Now, also, I never walked home with my pupils: they said their mamma thought it did not look well to see three people out of the family walking, and only two going in the carriage; and, as they greatly preferred walking in fine weather, I should be honoured by going with the seniors. “And besides,” said they, “you can’t walk as fast as we do; you know you’re always lagging behind.” I knew these were false excuses, but I made no objections, and never contradicted such assertions, well knowing the motives which dictated them. And in the afternoons, during those six memorable weeks, I never went to church at all. If I had a cold, or any slight indisposition, they took advantage of that to make me stay at home; and often they would tell me they were not going again that day, themselves, and then pretend to change their minds, and set off without telling me: so managing their departure that I never discovered the change of purpose till too late. Upon their return home, on one of these occasions, they entertained me with an animated account of a conversation they had had with Mr. Weston as they came along. “And he asked if you were ill, Miss Grey,” said Matilda; “but we told him you were quite well, only you didn’t want to come to church—so he’ll think you’re turned wicked.” All chance meetings on week-days were likewise carefully prevented; for, lest I should go to see poor Nancy Brown or any other person, Miss Murray took good care to provide sufficient employment for all my leisure hours. There was always some drawing to finish, some music to copy, or some work to do, sufficient to incapacitate me from indulging in anything beyond a short walk about the grounds, however she or her sister might be occupied. One morning, having sought and waylaid Mr. Weston, they returned in high glee to give me an account of their interview. “And he asked after you again,” said Matilda, in spite of her sister’s silent but imperative intimation that she should hold her tongue. “He wondered why you were never with us, and thought you must have delicate health, as you came out so seldom.” “He didn’t Matilda—what nonsense you’re talking!” “Oh, Rosalie, what a lie! He did, you know; and you said—Don’t, Rosalie—hang it!—I won’t be pinched so! And, Miss Grey, Rosalie told him you were quite well, but you were always so buried in your books that you had no pleasure in anything else.” “What an idea he must have of me!” I thought. “And,” I asked, “does old Nancy ever inquire about me?” “Yes; and we tell her you are so fond of reading and drawing that you can do nothing else.” “That is not the case though; if you had told her I was so busy I could not come to see her, it would have been nearer the truth.” “I don’t think it would,” replied Miss Murray, suddenly kindling up; “I’m sure you have plenty of time to yourself now, when you have so little teaching to do.”