"Ah, you have not forgotten that stormy interview. But I was angry and passionate. I have regretted what I said then ever since. Even you must know I never carried out my threats." "I cannot tell," replied Amy. "I know I feared them, and the thought of what you had threatened--the shame--made me ill. No, Miss Strickland, we can never be friends." "And why not?" There was a slight touch of hauteur in her tone, do what she would to hide it. Amy saw it, and felt more than ever convinced Miss Strickland did not like her; never would like her. Why should she so persistently wish to be friendly now, after all her anger and rudeness Amy could not divine, but she suspected Frances, and thought some motive lay hidden deep in her heart. She answered coldly, "Our paths in life lie so very wide apart, that being friends is simply impossible." "Not so," replied Frances. "Our lives may be nearer knit together than you think; you will not be always teaching." "As yet I see no reason to think otherwise, and as I think I told you once before, I am reconciled to it, or I trust nearly so." And Amy felt she was growing more ungracious every moment. Perhaps Frances saw it too, for she held out her hand as she said, "Do we, or rather are we to part friends, Miss Neville?" "I do not wish we should part as enemies. Good-bye, Miss Strickland." She wished she could thank her for coming, but she could not. "Well, good-bye, I think you will be sorry some day for refusing my friendship. I suppose you will not come down this evening; so this is a final leave-taking." She turned as if to go, then stopped. Her anger at Amy's refusal got the mastery over her wise resolutions, and her eyes flashed fire as she said, "There can be no middle course, Miss Neville; if you will not have me as a friend, I can be a bitter enemy." "I know it," replied Amy, "and cannot help it." "Very well, then, I bid you beware! We shall see which is defeated. You or I. I will be relentless." And she passed out. "Why do you look so sad, Miss Neville?" said little Fanny, creeping up close to her, "I am glad you don't like her, because I know she can't bear you." "I don't know, Fanny. She says she does, or rather did." "But that's a story. Only see her eyes when she went away!" "Yes, Fanny; but that was my fault. I fear I was not wise to brave her; but then it could scarcely have been otherwise. I could not like her." "I know I don't!" replied the child, "and am glad no one does. She nearly pinched Edith's arm a minute ago like she did mine, because she told her Uncle Charles put up those book shelves for you; and oh! she looked so angry. She's just like the dog in the manger. Isn't she?"