In other words, here was a complete reversal of the usual order of things in the schoolroom.  Patient Sydney was out of temper; gentle Sydney spoke bitterly to the little friend whom she loved.  Mrs. Linley drew a chair to the governess’s side, and took her hand.  The strangely altered girl tore her hand away and burst into a violent fit of crying.  Puzzled and frightened, Kitty (to the best of a child’s ability) followed her example.  Mrs. Linley took her daughter on her knee, and gave Sydney’s outbreak of agitation time to subside.  There were no feverish appearances in her face, there was no feverish heat in her skin when their hands had touched each other for a moment.  In all probability the mischief was nervous mischief, and the outburst of weeping was an hysterical effort at relief.

“I am afraid, my dear, you have had a bad night,” Mrs. Linley said.

“Bad?  Worse than bad!”

Sydney stopped; looked at her good mistress and friend in terror; and made a confused effort to explain away what she had just said.  As sensibly and kindly self-possessed as ever, Mrs. Linley told her that she only wanted rest and quiet.  “Let me take you to my room,” she proposed.  “We will have the sofa moved into the balcony, and you will soon go to sleep in the delicious warm air.  You may put away your books, Kitty; this is a holiday.  Come with me, and be petted and spoiled by the ladies in the morning-room.”

Neither the governess nor the pupil was worthy of the sympathy so frankly offered to them.  Still strangely confused, Sydney made commonplace apologies and asked leave to go out and walk in the park.  Hearing this, Kitty declared that where her governess went she would go too.  Mrs. Linley smoothed her daughter’s pretty auburn hair, and said, playfully:  “I think I ought to be jealous.”  To her surprise, Sydney looked up as if the words had been addressed to herself “You mustn’t be fonder, my dear, of your governess,” Mrs. Linley went on, “than you are of your mother.”  She kissed the child, and, rising to go, discovered that Sydney had moved to another part of the room.  She was standing at the piano, with a page of music in her hand.  The page was upside down—­and she had placed herself in a position which concealed her face.  Slow as Mrs. Linley was to doubt any person (more especially a person who interested her), she left the room with a vague fear of something wrong, and with a conviction that she would do well to consult her husband.

Hearing the door close, Sydney looked round.  She and Kitty were alone again; and Kitty was putting away her books without showing any pleasure at the prospect of a holiday.

Sydney took the child fondly in her arms.  “Would you be very sorry,” she asked, “if I was obliged to go away, some day, and leave you?” Kitty turned pale with terror at the dreadful prospect which those words presented.  “There! there!  I am only joking,” Sydney said, shocked at the effect which her attempt to suggest the impending separation had produced.  “You shall come with me, darling; we will walk in the park together.”