Nineteen years of age. Nineteen! For the last twelvemonth, since the completion of my education, I had helped in the school as one of the governesses. The Miss Barlieus, whose connexion was extensive amidst the English as well as the French, had undertaken the responsibility of "placing me out," as my trustees phrased it. When I was eighteen their task, as trustees, was over, and the annuity I had enjoyed ceased. Henceforth I had no friends in the world but the Miss Barlieus: and truly kind and good those ladies were to me.

I was attacked with an illness soon after my eighteenth birthday: not a severe one, but lasting tolerably long; and that had caused me to remain the additional twelvemonth, for which I received a slight salary. They liked me, and I liked them.

So I was to be a governess after all! The last descendant of the Herefords and the Keppe-Carews had no home in the world, no means of living, and must work for them. My pride rebelled against it now, as it never had when I was a child; and I made a resolution never to talk of my family. I was an orphan; I had no relatives living: that would be quite enough answer when asked about it. Keppe-Carew had again changed masters: a little lad of eight, whose dead father I had never seen, and who perhaps had never heard of me, was its owner now.

I had never heard a syllable of Mr. Edwin Barley since I left him, or of any of his household, or of the events that had taken place there. That George Heneage had never been traced, I knew; that Mr. Edwin Barley was still seeking after him, I was quite sure: the lapse of years could not abate the anger of a man like him. Mrs. Hemson was dead now, a twelvemonth past; so that I was entirely alone in the world. As to the will, it had not been found, as was to be supposed, or the money would have been mine. My growth in years, the passing from the little girl into the woman, and the new ties and interests of my foreign school life had in a degree obliterated those unhappy events, and I scarcely ever gave even a thought to the past.

Mr. and Mrs. Paler were staying temporarily at Nulle; well-connected English people, about to fix their residence in Paris. They were strangers to me personally, but the Miss Barlieus knew something of their family, and we heard that Mrs. Paler was inquiring for a governess; one who spoke thoroughly English, French, and German. Mademoiselle Annette thought it might suit me, and proposed to take me to call on them at the Lion d'Or hotel.

I seized upon the idea eagerly. The word Paris had wrought its own charm. To be conveyed to that city of delight appeared only secondary to entering within the precincts of a modern Elysium.

"Oh, Mademoiselle Annette, pray let us go! I might perhaps do for them."

Mademoiselle Annette laughed at the eagerness so unequivocally betrayed. But she set off with me the same day.

The Lion d'Or was full. Mr. and Mrs. Paler had no private sitting-room (there were only two salons in the whole house), and we were ushered into their chamber, French fashion. Mr. Paler was a stout man in gold spectacles, shy and silent; his wife, a tall handsome woman with large eyes and dark hair, talked enough for both. Some conversation ensued, chiefly taken up by Mrs. Paler explaining the sort of governess she wished for, Mr. Paler having quitted us.

"If you require a completely well-educated young lady—a gentlewoman in every sense of the term—you cannot do better than engage Miss Hereford," said Mademoiselle Annette.

"But what's her religion?" abruptly asked Mrs. Paler. "I would not admit a Roman Catholic into the bosom of my family; no, not though she paid me to come. Designing Jesuits, as a great many of them are!"

Which, considering she was speaking to a Roman Catholic, and that a moment's consideration might have told her she was, evinced anything but courtesy on the lady's part, to say nothing of good feeling. Mademoiselle Annette's brown cheek deepened, and so did mine.

"I belong to the Church of England, madam," I answered.

"And with regard to singing?" resumed Mrs. Paler, passing to another qualification unceremoniously. "Have you a fine voice?—a good style?—can you teach it well?"

"I sing but little, and should not like to teach it. Neither am I a very brilliant player. I have no great forte for music. What I do play I play well, and I can teach it well."

"There it is! Was there ever anything so tiresome?" grumbled Mrs. Paler. "I declare you cannot have everything, try as you will. Our last governess was first-rate in music—quite a divine voice she had—and her style perfect; but, of all the barbarous accents in French and German (not to speak of her wretched grammar), hers were the worst. Now, you are a good linguist, but no hand at music! What a worry it is!"

"May I ask what age your children are?" interposed Mademoiselle Annette, who could speak sufficient English to understand and join in the conversation.

