“I only went with you for the walk,” I said. “I had then to come back to meet a friend.” She showed her surprise. “A friend--_you_?” “Oh, yes, I have a couple!” I laughed. “But did the children give you a reason?” “For not alluding to your leaving us? Yes; they said you would like it better. Do you like it better?” My face had made her rueful. “No, I like it worse!” But after an instant I added: “Did they say why I should like it better?” “No; Master Miles only said, ‘We must do nothing but what she likes!’” “I wish indeed he would! And what did Flora say?” “Miss Flora was too sweet. She said, ‘Oh, of course, of course!’--and I said the same.” I thought a moment. “You were too sweet too--I can hear you all. But none the less, between Miles and me, it’s now all out.” “All out?” My companion stared. “But what, Miss?” “Everything. It doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind. I came home, my dear,” I went on, “for a talk with Miss Jessel.” I had by this time formed the habit of having Mrs. Grose literally well in hand in advance of my sounding that note; so that even now, as she bravely blinked under the signal of my word, I could keep her comparatively firm. “A talk! Do you mean she spoke?” “It came to that. I found her, on my return, in the schoolroom.” “And what did she say?” I can hear the good woman still, and the candour of her stupefaction. “That she suffers the torments----!” It was this, of a truth, that made her, as she filled out my picture, gape. “Do you mean,” she faltered, “--of the lost?” “Of the lost. Of the damned. And that’s why, to share them----” I faltered myself with the horror of it. But my companion, with less imagination, kept me up. “To share them----?” “She wants Flora.” Mrs. Grose might, as I gave it to her, fairly have fallen away from me had I not been prepared. I still held her there, to show I was. “As I’ve told you, however, it doesn’t matter.” “Because you’ve made up your mind? But to what?” “To everything.” “And what do you call ‘everything’?” “Why, sending for their uncle.” “Oh, Miss, in pity do,” my friend broke out. “Ah, but I will, I _will_! I see it’s the only way. What’s ‘out,’ as I told you, with Miles is that if he thinks I’m afraid to--and has ideas of what he gains by that--he shall see he’s mistaken. Yes, yes; his uncle shall have it here from me on the spot (and before the boy himself if necessary) that if I’m to be reproached with having done nothing again about more school----” “Yes, Miss----” my companion pressed me. “Well, there’s that awful reason.” There were now clearly so many of these for my poor colleague that she was excusable for being vague. “But--a--which?” “Why, the letter from his old place.” “You’ll show it to the master?” “I ought to have done so on the instant.” “Oh, no!” said Mrs. Grose with decision. “I’ll put it before him,” I went on inexorably, “that I can’t undertake to work the question on behalf of a child who has been expelled----”