Rosamond came down next day with her Italian book, and we had a lesson in that and in music from my mother. The next day she came again, this time with Meg, who in rather a shamefaced way asked me whether I was not coming to the school any more. "That depends," said I. "I thought you were not going to allow me." Then, as Meg colored, I felt sorry for her confusion, and said, "I suppose you want help about the knitting." "I can make nothing of it," answered Meg, "and I thought—I did not know—" then she stopped, still more confused at the smile I could by no means repress. Rosamond came to her aid. "Margaret, why not say at once that you are sorry for what you said about Vevette, and that you will be glad if she will overlook it and help you again. That is the easiest way out of the trouble." I expected to see Meg angry, but she was not. "Thank you, Rosamond, that is what I mean," said she. "I was too hasty in condemning Vevette, and I am sorry, and shall be very glad of her help. Will that be enough, cousin, or must I ask downright Dunstable here to make my peace for me?" "That is enough, and more than enough," said I. "I will help you, of course, though I have also a pupil down here." And I told her about Lois. She was greatly pleased, and we talked again over my plan of establishing a dame school for the little ones, under the care of the widow and her lame daughter. Margaret, with all her pride, had not an atom of venom or malice about her. Once she made up her mind to pass over a thing, that was the end of it. "And how is Betty?" I asked. "She is far from well, and keeps her chamber the last two days," said Margaret; "but my mother cannot tell what ails her, only she is giddy as soon as she sits up. She is very easily disturbed, and likes to stay alone best." "I hope it is not a fever," said I. "No, she hath no fever, and her appetite is good enough. It is only the pain and giddiness in her head. Then you will come to the school to-morrow?" "Yes, if you desire it," said I, and so the matter was settled. We had not seen Andrew since we parted from him at the door of the house on our first arrival. Now, however, he came down to walk home with his sisters. He saluted my mother and myself as usual, and to maman he was just the same; but there was a kind of sad constraint in his manner to me which I felt at once. In my maidenly pride, I was determined to show that I was not affected by it, and I chatted on with the girls, making a great deal of talk over the embroidery stitch Margaret was showing me, and laughing at my own stupidity, while my heart swelled with mingled grief and anger. I thought Andrew was hard and unjust toward me, and hardness and injustice from one we love and respect is very hard to bear. I was glad when they all went away, and I could run up to my own room and relieve myself by a few bitter tears.