r. She tried to release
herself; but her resolution had reached its limits. Her hands dropped,
trembling. She could still try to speak cheerfully, and that was all.

"There is not the least reason, Cecilia, to be anxious about my
prospects. I mean to be Sir Jervis Redwood's favorite before I have been
a week in his service."

She stopped, and pointed to the house. The governess was approaching
them. "One more kiss, darling. We shall not forget the happy hours we
have spent together; we shall constantly write to each other." She broke
down at last. "Oh, Cecilia! Cecilia! leave me for God's sake--I can't
bear it any longer!"

The governess parted them. Emily dropped into the chair that her friend
had left. Even her hopeful nature sank under the burden of life at that
moment.

A hard voice, speaking close at her side, startled her.

"Would you rather be Me," the voice asked, "without a creature to care
for you?"

Emily raised her head. Francine, the unnoticed witness of the parting
interview, was standing by her, idly picking the leaves from a rose
which had dropped out of Cecilia's nosegay.

Had she felt her own isolated position? She had felt it resentfully.

Emily looked at her, with a heart softened by sorrow. There was no
answering kindness in the eyes of Miss de Sor--there was only a dogged
endurance, sad to see in a creature so young.

"You and Cecilia are going to write to each other," she said. "I suppose
there is some comfort in that. When I left the island they were glad to
get rid of me. They said, 'Telegraph when you are safe at Miss Ladd's
school.' You see, we are so rich, the expense of telegraphing to the
West Indies is nothing to us. Besides, a telegram has an advantage over
a letter--it doesn't take long to read. I daresay I shall write home.
But they are in no hurry; and I am in no hurry. The school's breaking
up; you are going your way, and I am going mine--and who cares what
becomes of me? Only an ugly old schoolmistress, who is paid for caring.
I wonder why I am saying all this? Because I like you? I don't know that
I like you any better than you like me. When I wanted to be friends with
you, you treated me coolly; I don't want to force myself on you. I don't
particularly care about you. May I write to you from Brighton?"

Under all this bitterness--the first exhibition of Francine's temper, at
its worst, which had taken place since she joined the school--Emily saw,
or thought she saw, dis