fault of the doves that they would not coo to
me. One day I took one of them out of the
cage, and coaxed her at first, and tried every
way; and at last I squeezed her throat a
little. I suppose I got desperate because she
would not coo as I wanted; and I killed her
— broke her neck. You all remember about
that— how I was punished, and so on: but
nobody knew how miserable I was. I will
not say any more about that: and I would
not have mentioned it but for what it led to.

The first thing that it led to, was, that the
whole family were, in a way, afraid of me.
The girls used to slink away from me; and
never let me play with the baby— as if I should
strangle that! I used to pretend not to care
for being punished; and I know I behaved
horridly. One thing was— a very disagreeable
thing— that I found father and mother did
not know every thing. Till now, I had
always thought they did: but, now, they did
not know me at all; and that was no great
wonder, behaving as I did then. But they
used to advise things that were impossible.
They used to desire me to ask always what
everybody said: but we used to pass, every
Sunday, the tombstone of old Miss Chapman;
and I remembered how it used to be when
anybody saw her coming in at the gate. They
used to cry out "O dear, here comes Miss
Chapman! What shall we do? She will
stay till dinner time, and we shall not get
back our voices for a week. Well! don't tell
her all she asks for. She is never satisfied.
Really it is a most dreadful bore," and so on,
till she was at the room door. This was
because she would know everything that
everybody said. I could not bear to be
like her; and I could not bear now to
think how we all used to complain of her. It
was only from a sort of feeling then that I
did not do what my father and mother told
me, and that I was sure they did not
understand about it: but now, I see why, and so
do they. One can't tell what is worth
repeating and what is not. If one never asks,
somebody always tells what it is best to tell;
but if one is always asking and teasing,
people must get as tired of one as we were of
poor Miss Chapman.

So, I had to get on all alone. I used to read
in a corner, great part of the day; and I used
to walk by myself— long walks over the common,
while the others used to go together to
the meadows, or through the lanes. My
father commanded me to go with the rest;
and then I used to get another ramble by
myself. There was a pond on the common, so
far like that one in the lane I spoke of, that
it put me in mind of what I mentioned. I
used to sit and look into the pond and throw
stones in. I began to fancy, now, that I
should be happier when I got back to school
again. It was very silly when I had once
been so disappointed about home; but, I
suppose everybody is always hoping for
something or other— and I did not know
what else to hope. But I keep getting into
disagreeable things and forgetting Charley.

One night when the elder ones were just
thinking of going to bed, I came down in my
night-clothes, walking in my sleep with my
eyes wide open. The stone hall, so cold to my
bare feet, awoke me; but yet I could not have
been quite awake, for I went into the kitchen
instead of up to bed again, and I remember
very little about that night. They say I
stared at the candles the whole time; but I
remember Dr. Robinson being there. I seldom
slept well then. I was always dreaming
and starting,— dreaming of all sorts of music,
and of hearing the wind, and people talking;
and then of all sorts of trouble from not being
able to hear anybody; and it always ended
with a quarrel with Charley, and my knocking
him down. But my mother knew nothing of
this, and she was as frightened that night as
if I had been crazy. The Doctor advised
them to send me to school again for one half-
year, and see how I got on after some
experiments had been tried with my ears. But
I want to get on about Charley.

Charley arrived at school, two hours after
me. He seemed not to like to shake hands,
and he walked away directly. I saw he did
not mean to be friends; and I supposed he
felt his father's house insulted by my running
away. But, I did not know all the reason he
had,— neither then, nor for some time after.
When we became friends again, I found that
Kate had seen how hurt I was at her laughing
at me, and that she was so sorry that she
went up to my room-door several times, and
knocked, and begged that I would forgive
her; or that I would open my door, and
speak to her, at least. She knocked so loud
that she never doubted my hearing her; but
I never did, and the next thing was that I
ran away. Of course, Charley could not
forgive this; he was my great enemy now.
In school, he beat me, of course; every
body might do that: but I had a chance
in things that were not done in class,—
such as the Latin essay for a prize, for
instance. Charley was bent upon getting
that prize, and he thought he should,
because, though he was younger than I, he
was a good deal before me in school.
However, I got the prize; and some of the
boys said it was a shame. They thought it
was through favour, because I had grown
stupid. They said so, and Charley said so; and
he provoked me all he could,— more on Kate's
account than his own, though, as he told me
afterwards. One day, he insulted me so in
the play-ground, that I knocked him down.
There was no reason why I should not now;
for he had grown very much, and was as
strong as I had ever been, while I was
nothing like so strong as I had been, or as I
am now. The moment he was up, he flew at
me in the greatest rage that ever you saw.
I was the same: and we were hurt enough, I
can tell you,— both of us,— so much, that