they were glad to get rid of me. They said, 'Telegraph when you
are safe at Miss Ladd's school.' You see, we are so rich, the
expense of telegraphing to the West Indies is nothing to us.
Besides, a telegram has an advantage over a letter--it doesn't
take long to read. I daresay I shall write home. But they are in
no hurry; and I am in no hurry. The school's breaking up; you are
going your way, and I am going mine--and who cares what becomes
of me? Only an ugly old schoolmistress, who is paid for caring. I
wonder why I am saying all this? Because I like you? I don't know
that I like you any better than you like me. When I wanted to be
friends with you, you treated me coolly; I don't want to force
myself on you. I don't particularly care about you. May I write
to you from Brighton?"

Under all this bitterness--the first exhibition of Francine's
temper, at its worst, which had taken place since she joined the
school--Emily saw, or thought she saw, distress that was too
proud, or too shy, to show itself. "How can you ask the
question?" she answered cordially.

Francine was incapable of meeting the sympathy offered to her,
even half way. "Never mind how," she said. "Yes or no is all I
want from you."

"Oh, Francine! Francine! what are you made of! Flesh and blood?
or stone and iron? Write to me of course--and I will write back
again."

"Thank you. Are you going to stay here under the trees?"