“What kind of ambition do you mean, Honora?”

“Oh,” cried Honora, “to be great and rich and powerful, and to be somebody.”

“Who has been putting such things in your head, my dear?”

“No one, Aunt Mary.  Only, if I were a man, I shouldn’t rest until I became great.”

Alas, that Aunt Mary, with all her will, should have such limited powers of expression!  She resumed her scrubbing of the silver before she spoke.

“To do one’s duty, to accept cheerfully and like a Christian the responsibilities and burdens of life, is the highest form of greatness, my child.  Your Uncle Tom has had many things to trouble him; he has always worked for others, and not for himself.  And he is respected and loved by all who know him.”

“Yes, I know, Aunt Mary.  But—­”

“But what, Honora?”

“Then why isn’t he rich, as my father was?”

“Your father wasn’t rich, my dear,” said Aunt Mary, sadly.

“Why, Aunt Mary!” Honora exclaimed, “he lived in a beautiful house, and owned horses.  Isn’t that being rich?”

Poor Aunt Mary!

“Honora,” she answered, “there are some things you are too young to understand.  But try to remember, my dear, that happiness doesn’t consist in being rich.”

“But I have often heard you say that you wished you were rich, Aunt Mary, and had nice things, and a picture gallery like Mr. Dwyer.”

“I should like to have beautiful pictures, Honora.”

“I don’t like Mr. Dwyer,” declared Honora, abruptly.

“You mustn’t say that, Honora,” was Aunt Mary’s reproof.  “Mr. Dwyer is an upright, public-spirited man, and he thinks a great deal of your Uncle Tom.”

“I can’t help it, Aunt Mary,” said Honora.  “I think he enjoys being —­well, being able to do things for a man like Uncle Tom.”

Neither Aunt Mary nor Honora guessed what a subtle criticism this was of Mr. Dwyer.  Aunt Mary was troubled and puzzled; and she began to speculate (not for the first time) why the Lord had given a person with so little imagination a child like Honora to bring up in the straight and narrow path.

“When I go on Sunday afternoons with Uncle Tom to see Mr. Dwyer’s pictures,” Honora persisted, “I always feel that he is so glad to have what other people haven’t or he wouldn’t have any one to show them to.”

Aunt Mary shook her head.  Once she had given her loyal friendship, such faults as this became as nothing.

“And when” said Honora, “when Mrs. Dwyer has dinner-parties for celebrated people who come here, why does she invite you in to see the table?”

“Out of kindness, Honora.  Mrs. Dwyer knows that I enjoy looking at beautiful things.”

“Why doesn’t she invite you to the dinners?” asked Honora, hotly.  “Our family is just as good as Mrs. Dwyer’s.”

The extent of Aunt Mary’s distress was not apparent.

“You are talking nonsense, my child,” she said.  “All my friends know that I am not a person who can entertain distinguished people, and that I do not go out, and that I haven’t the money to buy evening dresses.  And even if I had,” she added, “I haven’t a pretty neck, so it’s just as well.”