She wondered if Silence Withers and Cynthia Badlam were just ripe for heaven.

For some months Miss Cynthia Badlam, who, as was said, had been an habitual visitor at The Poplars, had lived there as a permanent resident.  Between her and Silence Withers, Myrtle Hazard found no rest for her soul.  Each of them was for untwisting the morning-glory without waiting for the sunshine to do it.  Each had her own wrenches and pincers to use for that purpose.  All this promised little for the nurture and admonition of the young girl, who, if her will could not be broken by imprisonment and starvation at three years old, was not likely to be over-tractable to any but gentle and reasonable treatment at fifteen.

Aunt Silence’s engine was responsibility,—­her own responsibility, and the dreadful consequences which would follow to her, Silence, if Myrtle should in any way go wrong.  Ever since her failure in that moral coup d’etat by which the sinful dynasty of the natural self-determining power was to be dethroned, her attempts in the way of education had been a series of feeble efforts followed by plaintive wails over their utter want of success.  The face she turned upon the young girl in her solemn expostulations looked as if it were inscribed with the epitaphs of hope and virtue.  Her utterances were pitched in such a forlorn tone, that the little bird in his cage, who always began twittering at the sound of Myrtle’s voice, would stop in his song, and cock his head with a look of inquiry full of pathos, as if he wanted to know what was the matter, and whether he could do anything to help.

The specialty of Cynthia Badlam was to point out all the dangerous and unpardonable trangressions into which young people generally, and this young person in particular, were likely to run, to hold up examples of those who had fallen into evil ways and come to an evil end, to present the most exalted standard of ascetic virtue to the lively girl’s apprehension, leading her naturally to the conclusion that a bright example of excellence stood before her in the irreproachable relative who addressed her.  Especially with regard to the allurements which the world offers to the young and inexperienced female, Miss Cynthia Badlam was severe and eloquent.  Sometimes poor Myrtle would stare, not seeing the meaning of her wise caution, sometimes look at Miss Cynthia with a feeling that there was something about her that was false and forced, that she had nothing in common with young people, that she had no pity for them, only hatred of their sins, whatever these might be,—­a hatred which seemed to extend to those sources of frequent temptation, youth and beauty, as if they were in themselves objectionable.