"The eldest is twelve."

"Then I can assure you Miss Hereford is quite sufficient musician for what you will want at present, madam. It is not always the most brilliant players who are the best instructors; our experience has taught us the contrary is the case."

Mrs. Paler mused. "Does Miss Hereford draw?"

"Excellently well," replied Mademoiselle Annette.

"I have a great mind to try her," debated Mrs. Paler, as if soliloquizing with herself. "But I must just pay my husband the compliment of asking what he thinks: though I never allow any opinion of his to influence me. He is the shyest man! he went out, you saw, as you came in. I am not sure but he will think Miss Hereford too good looking; but she has a very dignified air with her, though her manners are charmingly simple."

"When you have considered the matter, madam, we shall be glad to receive your answer," observed Mademoiselle Annette, as she rose. And Mrs. Paler acquiesced.

"Anne," began Mademoiselle Annette, as we walked home, "I do not think that situation will suit you. You will not be comfortable in it."

"But why?" I asked, feeling my golden visions of Paris dimmed by the words. "I think it would perfectly suit me, Mademoiselle."

"Madame Paler is not a nice lady; she is not a gentlewoman. I question, too, if she would make you comfortable."

"I am willing to risk it. You and Mademoiselle Barlieu have told me all along that I cannot expect everything."

"That is true, my child. Go where you will, you must look out for disagreeables and crosses. The lives of all of us are made up of trials; none, save ourselves, can feel them; few, save ourselves, can see, or will believe in them. Many a governess, tossed and turned about in the world's tempest, weary of her daily task, sick of its monotony, is tempted, no doubt, to say, 'Oh that I were established as the Demoiselles Barlieu are, with a home and school of my own!' But I can tell you, Anne, that often and often I and my sister envy the lot of the poorest governess out on her own account, because she is free from anxiety."

She spoke truly. Every individual lot has its peculiar trials, and none can mitigate them. "The heart knoweth its own bitterness." I walked on by her side then, in my young inexperience, wondering whether all people had these trials, whether they would come to me. It was my morning of life, when the unseen future looks as a bright and flowery dream. Mademoiselle Annette broke the silence.

"You will never forget, my dear, that you have a friend in us. Should you meet with any trouble, should you be at any time out of a situation, come to us; our house is open to you."

"Thank you, thank you, dear Mademoiselle Annette," I replied, grasping her hand. "I will try and do brave battle with the world's cares; I have not forgotten my mother's lessons."

"Anne," she gravely responded, "do not battle: rather welcome them."

Well, I was engaged. And, as the Demoiselles Barlieu observed, it was not altogether like my entering the house of people entirely strange, for they were acquainted with the family of Mr. Paler: himself they had never before seen, but two of his sisters had been educated in their establishment.

A week or two after the Palers had settled themselves in Paris, I was escorted thither by a friend of the Miss Barlieus. The address given me was Avenue de St. Cloud, Commune de Passy. We found it a good-looking, commodious house, and my travelling protector, Madame Bernadotte, left me at the door. A young girl came forward as I was shown into a room.

"Are you Miss Hereford, the new governess?"

"Yes. I think I have had the pleasure of seeing you at Nulle," I answered, holding out my hand to her.

"That I'm sure you've not. I never was at Nulle. It was Kate and Harriet who went there with papa and mamma. I and Fanny and Grace came straight here last week from England, with nurse."

Now, strange to say, it had never occurred to me or to the Miss Barlieus to ask Mrs. Paler, during the negotiations, how many pupils I should have. Two children were with them at Nulle, Kate and Harriet, and I never supposed that there were others; I believed these would be my only pupils.

"How many are you, my dear?"

"Oh, we are five.

"Am I to teach you all?"

"Of course. There's nobody else to teach us. And we have two little brothers, but they are quite in the nursery."

Had Mrs. Paler purposely concealed the number? or had it been the result of inadvertence? The thought that came over me was, that were I engaging a governess for five pupils, I should take care to mention that there were five. They came flocking round me now, every one of them, high-spirited, romping girls, impatient of control, their ages varying from six to twelve.

"Mamma and papa are out, but I don't suppose they'll be long. Do you want to see mamma?"

