imperfect, if not vicious, education you have already
acquired, the idea strikes me as being utterly
preposterous and absurd. Nor, although I do
not doubt your great quickness and aptitude
for learning anything to which you choose to
apply your mind, do I think you at all qualified,
with your previous irregular training, to instil
sentiments of piety and morality into the
young."

Everything and everybody was seemingly
against our unhappy Lily. "What, then, do
you wish me to do, madame?" she continued,
in a subdued tone.

"I repeat, we shall see. Something may
turn up. Were you of a different creed, or were
your mind differently constituted, it might be
expedient for a young and destitute person for
whom generous individuals were willing to make
a small donation, to take the vows and seek
the retirement of a convent; the dames of
St. Vincent de Paul would be happy to receive
any novice of my recommendation for a sum of
three thousand francs once paid. But, to speak
frankly, I should hesitate to consign to a cloister
a young lady possessing so very sprightly a
disposition."

"I can sew, I can be a servant," urged poor
Lily, dolorously.

"Et faire la cuisine par-dessus le marché, et
faire danser l'anse du panier," Madame de
Kergolay, with grim sarcasm, went on. "O,
I have very little doubt of the variety of your
talents, even for domestic service. You would
make an admirable soubrette in one of M. de
Marivaux's comedies one of those astute
chambermaids who are the life and soul of an
intrigue, and are not indisposed occasionally to
a little flirtation with M. le Marquis."

Poor Lily began to sob as though her heart
would break. She felt, in all intensity, the
contempt and dislike expressed in these words. She
felt that she was being treated with cruelty and
injustice, but she had not the courage indignantly
to justify herself.

Madame de Kergolay seemed more wearied
than touched by the girl's grief. "There," she
said, waving her hand as Lily's sobs grew more
passionate, "we can dispense with these
miaulements. M. de Buffon has told us all about
crocodiles and their tears. I am too nervous,
and too much of an invalid, to be able to support
any scenes. I shall be obliged to you to give
me no theatrical tirades, and to leave the room."

Burying her face in her handkerchief, and
endeavouring, but in vain, to suppress her sobs,
Lily obeyed the command, and turned to go.

"You will not, if you please, approach me
again," continued the inexorable old lady, "until
you are sent for. Your presence, in sight of
recent events, is productive of anything but
pleasurable sensations. M. l'Abbe and I will
confer as to your future, and in due time you
will be made acquainted with our decision.
Your meals will be served to you in your own
chamber. Justice and consideration—much
more than you have been willing to extend to
others will be dealt out to you. Affection and
indulgence you can no longer expect. Go,
misguided child."

Lily's trembling hand was on the lock of the
door, her foot was on the threshold to depart,
when she heard once more the old lady's voice.

"One moment. Let me give you a word of
counsel. Any little arrangements you may have
made for carrying on. a most culpable intrigue
have been frustrated. M. Edgar Greyfaunt has
left for England."

It was the first time, in all her reproachful
speeches, that she had mentioned her
grand-nephew's name. It was the first time that she
had directly made allusion to any connexion
between Edgar and the cause of her anger. The
hint was quite enough for Lily.

She went forth from the presence of the kind
heart which had melted for her, a poor, destitute,
friendless stranger, and which now seemed turned
to marble. What had she done? Ah! her heart
told her too well, and with damning precision.
She had dared to love. She had presumed to
look up from her lowly station to the patrician
kinsman of her benefactress. The eagle may
look at the sun, but not the worm. Her
upturned gaze had been met by a withering frown.
She had been stricken down and trampled under
foot. It was all over now. She was discovered,
detected, degraded. Madame de Kergolay
regarded her as a monster of ingratitude. The
abbé would but reflect his patroness's opinion.
The very servants would look askance upon her
as one proscribed and in disgrace. And Edgar?
Edgar, ah misery! was gone.

There was nothing left for her but to go too.
Whither she knew not. She had but a few
francs in her pocket; she dared not take with
her any considerable portion of her wardrobe;
besides, it was supplied to her by Madame de
Kergolay, and was not hers to take. She had no
friends; none, at least, to whom she would dare
to appeal in her extremity. Amanda at the
Morgue was barely an acquaintance. She dared
not go to that dreadful place again. There was,
it was true, the Pension Marcassin. Should
she go there, confront the ogress in black velvet
who had made her girlhood miserable, and
entreat her, even on her knees, to take her back
again, were it even as a common drudge to
sweep and scrub the class-rooms out? But
how would the ogress receive her? Would she
not spurn her, or at best dismiss her with
derision? And then, was not the abbe in constant
communication with the Marcassin, and would
not her retreat be known? She wanted to go
away somewhere and hide her head. She wanted
to be heard of no more by those who once loved
her, but now looked upon her with aversion and
disdain. She wanted to be Quite Alone.

If she could only find the Marygold! But
where was she to seek for her, and what
assistance could she expect from her even if she
found her? No, she would go to England, she
thought. It would not cost much to reach
England. She would ask where Stockwell was, and
endeavour to find out the Bunnycastles. She
would seek for Cutwig and Co.; nay, with a