But Carlen said nothing.

Little Bel’s Supplement.

“Indeed, then, my mother, I’ll not take the school at Wissan Bridge without they promise me a supplement.  It’s the worst school i’ a’ Prince Edward Island.”

“I doubt but ye’re young to tackle wi’ them boys, Bel,” replied the mother, gazing into her daughter’s face with an intent expression in which it would have been hard to say which predominated,—­anxiety or fond pride.  “I’d sooner see ye take any other school between this an’ Charlottetown, an’ no supplement.”

“I’m not afraid, my mother, but I’ll manage ’em well enough; but I’ll not undertake it for the same money as a decent school is taught.  They’ll promise me five pounds’ supplement at the end o’ the year, or I’ll not set foot i’ the place.”

“Maybe they’ll not be for givin’ ye the school at all when they see what’s yer youth,” replied the mother, in a half-antagonistic tone.  There was between this mother and daughter a continual undercurrent of possible antagonism, overlain and usually smothered out of sight by passionate attachment on both sides.

Little Bel tossed her head.  “Age is not everything that goes to the makkin o’ a teacher,” she retorted.  “There’s Grizzy McLeod; she’s teachin’ at the Cove these eight years, an’ I’d shame her myself any day she likes wi’ spellin’ an’ the lines; an’ if there’s ever a boy in a school o’ mine that’ll gie me a floutin’ answer such’s I’ve heard her take by the dozen, I’ll warrant ye he’ll get a birchin’; an’ the trustees think there’s no teacher like Grizzy.  I’m not afraid.”

“Grizzy never had any great schoolin’ herself,” replied her mother, piously.  “There’s no girl in all the farms that’s had what ye’ve had, Bel.”

“It isn’t the schoolin’, mother,” retorted little Bel.  “The schoolin’ ’s got nothin’ to do with it.  I’d teach a school better than Grizzy McLeod if I’d never had a day’s schoolin’.”

“An’ now if that’s not the talk of a silly,” retorted the quickly angered parent.  “Will ye be tellin’ me perhaps, then, that them that can’t read theirselves is to be set to teach letters?”

Little Bel was too loyal at heart to her illiterate mother to wound her further by reiterating her point.  Throwing her arms around her neck, and kissing her warmly, she exclaimed:  “Eh, my mother, it’s not a silly that ye could ever have for a child, wi’ that clear head, and the wise things always said to us from the time we’re in our cradles.  Ye’ve never a child that’s so clever as ye are yerself.  I didn’t mean just what I said, ye must know, surely; only that the schoolin’ part is the smallest part o’ the keepin’ a school.”

“An’ I’ll never give in to such nonsense as that, either,” said the mother, only half mollified.  “Ye can ask yer father, if ye like, if it stands not to reason that the more a teacher knows, the more he can teach.  He’ll take the conceit out o’ ye better than I can.”  And good Isabella McDonald turned angrily away, and drummed on the window-pane with her knitting-needles to relieve her nervous discomfort at this slight passage at arms with her best-beloved daughter.