Esther | Page 2

a whole holiday on Miss Majoribanks'
birthday. The French governess had made a grand toilette, and had
gone out for the day. Fraulein had retired to her own room, and was
writing a long sentimental effusion to a certain "liebe Anna," who lived
at Heidelberg. As Fraulein had taken several of us into confidence, we
had heard a great deal of this Anna von Hummel, a little round-faced
German, with flaxen plaits and china-blue eyes, like a doll; and Jessie
and I had often wondered at this strong Teutonic attachment. Most of
the girls were playing croquet--they played croquet then--on the square
lawn before the drawing-room windows; the younger ones were
swinging in the lime-walk. Jessie and I had betaken ourselves with our
books to a corner we much affected, where there was a bench under a
may-tree.
Jessie was my school friend--chum, I think we called it; she was a fair,
pretty girl, with a thoroughly English face, a neat compact figure, and
manners which every one pronounced charming and lady-like; her
mind was lady-like too, which was the best of all.
Jessie read industriously--her book seemed to rivet her attention; but I
was restless and distrait. The sun was shining on the limes, and the
fresh green leaves seemed to thrill and shiver with life: a lazy breeze
kept up a faint soughing, a white butterfly was hovering over the pink
may, the girls' shrill voices sounded everywhere; a thousand
undeveloped thoughts, vague and unsubstantial as the sunshine above

us, seemed to blend with the sunshine and voices.
"Jessie, do put down your book--I want to talk." Jessie raised her
eyebrows a little quizzically but she was always amiable; she had that
rare unselfishness of giving up her own will ungrudgingly; I think this
was why I loved her so. Her story was interesting, but she put down her
book without a sigh.
"You are always talking, Esther," she said, with a provoking little smile;
"but then," she added, quickly, as though she were afraid that I should
think her unkind, "I never heard other girls talk so well."
"Nonsense," was my hasty response: "don't put me out of temper with
myself. I was indulging in a little bit of philosophy while you were
deep in the 'Daisy Chain.' I was thinking what constituted a great
mind."
Jessie opened her eyes widely, but she did not at once reply; she was
not, strictly speaking, a clever girl, and did not at once grasp any new
idea; our conversations were generally rather one-sided. Emma Hardy,
who was our school wag, once observed that I used Jessie's brains as an
airing-place for my ideas. Certainly Jessie listened more than she talked,
but then, she listened so sweetly.
"Of course, Alfred the Great, and Sir Philip Sidney, and Princess
Elizabeth of France, and all the heroes and heroines of old time--all the
people who did such great things and lived such wonderful lives --may
be said to have had great minds; but I am not thinking about them. I
want to know what makes a great mind, and how one is to get it. There
is Carrie, now, you know how good she is; I think she may be said to
have one."
"Carrie--your sister?"
"Why, yes," I returned, a little impatiently; for certainly Jessie could
not think I meant that stupid, peevish little Carrie Steadman, the dullest
girl in the school; and whom else should I mean, but Carrie, my own
dear sister, who was two years older than I, and who was as good as she

was pretty, and who set us all such an example of unworldliness and
self-denial; and Jessie had spent the Christmas holidays at our house,
and had grown to know and love her too; and yet she could doubt of
whom I was speaking; it could not be denied that Jessie was a little
slow.
"Carrie is so good," I went on, when I had cooled a little, "I am sure she
has a great mind. When I read of Mrs. Judson and Elizabeth Fry, or of
any of those grand creatures, I always think of Carrie. How few girls of
nineteen would deprive themselves of half their dress allowance, that
they might devote it to the poor; she has given up parties because she
thinks them frivolous and a waste of time; and though she plays so
beautifully, mother can hardly get her to practice, because she says it is
a pity to devote so much time to a mere accomplishment, when she
might be at school, or reading to poor old Betty Martin."
"She might do both," put in Jessie, rather timidly; for she never liked
contradicting any of my notions, however far-fetched and ill-assorted
they might be. "Do you know, Esther, I fancy