“No, nothing, but that Oxford has spoiled me,” said Ethel, resolutely. “I am very cross and selfish!”
“It will be better by-and-by,” said Margaret, “if only you are sure you have nothing to make you unhappy.”
“Nothing,” said Ethel. She was becoming too much ashamed of her fancy to breathe one word about it, and she had spoken the truth. Pleasure had spoiled her.
“If only we could do something for Cocksmoor!” she sighed, presently, “with that one hundred and fifty pounds lying idle.”
Margaret was very glad that her thoughts were taking this channel, but it was not a promising one, for there seemed to be nothing practicable, present or future. The ground could not be had—the pig would not get over the stile—the old woman could not get home to-night. Cocksmoor must put up with its present school, and Mary must not be walked to death.
Or, as Ethel drew her own moral, sacrifice must not be selfish. One great resolution that has been costly, must not blunt us in the daily details of life.
CHAPTER XI.
If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, Chapels had
been Churches, and poor men’s cottages, princes’ palaces.
MERCHANT OF VENICE.
“Dick,” said Dr. Spencer, as the friends sat together in the evening, after Mary’s swoon, “you seem to have found an expedient for making havoc among your daughters.”