There was something in the girl’s sudden change of manner that half frightened Mrs. Cossart. She did not particularly want Sheila and her uncle to meet just now. “Your uncle has gone downstairs,” she answered uneasily, “you can see him after dinner.” “I shall not go down to dinner,” said Sheila, putting up her hand to her head in a dazed way. “My head aches. I shall go to bed. If I am going away on Monday, I think I won’t come down to meals any more.” “Well, I think you had better go to bed,” said Mrs. Cossart. “You have had a tiring day, and you don’t look yourself. I don’t mean to be unkind, Sheila, but you have no mother, and it is my duty to speak plainly sometimes.” “Then I am sure you have done your duty, Aunt Cossart,” said Sheila, giving one direct look at her aunt, and then the wave of bitterness surged over her once more. The tears rushed to her eyes; she felt as though she were choking, and in a blind sort of way she darted from the room, dashed into the one she shared with Effie, and flinging herself upon her bed broke into wild weeping. Effie had just finished her toilet, her face was rather flushed, and she looked uncomfortable and displeased. The maid was putting the room to rights, and cast a compassionate glance at the prone figure on the bed. She had received orders to pack up Sheila’s things in readiness for the mail on Monday, and as this was Saturday evening and no word had been spoken previously of such a thing, she divined that there had been a “row.” Probably she had a shrewd guess as to the cause, but of course she made no remark, finished her task and went away. Effie came and stood by Sheila. “Don’t cry so,” she said. “It’s a pity it has happened, but nobody will remember anything about it when you are gone. The Barretts are going in the mail on Monday. They will take care of you, and be pleased to have you. You always get on with people. And it’s better to go than to have bothers all the time.”