“Sophie, your cheeks are pale, and a livid blue circle surrounds your eyes; you do not look like yourself—you are ill; do not keep school to-day—give a holiday and rest.” These were the words addressed by Mrs. May to her friend on the day succeeding the events related in the last chapter. She had ridden over, attended by Augustus Wilde, to spend the day with Sophie and help her to teach. They were standing in the school-room just before calling the pupils. “Yes, Miss Churchill, _do_ give a holiday to-day for my sake, as well as for your own,” said Lieutenant Augustus, setting his cap and riding-whip down upon the desk. “On Thursday my week’s leave of absence expires. This is the last day I shall have an opportunity of spending with you, and you look weary from confinement and work; everything points to a holiday—come!” Sophie smiled a sickly smile, and said she was very well. “But I do not think so, and I never believe a _smile_ unless the _eyes_ smile, too,” said Emily; “now _I_ am going to give a holiday;” and so saying, she went into the yard, called the children together by a bell, and told them to go home, for there was to be no school that day. Sophie Churchill was ever too yielding, and now, in the languor of dejection, she made no opposition. “Now, Sophie, we will go a fishing,” said Mrs. May, as she returned after dismissing the children, “the fresh air off the bay will revive you.” “And I, Miss Churchill, feel very anxious for a forenoon’s frolic on the waters, if that is any argument,” said Lieutenant Gusty, and he sought Sophie’s eyes; but _they_ were bent upon the ground, or, when raised, their intelligence, their light, their sympathy for _him_ was gone. He _felt_ this, and his heart sank. Had he offended her? and how? He wished to speak to her, or to his sister apart, and ask the reason, but he could not speak to either upon the subject, in the presence of the other. It is a feature in human sympathy, that one may be in company with two equally loved and trusted friends, to _either_ of whom _apart_, one would confide the secret that oppresses—for there is a feeling of security, exclusiveness, sacredness, between _two_ friends conversing, that is lost when a _third_, however equally dear to both, enters in—the electric cord of full sympathy and confidence has but _two_ ends. The Jesuits understand this, for by a statute of their order it is forbidden that less than _three_ members go apart, or converse together. Now, Augustus Wilde felt this without reasoning upon it.