n,
dairy, still-room; the maids were abroad this glorious noon. I went
upstairs, looking for a face in vain till I came to our school-room.
There was Jane alone, sitting at the table over some books, her head
between her hands, her hair thrust back from her face, looking older and
paler and thinner since I had seen her; a stern, sad-looking young
student, with her back to the sun that burned upon the lattice.

Her face turned scarlet when she saw me, and then became paler than
before. She gave me her hand coldly, as if she would rather have held it
by her side. Her mother was out, she said; had gone to visit at a poor
house where there was death and trouble, and would not be home till
evening. Mopsie had taken the dogs for a ramble. Then we both sat down
and were silent, and Jane's eyes wandered over everything in the room,
but would not meet mine.

"I am going to London, Jane," I said, "and I came to bid you good-bye."

"I know," she said. "John told me." And she blushed again fiercely. "I
am very glad. I have thought for a long time that London was the place
that would suit you best. I knew you would soon tire of the farm."

"I have not tired of the farm," I said, "but the farm has tired of me."

She glanced up amazed, then smiled bitterly, and turned aside her head
without speaking, as if such utter nonsense could not be thought worthy
of an answer.

"However," I added, "I did not come here to talk about that--"

"No," she interrupted hastily, "it is not worth your while to make any
pretence to us. We do not expect to have friends; we never thought of it
till you came. In time we shall get used to the curse our father left
upon us."

"Jane, Jane," I said angrily, "how can you be so wicked?"

"How can I help being wicked?" she asked. "I heard that it was
prophesied of us that we should all turn out badly, because ill conduct
runs in the blood."

"You do not deserve to have such a mother," I said.

"Oh! my mother!" she said in an altered tone. "But she has given all her
sweetness to Mopsie, and--to John," she added, with an effort, a tear
starting in her eye. "But I am my father's daughter. She would cure me
too, if she knew of my badness; but she is a saint, and thinks no evil.
I work hard at my books, and she calls me a good industrious girl. I
will never pour out my bitterness on her. But if my father were here I
would let him know what he has done."

The hopeless hardness of her young voice smote me w