“My dear Jenny,” said Miss Deborah promptly, “Miriam is not a child. She must do as she thinks best.” “But don’t ye see my point, my dear Deborah? I don’t say she’s a child. She’s a madcap. That’s it.” She paused. “Of course I daresay she’ll fall on her feet. Ye’re a most extraordinary gel. I don’t know. Of course ye can come _back_--or stay here in yer holidays. Ye know _that_, my dear,” she concluded, suddenly softening her sharp little voice. “I don’t _want_ to go,” cried Miriam with tear-filled eyes. They were one person in the grip of a decision. Miss Haddie sat up and moved her elbows about. All four pairs of eyes held tears. “My dear--I wish we could give ye more, Miriam,” murmured Miss Jenny; “we don’t want to lose ye, ye’ve pulled the lower school together in a remarkable way”; Miss Deborah was drawing little breaths of protest at this descent into gross detail; “the children are interested. We hear that from the parents. We shall be able to give ye excellent testimonials.” “Oh, I don’t care about that,” responded Miriam desperately. ‘Fancy--Great Scott--parents--behind all my sore throats--I’ve never heard about that. It’s all coming out now,’ she thought. “Well--my dear--now----” began Miss Jenny hesitatingly. Feeling herself slipping, Miriam clung harshly to her determination and drew herself up to offer the set of the pretty blouse Gerald and Harriett had bought her in Brighton as a seal on her irrevocable decision to break with Banbury Park. It was a delicate sheeny green silk, with soft tuckers. “What steps have ye taken?” asked Miss Jenny in a quizzical business-like tone. “It’s very kind of you,” said Miriam formally, and went on to hint vaguely and convincingly at the existence of some place in a family in the country that would be sure to fall to her lot through the many friends to whom Eve had written on her behalf, turning away from the feast towards the freedom of the untenanted part of the room. The sitting had to be brought to an end.... In a moment she would be utterly routed.... Her lame statements were the end of the struggle. She knew she was demonstrating in her feeble broken tones a sort of blind strength they knew nothing of and that they would leave it at that, whatever they thought, if only there were no more talk. 2