"I shall be glad to see her.

"Do you wish for anything to eat?" inquired Miss Paler. "You can have what you like: dinner or tea; you have only to ring and order it. We have dined and had tea also. Mamma has not; but you don't take your meals with her."

As she spoke, some noise was heard in the house, and they all ran out. It proved to be Mrs. Paler. She went up to her own sitting-room, and thither I was summoned.

"So you have got here safely, Miss Hereford?" was her salutation, spoken cordially enough. But she did not offer to shake hands with me.

"I have been making acquaintance with my pupils, madam. I did not know there were so many."

"Did you not? Oh, you forget; I have no doubt I mentioned it."

"I think not. I believed that the two Miss Palers I saw at Nulle were your only children."

"My only children! Good gracious, Miss Hereford, what an idea! Why, I have seven! and have lost two, which made nine, and shall have more yet, for all I know. You will take the five girls; five are as easily taught as two."

I did not dispute the words. I had come, intending and hoping to do my duty to the very utmost extent, whether it might be much or little. Though certainly the five pupils did look formidable in prospective, considering that I should have to teach them everything, singing excepted.

"I hope you will suit me," went on Mrs. Paler. "I have had many qualms of doubt since I engaged you. But I can't beat them into Mr. Paler; he turns round, and politely tells me they are 'rubbish,' as any heathen might."

"Qualms of doubt as to my being but nineteen, or to my skill in music?" I asked.

"Neither; your age I never made an objection, and I daresay your music will do very well for the present. Here's Mr. Paler."

He came in, the same apparently shy, silent, portly man as at Nulle, in his gold spectacles. But he came up kindly to me, and shook hands.

"My doubts turn upon serious points, Miss Hereford," pursued Mrs. Paler. "If I thought you would undermine the faith of my children and imbue them with Roman Catholic doctrines——"

"Mrs. Paler!" I interrupted in surprise. "I told you I was a Protestant, brought up strictly in the tenets of the Church of England. Your children are of the same faith: there is little fear, then, that I should seek to undermine it. I know of none better in the world."

"You must excuse my anxiety, Miss Hereford. Can you conscientiously assure me that you hate all Roman Catholics?"

I looked at her in amazement. And she looked at me, waiting for my answer. A smile, unless I mistook, crossed the lips of Mr. Paler.

"Oh, Mrs. Paler, what would my own religion be worth if I could hate? Believe me there are excellent Christians amidst the Roman Catholics, as there are amidst us. People who are striving to do their duty in this world, living and working on for the next. Look at the Miss Barlieus! I love them dearly; every one respects them: but I would not change my religion for theirs."

"Is it the fact of your having spent four years in their house that makes me doubtful. But I think can trust you; you look so sincere and true. The alarming number of converts to Romanism which we have of late years been obliged to witness, must make us all fearful."

"Perverts, if you please," interrupted Mr. Paler. "When I hear of our folks going over to the Romish faith, I always suspect they are those who have not done their duty in their own. A man may find all he wants in his own religion, if he only looks out for it."

"Oh, that's very true," I exclaimed, my eyes sparkling, glad, somehow, to hear him say it. "It is what I have been trying to express to Mrs. Paler."

"She has got her head full of some nonsensical fear that her children should be turned into Roman Catholics—I suppose because we are in a Catholic country," he resumed, looking at his wife through his glasses. "She'll talk about it till she turns into one herself, if she doesn't mind; that's the way the mania begins. There's no more fear of sensible people turning Catholics than there is of my turning Dutchman: as to the children, the notion is simply absurd. And what sort of weather have you had at Nulle, Miss Hereford, since we left it?"

"Not very fine. Yesterday it poured with rain all day."

"Ah. That would make it pleasant for travelling, though."

"Yes: it laid the dust."

"Did you travel alone?"

"Oh, no; the Miss Barlieus would not have allowed it. It is not etiquette in France for a young lady to go out even for a walk alone. An acquaintance of Miss Barlieus, Madame Bernadotte, who was journeying to Paris, accompanied me."

"Well, I hope you will be comfortable here," he concluded.

"Thank you; I hope so."

"And look here, I'll give you a hint. Just you get the upper hand of those children at once, or you'll never do it. They are like so many untrained colts."

