and cramping her, all her life
probably, to give way to her now. Can it ever be too early to acquire
self-reliance, and is it not one of the most necessary lessons for a
responsible human being to learn? Besides, '_ce n'est que le premier pas
qui coute_.' It is only the first wrench which will hurt her. She will
find plenty of fresh interests and congenial occupations at St.
Ambrose's. In a week, a fortnight, she will not miss you too much."

Dora shook her head incredulously. It was little he knew of May, with
her fond family attachments, and her helplessness when left to herself
in common things.

"Follow my advice, Miss Dora," he said, rising to take his leave, "don't
aid and abet Miss May in seeking to shirk her obligations.
Unquestionably the one nearest to her at present is that she should go
to St. Ambrose's. Don't prevent her from beginning to think and act for
herself--not like a charming child, but in the light of her dawning
womanhood."

He gave a swift glance round him as he spoke, and a recollection which
had been in the background of both their thoughts during the whole of
the interview, flashed into the foreground. It was of that day a year
ago, a breezy spring day like this, when, as it seemed, there were the
same jonquils in the jar on the chimney-piece, and the same
cherry-blossom seen through the window against the blue sky, and he had
asked her with his heart on his lips, and the happiness of his life at
stake, to be his wife, and she had told him, with agitation and distress
almost equal to his, that he could never be anything to her. He caught
her half-averted eyes, and felt the whole scene was present with her as
with him once more, and the consciousness brought back all his old
shyness and reserve, and hurried his leave-taking. The slightest touch
to her hand, and he had bowed himself out and was gone.

"How silly he must think me," Dora reflected, walking up and down the
empty room in perturbation, "both about poor 'little May,' and about
remembering the last time we were alone together. I dare say he is
right about May, though men never do understand what girls feel. If she
should fall ill, and break her heart, and die of home-sickness--such
things have happened before now--I wonder what he would say then about
her learning to stand alone? Very likely he would assert that St.
Ambrose's is not St. Petersburg, or even Shetland or the Scilly Isles.
It is not far away, and if she were not well