dear love. What a sweet, pretty
pet you are! Now that I look at you by daylight, I think it's a
perfect sin that, with a face like yours, you should have to wear
short frocks."

Ermie sighed. Miss St. Leger's tone was full of delicious sympathy,
and when the next moment she slipped her arm round the little girl's
waist, Ermie experienced quite a thrill of delight.

"I have fallen in love with you, that's a fact," said Miss St. Leger;
"but now, about that picnic; you don't really want to go?"

"Oh, yes, Flora. Lilias is going to drive me in her pony-carriage."

"Lilias! Let her take a child like herself. You ought to be with the
grown-ups."

"Everyone treats me exactly as if I were a child," said Ermengarde. "I
do think it's a great shame, for I don't feel in the least like one."

"Of course you don't, pet. Now listen to me. _I'm_ not going to this
stupid, horrid picnic."

"Aren't you, Flora?"

"No, I'm going to stay at home, and I want you to stay with me. You
won't be dull, I promise you."

"But what excuse can I give?"

"Oh, say you're tired, or have a headache, or something of that sort."

"But I'm not tired, and I haven't got a headache."

Flora pouted.

"After all, you are only a baby," she said. "I made a mistake; I
thought you were different."

Ermengarde colored all over her face.

"Do you really, really want me, Flora?" she asked timidly.

"Of course I do, sweet pet; now you will oblige me, won't you?"

"I'd certainly like to, Flora."

"That's a darling. Go back to the house, and lie down on your bed and,
when Lilias calls you at the last moment, say you're tired, and you'd
like to stay quiet. Of course you _are_ tired, you know; you look it."

"I suppose I am a little bit," said Ermengarde. Her heart felt like
lead. Her gayety had deserted her, but she was in the toils of a much
older and cleverer girl than herself.

She stole softly back to the house, and when Lilias found her lying on
her bed, she certainly told no untruth when she said that her head
ached, for both head and heart ached, and she hated herself for
deceiving her sweet little friend.

The picnic people departed, quietness settled down over the house, and
Ermie, who had cried with vexation at the thought of losing that
delightful drive and day of pleasure, had dropped into a dull kind of
dose, when a knock came to her room door, and Miss St. Leger entered.

"Now, little martyr," she said, in a cheerful voice, "jump up