then.”

“Bless your considerate heart!” said the housemaid.

“If you would not mind leaving me, I should not mind being left.  I am not afraid to stay in the house alone.  And you need not be uneasy on my account, for I would be very careful to do no harm.”

“O!  As to harm, you more than sweetest, if not a liberty,” exclaimed the housemaid, in a rapture, “your Bella could trust you anywhere, being so steady, and so answerable.  The oldest head in this house (me and Cook says), but for its bright hair, is Miss Kimmeens.  But no, I will not leave you; for you would think your Bella unkind.”

“But if you are my Bella, you must go,” returned the child.

“Must I?” said the housemaid, rising, on the whole with alacrity.  “What must be, must be, Miss Kimmeens.  Your own poor Bella acts according, though unwilling.  But go or stay, your own poor Bella loves you, Miss Kimmeens.”

It was certainly go, and not stay, for within five minutes Miss Kimmeens’s own poor Bella—so much improved in point of spirits as to have grown almost sanguine on the subject of her brother-in-law—went her way, in apparel that seemed to have been expressly prepared for some festive occasion.  Such are the changes of this fleeting world, and so short-sighted are we poor mortals!

When the house door closed with a bang and a shake, it seemed to Miss Kimmeens to be a very heavy house door, shutting her up in a wilderness of a house.  But, Miss Kimmeens being, as before stated, of a self-reliant and methodical character, presently began to parcel out the long summer-day before her.

And first she thought she would go all over the house, to make quite sure that nobody with a great-coat on and a carving-knife in it, had got under one of the beds or into one of the cupboards.  Not that she had ever before been troubled by the image of anybody armed with a great-coat and a carving-knife, but that it seemed to have been shaken into existence by the shake and the bang of the great street-door, reverberating through the solitary house.  So, little Miss Kimmeens looked under the five empty beds of the five departed pupils, and looked, under her own bed, and looked under Miss Pupford’s bed, and looked under Miss Pupford’s assistants bed.  And when she had done this, and was making the tour of the cupboards, the disagreeable thought came into her young head, What a very alarming thing it would be to find somebody with a mask on, like Guy Fawkes, hiding bolt upright in a corner and pretending not to be alive!  However, Miss Kimmeens having finished her inspection without making any such uncomfortable discovery, sat down in her tidy little manner to needlework, and began stitching away at a great rate.

The silence all about her soon grew very oppressive, and the more so because of the odd inconsistency that the more silent it was, the more noises there were.  The noise of her own needle and thread as she stitched, was infinitely louder in her ears than the stitching of all the six pupils, and of Miss Pupford, and of Miss Pupford’s assistant, all stitching away at once on a highly emulative afternoon.  Then, the schoolroom clock conducted itself in a way in which it had never conducted itself before—fell lame, somehow, and yet persisted in running on as hard and as loud as it could: the consequence of which behaviour was, that it staggered among the minutes in a state of the greatest confusion, and knocked them about in all directions without appearing to get on with its regular work.  Perhaps this alarmed the stairs; but be that as it might, they began to creak in a most unusual manner, and then the furniture began to crack, and then poor little Miss Kimmeens, not liking the furtive aspect of things in general, began to sing as she stitched.  But, it was not her own voice that she heard—it was somebody else making believe to be Kitty, and singing excessively flat, without any heart—so as that would never mend matters, she left off again.

By-and-by the stitching became so palpable a failure that Miss Kitty Kimmeens folded her work neatly, and put it away in its box, and gave it up.  Then the question arose about reading.  But no; the book that was so delightful when there was somebody she loved for her eyes to fall on when they rose from the page, had not more heart in it than her own singing now.  The book went to its shelf as the needlework had gone to its box, and, since something must be done—thought the child, “I’ll go put my room to rights.”

She shared her room with her dearest little friend among the other five pupils, and why then should she now conceive a lurking dread of the little friend’s bedstead?  But she did.  There was a stealthy air about its innocent white curtains, and there were even dark hints of a dead girl lying under the coverlet.  The great want of human company, the great need of a human face, began now to express itself in the facility with which the furniture put on strange exaggerated resemblances to human looks.  A chair with a menacing frown was horribly out of temper in a corner; a most vicious chest of drawers snarled at her from between the windows.  It was no relief to escape from those monsters to the looking-glass, for the reflection said, “What?  Is that you all alone there?  How you stare!”  And the background was all a great void stare as well.

The day dragged on, dragging Kitty with it very slowly by the hair of her head, until it was time to eat.  There were good provisions in the pantry, but their right flavour and relish had evaporated with the five pupils, and Miss Pupford, and Miss Pupford’s assistant, and the cook and housemaid.  Where was the use of laying the cloth symmetrically for one small guest, who had gone on ever since the morning growing smaller and smaller, while the empty house had gone on swelling larger and larger?  The very Grace came out wrong, for who were “we” who were going to receive and be thankful?  So, Miss Kimmeens was not thankful, and found herself taking her dinner in very slovenly style—gobbling it up, in short, rather after the manner of the lower animals, not to particularise the pigs.

But, this was by no means the worst of the change wrought out in the naturally loving and cheery little creature as the solitary day wore on.  She began to brood and be suspicious.  She discovered that she was full of wrongs and injuries.  All the people she knew, got tainted by her lonely thoughts and turned bad.

It was all very well for Papa, a widower in India, to send her home to be educated, and to pay a handsome round sum every year for her to Miss Pupford, and to write charming letters to his darling little daughter; but what did he care for her being left by herself, when he was (as no doubt he always was) enjoying himself in company from morning till night?  Perhaps he only sent her here, after all, to get her out of the way.  It looked like it—looked like it to-day, that is, for she had never dreamed of such a thing before.

And this old pupil who was being married.  It was unsupportably conceited and selfish in the old pupil to be married.  She was very vain, and very glad to show off; but it was highly probable that she wasn’t pretty; and even if she were pretty (which Miss Kimmeens now totally denied), she had no business to be married; and, even if marriage were conceded, she had no business to ask Miss Pupford to her wedding.  As to Miss Pupford, she was too old to go to any wedding.  She ought to know that.  She had much better attend to her business.  She had thought she looked nice in the morning, but she didn’t look nice.  She was a stupid old thing.  G was another stupid old thing.  Miss Pupford’s assistant was another.  They were all stupid old things together.

More than that: it began to be obvious that this was a plot.  They had said to one another, “Never mind Kitty; you get off, and I’ll get off; and we’ll leave Kitty to look after herself.  Who cares