'Ay, exactly--what does he say!' cried Mrs. Calverley. 'You may well ask that! You and every one else would have thought that he would have jumped at such an offer, wouldn't you? And so he would, doubtless, if it had come from any one else, but it is my lot to suffer!' 'He has not refused it, madame?' 'No, he has not refused; he has given me no definite answer any way.' 'Ah, he will not refuse you, I am sure,' said Pauline, clasping her hands; 'the prospect of such a life with such a mother must overcome even his strict notions of self-denial. Ah, madame, if you could only know what a thrill of joy your words have sent through my heart, how what you have said has tended to disperse the black clouds which were gathering over me!' 'Dear me, Palmyre,' cried Mrs. Calverley, in her blank unimaginative way, 'black clouds! What on earth are you talking about?' 'I told you just now that I had a yet farther sacrifice to make to duty. It is a sacrifice so great, so painful to me, that I hardly dared to hint at it; but what you have said just now robs it somewhat of its sting. What a comfort it would be to me to know that you had some one to look after and cherish you, as you ought to be cherished, when I am gone.' 'What's that you said, Palmyre?' cried Mrs. Calverley, sharply indeed, but nothing like so viciously as Pauline had expected. 'You are gone! What do you mean by that?' 'When I am gone,' repeated Pauline, 'in obedience to duty which calls upon me. Ah, dear friend, why are you wealthy, and in high position, surrounded by comforts and luxury? If you were poor and needy, sick and struggling, I could reconcile it with my duty to remain here with you; as it is, I am called upon to leave you, and to devote myself to those to whom my poor services can be useful.' 'You must be more explicit, Palmyre,' said Mrs. Calverley, still without any trace of anger. Bold and haughty as she was, she had been somewhat disturbed at the idea of having to break to her companion the news of her dismissal, and now she thought the difficulty seemed materially lightened. 'It is a sad story,' said Pauline, 'but it will be interesting to you who have a benevolent heart.' 'It is about your cousin, I suppose?' said Mrs. Calverley. 'My cousin?' cried Pauline. 'Yes,' said Mrs. Calverley; 'your cousin, who was lying ill at the poor lodging, she who knew no one in London but yourself, could not speak our language, and was utterly helpless; she is worse, I suppose? Perhaps she is dead!'