Nothing more was said. I had not been asked to sit, and supposed the silence was a hint that I must quit the room. Before I had got far, a servant came and said I was to go back to it. Mrs. Paler was alone then, looking very solemn and dark.

"Miss Hereford, you have been reared in seclusion, mostly in school, and probably know little of the convenances—the exactions of social life. Do not be offended if I set you right upon a point—I have no doubt you have erred, not from want of respect, but from lack of knowledge."

What had I done? of course I said I should be obliged to her to set me right in anything when found wrong.

"You are a governess; you hold a dependent situation in my house. Is it not so?"

"Certainly it is," I answered, wondering much.

"Then never forget that a certain amount of respect in manner is due to myself and to Mr. Paler. I do not, of course, wish to exact the deference a servant would give—you must understand that; but there's a medium: a medium, Miss Hereford. To you, I and Mr. Paler are 'madam' and 'sir,' and I beg that we may be always addressed as such."

I curtsied and turned away, the burning colour dyeing my face. It was my first lesson in dependence. But Mrs. Paler was right; and I felt vexed to have forgotten that I was only a governess. Misplaced rebellion rose in my heart, whispering that I was a lady born; that my family was far higher in the social world than Mr. or Mrs. Paler's; whispering, moreover, that that lady was not a gentlewoman, and never could be one. But after a few minutes spent in sober reflection, common sense chased away my foolish thoughts, leaving in place a firm resolution never so to transgress again. From that hour, I took up my position bravely—the yielding, dependent, submissive governess.

But what a life of toil I entered upon! and—where were my dreams of Paris? Have you forgotten that they had visited me, in all their beautiful delusion? I had not. Delusive hopes are always the sweetest.

When I had stayed three months at Mrs. Paler's I had never once been into Paris further than the Champs ElysÉes. Save that we went every Sunday morning in a closed carriage to the Ambassador's chapel, I saw nothing of Paris. The streets may have been of crystal, the fountains of malachite marble, the houses of burnished gold, for all I witnessed of them—and I believe my warm imagination had pictured something of the like resplendence. There was no pleasure for me; no going out; my days were one lasting scene of toil.

I am not going to complain unjustly of Mrs. Paler's situation, or make it out worse than it was. It has become much the fashion of late years—I may say a mania—to set forth the sorrows and ill-treatment that governesses have to endure: were the other side of the question to be taken up, it might be seen that ladies have as much to bear from governesses. There are good places and there are bad ones; and there are admirable governesses, as well as undesirable and most incapable ones: perhaps the good and bad, on both sides are about balanced. I was well-treated at Mr. Paler's; I had a generous diet, and a maid to wait upon me in conjunction with the two elder girls. When they had visitors in an evening, I was admitted on an equality (at any rate to appearance); I had respect paid me by the servants; and I was not found fault with by Mr. and Mrs. Paler. Could I desire better than this? No. But I was overworked.

Put it to yourselves what it was, if you have any experience in teaching. Five girls, all in different stages of advancement, to learn everything, from German and good English down to needle-work. The worst task was the music; the drawing lessons I could give conjointly. All five learnt it, piano and harp, and two of them, the second and the youngest but one, were so wild and unsteady that they could not be trusted to practise one instant alone. I rose every morning at half-past six to begin the music lessons, and I was usually up until twelve or one o'clock the next morning correcting exercises, for I could not find time to do them during the day. "Make time," says somebody. I could only have made it by neglecting the children.

"Our last governess never did a thing after six in the evening," Kate said to me one day. "You should not be so particular, Miss Hereford."

"But she did not get you on to your mamma's satisfaction."

"No, indeed: mamma sent her away because of that. She did not care whether we advanced or not. All she cared for was to get the studies over anyhow."

Just so: it had been eye-service, as I could have told by their ignorance when I took the girls in hand. My dear mother had enjoined me differently: "Whatever you undertake, Anne, let it be done to the very best of your ability: do it as to God; as though His eye and ear were ever present with you."

I appealed to Mrs. Paler: telling her I could not continue to work as I was doing, and asking what could be done.

"Oh, nonsense, Miss Hereford, you must be a bad economizer of time," she answered. "The other governesses I have had did not complain of being overworked."

