Miss Fenton boasted of her plentiful table. That there was a plentiful dinner always placed on the table was indisputable, _but we did not get enough of it_; we were starved in the sight of plenty. I have seen a leg of mutton leave the table (nay, the joints always so left the table), when two hearty eaters might well have eaten all there was cut of it, and upon that the whole thirteen had dined! I, a woman grown now, have seen much of this stingy, deceitful habit of carving, not only in schools, but in some private families. "We keep a plentiful table," many, who have to do with the young will say. "Yes," I think to myself, "but do those you profess to feed get helped to enough of it?" Sometimes often indeed, two dishes were on the table; we were asked which we would take, but never partook of both. The scanty breakfast, this dinner, and the tea I have described, were all the meals we had; and this was a "select," "first-class" establishment, where the terms charged were high. Miss Fenton took her supper at eight, alone, and the teachers supped at nine in the refectory; rumours were abroad in the school, that these suppers, or at least Miss Fenton's, were sumptuous meals. I know we often smelt savoury cooking at bedtime. Sometimes we had pudding before meat, often we had cold meat, sometimes hashed, often meat pies, with a very thick crust over and under. I do not fancy Miss Fenton's butcher's bill could have been a heavy one. Altogether, it recurs to me now like a fraud: a fraud upon the parents, a cruel wrong upon the children. A child who is not well nourished, will not possess too much of rude health and strength in after-life. That was an unhappy day to me! How I was despised, slighted, scorned, I cannot adequately describe. It became so palpable as to attract the attention of the teachers, and in the evening they inquired into the cause. Mademoiselle Leduc could not by any force of reasoning be brought to comprehend it; she was unable to understand why I was not as good as the rest, and why they should not deem me so; things are estimated so differently in France from what they are in England. "Bah!" said she, slightingly, giving up as useless the trying to comprehend, "elles sont folles, ces demoiselles." Miss Dale held a colloquy with one or two of the elder girls, and then called me up. She began asking me questions about my studies, what mamma had taught me, how far I was advanced, all in a kind, gentle way; and she parted my hair on my forehead, and looked into my eyes. "Your mamma was Mrs. Hemson's sister," she said, presently. "Not her sister, ma'am; her cousin." "Her cousin, was it?" she resumed after a pause. "What was your papa? I heard Miss Fenton say you were an orphan." "Papa?" "I mean, in what position?—was he in trade?" "He was an officer in Her Majesty's service. Colonel Hereford." "Colonel Hereford?" she returned, looking at me as though she wondered whether I was in error. "Are you sure?"