Mingling with the quick movement of surprise at first, there had been a deep blush and a temporary shrinking from William Oswald’s sister; but another moment restored Hope to her old privileged place of favourite, and Helen rose, her young companion’s eager arms clinging about her waist, to light the one candle on the little table. The room was small and plainly furnished, though its substantial mahogany chairs and sofa looked respectable in their declining years. On the carpet here and there were various spots of darning artistically done, which rather improved its appearance than otherwise. A large work-basket stood upon the table containing many miscellaneous pieces of sewing; shirts in every stage of progress, narrow strips of muslin, bearing marks of the painful initiation of very little pupils into the mysteries of the thoughtful craft, mingled here and there with scraps of humble “fancy” work, samplers, and the like--all of which the young school-mistress had to arrange and set to rights before the work of to-morrow commenced. A book lay beside the basket--a well-thumbed book from the library. Helen had been idling; for she sometimes did snatch the brief relaxation of a novel, though Maxwell Dickson, the librarian, had no great choice of literature. “Oh, Helen,” exclaimed Hope again, when the feeble light of the candle revealed to her the pale face of her friend, “I am so very glad to see you again!” “Thank you, Hope,” repeated Helen; “how you are growing--you will be above us all by and by. When did you come home?” “Only yesterday,” said Hope; “but are you sure you are quite well, Helen?” “Quite sure--why?” “Only because you look pale--paler than you used to do; and, Helen, what makes you sigh?” “Did I sigh?” said Helen, her delicate wavering colour gradually heightening beneath the girl’s steady affectionate look. “I did not know of it, Hope--it must have been for nothing, you know, when I was not aware of it.” “Ah, but it was when you were sitting in the dark before you saw me,” said Hope gravely, “and you must have been thinking of something.” Helen’s colour heightened more and more, yet she smiled. “Are you going to be an inquisitor, Hope? Do you know people sometimes think very deeply, as you saw me to-night, about nothing? Ah, you shake your head and are very grave and wise, and experienced, I see. Come, I will show you what Cowper says about it.” “Oh, I know,” said Hope. “I learned all that for Miss Swinton because she likes Cowper; but, Helen, you are not so clever as one of our young ladies; it’s Miss Mansfield, you know, that’s going to Calcutta, and she’s old--she is near eighteen, I am sure--and she sighs; but when Miss Swinton spoke to her about it, she said she was only drawing a long breath. I think,” said Hope disconsolately, “that the people in Fendie are very dull and sad now; for everybody draws long breaths.”