"Good bye!" said she, looking in. "And good bye to The Rim! I don't suppose his Arch-Imperial Highness, Mr. Earl St. George Erne, will want to see my face immediately. I've only taken my clothes, as they'd be of no use to him, and"-- "Where are you going?" inquired Mrs. Arles from among her pillows, as quietly as if such an exodus were an every-day affair. "To the Murrays',--till I can find something to do." "What can you find to do?" "I haven't the least idea," said Eloise, coming in and sitting down. "I've thought all night. I can't do anything. I can't teach; I can't sew; I can't play. I _can_ starve; can't I, Mrs. Arles?" "You don't know that!" "Well, I can be a nursery-governess, or I can sing in a chorus; I should make a very decent _figurante_, or I could go round with baskets. Perhaps I can get writing. There's one comfort: I sha'n't have anything more to do with Arabic numerals till the latest day I live, and needn't know whether two and two make four or five. I may remember, though, that two from two leave nothing!" "Yes,--we are all equal to subtraction." "So, good bye, Mrs. Arles," said Eloise, rising. "We've had pleasant times together, first and last. I dare say, I've tried you to death. You'll forgive me, and only remember the peaceful part. If I succeed, I'll write you. And if I don't, you needn't bother. I'm well and strong, and seventeen." Mrs. Arles elaborated a faint smile, kissed Eloise's cheek, told her she would help her look about for something, rang for Hazel to close the door the careless girl left ajar as she went springing down-stairs, and arranged herself anew in the laced pillows that singularly became with their setting the creamy hue of her tranquil face. But Eloise was keeping up her spirits by an artificial process that she meant should last at least as far as the Murrays'. Passing, on her way, the door of her father's cozy cabinet, the attraction overcame her, she turned the handle, only for a moment, and looked in. The place was too full of memories: yonder he had stood, and she remembered what he said; there he had sat and stroked her hair; here he had every night kissed her two eyes for pleasant dreams. The door banged behind her, and she was sitting on the floor sobbing with all her soul. When the tornado had passed, Eloise rose, smoothed her dress, opened the window that the morning air might cool her burning eyes, then at length went to find a servant who would take her trunk to the Murrays', and passed down the hall. As she reached the door of the long, antique room where last night's scene had passed, it opened, and Mr. St. George Erne came out. "Good morning, Miss Changarnier," said he. "May I speak with you a moment?" "Very briefly," said Eloise, loftily, for she was in an entirely different mood from that in which she had left him the night before.