ther in a school of our own, and working as a hireling among strangers, despised and trampled upon by old and young; and for the first few weeks I was by no means unhappy. "It is possible we may meet again," and "Will it be of any consequence to you whether we do or not.—Those words still rang in my ear and rested on my heart; they were my secret solace and support.
"I shall see him again.—He will come; or he will write." No promise, in fact, was too bright or too extravagant for hope to whisper in my ear. I did not believe half of what she told me; I pretended to laugh at it all; but I was far more credulons than I myself supposed: otherwise, why did my heart leap up when a knock was heard at the front door, and the maid, who opened it, came to tell my mother a gentleman wished to see her? and why was I out of humour for the rest of the day, because it proved to be a music-master come to offer his services to our school? and what stopped my breath for a moment, when the postman having brought a couple of letters, my mother said, "Here Agnes, this is for you," and threw one of them to me? and what made the hot blood rush into my face when I saw it was di-
