" said Clementina, with a swelling heart.

"Now, listen!" urged Mrs. Milray. "You think I'm just saying it because,
if you don't take it I shall have to tell Mr. Milray I was so hateful to
you, you couldn't. Well, I should hate to tell him that; but that isn't
the reason. There!" She tore the letter in pieces, and threw it on the
floor. Clementina did not make any sign of seeing this, and Mrs. Milray
dropped upon her chair again. "Oh, how hard you are! Can't you say
something to me?"

Clementina did not lift her eyes. "I don't feel like saying anything just
now."

Mrs. Milray was silent a moment. Then she sighed. "Well, you may hate me,
but I shall always be your friend. What hotel are you going to in
Liverpool?

"I don't know," said Clementina.

"You had better come to the one where we go. I'm afraid Mrs. Lander won't
know how to manage very well, and we've been in Liverpool so often. May I
speak to her about it?"

"If you want to," Clementina coldly assented.

"I see!" said Mrs. Milray. "You don't want to be under the same roof with
me. Well, you needn't! But I'll tell you a good hotel: the one that the
trains start out of; and I'll send you that letter for Miss Milray."
Clemeutina was silent. "Well, I'll send it, anyway."

Mrs. Milray went away in sudden tears, but the girl remained dry-eyed.

XIX.

Mrs. Lander realized when the ship came to anchor in the stream at
Liverpool that she had not been seasick a moment during the voyage. In
the brisk cold of the winter morning, as they came ashore in the tug, she
fancied a property of health in the European atmosphere, which she was
sure would bring her right up, if she stayed long enough; and a regret
that she had never tried it with Mr. Lander mingled with her new hopes
for herself.

But Clementina looked with home-sick eyes at the strangeness of the alien
scene: the pale, low heaven which seemed not to be clouded and yet was so
dim; the flat shores with the little railroad trains running in and out
over them; the grimy bulks of the city, and the shipping in the river,
sparse and sombre after the gay forest of sails and stacks at New York.

She did not see the Milrays after she left the tug, in the rapid
dispersal of the steamer's passengers. They both took leave of her at the
dock, and Mrs. Milray whispered with penitence in her voice and eyes, "I
will write," but the girl did not answer.

Before Mrs. Lander's trunks and her own were passed, she sa