more of it.  I had no sooner come to the end than Fanny said, “Who is going to take care of the children she leaves at home?” I had never thought to ask!  I was disappointed;—­my news was quite imperfect; I might as well not have tried to bring any news.  But it was never so with Miss Agnes.  I believe it was because she was really interested in what concerned others, that they always told her willingly about themselves; and though she never was inquisitive about others’ affairs, yet she knew very well all that was going on.

So she was a most valuable member of our home-circle, and was welcome also among our friends.  And we thought her beautiful, too.  She was very tall and slender, and her light-brown eyes were of the color of her light-brown hair.  We liked to see her come into the room,—­her smile and face made sunshine there; and she was more to us than a governess,—­she was our dear friend.

But now she looked round at me, pale and sad.  She suddenly saw that I looked astonished at her, and she said, “I am not well, Jeanie, but we will not say anything about it.  I am going to my room; to-morrow I shall be better.”  She held her hand to her head, and I thought there must be some heavy pain there, she still looked so sad and pale.  She bade us all good night and went away.

I did not tell the others what had happened,—­partly because, as I have said, I was not in the way of telling things, and partly because they were all talking and had not observed what had been going on.  But I found the paper Fanny had been reading, and wondered if there were anything in what she had read that could have moved Miss Agnes so much.  I had not been paying much attention to the reading, but I knew upon which side of the paper to look.  Fanny told me it was time for me to go to bed, however, and I left my search before I could find anything that seemed to concern Miss Agnes.  I stopped at her door, and bade her good night again; and she came out to me, and kissed me, and said,—­I was a good child, and I must not trouble myself about her.

The next day she seemed quiet, yet the same as ever.  Though I said nothing to anybody else about her fainting, I could not help telling my friend Jessie of it;—­for I always told Jessie everything.  Fanny called us the two Jays, we chattered so when we were together.  I knew she would not tell anybody, so I could not help sharing my wonder with her,—­what could have made Miss Agnes faint so suddenly?  She thought it must have been something in the newspaper,—­perhaps the death of some friend, or the marriage of some other.  I was willing to look again, and this time remembered three things that Fanny had just been reading when I had looked up at Miss Agnes.  One was about Mr. Paul Shattuck;—­in descending from a haycart, he had fallen upon a pitchfork, and had seriously wounded his thigh.  Another was the marriage of Mr. Abraham Black to Miss Susan Whitcomb, and Fanny had wondered if she were related to the Whitcombs