“Do you not think, Philip, that it would be best to send our daughter to Richmond, to be educated with her friends, Grace and Clare?”
“By no means, Marguerite; the plan is not to be thought of for a moment,” answered Mr. Helmstedt, who did not love his child with one tithe of the affection he bestowed upon his wife—notwithstanding that through pride and obstinacy he still kept the latter a sort of prisoner of honor—and who, knowing how dear to her was the society of her little girl, would not let the interest of Margaret conflict for an instant with the happiness of her mother.
“But our child has attained an age now when she needs the companionship of her equals, as much as she wants teachers.”
“Marguerite! there is not in this wide world a teacher, man or woman, so, in all respects, and for all reasons, competent to educate your daughter as yourself. You delight, also, in the occupation of instructing her; therefore, she shall not leave you.”
“But her isolation—her loneliness? Her evident depression of spirits?”
“She feels the loss of her companions, as she must feel it for some days, after which she will get over it. For the rest, a child abroad with nature as she is, cannot suffer from loneliness; and even if she did, her sufferings would be less than nothing compared with what you would feel in losing her for years.”
“I pray you do not consider me in this affair.”
“Cease, dear Marguerite; the child is better with you, and shall not leave you,” said Mr. Helmstedt.
And as little Margaret entered at the same moment to take her music lesson, the subject was dropped, and Mr. Helmstedt left the room.
But Marguerite did not yield the point. After giving her young daughter her lesson on the harp, and while sitting exhausted on her sofa, she suddenly said: