The earnestly-asked question by Mr. Arnold, after this first interview,—­“What do you think of my children?”—­was not an easy one to answer.  A selfish, unscrupulous woman, who looked to the connection as something to be particularly desired on her own account, and who cared little about duties and responsibilities, might have replied, “Oh, they are lovely children!” or, “I am delighted with them!” Not so Agnes Green.  She did not reply immediately, but mused for some moments, considerably embarrassed, and in doubt what to say.  Mr. Arnold was gazing intently in her face.

“They do not seem to have made a favourable impression,” said he, speaking with some disappointment in his tone and manner.

A feeble flush was visible in the face of Agnes Green, and also a slight quiver of the lips as she answered: 

“There is too much at stake, as well in your case as my own, to warrant even a shadow of concealment.  You ask what I think of your children, and you expect me to answer truly?”

“I do,” was the almost solemnly-spoken reply.

“My first hurried, yet tolerably close, observation, has shown me, in each, a groundwork of natural good.”

“As their father,” replied Mr. Arnold, in some earnestness of manner, “I know there is good in them,—­much good.  But they have needed a mother’s care.”

“When you have said that, how much has been expressed!  If the garden is not cultivated, and every weed carefully removed, how quickly is it overrun with things noxious, and how feeble becomes the growth of all things good and beautiful!  It is just so with the mind.  Neglect it, and bad habits and evil propensities will assuredly be quickened into being, and attain vigorous life.”

“My children are not perfect, I know, but—­”

Mr. Arnold seemed slightly hurt.  Agnes Green interrupted him, by saying, in a mild voice, as she laid her hand gently upon his arm: 

“Do not give my words a meaning beyond what they are designed to convey.  If I assume the place of a mother to your children, I take upon myself all the responsibilities that the word ‘mother’ involves.  Is not this so?”

“Thus I understand it.”

“My duty will be, not only to train these children for a happy and useful life here, but for a happy and useful life hereafter.”

“It will.”

“It is no light thing, Mr. Arnold, to assume the place of a mother to children who, for three years, have not known a mother’s affectionate care.  I confess that my heart shrinks from the responsibility, and I ask myself over and over again, ’Have I the requisite wisdom, patience, and self-denial?’”

“I believe you have,” said Mr. Arnold, who was beginning to see more deeply into the heart of Agnes.  “And now,” he added, “tell me what you think of my children.”

“Mary has a quick temper, and is rather self-willed, if my observation is correct, but she has a warm heart.  Florence is thoughtless, and untidy in her person, but possesses a happy temper.  Poor Maggy’s ill health has, very naturally, soured her disposition.  Ah, what can you expect of a suffering child, who has no mother?  Your little Willy is a lovely boy, somewhat spoiled—­who can wonder at this?—­but possessing just the qualities to win for him kindness from every one.”