Mrs. Shaw, upon her sofa, so pale and gentle, so devoid of moral blemish, formed a contrast to her child, which mademoiselle could never understand. "C'est comme une poule qui a couvé un canard!" she frequently exclaimed. In reality, there were qualities akin in both. Under the mother's quiet exterior was hidden a tenacity of purpose, a capacity of endurance, above all, a keen far-sighted perception, which she herself recognized in her little daughter, alongside of her impetuosity and wilfulness. Mademoiselle spoke of her pupil as "un enfant gâté." She made Elizabeth obey, but it was currently believed no one else could. Certainly, not her father. But, then, he never tried. He saw her at early morning, before he went to his office, when she ran out to the hall door and gave a piece of sugar to the horse on which he rode into town. He never failed to send for her when he returned, and there was generally an hour of romps between the father and child in the gloaming. In all this there was no question of discipline. Mrs. Shaw knew it better than any one, and, like another mother, she "laid up all these things in her heart."
She knew she must die soon. Though never breathing a word of this to her husband, she had no self-delusion on the subject. It might be a year sooner or later, but the malady from which she suffered was fatal; she would never live to see her daughter grow up. Elizabeth was now eleven: what was best to be done for her? The question was scarcely ever absent for very long from Mrs. Shaw's mind. It would be a great wrench to Anthony to be parted from his little girl, especially when left alone in the world; but if it was for her good—if
