After all, it was not so much her head as her heart that ached. She went back to her old corner in the class-room, and worked away at the girls' blotted themes, while they sat round her whispering and laughing over their preparation. It was not a cheerful scene. The two long deal tables were somewhat dimly lighted by oil-lamps, which at times burnt low and emitted unpleasing odours. A governess sat at the head of each table, busied over writing or fancy-work. An occasional "Silence, young ladies," in Miss Tozer's grating voice, alternated with Mademoiselle's chirping "Taisez vous, mes chères demoiselles," followed by momentary silence, soon broken by a titter. One of the girls, indeed, did not join in either the whispers or the titters, but worked on steadily, and to some purpose, for, to the surprise of her companions, she closed her books long before the allotted hour, and, with an explanatory mention to Miss Tozer about tidying her drawers, left the room unseen by Queenie. She was a tall girl, with an odd, characteristic face, colorless complexion, and bright dark eyes. She wore her hair in singular fashion, parted on one side, and brushed even over her forehead in a long wave, and simply knotted behind. Most people called Catherine Clayton plain, but to those who loved her this want of beauty was redeemed by an excessive animation, and by an expression of amiability and _bon-hommie_ that irresistibly attracted. Her figure was erect and striking. She walked, ran, and danced equally well. Movement was a necessity to her; in some moods repose was impossible. In her gestures she had the freedom and unconscious dignity of a young Indian squaw. Catherine, or Cathy, as she was generally called by her intimate friends, had struck up a warm friendship with Queenie on the first day they met. Queenie's strange eyes drew her like magnets; their troubled pathos stimulated curiosity and invited pity. Queenie's pride and independence, her quiet reserve, only charmed the younger girl. Cathy made swift advances, but they were only repelled by the sad-looking young governess. Cathy, nothing daunted, turned her attention to Emmie, and won her heart in a trice, and from that moment Queenie succumbed. When Queenie loved, she loved with her whole heart; half measures were impossible; she must give entire confidence, or none at all. Her reserve, once broken through, was broken for ever. She soon made her friends acquainted with the chequered story of her past life. She told Cathy the absolute blank of the future was perfectly appalling to her. Cathy listened and pitied, and started all sorts of vague Utopian schemes that should ameliorate the condition of her favorites. Her own life had no bitter background. She was indeed a motherless orphan, but she was so very young when her parents died that the cloud had hardly shadowed her. She spoke of them affectionately, as of some dear unknown friends.