should follow in the same path; but his
success in this instance was as limited, as in the
former it had been complete. Helen could
not learn the Latin grammar. It was not for
want of capacity, for she was quick enough
in other things; nor for want of industry, for
she studied it, and pored over it morning,
noon, and night. Each day's task was
correctly repeated; but the very fact of knowing
that one so well, confused and nullified the
previous day's lesson, and left it floating in
her memory, a wild chaos of incomplete
sentences and disconnected words. My father
at length gave up the attempt in despair; and,
with a groan of discontent, ordered that
Helen should be sent to Miss Thimbleton's
seminary; though he must say he was afraid
she would prove to be an incorrigible dunce.
Miss Thimbleton, however, made no
complaint, but turned my sister out at the end of
five years, tolerably well versed in all the
learning and accomplishments which are
usually taught in seminaries for young ladies.
My father soon got over his disappointment,
and loved Helen not a whit the less by reason
of it. I have always been inclined to think
she was my father's favourite child, as Neville
was my mother's favourite—if, where all
were loved so well, any could claim a degree
more than another; indeed, the gradation in
excess was so fine that I am sure both my
father and mother were unaware of it. It
was only natural that Helen should be my
father's favourite. She was a girl, and the
youngest; besides being the fairest of the
flock. He called her his wild rose, his summer
child, the prop of his old age; and it
was ever her dearest study to please him.
Whenever my father was ill, or in trouble,
Helen was the one to comfort him most
effectually. The correspondence between their
natures was so fine and subtle, that she could
read him, and understand him, better than
my mother. Her insight was clearer, her
power of observation finer, his half-
expressed thoughts found an echo in her heart;
and she could walk with charmed feet
on that ground where no one else might
tread, sacred to the best and holiest feelings
of his nature. She was a famous little
housekeeper, too, and my mother's assistant in all
domestic matters; and I have reason to
believe that the great secret connected with the
manufacture of preserves was communicated
to her at the early age of sixteen—a fact
unexampled in our domestic history.

It was precisely in this latter qualification
of housekeeper that Ruth was most deficient.
The robust education imparted to her by my
father, in addition, perhaps, to her natural
bias for study, disinclined her from meddling
in household matters. My mother fretted
and fumed considerably at finding her elder
daughter of so little use to her; and was
hardly consoled by perceiving in Helen all
those domestic qualifications which she missed
in Ruth. As the bent of her mind was so
decidedly evinced, my father  determined to
send Ruth from home to finish her education,
and acquire those accomplishments which he
was unable to teach her, with a view to her
becoming eventually either a governess or a
teacher in some large school. So she left
home by coach, one bitter January morning.
This was the first break in our little household
since Katie's death, many years before,
and it made us all very sad for some time.
My mother was full of presentiments and
forebodings for several weeks; and beheld,
in every trivial circumstance that disturbed
her equanimity, an omen of evil to come. My
father regretted that he could not teach Ruth
music and singing, and thus keep her at
home a while longer; and he said he felt, at
times, half inclined to send for her back. But
Ruth's letters, full of energy and hope, and
liking for her new life without forgetting the
old, soon dissipated these affectionate fears.

The year following Ruth's departure saw
that of Philip. He had decided to become a
doctor, and was to go to London for the
purpose of studying. I fancy that his frequent
visits to Doctor Graile's had some influence
on his decision. The little man used to talk
to him on medical subjects, and show him his
specimens, imbuing him with the idea that
the art of healing was one of the noblest in
the world.

Neville still remained at home, and what
profession he should adopt was becoming a
serious question with my father. The lad at
length settled it himself, by deciding that he
would go to sea. My father at first interposed
a peremptory refusal; and my mother
assisted on the same side, by many tearful
requests to Neville to choose another profession,
as she had a presentiment that he would
be drowned, and that his first voyage would
also be his last. But Neville had a will of
his own, impervious alike to threats and
tears, when any great occasion was to be
served; and to sea he averred that he would
go, in spite of everybody. It was, perhaps,
the fittest place for him, and his choice was
not an unwise one; but neither my father
nor mother could bear the idea of such a
separation. That strange malady to which
he had been a victim in his childhood seemed
to have left its traces in his disposition, which
was marked by an occasional wildness, both
of speech and action, breaking out at times
in some strange freak that alarmed everyone
about him. Even my father had very
little command over him when he was in
these wild moods. He cared but little for
books or study, and would steal away, whenever
he could, for a wild scamper across the
country, with some young scapegrace like
himself, rifling birds' nests, robbing orchards,
and snaring rabbits, as opportunity served.
Often, in summer, he would remain out all
night on the hills, and return in the morning
pale, languid, and weary, as though he were
overcome with fatigue. Still his heart was