"But, madam, did they do their duty?"

"Middling for that—but then they were incorrigibly lazy. We are quite satisfied with you, Miss Hereford, and you must manage your time so as to afford yourself more leisure."

I suggested to Mrs. Paler that she should get help for part of the music lessons, but she would not hear of it; so I had to go on doing my best; but to do that best overtaxed my strength sadly. Mrs. Paler might have had more consideration: she saw that I rarely went out; one hurried walk in the week, perhaps, and the drive to church on Sunday. My pupils walked out every day, taken by one or other of the servants; but they did not go together: two or three stayed with me while the rest went, and when they came back to me these went. Mrs. Paler insisted upon my giving an hour of music to each child daily, which made five hours a day for music alone. The confinement and the hard work, perhaps the broken spirits, began to tell upon me; nervous headaches came on, and I wrote to the Miss Barlieus, asking what I should do. I wrote the letter on a Sunday, I am sorry to say, failing time on a week day. None of us went abroad on a Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Paler protested that nothing but sin and gallivanting was to be seen out of doors on a French Sunday; and once home from church we were shut up for the rest of the day. She did not go out herself, or suffer anybody else to go; Mr. Paler excepted. He took the reins into his own hands.

The Miss Barlieus answered me sensibly; it was Miss Annette who wrote. "Put up with it to the close of your year from the time of entrance," she said. "It is never well for a governess to leave her situation before the year is up, if it can be avoided; and were you to do so, some ladies might urge it as an objection to making another engagement with you. You are but young still. Give Mrs. Paler ample notice, three months, we believe, is the English usage—and endeavour to part with her amicably. She must see that her situation is beyond your strength."

I took the advice, and in June gave Mrs. Paler warning to leave, having entered her house in September. She was angry, and affected to believe I would not go. I respectfully asked her to put herself in idea in my place, and candidly say whether or not the work was too hard. She muttered something about "over-conscientiousness;" that I should get along better without it. Nothing more was said; nothing satisfactory decided, and the time went on again to the approach of September. I wondered how I must set about looking out for another asylum; I had no time to look out, no opportunity to go abroad. Mr. Paler was in England.

"Miss Hereford, mamma told me to say that we shall be expected in the drawing-room to-night; you, and I, and Harriet," observed Kate Paler to me one hot summer's day. "The Gordons are coming and the De Mellissies."

"What De Mellissies are those?" I inquired, the name striking upon my ear with a thrill of remembrance.

"What De Mellissies are those? why, the De Mellissies," returned Kate, girl-fashion. "She is young and very pretty; I saw her when I was out with mamma in the carriage the other day."

"Is she English or French?"

"English, I'll vow. No French tongue could speak English as she does."

"When you answer in that free, abrupt manner, Kate, you greatly displease me," I interposed. "It is most unladylike."

Kate laughed; said she was free-spoken by nature, and it was of no use trying to be otherwise. By habit more than by nature, I told her: and I waited with impatience for the evening.

It was Emily. I knew her at once. Gay-mannered, laughing, lovely as ever, she came into the room on her husband's arm, wearing a pink silk dress and wreath of roses. Alfred de Mellissie looked ill; at least he was paler and thinner than in the old days at Nulle. She either did not or would not remember me; as the evening drew on, I felt sure that she did not, for she spoke cordially enough to me, though as to an utter stranger. It happened that we were quite alone once, in the recess of a window, and I interrupted what she was saying about a song.

"Have you quite forgotten me, Madame de Mellissie?"

"Forgotten you!" she returned, with a quick glance. "I never knew you, did I?"

"In the years gone by, when you were Miss Chandos. I am Anne Hereford."

A puzzled gaze at me, and then she hid her face in her hands, its penitent expression mixed with laughter. "Never say a word about that naughty time, if you love me! everybody says it should be buried five fathoms deep. I ought to have known you, though, for it is the same gentle face; the sweet and steady eyes, with the long eyelashes, and the honest good sense and the pretty smile. But you have grown out of all knowledge. Not that you are much of a size now. What an escapade that was! the staid Demoiselles Barlieu will never get over it. I shall go and beg their pardon in person some day. Were you shocked at it?"

