In the struggle that ensued my paints were upset, my pallet broken, and my book drenched with the water from the glass in which I dipped my brushes, but, as usual, Evelyn gained the victory which her superior strength insured from the beginning, and fled from my wrath, after holding my hands awhile, laughingly entreating mercy.

“I will kill her some day, Mrs. Austin, if she persecutes me so,” I cried, as I lay sobbing on the bed after the conflict was over.  “I am afraid of myself sometimes when she tantalizes me so dreadfully.  I am glad you held me when I got hold of the scissors; I am glad she held me afterward.  I might—­I might”—­I hesitated—­“have stabbed her to the heart,” was in my mind, but the tragic threat faltered upon my lips.

“Pray to God, Miriam Monfort, to subdue your temper,” said the well-meaning but injudicious nurse, solemnly.  “Your sister is old enough to make sport with you whenever she likes, without such returns.”

“I wish mamma was at home,” I said, still sobbing.  “She would not allow me to be so treated; but it is always the way—­as soon as she turns her back, Evelyn besets me, and you look on and encourage her.”

“I do no such thing,” said Mrs. Austin, sharply.  “You have no business to take up cudgels for every outsider that your sister mentions, as you do.  She is afraid to speak her mind before you, for fear of a fuss.”

“I hate deceit,” I said, wiping my eyes; “and deceitful people, too.  I love my friends behind their backs the same as to their faces—­just the same.”

“What makes you mock Mr. Bainrothe then, and show how he minces at table, and uses his rattan?” she asked.

“Mr. Bainrothe is not my friend; besides, I said no harm of him.  I don’t love him, and never will, and he knows it.”

“Were you rude enough to tell him so, Miriam?”

“No, but he understands very well.  I never mimic any one I love.”

“Yet you love that rough, old Mr. Gerald Stanbury, as cross as a cur.  What taste!”

“Yes, from my heart I love him.  He is good, he is true, he is noble; that is what he is.  He has no specks in his eyes.  He does not say, ’Just so,’ whenever papa opens his lips.”

“O Miriam! not to like him for that!”

“No; that is just why I don’t like him.  He has no mind of his own—­or maybe he has two minds.  Mamma thinks so, I know.”

“She has told you so, I suppose?”

“If she had, I would not talk about it.  No, she never told me so.  I found it out myself.  I know what she thinks, though, of every one, just by looking at her.”

“Then what does she think of me?” asked Mrs. Austin, sharply.

“That you are a good, dear old nurse,” I said, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, jumping up and throwing my arms about her; “only a little, very little, bit fonder of Evelyn than me.  But that is natural.  She is so much prettier and older than I am, and takes better care of her clothes.  Besides, I am cross about dressing, I know I am; and afterward I am always so sorry.”