"No, do stay, Dolly," cried Florence Aylmer; "stay and sit on my lap and I'll tell you a story." Dolly looked undecided for a moment, but presently she elected to go with Kitty. "There is something bothering her," she said; "I wonder what it can be. I'll run and see; I'll bring word afterwards." She disappeared with little shouts under the trees. Nothing could ever make Dolly sad long. The other girls turned and looked at one another. "What in the world can it be?" said Florence. "Poor Kitty! how very white she turned as she read it." Meanwhile Kitty had reached the house; the messenger was waiting in the hall. Mrs. Clavering came out just as the girl appeared. "Well, my dear Kitty," she said, "I hope it is not very bad news?" "I will tell you presently; I must answer it now," said Kitty. "You can go into the study, dear, and write your telegram there." Kitty went in; she spent a little time, about ten minutes or so, filling in the form; then she folded it up, gave it to the boy with a shilling, and went and stood in the hall. "What is the matter, Kitty?" said her governess, coming out and looking her in the face. "My telegram was from father. He--he is going to India," said Kitty, "that is all. I won't be with him in the holidays--that's all." She tried to keep the tremble out of her voice; her eyes, brave, bright, and fearless, were fixed on Mrs. Clavering's face. "Come in here and let us talk, dear," said Mrs. Clavering. "I can't," said Kitty; "it is too bad." "What is too bad, dear?" "The pain here." She pressed her hand against her heart. "Poor child! you love him very much." "Very much," answered Kitty, "and the pain is too bad, and--and I can't talk now. I'll just go back to the other girls in the cherry orchard." "But, Kitty, can you bear to be with them just now?" "I can't be alone," said Kitty, with a little piteous smile. She ran out again into the summer sunshine. Mrs. Clavering stood and watched her. "Poor little girl," she said to herself, "and she does not know the worst, nor half the worst, for I had a long letter from Major Sharston this morning, and he told me that not only was he obliged to go to India, but that he had lost so large a sum of money that he could not afford to keep Kitty here after this term. She is to go to Scotland to live with an old cousin; she must give up all chance of being properly educated. Poor little Kitty! I wonder if he mentioned that in the telegram, and she is so proud, too, and has so much character; it is a sad, sad pity." Meanwhile Kitty once more returned through the orchard. She began to sing a gay song to herself. She had a very sweet voice, and was carolling wild notes now high up in the air--"Begone, dull care; you and I shall never agree." The girls sitting under the finest of the cherry trees heard her as she sang. "There can't be much wrong with her," said Mary Bateman, with a sigh of relief. "Hullo, Kitty, no bad news, I hope?"