angelic than those of the poor girls who are playing, with wild eyes, on the dust-heaps in the alleys of our great towns; and who will one day fill their prisons,—­or, better, their graves?  Heaven only knows where they, and we who have cast them there shall stand at last But the main judgment question will be, I suppose, for all of us, “Did you keep a good heart through it?  What you were, others may answer for,—­ what you tried to be, you must answer for yourself.  Was the heart pure and true—­tell us that?

And so we come back to your sorrowful question, Lucilla, which I put aside a little ago.  You would be afraid to answer that your heart was pure and true, would not you?

Lucilla.  Yes, indeed, sir.

L. Because you have been taught that it is all evil—­“only evil continually.”  Somehow, often as people say that, they never seem, to me, to believe it.  Do you really believe it?

Lucilla.  Yes, sir, I hope so.

L. That you have an entirely bad heart?

Lucilla (a little uncomfortable at the substitution of the monosyllable for the dissyllable, nevertheless persisting in her orthodoxy).  Yes, sir.

L. Florrie, I am sure you are tired; I never like you to stay when you are tired; but, you know, you must not play with the kitten while we’re talking.

Florrie.  Oh! but I’m not tired, and I’m only nursing her.  She’ll be asleep in my lap, directly.

L. Stop! that puts me in mind of something I had to show you, about minerals that are like hair I want a hair out of Tittie’s tail.

Florrie. (quite rude in her surprise, even to the point of repeating expressions).  Out of Tittie’s tail!

L. Yes, a brown one Lucilla, you can get at the tip of it nicely, under Florrie’s arm, just pull one out for me.

Lucilla.  Oh! but, sir, it will hurt her so!

L. Never mind, she can’t scratch you while Florrie is holding her. 
Now that I think of it you had better pull out two.

Lucilla.  But then she may scratch Florrie! and it will hurt her so sir! if you only want brown hairs, wouldn’t two of mine do?

L. Would you really rather pull out your own than Tittie’s?

Lucilla.  Oh, of course, if mine will do.

L. But that’s very wicked, Lucilla!

Lucilla.  Wicked, sir?

L. Yes, if your heart was not so bad, you would much rather pull all the cat’s hairs out, than one of your own.

Lucilla.  Oh! but, sir, I didn’t mean bad like that.

L. I believe, if the truth were told, Lucilla, you would like to tie a kettle to Tittie’s tail, and hunt her round the playground.

Lucilla.  Indeed, I should not, sir.

L. That’s not true, Lucilla; you know it cannot be.

Lucilla.  Sir?

L. Certainly it is not;—­how can you possibly speak any truth out of such a heart as you have?  It is wholly deceitful.