Emilie smiled.  “As to my having nothing to put me out, you may be right, and you may be wrong, dear.  There is never any excuse for being what you call put out, by which I understand cross and pettish, but I am rather amused, too, at your fixing on a daily governess, as a person the least likely in the world to have trials of temper and patience.”  “Yes, I dare say I vex you sometimes, but”—­“Well, not to speak of you, dear, whom I love very much, though you are not perfect, I have other pupils, and do you suppose, that amongst so many as I have to teach at Miss Humphrey’s school, for instance, there is not one self-willed, not one impertinent, not one idle, not one dull scholar?  My dear, there never was a person, you may be sure of that, who had nothing to be tried, or, as you say, put out with.  But not to talk of my troubles, and I have not many I will confess, except that great one, Edith, which, may you be many years before you know, (the loss of a father;) not to talk of that, what are your troubles?  Your mamma is cross sometimes, that is to say, she does not always give you all you ask for, crosses you now and then, is that all?”

“Oh no Emilie, there are Mary and Ellinor, they never seem to like me to be with them, they are so full of their own plans and secrets.  Whenever I go into the room, there is such a hush and mystery.  The fact is, they treat me like a baby.  Oh, it is a great misfortune to be the youngest child! but of all my troubles, Fred is the greatest.  John teases me sometimes, but he is nothing to Fred. Emilie, you don’t know what that boy is; but you will see, when you come to stay with me in the holidays, and you shall say then if you think I have nothing to put me out.”

The very recollection of her wrongs appeared to irritate the little lady, and she put on a pout, which made her look anything but kind and amiable.

The primroses which she had so much desired, were not quite to her mind, they were not nearly so fine as those that John and Fred had brought home.  Now she was tired of the dusty road, and she would go home by the beach.  So saying, Edith turned resolutely towards a stile, which led across some fields to the sea shore, and not all Emilie’s entreaties could divert her from her purpose.

“Edith, dear! we shall be late, very late! as it is we have been out too long, come back, pray do;” but Edith was resolute, and ran on.  Emilie, who knew her pupil’s self-will over a German lesson, although she had little experience of her temper in other matters, was beginning to despair of persuading her, and spoke yet more earnestly and firmly, though still kindly and gently, but in vain.  Edith had jumped over the stile, and was on her way to the cliff, when her course was arrested by an old sailor, who was sitting on a bench near the gangway leading to the shore.  He had heard the conversation between the governess and her headstrong pupil, as he smoked his pipe on this favourite seat, and playfully caught hold of the skirt of the young lady’s frock, as she passed, to Edith’s great indignation.