I Say No | Page 8

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?"
Miss Jethro's explanation was far from relieving the perplexity which
her conduct had caused.
"I have been mean enough," she answered, "to listen at the door, and I
heard you talking of your father. I want to hear more about him. That is
why I came in."
"You knew my father!" Emily exclaimed.
"I believe I knew him. But his name is so common--there are so many
thousands of 'James Browns' in England--that I am in fear of making a
mistake. I heard you say that he died nearly four years since. Can you
mention any particulars which might help to enlighten me? If you think
I am taking a liberty--"
Emily stopped her. "I would help you if I could," she said. "But I was
in poor health at the time; and I was staying with friends far away in
Scotland, to try change of air. The news of my father's death brought on
a relapse. Weeks passed before I was strong enough to travel--weeks
and weeks before I saw his grave! I can