“You and Cecilia are going to write to each other,” she said. “I suppose there is some comfort in that. When I left the island they were glad to get rid of me. They said, ‘Telegraph when you are safe at Miss Ladd’s school.’ You see, we are so rich, the expense of telegraphing to the West Indies is nothing to us. Besides, a telegram has an advantage over a letter--it doesn’t take long to read. I daresay I shall write home. But they are in no hurry; and I am in no hurry. The school’s breaking up; you are going your way, and I am going mine--and who cares what becomes of me? Only an ugly old schoolmistress, who is paid for caring. I wonder why I am saying all this? Because I like you? I don’t know that I like you any better than you like me. When I wanted to be friends with you, you treated me coolly; I don’t want to force myself on you. I don’t particularly care about you. May I write to you from Brighton?” Under all this bitterness--the first exhibition of Francine’s temper, at its worst, which had taken place since she joined the school--Emily saw, or thought she saw, distress that was too proud, or too shy, to show itself. “How can you ask the question?” she answered cordially. Francine was incapable of meeting the sympathy offered to her, even half way. “Never mind how,” she said. “Yes or no is all I want from you.” “Oh, Francine! Francine! what are you made of! Flesh and blood? or stone and iron? Write to me of course--and I will write back again.” “Thank you. Are you going to stay here under the trees?” “Yes.” “All by yourself?” “All by myself.” “With nothing to do?” “I can think of Cecilia.” Francine eyed her with steady attention for a moment. “Didn’t you tell me last night that you were very poor?” she asked. “I did.” “So poor that you are obliged to earn your own living?” “Yes.” Francine looked at her again. “I daresay you won’t believe me,” she said. “I wish I was you.” She turned away irritably, and walked back to the house. Were there really longings for kindness and love under the surface of this girl’s perverse nature? Or was there nothing to be hoped from a better knowledge of her?--In place of tender remembrances of Cecilia, these were the perplexing and unwelcome thoughts which the more potent personality of Francine forced upon Emily’s mind. She rose impatiently, and looked at her watch. When would it be her turn to leave the school, and begin the new life? Still undecided what to do next, her interest was excited by the appearance of one of the servants on the lawn. The woman approached her, and presented a visiting-card; bearing on it the name of _Sir Jervis Redwood_. Beneath the name, there was a line written in pencil: “Mrs. Rook, to wait on Miss Emily Brown.” The way to the new life was open before her at last!