she had something on her mind, and wanted to open her heart to "the wife",
but was too ignorant or too shy, poor girl; and he reckoned,
from his theory of Maori character, that it might take her weeks, or months,
to come to the point. One day, after a great deal of encouragement,
she explained that she felt "so awfully lonely, Mrs. Lorrens."
All the other girls were away, and she wished it was school-time.

She was happy and cheerful again, in her brooding way, in the playground.
There was something sadly ludicrous about her great, ungainly figure
slopping round above the children at play. The schoolmistress took her
into the parlour, gave her tea and cake, and was kind to her;
and she took it all with broody cheerfulness.

One Sunday morning she came down to the cottage and sat
on the edge of the verandah, looking as wretchedly miserable as a girl could.
She was in rags -- at least, she had a rag of a dress on --
and was barefooted and bareheaded. She said that her aunt had turned her out,
and she was going to walk down the coast to Whale Bay to her grandmother --
a long day's ride. The teacher was troubled, because he was undecided
what to do. He had to be careful to avoid any unpleasantness
arising out of Maori cliquism. As the teacher he couldn't let her go
in the state she was in; from the depths of his greenness he trusted her,
from the depths of his softness he pitied her; his poetic nature
was fiercely indignant on account of the poor girl's wrongs,
and the wife spoke for her. Then he thought of his unwritten romance,
and regarded August in the light of copy, and that settled it. While he
talked the matter over with his wife, August "hid in the dark of her hair,"
awaiting her doom. The teacher put his hat on, walked up to the pa,
and saw her aunt. She denied that she had turned August out,
but the teacher believed the girl. He explained his position,