'My mother died before I was old enough to feel my loss.'
'And your father?'
Emily referred to another relative—her father's sister. 'Since I have grown up,' she proceeded, 'my good aunt has been a second mother to me. My story is, in one respect, the reverse of yours. You are unexpectedly rich; and I am unexpectedly poor. My aunt's fortune was to have been my fortune, if I outlived her. She has been ruined by the failure of a bank. In her old age, she must live on an income of two hundred a year—and I must get my own living when I leave school.'
'Surely your father can help you?' Francine persisted.
'His property is landed property.' Her voice faltered, as she referred to him, even in that indirect manner. 'It is entailed; his nearest male relative inherits it.'
The delicacy which is easily discouraged was not one of the weaknesses in the nature of Francine.
'Do I understand that your father is dead?' she asked.
Our thick-skinned fellow-creatures have the rest of us at their mercy: only give them time, and they carry their point in the end. In sad subdued tones—telling of deeply-rooted reserves of feeling, seldom revealed to strangers —Emily yielded at last.
'Yes,' she said, 'my father is dead.'
'Long ago?'
'Some people might think it long ago. I was very fond of my father. It's nearly four years since he died, and my heart still aches when I think of him. I'm not easily depressed by troubles, Miss de Sor. But his death was sudden —he was in his grave when I first heard of it—and—Oh, he was so good to me; he was so good to me!'
The gay high-spirited little creature who took the lead among them all—who was the life and soul of the school—hid her face in her hands, and burst out crying.
Startled and—to do her justice—ashamed, Francine attempted to make excuses. Emily's generous nature passed over the cruel persistency that had tortured her. 'No no; I have nothing to forgive. It isn't your fault. Other girls have not mothers and brothers and sisters—and get reconciled to such a loss as mine. Don't make excuses.'
'Yes, but I want you to know that I feel for you,' Francine insisted, without the slightest approach to sympathy in face, voice, or manner. 'When my uncle died, and left us all the money, papa was much shocked. He trusted to time to help him.'
'Time has been long about it with me, Francine. I am afraid there is something perverse in my nature; the hope of meeting again in a better world seems so faint and so far away. No more of it now! Let us talk of that good creature who is asleep on the other side of you. Did I tell you that I must earn my own bread when I leave school? Well, Cecilia has written home and found an employment for me. Not a situation as governess—something quite out of the common way. You shall hear all about it.'
In the brief interval that had passed, the weather had begun to change again. The wind was as high as ever; but to judge by the lessening patter on the windows the rain was passing away.
Emily began.
She was too grateful to her friend and school-fellow, and too deeply interested in her story, to notice the air of indifference with which Francine settled herself on her pillow to hear the praises of Cecilia. The most beautiful girl in the school was not an object of interest to a young lady with an obstinate chin and unfortunately-placed eyes. Pouring warm from the speaker's heart the story ran smoothly on, to the monotonous accompaniment of the moaning wind. By fine degrees Francine's eyes closed, opened and closed again. Toward the latter part of the narrative Emily's memory became, for the moment only, confused between two events. She stopped to consider— noticed Francine's silence, in an interval when she might have said a word of encouragement—and looked closer at her. Miss de Sor was asleep.
'She might have told me she was tired,' Emily said to herself quietly. 'Well! the best thing I can do is to put out the light and follow her example.'
As she took up the extinguisher, the bedroom door was suddenly opened from the outer side. A tall woman, robed in a black dressing-gown, stood on the threshold, looking at Emily.
CHAPTER III. THE LATE MR. BROWN.
The woman's lean, long-fingered hand pointed to the candle.
'Don't put it out.' Saying those words, she looked round the room, and satisfied herself that the other girls were asleep.
Emily laid down the extinguisher. 'You mean to report us, of course,' she said. 'I am the only one awake, Miss Jethro; lay the blame on me.'
'I have no intention of reporting you. But I have something to say.'
She paused, and pushed her thick black hair (already streaked with gray) back from her temples. Her eyes, large and dark and dim, rested on Emily with a sorrowful interest. 'When your young friends wake to-morrow morning,' she went on, 'you can tell them that the new teacher, whom nobody likes, has left the school.'
For once, even quick-witted Emily was bewildered. 'Going away,' she said, 'when you have only been here since Easter!'
Miss Jethro advanced, not noticing Emily's expression of surprise. 'I am not very strong at the best of times,' she continued, 'may I sit down on your bed?' Remarkable on other occasions for her cold composure, her voice trembled as she made that request—a strange request surely, when there were chairs at her disposal.
Emily made room for her with the dazed look of a girl in a dream. 'I beg your pardon, Miss Jethro, one of the things I can't endure is being puzzled. If you don't mean to report us, why did you come in and catch me with the light?'
