At first she found it very difficult to keep a constant watch over herself, to do those things which she ought to do, and to keep from doing those things which she ought not to do; often, sometimes consciously, sometimes almost without knowing it, did she find herself giving way to old tempers and feelings. Sometimes Ada would say unkind and cutting things, and Margaret would feel as if nothing would be so pleasant as to retort, and sometimes when she had tried her utmost to quell her rising passion, and to give a soft answer or a kind action in return, Ada would attribute it to some wrong or bad motive, or receive ungraciously all her attempts at conciliation, even when she knew that she, and not Margaret, was in the wrong. And yet, in spite of this, there were times when Ada could not help feeling that she was unjust towards Margaret, and could not help liking her far better than she had once done. Ada's disposition was not naturally unkind, but unhappily it had been quite spoiled and rendered selfish by the unbounded indulgence in which she had been

brought up.

Occasionally, when she was in a better mood, she would thank Margaret for any little assistance bestowed on her in her studies, or otherwise, and these few words sounded so pleasantly that Margaret at such times began to feel towards Ada quite differently, and to make allowances for her which at one time she would never have thought of.

But Margaret had other sore trials; she still had to see Ada caressed, admired, and flattered, by all, while she was often passed by unnoticed. She still had to hear those things which she had always been taught to hold most dear and sacred, and which she knew were right and good, made light of, or turned into jest and ridicule, while she must sit by and hear all but say nothing. Often in the silent watches of the night she would lie and think of these things, then of her aunt Ellen, and of how different her life had been passed with her, until her pillow was wet with tears, and then she would lift up her heart, in the name of Jesus Christ, to her Father in heaven, beseeching him to be

her friend; and at length comforted by the thought that he was her friend, would fall into sweet and refreshing slumber.

One day there came an invitation from a lady, an old and valued friend of their father's, for either Margaret or Ada to go and spend a few days at her house. She did not name which it was to be in her note, saying that, as it was only convenient to her to have one at a time, they must settle between them which should come first. Ada, who invariably thought of herself before any one else, immediately begged that she might go, but her father, who was always particular that in such cases Margaret should enjoy her right of precedence as the eldest, and who happened at that moment to be in the room, at once decided against Ada.

"No, Ada," said he, " you must not expect Margaret always to give up to you; she is the eldest, and will certainly go to Mrs. Ward's first-so say nothing more about it."

Mr. Craven did not often speak so decidedly to Ada; when he did she knew that further dispute was useless. With a pout on