They could get work to do, for they knew how to work, and people would employ them.  I—­I could do nothing, I had been taught to do nothing.  I had never been directed how to hem a handkerchief.  I had tried to dust my room one day, and the effort had tired me dreadfully, and did not look very well, as a result.  I could not teach.  I had been educated in a slipshod way, no one directing anything about it—­just what it occurred to the person who had charge of me to put before me.

I had intended to throw myself upon Sister Madeline.  But what then?  What could she have done for me?  I had asked her months before if I could not be a sister, and had been discouraged both by her and by my director.  I believe they thought I was too young and too pretty, and, in fact, had no vocation.  No doubt they thought I might soon look upon things differently, when my trouble was a little older.

And Richard—­I did not give Richard many thoughts that day, for my heart was sore, when I remembered all his words.  He had always thought that I was to be rich; perhaps that had made him so long patient with me.  He had said I was not clever; he had seemed to be very sorry for me.  He might well be.  Sophie had asked him if he were still bound to me.  I had not heard all his answer, but he had spoken in a tone of scorn.  I did not want to think about him.

There was no whither to turn myself for help.  And the clergyman, who had been more than kind to me, who had seemed to help me with words and counsel out of heaven,—­he was cut off from my succor, and I stood alone—­I, who was so dependent, so naturally timid, and so easily mistaken.

It was a dreary hour of my life, that hour that I sat looking over at the water of the pretty placid lake.  I don’t like to recall it.  Some one passed by me, gave an exclamation of surprise, and came back hastily.  It was Richard.  He seemed so glad, and so relieved to see me—­and to me it was like Heaven opening; notwithstanding my vindictive thoughts about him, I could have sprung into his arms; I felt protected, safe, the moment he was by me.  I tried to speak, and then began to cry.

“I’ve been looking for you these last two hours,” he said, sitting down beside me.  “I came up-town to see you, and found you had gone out.  I thought you would not be likely to go anywhere but to see Sister Madeline, and there the servant told me you had come this way.  I could not find you here, and went back to Varick-street, then was frightened at hearing you had not come back, and returned again to look for you.  What made you stay so long?  Something has happened.  Tell me what you are crying for.”

I had no talent for acting, and not much discretion when I was excited; and he found out very soon that I knew what had befallen me. (I think he believed that Sophie had told me of it.)

“Were you very much surprised?” he said.  “Had you supposed that you would be his heiress?”