MISS FLINT AIRS HER VIEWS ON MODERN FURNITURE AND EDUCATION.

SOON afterwards, I heard from Jane Cartwright that Miss Flint's wandering feet were stayed for a while, but not at Lint Hall. She was the guest of Mrs. Burford, who had declared she could not be satisfied until her dear old friend paid her a visit and passed her opinion on the improvements made in her home.

It will be remembered that Mr. Burford told me of the projected changes, and groaned over the probable cost, "in cash and comfort," which would result therefrom. If his wife expected compliments on her good taste from Cousin Dorothy, she was grievously disappointed.

"Don't ask my opinion," she said, when taken into the newly arranged drawing-room. "If I give it, I shall only offend your—what's the word?—æsthetic development. Only I implore you to let me have an old-fashioned chair to sit upon. I will not trust myself to the new-fangled things, with a length of embroidered stuff doing duty for seat, cushion, and back. Two acquaintances of mine came to grief through being over-persuaded to occupy such. Their tenure was short, and serve them right. One chair broke down bodily, its jerry-made frame being unequal to the sitter's weight; the other, a folding one, doubled up unexpectedly, because my friend, being unused to the arrangement, did not know how to balance herself, but perched on the edge of the thing, instead of nearly lying at full length in it."

"My dear Miss Flint, you may trust yourself to my chairs without fear. They are not what you call the jerry-made sort, but thoroughly strong, even when slight-looking, and are from a first class upholsterer. If you knew the price! But I should be afraid to tell you that," said Mrs. Burford.

"Oh, I have no doubt they cost money enough. I cannot speak from experience, of course, but I have always understood that it is the husband's privilege to pay for new furniture. 'That' does not come out of the housekeeping purse, does it?"

Mrs. Burford laughed, as people laugh when they want to hide their vexation by appearing to be amused.

"You dear, droll creature! You are as satirical as ever," said Mrs. Burford. "But I am not going to be angry with you, or put out of love with my pretty room, though you do not admire it. Every one else thinks it so much improved, and all the alterations in perfect taste."

"They tell you so, but what they think is another matter. I do not see how you can speak with certainty of their thoughts," persisted Miss Flint.

"Why should I distrust them? Or, if I ought to do, I should perhaps judge you in the same way, and believe that, whilst you profess to think slightingly of my taste in furnishing, you really admire the results of it."

"Think as you like, my dear. I distrust people who give their neighbours credit for perfection in anything; though, by the way, I believe nobody ever paid me such a compliment. Certainly not with regard to taste in dress or furniture."

Miss Flint was so amused at her own remark that she laughed heartily, and it was sufficiently suggestive to make Mrs. Burford join in the laugh, as she thought of her guest's eccentric costumes and her domestic surroundings.

"You may laugh, and welcome, especially when you do it heartily, though I may be the subject of your mirth," said Miss Flint, looking triumphant and good-humoured. She liked her caustic remarks to be appreciated, and would always join in the amusement they created, if even she did not begin the laugh.

"Seriously, though," she added, "I am not in love with modern decorative art, which, in many cases, means the turning out of everything that is solid and substantial, and cramming rooms with all kinds of trash that is of no possible use, and which one stumbles over at every step, unless it is fixed high up, and then it tumbles on one's head instead. I was in a room the other day, and there were some big, softly-cushioned chairs in it, wide enough to accommodate a giantess. The seats were about ten inches from the floor. A stout caller had sunk into one, and being rheumatic, could not rise by herself. She was hauled out by the united efforts of her hostess and the parlour-maid, and a nice picture that was. A long-legged cavalry officer occupied another, and alternately sat with his knees at his chin and his feet sprawling half across the room. There were no chairs in that room fit for sensible people to occupy, and no two alike."

"But mine are both safe and comfortable, my dear," said Mrs. Burford.

"Then point out one that you can warrant a 'patent safety,' and let me sit down; for you seem to have forgotten that I have been standing all this time," said Miss Flint.

"I beg your pardon. I thought you were looking round at all my pretty things as you were moving about the room. Do try this chair; you will find it delightfully comfortable."

The article in question being of wicker-work, Miss Flint was induced to deposit her person within its embracing arms. It was luxuriously upholstered, and it would have been hard for any one else to find fault with it, but she was equal to the occasion.

"I hope you find that chair comfortable?" said Mrs. Burford complacently, and as if defying a negative reply.

"It is big enough and strong enough, but wickedly luxurious. Who could do anything useful when buried in down and satin? I could not even knit in it. No wonder girls are so disgracefully idle, when they are tempted to laziness at every turn by such chairs as this. When I was a girl, young people had to be content with something less. There were but a couple of so-called easy-chairs in a room, and they were not too comfortable; but such as they were, they were left for our elders and betters. We should as soon have thought of flying as of occupying one of them."

