“These were my questions,” she continued; “and those who could not conscientiously say Yes, ought not, I said, to take the charge of children.  For love alone will lead us to make sacrifices, and children constantly require us to give up our own ease and self-indulgence, and devote ourselves unceasingly to all their wants.  A nurse should feel herself a temporary mother, and should make her every thought tend to her children’s welfare.  It is a high and honorable post, and has a rich reward, when well sustained.  You must excuse me, therefore, if, with such opinions, I spoke, as you might think, too freely on the subject.”

Mary was mollified by so much condescension, and, curtseying, said:—­

“Oh, never mind, ma’am; no doubt you said it for my good; but could you have to do with Master George, I do believe that he would even try your patience.  There is no rest or quiet in him; he never will be satisfied with what he has, but is always worrying for what he has not got.  Nothing will pacify him; and we often are obliged to shut him up alone for hours together, he is so very troublesome.”

“You had better, far, employ him,” said Mrs. Grey, “and so keep him out of mischief, for solitude is only useful to the thoughtful and the happy.”

“But he does not love his book, ma’am, and is only pleased with rioting,” said Mary.  “So what is to be done with such a boy?”

“No doubt he is a very troublesome and trying child,” said Mrs. Grey; “and I hope that God will give you grace and strength to bear with him, and set before him quietly his numerous faults.  I have always found this plan the most successful, and I advise you to begin it.”

Just at this moment Mrs. Grant appeared.  Surprised at hearing so much conversation in the drawing-room, she had left her easy chair, and having reached the landing-place, she leant against the banisters, and listened to the conversation we have just recorded.

Delighted with the wisdom and the kindness of the observations, she felt obliged to make a desperate effort and go to thank the visitor who gave such good advice.

She looked so weak and delicate, that it was evident she had no power to contend with her unruly son, and much less to inflict upon him the needful discipline.

Frank stood before her, wondering in his little heart how any boy could vex or tease so gentle and so sweet a mother.

“I should like to sit upon a stool beside her,” said he to himself, “and read some pretty book, and talk it over afterwards, and put her pillows smooth, and watch when she seemed tired, and then hold my tongue awhile, and let her fall asleep.  I would walk on tip-toe in her room, and never talk too loud to make her head ache, and run of all her errands, and so try to save the servants trouble.  Mary would not grumble then, I hope.  I must persuade poor George to turn over a new leaf, and see if he is not more happy by it.”