"That won't do—that won't do," said Mr. Maclean; "you sell the schooling, and I buy it: it is the one that sells that always ought to fix the price."
"Tom, how you talk," said his wife; "you might as well tell a baby about fixing prices, I dare say. Don't you know what you've paid before for schooling?"
"Yes, I paid a dollar a month apiece; but that wouldn't be fair now—for then they went to a man, and only learnt books; but I guess now they'll find out how to be handy with the needle too, and that's worth as much as book learning to a woman—so I think double the old price would be fair now. I'll tell you what, miss," he added, turning to Mary, "to encourage you, I'll make it a dollar a week for the two, and I'll send it in to you every Saturday; how will that do?"
Mary thought it would do very well. Knowing nothing of the labor of teaching, and as little of the value of money, she thought a dollar a week a great sum to be given her. It was really a generous offer in Mr. Maclean, who, being uneducated himself, could not estimate very truly the value of her services in educating his daughters, and who knew, besides, that he could have them taught at some common day-schools for less.
The happiest day must have an end, and the western sky was still bright with the sun's last beams, when Mary and Ellen alighted at their own door, leaving Mrs. Maclean to drive home the borrowed chaise.
The next morning Mary awoke very early—much earlier than usual, and try as much as she would, she could not sleep again. I have told you that even in her early childhood Mary had been thoughtful, but now you must remember she was over fifteen years old, and had already experienced such changes as might have made a person of much gayer temper grave. But not even these changes had tended to sadden Mary so much as Ellen's waywardness had done. The charge which she had received from her dying mother Mary never had forgotten, and it had been recently and forcibly repeated by her father. Though Mr. Leslie did not know himself the extent of those losses through which his children had been left so very destitute, he knew enough to make him suffer much anxiety about them in his last illness. Especially had he feared for Ellen,—so young, so thoughtless, and so arrogant in temper. To Mary, who was ever at his side, and who showed so much of a woman's care and thoughtfulness that he often forgot she was but a child, these anxious feelings were expressed; and again did she promise to her father, as under like circumstances she had done to her mother, that she would never part from Ellen—that she would love her—and bear with her—take care of her, and if it were necessary, work for her support, even as her mother would have done had she lived. And faithfully did Mary fulfil her promise of loving Ellen and bearing with her, and pleasant did she feel it would be to take care of her, and even to labor for her. And Ellen loved her sister Mary too, and for her sake would have done almost any thing except control her temper, or restrain the expression of any angry or dissatisfied feeling. But it was just this temper and these feelings which gave Mary most pain, and were likely to make her task most difficult. In all which these sisters had to do, they must depend greatly on the kindness and good-will of others. Mary knew this, and she knew too that kindness and good-will were not to be gained by a display of passionate, wilful tempers. Especially did Mary dread any thing of this kind in the school they were about to begin, and her morning thoughts—the thoughts which would not let her sleep again when once she had awoke—were all of how she might most gently, and with the least danger of displeasing Ellen, impress upon her how much patience and self-control would be needed in teaching a set of rude, ignorant children. Before she had come to any decision on this important point, Ellen awoke, and with more animation than she usually evinced at such an early hour, exclaimed, "Why, Mary, not up yet—and our school to begin to-day!"
"But not for three hours yet, Ellen—it is only six o'clock."
"But I thought you were always up at half-past five."
"So I am; but I have been thinking so much about this school this morning that I have forgotten every thing else."
"What about it, Mary—about what you should teach?"