"I do. And what is to become of you when I am not here to get you out
of your scrapes, or of Gertrude without me to check her inveterate
snobbishness, is more than I can foresee."

"I am not snobbish," said Gertrude, "although I do not choose to make
friends with everyone. But I never objected to you, Agatha."

"No; I should like to catch you at it. Hallo, Jane!" (who had suddenly
burst into tears): "what's the matter? I trust you are not permitting
yourself to take the liberty of crying for me."

"Indeed," sobbed Jane indignantly, "I know that I am a f--fool for my
pains. You have no heart."

"You certainly are a f--fool, as you aptly express it," said Agatha,
passing her arm round Jane, and disregarding an angry attempt to shake
it off; "but if I had any heart it would be touched by this proof of
your attachment."

"I never said you had no heart," protested Jane; "but I hate when you
speak like a book."

"You hate when I speak like a book, do you? My dear, silly old Jane! I
shall miss you greatly."

"Yes, I dare say," said Jane, with tearful sarcasm. "At least my snoring
will never keep you awake again."

"You don't snore, Jane. We have been in a conspiracy to make you believe
that you do, that's all. Isn't it good of me to tell you?"

Jane was overcome by this revelation. After a long pause, she said with
deep conviction, "I always knew that I didn't. Oh, the way you kept it
up! I solemnly declare that from this time forth I will believe nobody."

"Well, and what do you think of it all?" said Agatha, transferring her
attention to Gertrude, who was very grave.

"I think--I am now speaking seriously, Agatha--I think you are in the
wrong."

"Why do you think that, pray?" demanded Agatha, a little roused.

"You must be, or Miss Wilson would not be angry with you. Of course,
according to your own account, you are always in the right, and everyone
else is always wrong; but you shouldn't have written that in the book.
You know I speak as your friend."

"And pray what does your wretched little soul know of my motives and
feelings?"

"It is easy enough to understand you," retorted Gertrude, nettled.
"Self-conceit is not so uncommon that one need be at a loss to recognize
it. And mind, Agatha Wylie," she continued, as if goaded by some
unbearable reminiscence, "if you are really going, I don't care whether
we part friends or not. I have not forgotten the day when you called me
a spiteful cat."

"I have