“She never said that,” said Hope, honestly, “because Helen is always alone herself--only she is with her mother.” Lilias walked on silently and put her hand over her eyes: how great a difference did that brief sentence make! Helen Buchanan’s scholars were flocking out when Hope and Lilias reached the house. There was a considerable number of them, from awkward hoydens of Hope’s own years, whose shyness their graceful teacher had mellowed into something not unhandsome, down to little sunburnt fairies of four or five, who, spite of clogs and coarse dresses, had still the unconscious charm of childhood upon them, and needed no mellowing. They all knew Hope, and with her were much more friendly than deferential, for Hope with her buoyant spirits and frank young life could not always be kept within the bounds of the circle of Misses who were proper acquaintances for the Banker’s daughter; and most of them had heard of the young lady of Mossgray. Some, touched with reverence for the paleness of Lilias’ face, saluted her with a shame-faced curtsey; the rest hung back, crowding upon each other in little groups, and looked at her with curiosity only softened by their shyness--for all were shy. The young teacher, like the poet, had a sympathy for “sweet shame-facednesse,” and thought it sat well upon children; so that she rather cherished than found fault with the native bashfulness of her pupils. People think otherwise in these precocious days; but the little ones in Fendie are happily still shy. Helen sat in her presiding chair in the school-room with thumbed books and copies, and slates covered with armies of sprawling figures heaped upon the table before her. She was leaning her head upon her hand and looking somewhat wearied; the lessons were over for the day, for the placid work of sewing--a most weary one to the young practitioners--occupied the afternoon. There was a certain mist upon her face, and she sighed. Her sky was rather wayward at this present time, and had various passing shadows; and though her mother had already two or three times called her to the parlour, Helen still lingered alone--not that she was thinking deeply or painfully; her changeful nature had times which did not think at all, and in the mist of an unconscious reverie, slightly sad, but which a single touch could raise into buoyant exhilaration or depress into melancholy, she sat by the large work-table in the empty school-room leaning her head upon her hand. “Helen,” said Hope Oswald, “this is Miss Maxwell.” Hope intended to add something pretty--to say that they were like each other, and should be friends; but it would not do, for Hope too, after her own peculiar fashion, was shy; so she withdrew abruptly and left her friends to improve their acquaintance by themselves.