“Oh! my mandarin!” cried Louisa, bursting into tears.  The crowd behind Cecilia suddenly stopped.  Louisa sat on the lowest step, fixing her eyes upon the broken pieces; then turning round, she hid her face in her hands upon the step above her.  In turning, Louisa threw down the remains of the mandarin; the head, which she had placed in the socket, fell from the shoulders, and rolled bounding along the gravel-walk.  Cecilia pointed to the head and to the socket, and burst out laughing; the crowd behind laughed too.  At any other time they would have been more inclined to cry with Louisa; but Cecilia had just been successful, and sympathy with the victorious often makes us forget justice.  Leonora, however, preserved her usual consistency.  “Poor Louisa!” said she, looking first at her, and then reproachfully at Cecilia.  Cecilia turned sharply round, colouring, half with shame and half with vexation.  “I could not help it, Leonora,” said she.

“But you could have helped laughing, Cecilia.”  “I didn’t laugh at Louisa; and I surely may laugh, for it does nobody any harm.”  “I am sure, however,” replied Leonora, “I should not have laughed if I had——­” “No, to be sure you wouldn’t, because Louisa is your favourite.  I can buy her another mandarin the next time that old pedlar comes to the door, if that’s all.  I can do no more. Can I?” said she, turning round to her companions.  “No, to be sure,” said they, “that’s all fair.”

Cecilia looked triumphantly at Leonora.  Leonora let go her hand; she ran on, and the crowd followed.  When she got to the end of the garden, she turned round to see if Leonora had followed her too; but was vexed to see her still sitting on the steps with Louisa.  “I’m sure I can do no more than buy her another! Can I?” said she, again appealing to her companions.

“No, to be sure,” said they, eager to begin their plays.  How many did they begin and leave off before Cecilia could be satisfied with any.  Her thoughts were discomposed, and her mind was running upon something else; no wonder then that she did not play with her usual address.  She grew still more impatient; she threw down the nine-pins:  “Come, let us play at something else—­at threading the needle,” said she, holding out her hand.  They all yielded to the hand which wore the bracelet.  But Cecilia, dissatisfied with herself, was discontented with everybody else; her tone grew more and more peremptory,—­one was too rude, another too stiff; one was too slow, another too quick; in short, everything went wrong, and everybody was tired of her humours.

The triumph of success is absolute, but short.  Cecilia’s companions at length recollected that, though she had embroidered a tulip and painted a peach better than they, yet that they could play as well, and keep their tempers better:  she was thrown out.  Walking towards the house in a peevish mood, she met Leonora; she passed on.