CHAPTER I.



Si douce est la Marguerite.--CHAUCER.



"Miss Winter, are you busy? Do you want this afternoon? Can you
take a good long walk?"

"Ethel, my dear, how often have I told you of your impetuosity--you
have forgotten."

"Very well"--with an impatient twist--"I beg your pardon. Good-
morning, Miss Winter," said a thin, lank, angular, sallow girl, just
fifteen, trembling from head to foot with restrained eagerness, as
she tried to curb her tone into the requisite civility.

"Good-morning, Ethel, good-morning, Flora," said the prim, middle-
aged daily governess, taking off her bonnet, and arranging the stiff
little rolls of curl at the long, narrow looking-glass, the border of
which distorted the countenance.

"Good-morning," properly responded Flora, a pretty, fair girl, nearly