"We have our heads and our hands," said Cicely; the emergency even gave her strength to smile. She faced the two prosperous men before her, neither of whom had ever known what it was to want anything or everything that money could buy, her small head erect, her eyes shining, a smile upon her lip--not for worlds would she have permitted them to see that her heart failed her at sight of the struggle upon which she was about to enter;--"and fortunately we have the use of them," she said, involuntarily raising the two small hands, looking all the smaller and whiter for the blackness that surrounded them, which lay on her lap. "Miss St. John," said Mildmay, starting up, "I dare not call myself an old friend. I have no right to be present when you have to answer such questions. If I may come another time----" To look at his sympathetic face took away Cicely's courage. "Don't make me cry, please; don't be sorry for me!" she cried, under her breath, holding out her hands to him in a kind of mute appeal. Then recovering herself, "I would rather you stayed, Mr. Mildmay. I am not ashamed of it, and I want to ask something from you, now that you are both here. I do not know who has the appointment; but you must be powerful. Mr. Ascott, I hear that Mrs. Jones, the schoolmistress, is dead--too." "Yes, poor thing! very suddenly--even more suddenly than your poor father. And so much younger, and an excellent creature. It has been a sad week for Brentburn. She was buried yesterday," said Mr. Ascott, shaking his head. "And there must be some one to replace her directly, for the holidays are over. I am not very accomplished," said Cicely, a flush coming over her face; "but for the rudiments and the solid part, which is all that is wanted in a parish school, I am good enough. It is difficult asking for one's self, or talking of one's self, but if I could get the place----" "Cicely St. John!" cried Mr. Ascott, almost roughly in his amazement; "you are going out of your senses--the appointment to the parish school?" "I know what you think," said Cicely, looking up with a smile; but she was nervous with anxiety, and clasped and unclasped her hands, feeling that her fate hung upon what they might decide. "You think, like Aunt Jane, that it is coming down in the world, that it is not a place for a lady. Very well, I don't mind; don't call me a lady, call me a young woman--a person even, if you like. What does it matter? and what difference does it make after all?" she cried. "No girl who works for her living is anything but looked down upon. I should be free of all that, for the poor people know me, and they would be kind to me, and the rich people would take no notice. And I should have a place of my own, a home to put the children in. The Miss Blandys, I am sure, would recommend me, Mr. Mildmay, and they know what I can do."