all round, I am sure
that your aunt is right in advising that you should stay at home."

"It isn't advice at all," said Ayala.

"Ayala!" exclaimed her aunt, in a tone of indignation.

"It isn't advice," repeated Ayala. "Of course, if you won't let me
go, I can't."

"You are a very wicked girl," said Mrs. Dosett, "to speak to your
uncle like that, after all that he has done for you."

"Not wicked," said the uncle.

"I say, wicked. But it doesn't matter. I shall at once write to
Lady Albury, as you desire, and of course there will be no further
question as to her going." Soon after that Mrs. Dosett sat down to
her desk, and wrote that letter to which the Marchesa had alluded in
hers to her nephew. No doubt it was stern and hard, and of a nature
to make such a woman as the Marchesa feel that Mrs. Dosett would not
be a pleasant companion for a girl like Ayala. But it was written
with a full conviction that duty required it; and the words, though
hard and stiff, had been chosen with the purpose of showing that the
doing of this disagreeable duty had been felt to be imperative.

When the matter had been thus decided, Ayala soon retreated to her
own room. Her very soul was burning with indignation at the tyranny
to which she thought herself subjected. The use of that weak word,
advice, had angered her more than anything. It had not been advice.
It had not been given as advice. A command had been laid upon her, a
most cruel and unjust command, which she was forced to obey, because
she lacked the power of escaping from her condition of slavery.
Advice, indeed! Advice is a thing with which the advised one may or
may not comply, as that advised one may choose. A slave must obey an
order! Her own papa and her own mamma had always advised her, and the
advice had always been followed, even when read only in the glance of
an eye, in a smile, or a nod. Then she had known what it was to be
advised. Now she was ordered,--as slaves are ordered; and there was
no escape from her slavery!

She, too, must write her letter, but there was no need now of that
pretty studied phrase, in which she had hoped to thank Lady Albury
fitly for her great kindness. She found, after a vain attempt or two,
that it was hopeless to endeavour to write to Lady Albury. The words
would not come to her pen. But she did write to Nina;--

DEAR, DEAREST NINA,

They won't let me go! Oh, my darling, I am so miserable!
Why should they not let me