"Yes. But has it brought you happiness?"

"Who talks of happiness at soirÉes? You must be as unsophisticated as ever, Anne Hereford. Has that Johnstone left?"

"A long, long while ago. She was dismissed at the end of a few months. The Miss Barlieus did not like her."

"I don't know who could like her. And so you are a governess?"

"Yes," I bravely avowed. "I have been nearly a year with the Miss Palers."

"You must get leave to come and see me. Alfred, here's an old schoolfellow of mine. I daresay you will remember her."

M. de Mellissie came at the call, and was talking to me for the rest of the evening.

The great things that a night may bring forth! The sadness that the rising of another sun may be bearing to us on its hot wings!

It was the morning following the soirÉe. I was in the schoolroom with the girls, but quitted it for a minute to read a letter in peace that arrived by the early post. It was written by Miss Barlieu. A very kind letter, telling me to go back to them while I looked out for a fresh situation, should I not get one before leaving Mrs. Paler. Suddenly the door opened, and Mrs. Paler came in without any ceremony of knocking, her face white, and an open letter in her hand. She looked scared, fierce; agitation impeding her free utterance.

"Here's news!" she brought out at length, her voice rising to a scream; "here's news to come upon me like a thunderbolt! Does he expect me to live through it?"

"Oh, Mrs. Paler, what has happened? You look ill and terrified. You have had bad tidings! Will you not tell them to me?"

"What else have I come for but to tell you?" she retorted, speaking in a tone that betrayed as much anger as distress. "I went to the study after you, and frightened the girls; they were for following me here, so I locked them in. I must tell some one, or my feelings will burst bounds; they always were of a demonstrative nature. Not like his, the sly, quiet fox!"

My fears flew to Mr. Paler. He had been in England some time now, ever since the middle of May. Though I did not understand her anger, or the last words.

"You have heard from Mr. Paler, madam!" I uttered. "Some harm has happened to him!"

"Harm! yes, it has. Harm to me and my children, though, more than to him. Miss Hereford, he has just gone and ruined himself."

"How?" I asked, feeling grieved and puzzled.

"It was always his mania, that turf-gambling, and as a young man he got out of thousands at it. I thought how it would be—I declare I did—when he became restless here in Paris, just before the Epsom Meeting, and at last went off to it. 'You'll drop some hundreds over it, if you do go,' I said to him. 'Not I,' was his retort, 'since I have had children to drop hundreds over, I don't spare them for racehorses.' A wicked, reckless man!"

"And has he—dropped the hundreds, madam?"

"Hundreds!" she shrieked; and then, looking covertly around the roof, as if fearful others might be listening, she sunk her voice to a whisper: "He has lost thirty thousand pounds."

"Oh!" I exclaimed, in my horror. Mrs. Paler wrung her hands.

"Thirty thousand pounds, every pound of it—and I hope remorse will haunt him to his dying day! Epsom, Ascot, Goodwood—I know not how many other courses he has visited this summer, and has betted frantically at all. The mania was upon him again, and he could not stop himself. He is lying ill now at Doncaster, at one of the inns there, and his brother writes; he tells me they dare not conceal the facts from me any longer."

"Shall you not go over to him, madam?"

"I go over to him!" she retorted; "I would not go to him if he were dying. But that my children are his, I would never live with him again; I would never notice him: I would get a divorce if practicable, but for their sakes. You look shocked, Miss Hereford; but you, an unmarried girl, cannot realize the blow in all its extent. Do you think a man has any right wilfully to bring disgrace and misery upon his wife and children?"

"Oh, madam—no!"

"It is my punishment come home to me," she wildly exclaimed. "They told me how it would be, sooner or later, if I persisted in marrying James Paler: but I would not listen to them. My mother and sisters will say it serves me right."

I heard the children squealing and kicking at the schoolroom door, and did not dare to go to them.

"It is next door to ruin," said Mrs. Paler; "it will take from us more than half our income; and present debt and embarrassment it must bring. Ah! see how some things—trifles—happen sometimes for the best! I thought it a great misfortune to lose you, but I am glad of it now, for I am sure I can no longer afford an expensive governess. Nor many servants, either. Oh, woe's me!"

