was in love, and so happy within my own
house that I had excluded all strangers, and with that she had to be
contented, but the state in which I found little Sophie frightened me.
She was lying in bed with high fever, she had grown much thinner, and her
eyes seemed to say that she was dying of grief. Her mother was in
despair, for she was passionately fond of the child, and I thought she
would have torn my eyes out when I told her that if Sophie died she would
only have herself to reproach. Sophie, who was very good-hearted, cried
out, "No, no! papa dear;" and quieted her mother by her caresses.

Nevertheless, I took the mother aside, and told her that the disease was
solely caused by Sophie's dread of her severity.

"In spite of your affection," said I, "you treat her with insufferable
tyranny. Send her to a boarding-school for a couple of years, and let her
associate with girls of good family. Tell her this evening that she is to
go to school, and see if she does not get better."

"Yes," said she, "but a good boarding-school costs a hundred guineas a
year, including masters."

"If I approve of the school you select I will pay a year in advance."

On my making this offer the woman, who seemed to be living so
luxuriously, but was in reality poverty-stricken, embraced me with the
utmost gratitude.

"Come and tell the news to your daughter now," said she, "I should like
to watch her face when she hears it."

"Certainly."

"My dear Sophie," I said, "your mother agrees with me that if you had a
change of air you would get better, and if you would like to spend a year
or two in a good school I will pay the first year in advance."

"Of course, I will obey my dear mother," said Sophie.

"There is no question of obedience. Would you like to go to school? Tell
me truly."

"But would my mother like me to go?"

"Yes, my child, if it would please you."

"Then, mamma, I should like to go very much."

Her face flushed as she spoke, and I knew that my diagnosis had been
correct. I left her saying I should hope to hear from her soon.

At ten o'clock the next day Jarbe came to ask if I had forgotten my
engagement.

"No," said I, "but it is only ten o'clock."

"Yes, but we have twenty miles to go."

"Twenty miles?"

"Certainly, the house is at St. Albans."

"It's very strange Pembroke never told me; how did you find out the
address?"

"He left it when he went away:"

"Just like an Englishman."

I took a pos