So it was that, try as she might, she could not make Switzerland a success. When she went down to the table d'hôte, people saw that instead of growing stronger she was growing more frail, and the exertion of coming down the long flight of stairs tried her more than it had seemed to do that first day. Sometimes she had a soft, lovely, dangerous color on her cheeks, and her eyes looked almost translucent; and then again the color was gone, her skin was white and transparent, and her eyes were shadowy and languid. When the hot July days came in, the ring of pearls and amethyst would stay on the small worn hand no longer, and so was taken off and hung with the little bunch of coquettish “charms” upon her chain. But she was not conquered yet, and the guests and servants often heard her laughing, and making Miss MacDowlas laugh as they sat together in their private parlor. The two were sitting thus together one Saturday early in July,--Dolly in a loose white wrapper, resting in a low basket chair by the open window, and fanning herself languidly,--when a visitor was announced, and the moment after the announcement a tall young lady rushed into the room and clasped Dolly unceremoniously in her arms, either not observing or totally ignoring Miss MacDowlas's presence. “Dolly!” she cried, kneeling down by the basket chair and speaking so fast that her words tumbled over each other, and her sentences were curiously mingled. “Oh! if you please, dear, I know it was n't polite, and I never meant to do it in such an unexpected, awfully rude way; and what mamma would say, I am sure I cannot tell, unless go into dignified convulsions, and shudder herself stiff; but how could I help it, when I came expecting to see you as bright and lovely as ever, and caught a glimpse of you through the door, as the servant spoke, sitting here so white and thin and tired-looking! Oh, dear! oh, dear! how ever can it be!” “My dear Phemie!” said Dolly, laughing and crying both at once, through weakness and sympathy,--for of course poor, easily moved Phemie had burst into a flood of affectionate tears. “My dear child, how excited you are, and how pleasant it is to see you! How did you manage to come?” “The professor with the lumpy face--poor, pale darling--I mean you, not him,” explained the eldest Miss Bilberry, clinging to her ex-governess as if she was afraid of seeing her float through the open window. “The professor with the lumpy face, Dolly; which shows he is not so horrid as I always thought him, and I am very sorry for being so inconsiderate, I am sure--you know he cannot help his lumps any more than I can help my dreadful red hands and my dresses not fitting.” Dolly stopped her here to introduce her to Miss MacDowlas; and that lady having welcomed her good-naturedly, and received her incoherent apologies for her impetuous lack of decorum, the explanation proceeded. “How could the professor send you here?” asked Dolly.