appointed day in August, leading her charges into Mistress Mary’s presence. They were clean, well dressed, and somewhat calm in demeanor.
"You may go into the playground," she said, after the greetings were over; "and remember that there are sharp spikes on the high fence by the pepper-tree.’
"Mary," she went on impressively, closing the doors and glancing about the room to see if there were any listeners, "Mary, those children have been with me eight weeks, and I do—not—like—them. What are you going to do with me? Wait, I haven’t told you the whole truth,—I dislike them actively. As for my mother, she is not committed to any theory about the essential integrity of infancy, and she positively abhors them."
"Then they are no more likable in the bosom of the family than they have been here?" asked Mary, in a tone of disappointment.
"More likable? They are less so! Do you see any change in me,—a sort of spiritual effulgence, a saintly radiance, such as comes after a long spell of persistent virtue? Because there ought to be, if my summer has served its purpose."
