“No. I had some once, before papa died. But one falls out of the way of one’s friends somehow when one gets very poor. It isn’t their fault, and it doesn’t seem to be one’s own; but it always happens.” “I want you to promise me something,” said George, in a low voice. She looked up inquiringly. “I want you to promise to give me your address in London if you settle there by yourself.” Miss Lane hesitated. She was very much touched by his sympathy, very anxious not to lose it by offending him; but she did not think his request was one which she could or ought to grant. Independence had made her careful. “I have not the least idea where I shall be, or if I shall be able to carry out my plan at all,” said she, evasively. “Where there is a will there is a way, you know; and I should think that is more the case with you than with most people.” “You are laughing at me. You think me too strong-minded.” “I will tell you what I think of you when you have answered me. Now will you promise?” “I don’t see of what use knowing my address would be to you, because as I shall be living quite alone, I can’t ever see any one.” “That doesn’t follow. Do you mean that you would live the life of a hermit, and condemn yourself to solitary confinement of your own free will?” “For a time. There is no help for it.” “Yes, there is. We are going up to town, some of us, before long. I will ask my mother and Lilian to call on you. But I must know your address. And I could send you tickets for concerts and things, where you could go with your pupils, if you wouldn’t let any one accompany you who would enjoy it more. Would you let me take you to a concert?” he said, bending lower. Miss Lane looked nervously down, then entreatingly up. “I couldn’t,” she said, in a low voice. He saw the pleading reluctance in her eyes, and pressed his advantage. “You do not know how unhappy it makes me to think of your sacrificing your bright life alone in a dingy London lodging. However nice your pupils and their friends may be to you, their affection or--or esteem--can never be so strong as that of your own disinterested friends.” He knew how to throw into these words a feeling and warmth which made the girl’s cheeks flush. There was a pause. “You do believe in my friendship, do you not?” he asked, more softly still. “Of course I do,” answered the girl, looking up with an effort. “I--I--am sure you mean to be very kind, Mr. Braithwaite.” “Then don’t be too unkind to me. Promise me that you will send me your address in town.” “I cannot,” said the girl; then, glancing round, she saw fixed upon her glassily the light, colorless eyes of her eldest pupil Joan. Defiant bitterness and a dozen kindred feelings woke up within the little governess. “I promise,” said she; and she let him take her hand and press it gently in his. He turned and saw Joan--saw the malignant look in her eyes, and knew that she had been watching them. Nothing could have pleased him better.