great mind I will not; I know I do nothing but harm.”
“What shall you say if I tell you I think so too?” asked the doctor.
“Oh, Dr. May, you don’t really? Now, does he, Miss May? I am sure I only want to do them good. I don’t know what I can have done.”
Margaret made her perceive that the doctor was smiling, and she changed her tone, and earnestly begged to be told what they thought of the case; for if she should show her concern at home, her father and governess would immediately beg her to cease from all connection with the school, and she did not feel at all convinced that Mrs. Wilmot liked to have her there. Feeling injured by the implied accusation of mismanagement, yet, with a sense of its truth, used to be petted, and new to rebuffs, yet with a sincere wish to act rightly, she was much perplexed by this, her first reverse, and had come partly with the view of consulting Flora, though she had fallen on other counsellors.
“Margaret, our adviser general,” said the doctor, “what do you say? Put yourself in the place of Mrs. Charles Wilmot, and say, shall Miss Rivers teach or not?”
“I had rather you would, papa.”
“Not I—I never kept school.”