“My dear McDonald, you must not take it that way.  It is only a change.  You are not going away really, we shall all be in the same city.  I am sure you will—­like your new home.  Shall I tell Mrs. Van Cortlandt?”

“Tell Mrs. Van Cortlandt?  Yes, tell her, thanks.  I will go—­soon—­at once.  In a little time, to get-ready.  Thanks.”  The governess rose and stood a moment to steady herself.  All her life was in ruins.  The blow crushed her.  And she had been so happy.  In such great peace.  It seemed impossible.  To leave Evelyn!  She put out her hand as if to speak.  Did Mrs. Mavick understand what she was doing?  That it was the same as dragging a mother away from her child?  But she said nothing.  Words would not come.  Everything seemed confused and blank.  She sank into her chair.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Mavick, I think I am not very strong this morning.”  And presently she stood on her feet again and steadied herself.  “You will please tell Evelyn before—­before I see her.”  And she walked out of the room as one in a trance.

The news was communicated to Evelyn, quite incidentally, in the manner that all who knew Mrs. Mavick admired in her.  Evelyn had just been in and out of her mother’s room, on one errand and another, and was going out again, when her mother said: 

“Oh, by-the-way, Evelyn, at last we have got a splendid place for McDonald.”

Evelyn turned, not exactly comprehending.  “A place for McDonald?  For what?”

“As governess, of course.  With Mrs. Van Cortlandt.”

“What! to leave us?” The girl walked back to her mother’s chair and stood before her in an attitude of wonder and doubt.  “You don’t mean, mamma, that she is going away for good?”

“It is a great chance for her.  I have been anxious for some time about employment for her, now that you do not need a governess—­haven’t really for a year or two.”

“But, mamma, it can’t be.  She is part of us.  She belongs to the family; she has been in it almost as long as I have.  Why, I have been with her every day of my life.  To go away?  To give her up?  Does she know?”

“Does she know?  What a child!  She has accepted Mrs. Van Cortlandt’s offer.  I telegraphed for her this morning.  Tomorrow she goes to town to get her belongings together.  Mrs. Van Cortlandt needs her at once.  I am sorry to see, my dear, that you are thinking only of yourself.”

“Of myself?” The girl had been at first confused, and, as the idea forced itself upon her mind, she felt weak, and trembled, and was deadly pale.  But when the certainty came, the enormity and cruelty of the dismissal aroused her indignation.  “Myself!” she exclaimed again.  Her eyes blazed with a wrath new to their tenderness, and, stepping back and stamping her foot; she cried out:  “She shall not go!  It is unjust!  It is cruel!”

Her mother had never seen her child like that.  She was revealing a spirit of resistance, a temper, an independence quite unexpected.  And yet it was not altogether displeasing.  Mrs. Mavick’s respect for her involuntarily rose.  And after an instant, instead of responding with severity, as was her first impulse, she said, very calmly: