Little did poor Doctor Walker imagine as he sat at his breakfast-table next morning that the two sweet girls who sat on either side of him were deep in a , and that he, innocently at his muffins, was the victim against whom their were planned. Patiently they waited until at last their opening came.  
“It is a beautiful day,” he remarked. “It will do for Mrs. Westmacott. She was thinking of having a spin upon the tricycle.”
 
“Then we must call early. We both intended to see her after breakfast.”
 
“Oh, indeed!” The Doctor looked pleased.
 
“You know, pa,” said Ida, “it seems to us that we really have a very great advantage in having Mrs. Westmacott living so near.”
 
“Why so, dear?”
 
“Well, because she is so advanced, you know. If we only study her ways we may advance ourselves also.”
 
“I think I have heard you say, papa,” Clara remarked, “that she is the type of the woman of the future.”
 
“I am very pleased to hear you speak so sensibly, my dears. I certainly think that she is a woman whom you may very well take as your model. The more intimate you are with her the better pleased I shall be.”
 
“Then that is settled,” said Clara , and the talk drifted to other matters.
 
All the morning the two girls sat extracting from Mrs. Westmacott her most extreme view as to the duty of the one sex and the tyranny of the other. Absolute equality, even in details, was her ideal. Enough of the parrot cry of unwomanly and unmaidenly. It had been invented by man to scare woman away when she poached too nearly upon his precious preserves. Every woman should be independent. Every woman should learn a trade. It was their duty to push in where they were least welcome. Then they were to the cause, and pioneers to their weaker sisters. Why should the wash-tub, the needle, and the housekeeper's book be eternally theirs? Might they not reach higher, to the consulting-room, to the bench, and even to the pulpit? Mrs. Westmacott sacrificed her tricycle ride in her eagerness over her pet subject, and her two fair drank in every word, and every suggestion for future use. That afternoon they went shopping in London, and before evening strange packages began to be handed in at the Doctor's door. The plot was ripe for execution, and one of the was merry and jubilant, while the other was very nervous and troubled.
 
When the Doctor came down to the dining-room next morning, he was surprised to find that his daughters had already been up some time. Ida was installed at one end of the table with a spirit-lamp, a curved glass , and several bottles in front of her. The contents of the flask were boiling furiously, while a villainous smell filled the room. Clara lounged in an arm-chair with her feet upon a second one, a blue-covered book in her hand, and a huge map of the British Islands spread across her lap. “Hullo!” cried the Doctor, blinking and , “where's the breakfast?”
 
“Oh, didn't you order it?” asked Ida.
 
“I! No; why should I?” He rang the bell. “Why have you not laid the breakfast, Jane?”
 
“If you please, sir, Miss Ida was a workin' at the table.”
 
“Oh, of course, Jane,” said the young lady calmly. “I am so sorry. I shall be ready to move in a few minutes.”
 
“But what on earth are you doing, Ida?” asked the Doctor. “The smell is most offensive. And, good gracious, look at the mess which you have made upon the cloth! Why, you have burned a hole right through.”
 
“Oh, that is the acid,” Ida answered . “Mrs. Westmacott said that it would burn holes.”
 
“You might have taken her word for it without trying,” said her father dryly.
 
“But look here, pa! See what the book says: 'The scientific mind takes nothing upon trust. Prove all things!' I have proved that.”
 
“You certainly have. Well, until breakfast is ready I'll glance over the Times. Have you seen it?”
 
“The Times? Oh, dear me, this is it which I have under my spirit-lamp. I am afraid there is some acid upon that too, and it is rather damp and torn. Here it is.”
 
The Doctor took the bedraggled paper with a rueful face. “Everything seems to be wrong to-day,” he remarked. “What is this sudden enthusiasm about chemistry, Ida?”
 
“Oh, I am trying to live up to Mrs. Westmacott's teaching.”
 
“Quite right! quite right!” said he, though perhaps with less than he had shown the day before. “Ah, here is breakfast at last!”
 
But nothing was comfortable that morning. There were eggs without egg-spoons, toast which was leathery from being kept, dried-up rashers, and grounds in the coffee. Above all, there was that dreadful smell which everything and gave a horrible twang to every mouthful.
 
“I don't wish to put a damper upon your studies, Ida,” said the Doctor, as he pushed back his chair. “But I do think it would be better if you did your chemical experiments a little later in the day.”
 
“But Mrs. Westmacott says that women should rise early, and do their work before breakfast.”
 
“Then they should choose some other room besides the breakfast-room.” The Doctor was becoming just a little . A turn in the open air would him, he thought. “Where are my boots?” he asked.
 
But they were not in their accustomed corner by his chair. Up and down he searched, while the three servants took up the quest, stooping and peeping under book-cases and drawers. Ida had returned to her studies, and Clara to her blue-covered volume, sitting absorbed and amid the and the racket. At last a general buzz of congratulation announced that the cook had discovered the boots hung up among the hats in the hall. The Doctor, very red and , drew them on, and stamped off to join the Admiral in his morning walk.
 
As the door slammed Ida burst into a shout of laughter. “You see, Clara,” she cried, “the charm works already. He has gone to number one instead of to number three. Oh, we shall win a great victory. You've been very good, dear; I could see that you were on thorns to help him when he was looking for his boots.”
 
“Poor papa! It is so cruel. And yet what are we to do?”
 
“Oh, he will enjoy being comfortable all the more if we give him a little now. What horrible work this chemistry is! Look at my frock! It is ruined. And this dreadful smell!” She threw open the window, and thrust her little golden-curled head out of it. Charles Westmacott was hoeing at the other side of the garden fence.
 
“Good morning, sir,” said Ida.
 
“G............