“Shame!  Oh, no, my dear young mistress! my birdie child; ruin is not shame!  This could never come near a Monfort, poor or rich!  See! such as these old hands are, they shall work for you to the bone, and, if I understand matters aright, we still have the good roof left over our heads, and some little means for all immediate wants.  God will put some good thought in your mind before long.  Consult with Miss Evelyn; she is wise.  You are not the first high-born young ladies who have had to teach a school.”

“Oh, bless you, bless you, Morton, for the thought!”

All idea of telling him (helpless, as he was, to avenge it) of the degrading treatment I had received was now laid at rest, and the practical good sense of a suggestion, that, if successfully carried out, would take us so completely out of the hands of Mr. Bainrothe, and insure such complete independence, was felt at once.

At a glance I saw the expediency as well as the feasibility of the scheme.

Our large and secluded establishment was well fitted for a boarding-school.  Our father’s spotless name, and our undeserved misfortunes, were calculated to enlist popular respect and sympathy.

Evelyn’s decided manners and liberal accomplishments, my better principles and more solid attainments (I viewed things with the naked eye of truth that day, and thus the balance was struck in its rapid survey), might all be brought to bear on our new vocation.

“This is the very thing for us to do, Morton,” I said, after a pause, wiping my eyes, and smiling up into his dear, old, withered face, “I will acquaint Evelyn with it before I sleep.  Ay, and with other matters as well,” I added, mentally.  “God help me now!—­upon her verdict every thing depends.”

I met Mabel on the stairway as I ascended to my chamber.  She hung about my neck, in a childish way she had, and kissed me fondly.  Perhaps she had observed my agitated face, in which many emotions contended, probably (as in my heart), but I only said, “Let me pass now, darling!—­One thing will,” I thought, “be secure, under the contemplated circumstances—­your welfare and education, whatever else betide—­beautiful, and good as an angel, you shall be wise as well.”

“Oh!  I forgot to tell you, sister Miriam,” she cried, running up-stairs, after we had parted, “Evelyn has gone out, and left this note for you;” and she placed one in my hand, adding: 

“Mr. Claude Bainrothe was here, while you were in the library with his father, and they went away together.”

“Where did she receive him, Mabel?—­the parlors are closed, you know.”

“Yes, but she was all ready when he came.  It was an appointment, I think he said, to take a walk, and he stood at the front-door, until she went down, only five minutes, sister Miriam.  He did not mind it at all.  He sent her up the letter he had brought from the office, and she read it out loud to Mrs. Austin.  I was there—­it was very short.”