“Only try to mind and heed, and you will learn. It will be a step if you will only put your shoes side by side when you take them off.”
Ethel smiled and sighed, and Margaret whispered, “Don’t grieve about me, but put your clever head to rule your hands, and you will do for home and Cocksmoor too. Good-night, dearest.”
“I’ve vexed papa,” sighed Ethel—and just then he came into the room.
“Papa,” said Margaret, “here’s poor Ethel, not half recovered from her troubles.”
He was now at ease about Margaret, and knew he had been harsh to another of his motherless girls.
“Ah! we must send her to the infant-school, to learn ‘this is my right hand, and this is my left,’” said he, in his half-gay, half-sad manner.
“I was very stupid,” said Ethel.
“Poor child!” said her papa, “she is worse off than I am. If I have but one hand left, she has two left hands.”
“I do mean to try, papa.”
“Yes, you must, Ethel. I believe I was hasty with you, my poor girl. I was vexed, and we have no one to smooth us down. I am sorry, my dear, but you must bear with me, for I never learned her ways with you when I might. We will try to have more patience with each other.”