I opened it softly and found Miss Jellyby shivering there with a broken candle in a broken candlestick in one hand and an egg-cup in the other.

“Good night!” she said very sulkily.

“Good night!” said I.

“May I come in?” she shortly and unexpectedly asked me in the same sulky way.

“Certainly,” said I.  “Don’t wake Miss Clare.”

She would not sit down, but stood by the fire dipping her inky middle finger in the egg-cup, which contained vinegar, and smearing it over the ink stains on her face, frowning the whole time and looking very gloomy.

“I wish Africa was dead!” she said on a sudden.

I was going to remonstrate.

“I do!” she said “Don’t talk to me, Miss Summerson.  I hate it and detest it.  It’s a beast!”

I told her she was tired, and I was sorry.  I put my hand upon her head, and touched her forehead, and said it was hot now but would be cool to-morrow.  She still stood pouting and frowning at me, but presently put down her egg-cup and turned softly towards the bed where Ada lay.

“She is very pretty!” she said with the same knitted brow and in the same uncivil manner.

I assented with a smile.

“An orphan.  Ain’t she?”

“Yes.”

“But knows a quantity, I suppose?  Can dance, and play music, and sing?  She can talk French, I suppose, and do geography, and globes, and needlework, and everything?”

“No doubt,” said I.

“I can’t,” she returned.  “I can’t do anything hardly, except write.  I’m always writing for Ma.  I wonder you two were not ashamed of yourselves to come in this afternoon and see me able to do nothing else.  It was like your ill nature.  Yet you think yourselves very fine, I dare say!”

I could see that the poor girl was near crying, and I resumed my chair without speaking and looked at her (I hope) as mildly as I felt towards her.

“It’s disgraceful,” she said.  “You know it is.  The whole house is disgraceful.  The children are disgraceful.  I’m disgraceful.  Pa’s miserable, and no wonder!  Priscilla drinks—­she’s always drinking.  It’s a great shame and a great story of you if you say you didn’t smell her to-day.  It was as bad as a public-house, waiting at dinner; you know it was!”

“My dear, I don’t know it,” said I.

“You do,” she said very shortly.  “You shan’t say you don’t.  You do!”

“Oh, my dear!” said I.  “If you won’t let me speak—­”

“You’re speaking now.  You know you are.  Don’t tell stories, Miss Summerson.”

“My dear,” said I, “as long as you won’t hear me out—­”

“I don’t want to hear you out.”

“Oh, yes, I think you do,” said I, “because that would be so very unreasonable.  I did not know what you tell me because the servant did not come near me at dinner; but I don’t doubt what you tell me, and I am sorry to hear it.”