Miss Euphemia was more composed on the occasion than Miss Isabel. She said, "I was almost in despair when no telegram came. You have her safe? How can we thank you enough? We had seventeen answers to our advertisement."
"Is it possible?" I interrupted: "have seventeen young ladies run away in one day?"
"I hope not. I'll explain. But first, if you'll excuse me, when did Miss Bird arrive at your house?"
"On Tuesday, the 24th of December, between four and five in the afternoon."
"That is the day she left. She had asked to visit an acquaintance, and said if it snowed much she might stay all night. My custom, my invariable custom, is to send a servant with and for the young ladies when they go out, but I had perfect confidence in her; and as her case was slightly peculiar, I relaxed my rule for once. When she did not appear next morning, I sent for her: she had never been with her friend at all."
"Think of it!" exclaimed Miss Isabel—"think of our position!"
"I felt," said Miss Euphemia, "that if evil befell her I never could look her father in the face again."
"I did not concern myself about her father," said Miss Isabel: "probably we may never have an opportunity of looking him in the face. I thought of the child herself, and of our position: such a story would have ruined our establishment—absolutely ruined it just as we had surmounted so many difficulties."
At this moment a telegram came in. Miss Euphemia hurriedly opened it, and read aloud, "From J. Hamilton to Miss Douglas. Miss M. B. is safe." "That would have been very precious," she said, "if we had not known it already."
"I don't understand," said I, "what made her run away. Had she any object in view?"
"Object!" said Miss Isabel. "To be sure she had an object, poor foolish thing!"
"The truth is, Miss Cowan," said Miss Euphemia, "it was this Mr. Joseph Hamilton who sent this telegram that induced her to go away: they have known each other from childhood."
"What are they but children yet?" exclaimed Miss Isabel. "But, however ridiculous it may appear, they intended to be married."
"So it was," said Miss Euphemia, "he came in on the Wednesday morning, just as we had found out that she had never been where she said she was going—came in looking as white as ashes, and told us he had lost her: he left her in the railway carriage to bring her some refreshment, and when he came back she was gone—where, he had not been able to discover, all he could do."
"She has managed," I said, "to answer his advertisement without my knowledge."
"She has not been well brought up," said both of the ladies together. "Her mother died when she was born, and an aunt spoiled her, and her father spoiled her, and she came to us perfectly undisciplined, and she found our rules irksome, although we tried to make things easy for her; but where there are more than forty girls you must be strict or there will be instant confusion."
"The trouble the governesses have had with her was very great," said Miss Isabel; "indeed, I have often been called in to aid them. She would leave her boots lying in all directions, just as she kicked them off."
I felt verily guilty in this thing myself, and I said, "But that was not so very bad, was it?"
"We could have moulded her in time," said Miss Euphemia. "She was a nice girl—a girl with a good nature, but wholly untrained. However, I think when she was so far on the way with Mr. Hamilton courage had failed her. How grateful we are that you took her in!"
At this stage lunch was brought, and while I ate I said, " Well, what is to be done? To whom shall I deliver her up, or shall I keep her?"
"She must choose for herself," said Miss Euphemia.
"No, Euphemia," said Isabel, "I think you are wrong. No doubt her choice
