The day dragged on, dragging Kitty with it very slowly by the hair of her head, until it was time to eat.  There were good provisions in the pantry, but their right flavour and relish had evaporated with the five pupils, and Miss Pupford, and Miss Pupford’s assistant, and the cook and housemaid.  Where was the use of laying the cloth symmetrically for one small guest, who had gone on ever since the morning growing smaller and smaller, while the empty house had gone on swelling larger and larger?  The very Grace came out wrong, for who were “we” who were going to receive and be thankful?  So, Miss Kimmeens was not thankful, and found herself taking her dinner in very slovenly style—­gobbling it up, in short, rather after the manner of the lower animals, not to particularise the pigs.

But, this was by no means the worst of the change wrought out in the naturally loving and cheery little creature as the solitary day wore on.  She began to brood and be suspicious.  She discovered that she was full of wrongs and injuries.  All the people she knew, got tainted by her lonely thoughts and turned bad.

It was all very well for Papa, a widower in India, to send her home to be educated, and to pay a handsome round sum every year for her to Miss Pupford, and to write charming letters to his darling little daughter; but what did he care for her being left by herself, when he was (as no doubt he always was) enjoying himself in company from morning till night?  Perhaps he only sent her here, after all, to get her out of the way.  It looked like it—­looked like it to-day, that is, for she had never dreamed of such a thing before.

And this old pupil who was being married.  It was unsupportably conceited and selfish in the old pupil to be married.  She was very vain, and very glad to show off; but it was highly probable that she wasn’t pretty; and even if she were pretty (which Miss Kimmeens now totally denied), she had no business to be married; and, even if marriage were conceded, she had no business to ask Miss Pupford to her wedding.  As to Miss Pupford, she was too old to go to any wedding.  She ought to know that.  She had much better attend to her business.  She had thought she looked nice in the morning, but she didn’t look nice.  She was a stupid old thing.  G was another stupid old thing.  Miss Pupford’s assistant was another.  They were all stupid old things together.

More than that:  it began to be obvious that this was a plot.  They had said to one another, “Never mind Kitty; you get off, and I’ll get off; and we’ll leave Kitty to look after herself.  Who cares for her?” To be sure they were right in that question; for who did care for her, a poor little lonely thing against whom they all planned and plotted?  Nobody, nobody!  Here Kitty sobbed.