“There, Aimée,” she commented, “there is another. I suppose I might call myself 'a young person,' Don't you think I had better 'apply at the printer's'?” “They don't mention terms,” said Aimée. “You would have to leave home,” said 'Toinette. Dolly folded up the paper and tossed it on to the table with a half sigh. She had thought of that the moment she read the paragraph, and then, very naturally, she had thought of Griffith. It would not be feasible to include him in her arrangements, even if she made any. Elderly ladies who engage “young persons” as companions were not in the habit of taking kindly to miscellaneous young men, consequently the prospect was not a very bright one. There would only be letter-writing left to them, and letters seemed such cold comfort contrasted with every-day meetings. She remembered, too, a certain six months she had spent with her Bilberry charges in Switzerland, when Griffith had nearly been driven frantic by her absence and his restless dissatisfaction, and when their letters had only seemed new aids to troublous though unintentional games at cross-purposes. There might be just the same thing to undergo again, but, then, how was it to be avoided? It was impossible to remain idle just at this juncture. “So it cannot be helped,” she said, aloud. “I must take it if I can get it, and I must stay in it until I can find something more pleasant, though I cannot help wishing that matters did not look so unpromising. Tod, you will have to go down, Aunt Dolly is going to put on her hat and present herself at the printer's in the character of a young person in search of an elderly lady.” Delays were dangerous, she had been taught by experience, so she ran up-stairs at once for her out-door attire, and came down in a few minutes, drawing on her gloves and looking a trifle ruefully at them. “They are getting discouragingly white at the seams,” she said, “and it seems almost impossible to keep them sewed up. I shall have to borrow Aimée's muff. What a blessing it is that the weather is so cold!” At the bottom of the staircase she met Mollie. “Phemie is in the parlor, Dolly,” she announced, “and she wants to see you. I don't believe Lady Augusta knows she is here, either, she looks so dreadfully fluttered.” And when she entered the room, surely enough Phemie jumped up with a nervous bound from a chair immediately behind the door, and, dropping her muff and umbrella and two or three other small articles, caught her in a tremulous embrace, and at once proceeded to bedew her with tears. “Oh, Dolly!” she lamented, pathetically; “I have come to say good-by; and, oh! what shall I do without you?” “Good-by!” said Dolly. “Why, Phemie?” “Switzerland!” sobbed Phemie. “The--the select seminary at Geneva, Dolly, where th-that professor of m-music with the lumpy face was.” “Dear me!” Dolly ejaculated. “You don't mean to say you are going there, Phemie?”