“And what am I now?” I could not forbear inquiring.

“Yourself, of course. But do you really teach here, in Villette?”

“I really do.”

“And do you like it?”

“Not always.”

“And why do you go on with it?”

Her father looked at and, I feared, was going to check her; but he only said, “Proceed, Polly, proceed with that catechism; prove yourself the little wiseacre you are. If Miss Snowe were to blush and look confused, I should have to bid you hold your tongue, and you and I would sit out the present meal in some disgrace; but she only smiles, so push her hard, multiply the cross-questions.—Well, Miss Snowe, why do you go on with it?”

“Chiefly, I fear, for the sake of the money I get.”

“Not, then, from motives of pure philanthropy? Polly and I were clinging to that hypothesis as the most lenient way of accounting for your eccentricity.”

“No, no, sir. Rather for the roof of shelter I am thus enabled to keep over my head, and for the comfort of mind it gives me to think that while I can work for myself I am spared the pain of being a burden to anybody.”

“Papa, say what you will, I pity Lucy.”

“Take up that pity, Miss de Bassompierre; take it up in both hands, as you might a little callow gosling squattering out of bounds without leave; put it back in the warm nest of a heart whence it issued, and receive in your ear this whisper: If my Polly ever came to know by experience the uncertain nature of this world’s goods, I should like her to act as Lucy acts—to work for herself, that she might burden neither kith nor kin.”

“Yes, papa,” said she, pensively and tractably. “But poor Lucy! I thought she was a rich lady, and had rich friends.”

“You thought like a little simpleton. I never thought so. When I had time to consider Lucy’s manner and aspect, which was not often, I saw she was one who had to guard and not be guarded, to act and not be served; and this lot has, I imagine, helped her to an experience for which, if she live long enough to realize its full benefit, she may yet bless Providence. But this school,” he pursued, changing his tone from grave to gay.—“Would Madame Beck admit my Polly, do you think, Miss Lucy?”

I said there needed but to try madame; it would soon be seen. She was fond of English pupils. “If you, sir,” I added, “will but take Miss de Bassompierre in your carriage this very afternoon, I think I can answer for it that Rosine, the portress, will not be very slow in answering your ring; and madame, I am sure, will put on her best pair of gloves to come into the salon to receive you.”

“In that case,” responded Mr. Home, “I see no sort of necessity there is for delay. Mrs. Hurst can send what she calls her young lady’s ‘things’ after her; Polly can settle down to her horn-book before night; and you, Miss Lucy, I trust, will not disdain to cast an occasional eye upon her, and let me know, from time to time, how she gets on.—I hope you approve of the arrangement, Countess de Bassompierre?”

The countess hemmed and hesitated. “I thought,” said she—“I thought I had finished my education——”