Rose Burford had just entered the room when Miss Flint began this tirade against idleness and luxury, and had deposited her elegant person on a similar chair to the one occupied by the speaker. Rose never troubled herself to conciliate Cousin Dorothy, and sometimes made very plain remarks about those "who toadied such old horrors because of their money." Though she had always been first favourite, Mrs. Burford stood in some awe of her elder daughter, who was of a very independent character, and whose trenchant speeches would often bring an angry flush to her mother's face, though they were not apparently aimed at her.

Rose waited quietly until Miss Flint finished, for the speaker was looking straight in her face, as though her remarks, while professing to be general ones, were meant for the girl opposite.

"I am very glad I was not young when you were," said Rose coolly. "The present state of things must be infinitely preferable to what existed then."

"No doubt they appear so to lazy, self-indulgent people," retorted Miss Flint.

"I do not think girls are lazier than they used to be. When you went to school, you would not have half so many lessons to learn as I had. As to poor Magnus, I wonder he is alive with the amount of cramming he has to do for exams."

"It may well be called 'cramming,' taken higgledy-piggledy, as learning is swallowed in these days. But do not be alarmed, Rose. Your brother will not kill himself with work, any more than you have done," was the reply.

"Indeed I hope not. An only brother is precious to grown-up girls, and I trust I shall find him useful soon. He is very tall for his age."

"Then your idea of a brother's usefulness is—"

"That he may escort his sisters to parties, concerts, and so on," returned Rose, without any sign of shrinking before Miss Flint's steady gaze.

"Let me congratulate you on the unselfish view you take of a brother's vocation, my dear," replied Cousin Dorothy.

"Thank you, Miss Flint. I meant what I said; and I am sure you, who are candour itself, ought to like me for following your example and speaking out."

"My dear Rose, you are forgetting yourself. Remember, the difference between Miss Flint's age and yours entitles her to say and do many things that would ill become a girl like you."

"I am not likely to forget the difference you name, mother," said Rose, "considering that Miss Flint's presence cannot fail to remind me of it."

Rose first looked at Miss Flint, then gave a careless glance at her own handsome reflection in an opposite mirror, and smiled.

The gesture was sufficiently suggestive, and Mrs. Burford was annoyed, as well she might be; for Miss Flint was her guest, and the girl's manner was almost impertinent.

"You are rude, Rose. If you cannot refrain from such remarks, you had better leave the room."

"Let her alone, my dear," interposed Miss Flint. "It would be a pity to interfere with such a picture of comfort as Rose presents. Dorothy Flint can hold her own with a chit of twenty, without asking the help of the maternal arm and tongue to defend her. Besides, while I do not care for gimcracks, and cannot go into raptures over a three-halfpenny palm-leaf fan with a lily painted on it, I do like to see a pretty girl's face opposite me; and Rose is pretty and young, and I am sixty-three—going sixty-four, as the children say. My days of youth and beauty are things of the far-away past. But it is not always kind in those who still possess a wealth of the things which are only ours once in a lifetime, to call attention to the fact that, in their opposite neighbour's case it may be, they are gone for ever."

There was an unusually pathetic ring in Miss Flint's voice as the last words dropped slowly from her lips. And then she turned and gazed at the glowing fire, as if it were showing her visions of that past to which she had just alluded.

Mrs. Burford was thinking to herself, "If ever a contradictious creature lived on this earth, it is Dorothy Flint. If I had not rebuked Rose, she would have twitted me with allowing her to treat a guest with rudeness in my presence. I speak, as in duty bound, and she as good as tells me to hold my tongue, for she is quite able to defend herself."

What Mrs. Burford said was, "You were quite as pretty a girl as any I know to-day when we were at school together. I remember how I used to like to stroke your lovely hair—you wore it in masses of soft curls. They were fashionable then; and I always envied you, for mine never would curl. I was a little girl, you a big one. I did so admire you."

"Did you, my dear? I am so glad you remember that I had a pretty face and beautiful hair. Now, Rose, you have the testimony of your own mother as to my youthful charms. Do not get too conceited, child. You may be a beauty of the present generation, but, remember, there were as fair faces in the last, that are wrinkled now; hair that hung in dark, glossy curls, is grey and not too plentiful now. Such changes come to us all in our turns. Look at me, child, and take warning."

Miss Flint's face had on it a softer expression than common as she turned it towards Rose. Who knows what memories were stirring her as the past came before her? Who knows but that the elderly spinster—eccentric in her habits, grotesque in dress, caustic of speech, and reputed to be hard as her name—could hear again tender words that had made her cheek flush and her heart beat faster in those far-away days?

Mrs. Burford might be able to describe the fair outside, but she could never have been Dorothy Flint's confidante in her beautiful girlhood—the difference in their ages forbade that; and so now she could not recall to her mind the scenes or hear the words that her guest could see and hear, though these, like her beauty and youth, were things of the past, and had no present reality.

If Miss Flint were dreaming of the past, she was soon brought back to her present surroundings, and in an unexpected manner. Something in her words and looks had touched Rose Burford's heart.

She left her seat, crossed towards Miss Flint's chair, and dropped gracefully down on the rug beside it. Then, taking the spinster's hand, she said, "I beg your pardon for having been rude and impertinent just now."