I stood looking at her distress with great pity, feeling that Mr. Paler must be next kin to a madman. And yet I had liked him: he was most affectionate to his children, and solicitous for the comfort of his household. Mrs. Paler seemed to become suddenly awake to the uproar. She darted to the schoolroom, scolded one, boxed another, locked the door upon them again, and came back to me.

"I had better settle things with you at once, Miss Hereford. If I take it in my head, I may go off to my family in England at a minute's notice; there's no knowing. Your time here will expire in a fortnight?"

"Yes."

"I had intended to offer an increased salary, if you would stay on—but that's all out of the question now. I suppose you have no settled plans; no fresh situation to go to?"

"Madam, it has not been in my power to look out for one."

"True. Yet it is better that you should go. I don't know what may become of us in future: where we shall live, or what we shall do—perhaps go to some obscure place in Germany, or Scotland, or Wales, and economize: anywhere, that it's cheap. I wonder that such men, who deliberately bring ruin on their families, are permitted to live! But now we must try and find you another situation."

"Perhaps Madame de Mellissie may know of something: and I think she would interest herself for me, if I knew how to see her."

"You can go and see her," replied Mrs. Paler, "you can go to-day, and call upon her. My maid shall take you. Never mind the studies: I feel as if I should not care if the girls never learnt anything again—with this blow upon them."

I did not wait for a second permission: the thought that Emily de Mellissie might help me to a fresh situation had been floating in my mind all night. She was well-connected in England; she was in the best society in Paris; and she was good-natured.

In the afternoon I proceeded to the hotel (as it was called) of old Madame de Mellissie, for it was her house, and her son and daughter-in-law lived with her. Emily was at home, surrounded by morning callers, quite a crowd of them. She looked intensely surprised at seeing me; was, or I fancied it, rather distant and haughty in manner; and, pointing to a chair, desired me to wait. Did she deem I had presumptuously intruded as one of those morning callers? Very humbly I waited until the last had gone: schooling myself to remember that I was but a poor governess, while she was Madame Alfred de Mellissie, nÉe Miss Chandos of Chandos.

"And so you have soon come to pay me a visit, Miss Hereford!"

"I have come as a petitioner, rather than as a visitor, Madame de Mellissie. Can you spare me five minutes?"

"I can spare you ten if you like, now those loungers are gone."

I forthwith told my tale. That I was leaving Mrs. Paler's, where I was overworked: that I had thought it possible she might know of some situation open: if so, would she kindly recommend me?

"The idea, Anne Hereford, of your coming to me upon such an errand!" was her laughing answer. "As if I troubled myself about vacant situations! There is a rumour current in Paris this morning that James Paler has been idiot enough to go and ruin himself on the turf. That he has lost a great deal of money is certain, for the newspapers allude to it in a manner not to be mistaken. Thank goodness, Alfred has no weakness that way, though he is empty-headed enough. Is it not a dreadful life, that of a governess?"

"At Mrs. Paler's it has been one of incessant toil. I hope to go where the duties will be lighter. It is not the life I like, or would have chosen; but I must bend to circumstances."

"That's true enough. I will ask all my friends in Paris if they——by the way," she abruptly broke off, speaking with slow deliberation, "I wonder whether—if you should be found suitable—whether you would like something else?"

I made no reply; only waited for her to explain herself.

"The case is this, Miss Hereford," she resumed, assuming a light manner. "I thought of going to Chandos on a visit; my husband was to have conducted me thither, but Madame de Mellissie has been ailing, and Alfred says it would not do for him to leave her. This morning we had a dispute over it. 'There's nothing much amiss with her,' I said; 'were she in danger, it would be a different matter, but it's quite unreasonable to keep me away from Chandos for nothing but this.' Monsieur Alfred grew vexed, said he should not quit her, and moreover, did not himself feel well enough to travel—for he has a sort of French fever hanging over him. They are always getting it, you know. I am sick of hearing one say to another, 'J'ai fiÈvre aujourd'hui!' Then I said I should go without him: 'With great pleasure,' he complacently replied, provided I would engage a lady as companion, but he should not trust me alone. Complimentary to my discretion, was it not?"

I could not deny it—in a certain sense.

