poor child had surely had enough in her short
and troublous career, and over and over again
she had fancied that she was weary of life, and
would be glad to be quit of it, for good and all,
and at rest. But there is a thing called hope,
the which, although we pretend or imagine
ourselves to be sunk in irremediable despair, is still
latent in the human breast. Although the bed
of the stream may be dry in the parched and
arid season, the mountain springs are never
choked, and in time the old channel will be
flooded, and the river will rise and reach the
ocean. Although she suffered and wept very
sorely, within her was still that elasticity and
rebounding power which, under heaven, might
give her strength to endure anguish more terrible
than any she had yet felt. Hope is never dead
until the mind is utterly unable to suggest an
alternative. Then you go mad and slay yourself.

Her passion, it became sadly evident, was
known to, or at least vehemently suspected, by
Madame de Kergolay. By degrees the
affectionate kindness with which the good old lady
was wont to treat her protegee dwindled down
to a cold and ceremonious tolerance of her
presence. She was addressed as "Mademoiselle,"
and as "you," instead of " little darling,"
"little angel," a hundred other terms of
endearment, and "thou." If she were absent for
an hour no inquiries were made as to where she
had been. Soon she was allowed to remain in
her chamber for half a day together, unasked
for and unnoticed. Complete and contemptuous
indifference on the part of her patroness seemed
to set in. She was asked to perform no little
tasks, to move no cushions, to give her opinion
on no needlework. Her own growing
proficiency in the accomplishments which had been
taught her elicited no admiration from her for
whose praise Lily fondly looked, and, until lately,
had looked alone.

One day it was the first for a very long time
the old lady sent for her, and in acid and
querulous tones gave her that which women,
among themselves, call "a good talking to,"
that which was half a reprimand and half an
attempt to extort a confession. Madame de
Kergolay made no direct accusation against
Lily, but her doubts, her inuendoes, her
denunciations of an implied ingratitude, heartlessness,
and hypocrisy, were a hundred times more
painful to the girl than if she had brought a
specific indictment against her, and charged her
with the commission of deliberate crime. She
told her how mortifying it was for the aged to
find their efforts on behalf of the young requited
by treachery and deceit. She delivered cutting
apophthegms on the case with which young
persons thought they could delude and
hoodwink their elders; she delivered sardonic
apologues as to certain vipers which had been
warmed in compassionate bosoms, and how
much sharper than a serpent's tooth it as to
have a thankless child, even when it happened
that the child in question was an adopted one.
And a good deal more did she expatiate on the
reverence and loyalty that were due from
inferiors towards those who, although they might
have been deprived by Providence in its wisdom
of their worldly possessions, were still
immeasurably and irrevocably above them.

A dozen times during this harangue was Lily
on the point of casting herself at the old lady's
feet, of clinging to her dress, of embracing her,
of avowing her love, of admitting that it was
rash, mad, wicked, unreciprocated, of adjuring
her by the memory of all the loving kindness
she had hitherto experienced, to forgive her and
to bless her, and to permit her to retire from, her
presence and her house, to pray for her
benefactress, no longer petted and fondled by
her, but still unreproved and undiscarded. This
was not to be. So soon as words of admission
began to quiver on Lily's lips, the old lady
would tell her, with freezing dignity, that she
had no wish to pry into her secrets, that she
doubtless knew her own affairs best, that she
must be the best judge under the circumstances
as to what was due to society, to those who had
befriended her, and to herself; that she would
not presume to offer any counsel to so high and
mighty a personage as Mademoiselle, whom she
had then the honour to address: and that, after
all, she must know a great deal more about the
world and its ways than those who were three,
if not four times her age. "You belong to a
rising and precocious generation, Mademoiselle,"
the ancient dame concluded, with bitter and
condescending irony; "to a generation which
has made up its mind to outrage and to insult
all that persons of maturer age deem worthy of
preservation and respect: to a generation which
has cast such bagatelles as truth, gratitude,
honesty, and maidenly modesty to the four
winds of heaven. Allez! I am not  deceived.
I am only a little disappointed. I have only
lost another of the few and most fondly cherished
illusions which remained between me and my
grave."

Lily saw that in her present temper it was
useless to argue with one who, rightly or
wrongly, had evidently a preconceived prejudice
against her, and that one of the  strongest nature.
In very humble and submissive accents she
asked, as she was Quite Alone and friendless,
what were madame's intentions towards her as
regarded the future. "I don't know much,"
added Lily, plaintively, "but if madame thinks
me strong enough, I am ready to go out as a
governess." Herein Lily indulged in a vague
reminiscence of the Pension Marcassin, and of
the mission to which, according to Miss
Marygold, all young girls who had the misfortune to
be educated and poor were doomed.

"Ma foi," responded Madame de Kergolay,
shrugging her shoulders, half in indifference and
half in embarrassment, "I scarcely know. I
suppose I must speak to cet abbé malencontreux,
that inopportune ecclesiastic who brought
you here. Yes; I must speak to him; et puis
on verra. As for assuming the functions of a
governess at your immature age— ne vous en
déplaise pas le mot and—with the crude and