Miss Starbrow suddenly ceased her crying. “I thought that you, at any rate, had a little gratitude and affection for me,” she said. “But of course I was mistaken about that as I have been about everything else. If you had the faintest spark of sympathy in you, you would show a little feeling, and--and ask me why I cry, or say something.” For some moments Fan continued silent, then she moved and touched the other's hand, and said very softly, for now all her anger was melting away, “Why do you cry, Mary?” “You know, Fan, because I love you, and am so sorry I struck you. What a brute I was to hurt you--a poor outcast and orphan, with no friend but me in the world. Forgive me, dear Fan, for treating you so cruelly!” Then she put her arms about the girl and kissed her, holding her close to her breast. “Oh, Mary, dear,” said Fan, now also crying; “you didn't hurt me very much. I only felt it because--because it was you.” “I know, Fan, and that's why I can't forgive myself. But I shall never, never hurt you again, for I know that you are truth itself, and that I can trust you. And now let us go down and have some supper together before going to bed. I know you've had nothing since lunch, and I couldn't touch a morsel, I was so troubled about that wretch of a man. I think I have been sitting here quite two hours waiting for you to wake.” Together they went down to the dining-room, where a delicate little supper, such as Miss Starbrow loved to find on coming home from the play, was laid out for them. For the first time Fan sat at table with her mistress; another new experience was the taste of wine. She had a glass of Sauterne, and thought it very nice. CHAPTER IX On the next morning, after a sharp frost, the sun shone brightly as in spring. Fan was up early and enjoyed her breakfast, notwithstanding the late supper, and not in the least disturbed by the scornful words flung at her by the housemaid when she brought up the tray. After breakfasting she went to Miss Starbrow's room, to find her still in bed and not inclined to get up. “Put on your dress and go for a walk in Kensington Gardens,” she said. “I think it is a fine day, for a wonder. You may stop out until one o'clock, if you like, and take my watch, so as to know the time. And if you wish to rest while out don't sit down on a bench, or you will be sure to have someone speak to you. According to the last census, or Registrar-General's report, or whatever it is, there are twenty thousand young gentlemen loafers in London, who spend their whole time hanging about the parks and public places trying to make the acquaintance of young girls. Sit on a chair by yourself when you are tired--you can always find a chair even in winter--and give the chairman a penny when he comes to you.” “I haven't got a penny, Mary. But it doesn't matter; I'll not get tired.”