CHAPTER II.
THE SCORED-OUT NAME.
| "How new life reaps what the old life did sow." |
| Edwin Arnold. |
was the naughty one of the family. I dare say you—whoever you are—that are going to read this will have found this out already, and it was best to make it plain at the beginning. Tib and Gerald were really very good—at least, they would have been if I had let them. But still, as I used often to say to them as a sort of a make-up for the troubles I got them into, it would have been rather dull work had we all three been extra good. And even the great thing that I have to write about, the thing that put it into my head to write at all, would never have come but for our being in a way naughty—that is very queer, isn't it? To think that good and nice things should sometimes come out of being naughty! I have often puzzled about it. I think it must be that there are different kinds of naughtiness—perfectly different—for nothing good could come out of real, wicked naughtiness—telling lies, or being cruel to each other, or things like that; but the sort of naughtiness of just being mischievous, and of being so bubbling over with the niceness of being alive, that you can't keep quiet, and remember about not knocking things over and tearing yourself, and the naughtiness of hating your lessons on a beautiful day, when it's really too tempting out-of-doors—all these kinds of naughtiness and lots of others I could tell you, for I've thought so much about it—all these kinds are different, surely? And one can fancy good and nice things coming out of them without getting one's ideas muddled. That's one thing I'm going to be very particular about with my children—I'm going to explain to them well about the two kinds of being naughty, so that they won't get all into a puzzle about it. I think I even shall settle to have two kinds of words for them; for I do know, I am sorry to say, what it is to be really naughty too. Just a few times in my life I can remember the dreadful feeling of real, boiling anger at some one—I had it several times to Miss Evans, and once or twice to—no, I won't say; it's all so different now. And once I told what wasn't true, quite knowing all about it. But I never did it again. The horribleness of the feeling was too bad, and in that way my naughtiness did me good!
Our plan for getting Miss Evans to help us to a holiday hadn't much chance, as you shall hear.
When we got to the school-room we found she hadn't come, though it was a quarter to ten, and she generally came at half-past nine.
"Everything seems going topsy-turvy to-day," said I, seating myself on the high guard, and swinging my feet about. It was a very dangerous seat, as the guard was anything but steady, and if it toppled over, there was no saying but that you might be landed in the middle of the fire. "Miss Evans late—and us going away to a place we never heard of before! It's almost as nice as if the sun had forgotten to get up—what fun that would be!"
"I don't think that would be fun at all," said Gerald. "I'd much rather he should forget to go to bed some night. Which would you rather, Tib?"