She went stalking downstairs, and Lilias turned into the porch-room and sat herself down in despair. Elsie was seated at the table engaged in informing the diary of the latest family event, and she turned a look of such sympathetic sorrow upon the new-comer, that Lilias felt that here, at last, she had found a friend in need. "My heart is broken, Elsie!" she sobbed tragically. "Every one has turned against me. Father--mother--Nan--they are all cruel to me. Their words cut into my heart! I can never forget them--never feel the same again." Elsie drew a sigh so long and fluttering that it was almost worthy to be ranked as a groan. "No--never, never! A blow like this, coming in early youth, will cloud and darken all your life. You can never be a girl again. The remembrance of all you have suffered, and of the life you have wrecked, will haunt your dreams, and make you old before your time. You feel it now, but you'll feel it more and more, like a leaden weight pressing upon you, crushing out all your joy..." "Dear me, Elsie, how you talk! You might be a penny novel, to prose away like that. You are a fine Job's comforter for a poor girl to come to in her trouble! It's hard enough for me as it is, without trying to make it worse. I shall drown myself, if this sort of thing goes on. Maud sulking, Nan raving, you croaking! What a prospect! And I shall have to endure it all my life too, for I shall never marry--now." "No," said Elsie judiciously, "I suppose not. Not for love, at least. Perhaps, by and by, after years and years, when you are middle-aged, you may make a marriage _de convenance_, to some old man who could give you a comfortable home. People often do that in books, I notice, when they have had an unfortunate affair in youth. And look at Mrs Bailey! Her lover was killed in the Crimea, and when she was fifty-two she married that nasty old man with the snuff on his beard, and--" But the rest of the sentence was spoken to the air, for Lilias had fled. The prospect of the old man with snuff on his beard was too much for her composure, and she rushed into the garden, to see if there, at least, she might find the much-desired solitude. No, not yet! for the summer-house towards which she sped had already been occupied by the three schoolgirls, and there they sat staring at her with big solemn eyes, as if, forsooth, a girl who had broken off her engagement was a new and extraordinary freak of humanity. Good-natured Agatha made room for the new-comer by her side, and glanced sympathetically at the tear-stained face, but, as usual, her remarks were not the most tactful in the world. "Was it really your doing, Lilias?" she inquired, "or was Ned tired of you too? Kitty says he was, and feels sure he will not mind much." That opened Lilias's eyes with a flash of anger, but Kitty had the courage of her opinions, and said stolidly--