of knowledge so bitter a thing.  We read French together; my own early French lessons were positively disgusting, partly from the abominable little books on dirty paper and in bad type that we read, and partly from the absurd character of the books chosen.  The Cid and Voltaire’s Charles XII.!  I used to wonder dimly how it was ever worth any one’s while to string such ugly and meaningless sentences together.  Now I read with the children Sans Famille and Colomba; and they acquire the language with incredible rapidity.  I tell them any word they do not know; and we have a simple system of emulation, by which the one who recollects first a word we have previously had, receives a mark; and the one who first reaches a total of a hundred marks gets sixpence.  The adorable nature of women!  Maggie, whose verbal memory is excellent, went rapidly ahead, and spent her sixpence on a present to console Alec for the indignity of having been beaten.  Then, too, they write letters in French to their mother, which are solemnly sent by post.  It is not very idiomatic French, but it is amazingly flexible; and it is delicious to see the children at breakfast watching Maud as she opens the letters and smiles over them.

Perhaps this is not a very exalted type of education; it certainly seems to fulfil its purpose very wonderfully in making them alert, inquisitive, eager, and without any shadow of priggishness.  It is established as a principle that it is stupid not to know things, and still more stupid to try and make other people aware that you know them; and the apologies with which Maggie translated a French menu at a house where we stayed with the children the other day were delightful to behold.

I am very anxious that they should not be priggish, and I do not think they are in any danger of becoming so.  I suppose I rather skim the cream of their education, and leave the duller part to the governess, a nice, tranquil person, who lives in the village, the daughter of a previous vicar, and comes in in the mornings.  I don’t mean that their interest and alertness does not vary, but they are obedient and active-minded children, and they prefer their lessons with me so much that it has not occurred to them to be bored.  If they flag, I don’t press them.  I tell them a story, or show them pictures.  While I write these words in my armchair, they are sitting at the table, writing an account of something I have told them.  Maggie lays down her pen with a sigh of satisfaction.  “There, that is beautiful!  But I dare say it is not as good as yours, Alec.”  “Don’t interrupt me,” says Alec sternly, “and don’t push against me when I’m busy.”  Maggie looks round and concludes that I am busy too.  In a minute, Alec will have done, and then I shall read the two pieces aloud; then we shall criticise them respectfully.  The aim is to make them frankly recognise the good points of each other’s compositions as well as the weak points, and this they are very ready to do.