"Do you mean it, child?" asked Cousin Dorothy, with a look of profound astonishment.

"Yes, I do. My conscience reproached me, and made me feel ashamed of myself. It often does speak without being heeded, I am afraid, but just now I could not help listening."

Rose glanced across at her mother as if to intimate that her action was by no means a consequence of the maternal rebuke, but that she had begged Miss Flint's pardon purely of her own sweet will.

Indeed, Mrs. Burford knew this already.

When a parent is injudicious enough to elevate one child at the expense of the others, she generally finds that the favourite, who has received more than her share of indulgence and affection, repays her with less both of love and obedience. Often the child becomes the parent's tyrant, and after every concession, exacts still more.

Mrs. Burford was, however, glad of Rose's conciliatory conduct, from whatever motive it had sprung, and she smiled approvingly back at her daughter.

"I forgive you, child," said Miss Flint, retaining Rose's hand in one of hers, whilst with the other she patted her cheek. "I am rather glad you were ruder than usual, and thought it right to beg pardon, because, for once, you seem more like your father's daughter than your mother's."

Miss Flint said the last few words in a whisper, audible only to Rose; then turning to Mrs. Burford, "I was paying the child a pretty compliment, my dear, and I determined to spare her blushes by letting no one else hear it."

After Cousin Dorothy's recent complimentary remarks on the girl's looks, Mrs. Burford concluded that the whisper conveyed some further tribute of a similar kind, and did not trouble herself to ask any questions. It was satisfactory to her that her guest seemed quite drawn towards Rose, and she hoped that in time her favourite might stand equal to, if not higher, than the absent Nelly in Miss Flint's regard.

"If you were Nelly, now, I should most likely stroke your pretty hair, as your mother stroked my curls in ancient days. But your style of hairdressing is too elaborate, and has cost too much time, in order to produce such marvellous effects, for me to venture on disturbing them," said Miss Flint.

"I am very glad you did not," replied Rose frankly. "You are quite right in supposing that my hair takes a fearful time, and when it is done, I am terrified at having it upset. Nelly has such a crop of natural crisp curls, that nothing can alter her appearance."

"Or her nature, I hope. I am very fond of your sister, Rose; and—" with an air of much candour—"I like you better than I did an hour or two ago. I was going to have a wordy war with you. I meant to say that now-a-days you learned a little of everything, and nothing well; that education was carefully planned for the absorption by girls of every species of knowledge but the kind that would be useful to them in home life; that, above all, good manners and decent respect to their elders and betters were purposely ignored, and that girls were generally rude, conceited, and selfish."

"You have said it, Miss Flint," remarked Rose.

"No, child; or, at least, not in the same way. I have only told you what my opinions were a few minutes ago, with the view of adding that, even in this short space of time, they have undergone some modification."

"And what do you think of us girls now, Miss Flint?"

"I think that all these mistakes may be made without quite spoiling a girl, and that sometimes the heart, yielding to conscience, may triumph over an injudicious—education."

Miss Flint made a very decided pause before she spoke that last word. She uttered it looking straight at Mrs. Burford. And if ever gesture and facial expression said one thing whilst the tongue said another, Miss Flint meant "mother" when she closed her sentence with the word "education."

"I think I must get up now," said Rose, springing lightly to her feet and extricating the hand which Miss Flint still held. "I am not improving my dress by kneeling upon it."

"That is right, child; take care of all your pretty things. Of your face, by being kind and good-tempered. Nothing spoils beauty sooner than harsh ways and ill temper. Besides, the opposites make people beautiful when the charms which are only skin-deep have departed. You have fine examples in your mother and myself. Take care of your health too, because money will not buy it back again; and of your hair, and your finery, because they have cost time, pains, and your father knows how much in coin of the realm. There now, I have repaid your charming conduct with much good advice, and I hope you are grateful."

Rose laughed, and made a pretty curtsey, not a mocking one, with the addition of, "Thank you, Miss Flint."

"Now let me alone, both of you. I am going to have a nap. I am ashamed of myself for wanting such a thing, but the blame must rest on you and this disgracefully luxurious chair, which has a corrupting influence on my habits, yet detains me in spite of myself."

Miss Flint closed her eyelids with a species of snap, much as she habitually closed her lips when she had said something particularly cutting.

"You shall have the room to yourself for a while," said Mrs. Burford. "Come, Rose;" and, followed by her daughter, she left Miss Flint to enjoy her nap, though under protest, in that disgracefully easy chair.

"I could have taken a nap too, if you had let me alone, mamma," said Rose. "I was just as well inclined for one as Miss Flint herself; for you know I was up late last night."

"You might have disturbed her, Rose, and that would have been a pity. Sleep makes people amiable."

"Then why did you hinder me from it? Miss Flint would not have disturbed me, unless she snored very loudly, and I scarcely think she would do that in the day-time," returned the girl in anything but an amiable tone.

But she followed her mother to the morning-room, and deposited herself on a seat equally comfortable with the one she had left.