"I guess not! But here we are at home, and what would mother say if she heard us talking like this? It all comes of your reading so many novels, Georgia. Here, mother; here she is. I've got her," cried Emily, flying into the pretty little parlor, where Mrs. Murray, a pleasant little lady, a faded copy of her bright little daughter, sat sewing. Mrs. Murray kissed Georgia, and congratulated her on her success, and then went out to see about tea.
Later in the evening Father Murray, a benign-looking old man, with silver-white hair, and a look so patriarchal that it had suggested Charley Wildair's graphic description of his being like one of those "blessed old what's-their-names in the Bible," came in, and the conversation turned upon Georgia's success.
"I suppose you felt quite elated, Georgia, at carrying off the highest honors to-day?" he said, smiling.
"A little, only," said Georgia. "It wasn't much to be proud of."
"What! To vanquish all competitors not much to be proud of! Why, Georgia?"
"Well, neither it is, sir—such competitors," said Georgia, scornfully. "I should like a greater conquest than that."
"Georgia's ambition takes a bolder flight; she looks down on the common people of this world," said Mrs. Murray, with a peculiar smile.
Georgia colored at the implied rebuke, but her disdainful look remained. Father Murray looked at her half pityingly, half sorrowfully.
"It will not do, Georgia," he said kindly: "you will have to stop. The Mountain of High-and-Mighty-dom is a very dazzling eminence to be sure, but the sun shines brighter in the valley below."
At that moment Fly entered for her young mistress, and Georgia arose to go.