I Say No | Page 7

appropriately)
Boiled Veal. No color in her hair, no color in her eyes, no color in her
complexion. In short, no flavor in Euphemia. You naturally object to
snoring. Pardon me if I turn my back on you--I am going to throw my
slipper at her."
The soft voice of Cecilia--suspiciously drowsy in tone--interposed in
the interests of mercy.
"She can't help it, poor thing; and she really isn't loud enough to disturb
us."
"She won't disturb you, at any rate! Rouse yourself, Cecilia. We are
wide awake on this side of the room--and Francine says it's our turn to
amuse her."
A low murmur, dying away gently in a sigh, was the only answer.
Sweet Cecilia had yielded to the somnolent influences of the supper
and the night. The soft infection of repose seemed to be in some danger
of communicating itself to Francine. Her large mouth opened
luxuriously in a long-continued yawn.
"Good-night!" said Emily.
Miss de Sor became wide awake in an instant.
"No," she said positively; "you are quite mistaken if you think I am
going to sleep. Please exert yourself, Miss Emily--I am waiting to be
interested."

Emily appeared to be unwilling to exert herself. She preferred talking
of the weather.
"Isn't the wind rising?" she said.
There could be no doubt of it. The leaves in the garden were beginning
to rustle, and the pattering of the rain sounded on the windows.
Francine (as her straight chin proclaimed to all students of
physiognomy) was an obstinate girl. Determined to carry her point she
tried Emily's own system on Emily herself--she put questions.
"Have you been long at this school?"
"More than three years."
"Have you got any brothers and sisters?"
"I am the only child."
"Are your father and mother alive?"
Emily suddenly raised herself in bed.
"Wait a minute," she said; "I think I hear it again."
"The creaking on the stairs?"
"Yes."
Either she was mistaken, or the change for the worse in the weather
made it not easy to hear slight noises in the house. The wind was still
rising. The passage of it through the great trees in the garden began to
sound like the fall of waves on a distant beach. It drove the rain--a
heavy downpour by this time--rattling against the windows.
"Almost a storm, isn't it?" Emily said
Francine's last question had not been answered yet. She took the

earliest opportunity of repeating it:
"Never mind the weather," she said. "Tell me about your father and
mother. Are they both alive?"
Emily's reply only related to one of her parents.
"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