‘What do you teach them for?’ exclaimed Helen.

‘I see what you mean,’ said Elizabeth; ’we can only cast our bread upon the waters; we must look to the work, and not to the present appearance.  But, Aunt Anne, the worst is, if they go wrong, I must be afraid it is my fault; that it is from some slip in my teaching, some want of accordance between my example and my precept, and no one can say that it is not so.’

‘No one on earth,’ said her aunt solemnly; ’and far better it is for you, that you should teach in fear.’

‘I sometimes fancy,’ said Elizabeth, ’that the girls would do better if we had the whole government of them, but I know that is but fancy; they are each in the place and among the temptations which will do them most good.  But oh! it is a melancholy thing to remember that of the girls whom I myself have watched through the school and out into the world, there are but two on whom I can think with perfect satisfaction.’

‘Taking a high standard, of course?’ said Lady Merton.

’Oh yes, and not reckoning many who I hope will do well, like this one of whom I was talking, but who have had no trial,’ said Elizabeth; ’there are many very good ones now, if they will but keep so.  One of these girls that I was telling you of, has shewn that she had right principle and firmness, by her behaviour towards a bad fellow-servant; she is at Miss Maynard’s.’

‘And where is the other?’ asked Anne.

‘In her grave,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Ah!’ said Helen, ’I missed her to-day, in the midst of her little class, bending over them as she used to do, and looking in their faces, as if she saw the words come out of their mouths.’

‘Do you mean the deaf girl with the speaking eyes?’ said Anne; ’you wrote to tell me you had lost her.’

‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth; ’she it was whose example shewed me that an infirmity may be a blessing.  Her ear was shut to the noises of the world, the strife of tongues, and as her mother said, “she did not know what a bad word was,” only it was tuned to holy things.  She always knew what was going on in church, and by her eager attention learnt to do everything in school; and when her deafness was increased by her fever, and she could not hear her mother’s and sisters’ voices, she could follow the prayers Papa read, the delirium fled away from them.  Oh! it is a blessing and a privilege to have been near such a girl; but then—­though the last thing she said was to desire her sisters to be good girls and keep to their church and school—­she would have been the same, have had the same mind, without our teaching—­our mere school-keeping, I mean.  Aunt Anne, you say you have kept school in your village for thirty years; you were just in my situation, the clergyman’s daughter; so do tell me what effect your teaching has had as regards the children of your first set of girls.  Are they better managed at home than their mothers?’