“What am I to think of you?” she exclaimed, in the depth of her indignation. “Are you aware what will become of you, if you persist in your present line of conduct?” (Here she stopped once more.) “Are you aware, Miss,” she cried, in a loud voice, as she grew angry at the continued inattention to all she said—“that your behaviour is most insulting to those whom it is your duty to respect? In all my long experience, I never knew such wicked, wicked sulkiness on the part of any of my pupils before. Well, Miss,” she added, as she bowed sarcastically to the lay figure, “all I have to say is, that as it is not my place to play the suppliant to you, I must leave you until such time as your guardian arrives, and then we shall see, perhaps, whether _his_ authority can make any impression on your stubborn nature.” With this dignified remonstrance, Miss Wewitz turned round to leave the room; and as she grasped the handle of the door, she thought she would try one more appeal. “Now, come, there’s a good thing,” she said, appealing tenderly to the figure, “do give over your sulks, and come down stairs with me, like a dear.” But finding that neither remonstrances, upbraidings, nor entreaties produced the least effect upon the object of her discourse, she turned haughtily upon her heel and slammed the door after her, mentally observing, as she descended the stairs, that she wouldn’t take it upon herself to say what would be the end of that wicked, obstinate thing. It was not long after Miss Wewitz’s visit to the linen-room that a loud ring at the gate-bell, making it sound half across the Common, announced the arrival of Miss Chutney’s guardian. Miss Wewitz received the gentleman with great joy, for she was growing quite alarmed at the peculiar and unaccountable conduct of the young lady, and wished to consult her “friend” as to the best means of dealing with her. The schoolmistress was not long in detailing to her visitor all the occurrences of the last two days, and concluded by informing him that the young lady had partaken of no nourishment but a small piece of dry bread during the entire forty-eight hours; and that she would really take it as a personal obligation if he would exert his influence in bringing her to a right sense of her conduct. The guardian, who was a shipping agent in a “large way,” and had a habit of talking of his ships on every possible opportunity, in such a manner, that, christened as they mostly were after private and public individuals, it was often difficult to understand whether he was alluding to a thing of flesh and blood, or merely wood and iron. “You astonish me, my dear madam,” he said, in as pompous a tone as possible—for the gentleman was particularly anxious at all times to produce an impression upon strangers—“Miss Chutney’s conduct reminds me forcibly of our ‘Maria of North Shields.’”