"But the bargain was made; it was indeed. I am to look out for a companion, and then I may be off the next hour to England; destination Chandos. Would you like to take the place?"

A thousand thoughts flew over me at the abrupt question crowding my mind, dyeing my cheeks. The prospect, at the first glance, appeared like a haven of rest after Mrs. Paler's. But—what would be my duties?—and was I, a comparative child, fit for the post? Should I be deemed fit by Monsieur de Mellissie?

"What should I have to do?" I asked.

"Anything I please," she answered. "You must amuse me when I am tired, read to me when I feel inclined to listen, play to me when I wish, be ready to go out when I want you, give orders to my maid for me, write my letters when I am too idle to do it, and post yourself at my side to play propriety between this and Chandos. Those are the onerous duties of a dame de compagnie, are they not? but I have no experience in the matter. Could you undertake them?"

She spoke all this curiously, in a haughty tone, but with a smile on her face. I did not know how to take it. "Are you speaking seriously, Madame de Mellissie?"

"Of course I am. Stay, though. About the payment? I could not afford to give much, for my purse has a hole at both ends of it, and I am dreadfully poor. I suppose you have had a high salary at Mrs. Paler's?"

"Sixty guineas."

"Oh, don't talk of it!" she exclaimed, stopping her ears. "I wish I could give it; but I never could squeeze out more than twenty. Anne, I will make a bargain with you: go with me to Chandos, stay with me during my visit there; it will not last above a week or two; and when we return here, I will get you a more lucrative situation. For the time you are with me, I will give you what I can afford, and of course pay your travelling expenses!"

With the word. "Anne," she had gone back to the old familiar manner of our school-days. I accepted the offer willingly, subject, of course, to the approval of Monsieur de Mellissie; and feeling very doubtful in my own mind whether it would be carried out. As to the payment—what she said seemed reasonable enough, and money wore but little value in my eyes: I had not then found out its uses. Provided I had enough for my ordinary wants of dress, it was all I cared for; and a large sum was due to me from Mrs. Paler.

Somewhat to my surprise, M. de Mellissie approved of me as his wife's companion, paying me a compliment on the occasion. "You are young, Mademoiselle Hereford, but I can see you are one fully to be trusted: I confide my wife to you."

"I will do what I can, sir."

"You laugh at my saying that thing," he said, speaking in his sometimes rather odd English. "You think my wife can better take care of you, than you of her."

"I am younger than she is."

"That goes without telling, Mademoiselle. You look it. The case is this," he added, in a confidential tone. "It is not that my wife wants protection on her journey; she has her femme de chambre; but because I do not think they would like to see her arrive alone at Chandos. My lady is difficile."

The permission to depart accorded, Madame de Mellissie was all impatience to set off. I bought a dress or two, but she would not allow me time to get them made, and I had to take them unmade. Though I was going to Chandos as a humble companion, I could not forget that my birth would have entitled me to go as a visitor, and wished to dress accordingly.

The foolish girl that I was! I spent my money down to one Napoleon and some silver; it was not very much I had by me; and then Mrs. Paler, to my intense consternation, told me it was not convenient to pay me my salary.

She owed me thirty guineas. I had received the first thirty at the termination of the half-year: it was all spent, including what I had laid out now. I appealed to Mrs. Paler's good feeling, showing my needy state. In return she appealed to mine.

"My dear Miss Hereford, I have not got it. Until remittances shall reach me from Mr. Paler, I am very short. You do not require money for your journey, Madame Alfred de Mellissie pays all that, and I will remit it to you ere you have been many days at Chandos. You will not, I am sure, object so far to oblige a poor distressed woman."

What answer could I give?

On a lovely September morning we started for Boulogne-sur-Mer, Madame Alfred de Mellissie, I, and her maid Pauline. M. de Mellissie saw us off at the station.

"I would have run down to Boulogne to put you on board the boat, but that I do not feel well enough; my fever is very bad to-day," he said to me and his wife. She took no notice of the words, but I saw they were true: his pale thin face had a hectic red upon it, his hand, meeting mine in the adieu, burnt me through my glove.

"Madame de Mellissie, your husband certainly has an attack of fever," I said, as the train started.

"Ah, yes, no doubt; the French, as I previously observed, are subject to it. But it never comes to anything."