Miss Strickland was shocked. She disliked over-confidence (over-confident people always do) but this child’s formidable hopelessness was worse than any over-confidence. She was behaving as if there were a flaw in the Universe; and in Miss Strickland’s Universe there had never been a flaw. She had disliked many occurrences but she had felt equal to them, whether she disliked them or not. She did not feel equal to what was happening now. She said, “My dear, you mustn’t be silly. If you weren’t some good you wouldn’t be here!” Elsie replied, “But I know I’m not, and I don’t want to be here, I’d rather be dead.” “That’s sillier still,” Miss Strickland answered doubtfully, “and it’s also very wrong.” “What does it matter if it’s wrong or not—if you hate me—” sobbed Elsie. “Nothing matters to me except that!” Miss Strickland stared at her uncomfortably. She still did not know what action was the most sensible to take. An instinct told her what to do, but she was not used to instincts, and felt flurried by having one. Her instinct told her to take the child in her arms. She compromised with it, and kissed Elsie, a little reluctantly, on the cheek. “I don’t hate you at all, child,” she said kindly. “You’re a very good, painstaking little girl, and I am very fond of you.” Then Miss Strickland arrived at the nearest she was ever likely to get to a miracle. She saw a plain little girl, made plainer by a convulsive fit of crying, turn perfectly beautiful. It was like watching a black and windswept country yielding to the sun. Across Elsie’s face light spread: the light of an infinite gratitude, a preposterous faith, an overwhelming love. Her eyes met Miss Strickland’s and held hers almost against her will. “Then,” the child said slowly, “I’m glad I broke down.” It was the truth, and Miss Strickland with her love of truth should have recognised it; but she had already recognised a great deal more than it was at all comfortable to recognise. She really couldn’t go on recognising things which were so far from sensible, whether they were true or not. “Well, don’t let us have any more nonsense,” she said briskly. “Wipe your eyes, and brush, as far as you can, the dust off your frock. You really should not have lain down on boots and shoes, it was most unsuitable. You’d better come and see Miss Bretherton; she has been asking about you on the lawn, and she’s no more angry with you than I am.” “Please may I go home?” Elsie pleaded. “I’m quite happy now, only I don’t want to see any one else. You see nobody else matters.” Miss Strickland hesitated. Head mistresses always matter. Still she had pressed the point about Elsie’s playing and it had proved a mistake. Onoria made a point of learning from her mistakes, when she saw them. Perhaps it was better to waive the point. The child looked dreadful, she could make excuses for her to Miss Bretherton, and excuses are tidier and more malleable than tear-stained little girls.