tress that was too proud, or too shy, to show
itself. "How can you ask the question?" she answered cordially.

Francine was incapable of meeting the sympathy offered to her, even half
way. "Never mind how," she said. "Yes or no is all I want from you."

"Oh, Francine! Francine! what are you made of! Flesh and blood? or stone
and iron? Write to me of course--and I will write back again."

"Thank you. Are you going to stay here under the trees?"

"Yes."

"All by yourself?"

"All by myself."

"With nothing to do?"

"I can think of Cecilia."

Francine eyed her with steady attention for a moment.

"Didn't you tell me last night that you were very poor?" she asked.

"I did."

"So poor that you are obliged to earn your own living?"

"Yes."

Francine looked at her again.

"I daresay you won't believe me," she said. "I wish I was you."

She turned away irritably, and walked back to the house.

Were there really longings for kindness and love under the surface of
this girl's perverse nature? Or was there nothing to be hoped from a
better knowledge of her?--In place of tender remembrances of Cecilia,
these were the perplexing and unwelcome thoughts which the more potent
personality of Francine forced upon Emily's mind.

She rose impatiently, and looked at her watch. When would it be her turn
to leave the school, and begin the new life?

Still undecided what to do next, her interest was excited by the
appearance of one of the servants on the lawn. The woman approached her,
and presented a visiting-card; bearing on it the name of _Sir Jervis
Redwood_. Beneath the name, there was a line written in pencil: "Mrs.
Rook, to wait on Miss Emily Brown." The way to the new life was open
before her at last!

Looking again at the commonplace announcement contained in the line of
writing, she was not quite satisfied. Was it claiming a deference toward
herself, to which she was not entitled, to expect a letter either from
Sir Jervis, or from Miss Redwood; giving her some information as to
the journey which she was about to undertake, and expressing with some
little politeness the wish to make her comfortable in her future home?
At any rate, her employer had done her one service: he had reminded her
that her station in life was not what it had been in the days when her
father was living, and when her aunt was in affluent circumstances.

She looked up from the card. The servant had gone. Alban Morris was
waiting at a lit