"I never saw an eye so bright,
And yet so soft as hers;
It sometimes swam in liquid light,
And sometimes swam in tears;
It seemed a beauty set apart
For softness and for sighs."
--MRS. WELBY.
The school-room at Roselands was a very pleasant apartment; the
ceiling, it is true, was somewhat lower than in the more modern portion
of the building, for the wing in which it was situated dated back to
the old-fashioned days prior to the Revolution, while the larger part
of the mansion had not stood more than twenty or thirty years; but the
effect was relieved by windows reaching from floor to ceiling, and
opening on a veranda which overlooked a lovely flower-garden, beyond
which were fields and woods and hills. The view from the veranda was
very beautiful, and the room itself looked most inviting, with its neat
matting, its windows draped with snow-white muslin, its comfortable
chairs, and pretty rosewood desks.
Within this pleasant apartment sat Miss Day with her pupils, six in
number. She was giving a lesson to Enna, the youngest, the spoiled
darling of the family, the pet and plaything of both father and mother.
It was always a trying task to both teacher and scholar, for Enna was
very wilful, and her teacher's patience by no means inexhaustible.
"There!" exclaimed Miss Day, shutting the book and giving it an
impatient toss on to the desk; "go, for I might as well try to teach
old Bruno. I presume he would learn about as fast."
And Enna walked away with a pout on her pretty face, muttering that she
would "tell mamma."
"Young ladies and gentlemen," said Miss Day, looking at her watch, "I
shall leave you to your studies for an hour; at the end of which time I
shall return to hear your recitations, when those who have attended
properly to their duties will be permitted to ride out with me to visit
the fair."
"Oh! that will be jolly!" exclaimed Arthur, a bright-eyed,
mischief-loving boy of ten.
"Hush!" said Miss Day sternly; "let me hear no more such exclamations;
and remember that you will not go unless your lessons are thoroughly
learned. Louise and Lora," addressing two young girls of the respective
ages of twelve and fourteen, "that French exercise must be perfect, and
your English lessons as well. Elsie," to a little girl of eight,
sitting alone at a desk near one of the windows, and bending over a
slate with an appearance of great industry, "every figure of that
example must be correct, your geography lesson recited perfectly, and a
page in your copybook written without a blot."
"Yes, ma'am," said the child meekly, raising a pair of large soft eyes
of the darkest hazel for an instant to her teacher's face, and then
dropping them again upon her slate.
"And see that none of you leave the room until I return," continued the
governess. "Walter, if you miss one word of that spelling, you will
have to stay at home and learn it over."
"Unless mamma interferes, as she will be pretty sure to do," muttered
Arthur, as the door closed on Miss Day, and her retreating footsteps
were heard passing down the hall.
For about ten minutes after her departure, all was quiet in the
school-room, each seemingly completely absorbed in study. But at the
end of that time Arthur sprang up, and flinging his book across the
room, exclaimed, "There! I know my lesson; and if I didn't, I shouldn't
study another bit for old Day, or Night either."
"Do be quiet, Arthur," said his sister Louise; "I can't study in such a
racket."
Arthur stole on tiptoe across the room, and coming up behind Elsie,
tickled the back of her neck with a feather.