"I should like to see you both again, and to hear you. You, Miss Benette, I am sure of; but I also expect to discover something very wonderful about Master Charles Auchester. You are to be a singer, of course?" she quickly said to me. "I hope I shall be a player, if I am to be anything." "What, another Santonio, or another Milans-André?" "Oh! neither; but I must learn the violin." "Oh! is that it? Have you begun, and how long?" "Not yet,--I have no violin; but I mean to begin very soon." "Only determine, and you will. Farewell!" She had passed out, leaving a purse upon the table, containing fifty guineas. Miss Benette opened it, turned out the coins one by one, and, full of trouble, said, "Oh! whatever shall I do? I shall be so unhappy to keep it." "But that is wrong, Miss Benette, because you deserve it. She is quite right." "No, but I will keep it, because she is generous, and I can see how she loves to give." CHAPTER XXIII. Laura was at the next class. I had almost forgotten her until I saw her eyes. I felt quite wicked when I perceived how thin and transparent the child had grown,--wicked to have thought so little of her in suffering, while I had been enjoying myself. I cannot give the least idea how large her eyes looked,--they quite frightened me. I was not used to see persons just out of illness. Her hair, too, was cut much shorter, and, altogether, I did not admire her so much. I felt myself again wicked for this very reason, and was quite unhappy about it. She gave me a nod. Her cheeks were quite pale, and usually they were very pink: this also affected me deeply. Clara appeared to counter-charm me, and I saw no other immediately. "Ah, Laura, dear! you are looking quite nice again, so pretty," said this sweet girl as she took her seat; and then she stooped down and kissed the little dancer. I found myself rather in the way; for to Clara it seemed quite natural to scatter happiness with her very looks. She turned to me, after whispering with Laura: "She wants to thank you for the flowers, but she does not like to speak to you." I was positively ashamed, and, to hide my confusion, said to Laura, "Do you like violets?" "Yes, but I like large flowers better. I like red roses and blue cornflowers." I did not care for cornflowers myself, except among the corn; and I thought it very likely Laura took the poppies for roses; still, I did not set her right,--it was too much trouble. But if I had known I should never see her again,--I mean, see her as she then was,--I should have taken more care to do her kindness. Is it not ever so? Clara entirely engaged me; in fact, I was getting quite used _not_ to do without her. How well I remember that evening! We sang a service. Davy had written several very simple ones, and I longed to perform them in public,--that is to say, in the singing gallery of our church. But I might as well have aspired to sing them up in heaven, so utterly would they have been spurned as innovatory.