The girl grew nearer to her.

“Do you think it is true?” she asked.  “I saw him driving her out yesterday, and three days ago I saw his arm around her waist; but, still, do you really think it is true, Emma?”

“It does not matter to us,” said Emma.

“Yes, it does matter,” persisted the other.  “If it is really true, this is no place for us; and if it be untrue, some one ought to put an end to it.  I have nothing but my character, and if that goes, all goes.  Now, I ask you to tell me, Emma, ought I to go or stay?”

My nurse was silent for some few minutes, then she said: 

“You had better go.  While missie and my lady stop here, I shall stay, and when they go, I go.  My duty is to them.”

Then I raised my white, miserable face from the pillow.

“Do not say any more,” I cried.  “I am not asleep, and I understand it all.”

“Law, bless the dear young lady!” cried Alice, aghast.  “I would not have spoken for the world if I had known”—­

But I interrupted her.

“It does not matter, Alice,” I said.  “You meant no harm, and I am old in misery, though young in years.”

The girl went away, and Emma flung herself on her knees before me.

“I am so sorry, Miss Laura,” she began, “but I had not patience to listen—­my heart was full of one thing.”

“Emma,” I said, “tell me, do you think mamma really knows or suspects any of these things?”

“No,” was the quiet reply, “I do not.  I will tell you why, Miss Laura.  If my lady even thought so, she would not allow Miss Reinhart to remain in the house another hour with you.”

“I am going to papa now, and I shall ask him to send my governess away,” I said.  “She shall not stop here.”

CHAPTER XI.

My father had always been kind to me—­he had never used a harsh word to me.  My heart was full—­it was almost bursting—­when I went to him.  The shame, the degradation, the horror, were full upon me.  Surely he would hear reason.  I dared not stop to think.  I hastened to him.  I flung my arms round his neck and hid my face upon his breast.  My passionate sobs frightened him at first.

“My dearest Laura, what is the matter?” he asked.

“Papa, send Miss Reinhart away,” I cried; “do send her away.  We were so happy before she came, and mamma was happy.  Can you not see there is a black shadow hanging over the house?  Send it away—­be as you were before she came.  Oh, papa, she has taken you from us.”

When I told him what I had heard he looked shocked and horrified.

“My poor child!  I had no idea of this.”

He laid me on the couch while he walked up and down the room.

“Horrible!” I heard him say.  “Frightful!  Poor child!  Alice shall go at once!”

He rang the bell when he had compelled me to repeat every word I had overheard, and sent for the housekeeper.  I heard the whispering, but not the words—­there was a long, angry conversation.  I heard Sir Roland say “that Alice and every one else who had shared in those kind of conversations should leave.”  Then he kissed me.