I was going, then, to a frightful isolated reformatory, where for the first
time in my life I should be subjected to a rigorous and perhaps barbarous
discipline.
All this was an exhalation of fancy, but it quite overcame me. I threw
myself, in my solitude, on the floor, upon my knees, and prayed for
deliverance--prayed that Cousin Monica might prevail with Doctor Bryerly,
and both on my behalf with the Lord Chancellor, or the High Sheriff, or
whoever else my proper deliverer might be; and when my cousin returned, she
found me quite in an agony.
'Why, you little fool! what fancy has taken possession of you now?' she
cried.
And when my new terror came to light, she actually laughed a little to
reassure me, and she said--
'My dear child, your uncle Silas will never put you through your duty to
your neighbour; all the time you are under his roof you'll have idleness
and liberty enough, and too much, I fear. It is neglect, my dear, not
discipline, that I'm afraid of.'
'I think, dear Cousin Monica, you are afraid of something more than
neglect,' I said, relieved, however.
'I _am_ afraid of more than neglect,' she replied promptly; 'but I hope my
fears may turn out illusory, and that possibly they may be avoided.
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