would be sure to be wrong: Mrs. Dalton had no kindness in her nature, fault-finding was the very element in which she lived, and the child was so timid that reproof incapacited her from exertion. Eda, saving when she lost the mistress whom she loved as her child, had never felt a keener pang—still she felt that her indulgence in sorrow rather added to the mischief. The sight of her grief increased that of the twins, and, what was worse, made them think it right to indulge in complaints.
"I am a foolish old woman," said she at last, "to cry, when I ought to be glad." The word glad choaked her as she said it—and she paused for a moment, but Eda had a strength of mind and an uprightness of principle that would have done honour to any state, or any education. She saw that in the present instance it was at once a kindness and a duty to encourage them as much as possible. It was a hard task—but at least it should not want her affectionate efforts. "Surely, Ellen," continued she, "my darling does not cry
