“You have been crying, Willett,” said Mrs. Marston, observing that the young woman’s eyes were red and swollen.

“Indeed, and I was, ma’am,” she replied, reluctantly, “and I could not help it, so I could not.”

“Why, what has happened to vex you?  Has anyone ill-treated you?” said Mrs. Marston, who had an esteem for the poor girl.  “Come, come, you must not fret about it; only tell me what has vexed you.”

“Oh!  Ma’am, no one has ill-used me, ma’am; but I can’t but be vexed sometimes, ma’am, and fretted to see how things is going on.  I have one wish, just one wish, ma’am, and if I got that, I’d ask no more,” said the girl.

“And what is it?” asked Mrs. Marston; “what do you wish for?  Speak plainly, Willett; what is it?”

“Ah!  Ma’am, if I said it, maybe you might not be pleased.  Don’t ask me, ma’am,” said the girl dusting the books very hard, and tossing them down again with angry emphasis.  “I don’t desire anybody’s harm, God knows; but, for all that, I wish what I wish, and that is the truth.”

“Why, Willett, I really cannot account for your strange habit of lately hinting, and insinuating, and always speaking riddles, and refusing to explain your meaning.  What do you mean?  Speak plainly.  If there are any dishonest practices going on, it is your duty to say so distinctly.”

“Oh!  Ma’am, it is just a wish I have.  I wish—­; but it’s no matter.  If I could once see the house clear of that Frenchwoman—­”

“If you mean Mademoiselle de Barras, she is a lady,” interrupted Mrs. Marston.

“Well, ma’am, I beg pardon,” continued the woman; “lady or no lady, it is all one to me; for I am very sure, ma’am, she’ll never leave the house till there is something bad comes about; and—­and—.  I can’t bring myself to talk to you about her, ma’am.  I can’t say what I want to tell you:  but—­but—.  Oh, ma’am, for God’s sake, try and get her out, any way, no matter how; try and get rid of her.”

As she said this, the poor girl burst into a passionate agony of tears, and Mrs. Marston and Rhoda looked on in silent amazement, while she for some minutes continued to sob and weep.

The party were suddenly recalled from their various reveries by a knock at the chamber-door.  It opened, and the subject of the girl’s deprecatory entreaty entered.  There was something unusually excited and assured in Mademoiselle de Barras’s air and countenance; perhaps she had a suspicion that she had been the topic of their conversation.  At all events, she looked round upon them with a smile, in which there was something supercilious, and even defiant; and, without waiting to be invited, sate herself down, with a haughty air.

“I was about to ask you to sit down, mademoiselle, but you have anticipated me,” said Mrs. Marston, gravely.  “You have something to say to me, I suppose; I am quite at leisure, so pray let me hear it now.”

“Thank you, thank you, madame,” replied she, with a sharp, and even scornful glance; “I ought to have asked your permission to sit; I forgot; but you have condescended to give it without my doing so; that was very kind, very kind, indeed.”