"Does that mean sent away in—disgrace?" stammered the child with characteristic directness. "Yes, but I see that you have made up your mind; and, instead of being a trial to myself and others, you can, and will be, a help. You have some one to please, some one to surprise, some one to whose coming you can look forward—have you not thought of that?" "Oh, I am always thinking of that," rejoined Angel, impetuously, and, to Miss Morton's amazement, she wept, as she faltered, "I have only Philip in all the world. I would rather die than that he should think—badly of me—I will try, yes, I will work. Oh, I never dreamt of Philip. Tell me what I am to do, and I will do everything to please him and surprise him when he comes home.—Yes, and I wish to please you too." Then Miss Morton took the little rebel in her arms and kissed her tenderly, and Angel quietly submitted to her caress; since her mother died few women had kissed her. From that hour, she won the child's heart. Tea was brought in, and the teacher and her pupil had a nice, long, comfortable talk about India. Angel gave her companion many fresh views of the natives of Hindustan, and the sun went down upon another of Miss Morton's conquests. In a short time, the weird-faced, wiry little Anglo-Indian had made extraordinary progress, she worked conscientiously and incessantly—to please Philip. Her letters were a source of surprise and embarrassment to her guardian, written in a clear, small hand, with unexceptional orthography; they breathed a spirit of passionate attachment, a selfless love, that was inexhaustible. And what had he to offer in exchange for this dear child's single-hearted devotion? Nothing but a trivial, and lukewarm, affection. CHAPTER XIV PHILIP'S LOVE AFFAIR