"I'm ever so sorry, miss; but another lady came just as you left, and she had a box and a handbag, and everything proper, and as she wanted the room very badly and as we had her before, we have let it to her, miss. I am sure I am very sorry not to oblige; but I dare say--There are a great many other apartments down this road, miss." "Thank you," said Elma; "it does not matter at all." She spoke with a voice of ice; pride, a remnant of pride, came to her aid. She would not let the woman see how distressed she was. "Good-evening, miss," said the young landlady. "I'm real sorry not to oblige." "Oh, it doesn't matter," said Elma; "I dare say I can manage." She walked down South Street, knowing that the landlady was watching her as she disappeared. She soon came to a corner where four roads met. Where should she go? What could she do? Where was she to have shelter for the night? It occurred to her that after all there was nothing now left to her but to return to Middleton. She hurried up to the railway station, and asked when the next train would start. A porter, who was standing just inside the station informed her that the last train for Middleton had left five minutes ago. "The next will be at seven to-morrow morning," he said. "Thank you," answered Elma. She would not allow any of the dismay on her face to appear. "After all, it is too absurd that I can't have shelter," she said to herself, "when I have over ten pounds in my pocket. What can the landlady have meant? Surely, if I pay my way that is all that is necessary." But, all the same, she did not like to go and inquire at any other lodging. She could not stand meeting once again the stony stare of a landlady when she explained that she had no luggage, none at all. It occurred to her that she might go into a shop and buy some night-gear and a small handbag, but she rejected the idea almost as quickly as it came to her. "It would only waste the money," she said to herself, "and where is the use? I suppose I can manage to spend the night somewhere. Thank goodness, it is a fine summer's night; I might do worse than spend it in the open air." She wandered away, and presently passing a small restaurant, went in and ordered a cup of tea for herself, and some bread and butter. She drank the tea, but found that to eat choked her. The outlook before her was more miserable moment by moment. She was driven to such despair that it seemed of very little consequence to her whether she succeeded in getting away from Middleton School, from the censorious eyes of the whole of her world, or not. Everything was up with her. She kept repeating that moodily, drearily under her breath. Everything was up; she had not a friend in the wide, wide world.