I had bowed my head on my knees, and I wept and sobbed passionately. Miss Murray, after vainly asking for the means "of stopping that," declared I should go to bed. I made no resistance; Abby took my hand to lead me away; when William, exclaiming, "It's a burning shame, that's what it is," flew at her and attempted a rescue. A scuffle followed, short but decisive. William was ignominiously conquered; he retreated behind the table, his hair in great disorder, his face crimson with shame. "Oh! the young tiger!" cried Abby, still out of breath with her victory; "that boy will end badly, Ma'am!" William gave her a look of scorn. Miss Murray, who had wheeled back her chair, from the commencement of the conflict, observed, with feeling reproach, "William, you shall go back to school to-morrow. Abby, put that child to bed; allow me to suggest the passage for your next battle." Abby slammed the door indignantly, and muttering she would not fight in a passage for any one, she took me to her room, undressed me, and put me to bed. My weeping had not ceased. "Come, Miss," she said, a little roughly, "crying is no use, you know." She stooped to give me a kiss; I turned away with passionate sorrow. What was to me the caress of a stranger on the night that had deprived me for ever of my father's embrace? "Proud little hussy!" she exclaimed, half angrily. With this she left me. Ere long she returned, and lay down by my side; she was soon breathing hard and loud. I silently cried myself to sleep. I awoke the next morning, subdued by grief into a mute apathy that delighted Miss Murray when I went down to breakfast, and made her hold me up as a model to her nephew. He replied with great disgust, "He was not going to make a girl of himself, to please her and Abby." "But you could respect the child's feelings by remaining silent," remonstrated his aunt, gently sipping her tea. "Why don't you eat?" asked William, addressing me. "I am not hungry." "All children are not voracious, like you, William," said Miss Murray. "Have you got an aunt?" he inquired, ignoring her remark. "No!" I answered laconically, for his questions wearied me. "Lucky!" he replied, with a look and sigh of envy. "Dreadful!" murmured Miss Murray, putting down her cup,--"not twelve yet; dreadful!" "Who is to take care of you?" continued William. Miss Murray was one of the many good-natured persons who dislike uncomfortable facts and questions. She nervously exclaimed, "Do not mind him, my dear!" "Don't you like them?" pursued William. I gave him no reply. "Quite right," approvingly observed Miss Murray; "take example of that child, William." "She is a sulky little monkey!" he indignantly exclaimed, and, until his departure, which took place in the course of the day, he spoke no more to me.