'Oh yes!' said Miss Mohun, running upstairs, and presently coming
back with a school-bag and a crackling waterproof cloak, but pausing
as she saw Gillian at the window, nursing the Sofy, and gazing at the
gray cloud over the gray sea. 'You are not at a loss for something
to do,' she said, 'you said you meant to write to your mother.'

'Oh yes!' said Gillian, suddenly fretted, and with a sense of being
hunted, 'I have plenty to do.'

'I see,' said Miss Mohun, turning over the books that lay on the
little table that had been appropriated to her niece, in a way that,
unreasonably or not, unspeakably worried the girl, 'Brachet's French
Grammar---that's right. Colenso's Algebra---I don't think they use
that at the High School. Julius Caesar---you should read that up in
Merivale.'

'I did,' said Gillian, in a voice that very nearly said, 'Do let them
alone.'

'Well, you have materials for a very useful, sensible morning's work,
and when Ada comes down, very likely she will like to be read to.'

Off went the aunt, leaving the niece stirred into an absolute desire,
instead of spending the sensible morning, to take up 'Near
Neighbours', and throw herself into an easy-chair; and when she had
conscientiously resisted that temptation, her pen would hover over
'Hilda's Experiences', even when she had actually written 'Dearest
Mamma.' She found she was in no frame to write such a letter as
would be a comfort to her mother, so she gave that up, and made her