In the morning, the self-willed Miss Chutney woke as determined as ever, and though the first thing that met her sight was the piece of dry bread on the chair at her bedside, she chuckled triumphantly, as she said, “I wonder which of us will be tired out first?” Then, as she once more turned over in her mind all the occurrences of the previous evening, and remembered Miss Wewitz’s threat of sending for her guardian, she grew red in the face, and bit her lips with vexation, for he’d be sure to read her one of his long prosy lectures, and write a solemn account of the whole affair to her papa, by the very next mail to India. The moment after this, however, she was laughing the threat to scorn, and saying to herself, that old Wewitz was too fond of parlour-boarders to think of expelling one—and especially one who remained at the school all the holidays, as she did. All of a sudden it struck her that, just to let Wewitz see she didn’t mind about being locked up, she’d dress herself that minute, and be off up into the linen-room, so that when the old thing got up, she would find that she had gone up there of her own accord, and then she’d be ready to bite her fingers off with vexation—which would be such fun. Accordingly, the young lady “slipped on her things” as rapidly as she could, and, having done so, crept stealthily up to her place of confinement. Then it struck her that she would open the window, and just let Wewitz know that she was already in the linen-room, and, what was more, that she wasn’t breaking her heart about it either, by singing over that lovely— _“Tyrant! soon I’ll burst thy chains.”_ To tell the truth, too, though Miss Chutney did not dare confess as much to herself, and would doubtlessly have shrieked had any one ventured to hint as much to her—the young lady had a secret wish to let the kind French gentleman know that she was still incarcerated at the top of the house. Miss Chutney had just got to “chains,” and was inwardly congratulating herself on the excellent quality of her lower notes that morning, when the head of M. le Comte de Sanschemise, done up in a Bandana silk neckerchief, bobbed suddenly out of the best bed-room window. The head of Miss Chutney bobbed as suddenly in; and then she went through the same course of timid doubts and fears as she had indulged in on the preceding day. Again she felt satisfied that the Count would fancy she had commenced singing only to attract his attention; again she asked herself, for about the hundredth time, “What ever would he think of her?” and again her girlish reveries were put to flight by the appearance of the fishing-rod, which the Count used as the postal arrangement for “dropping her a line.”