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‘You are very, very unkind to me, Flossie!’ she sobbed.

‘I!’ exclaimed Flossie, in a tone of the most innocent surprise. ‘Why, Ella, I thought you would be charmed with it. I’m sure George will. And, you know, it will go beautifully with the rest of your things!’

‘You might understand … you might see—-‘

‘I might see what?’

‘How frightfully miserable I am!’ said Ella, which was the very admission Miss Flossie had been seeking to provoke.

‘Suppose I do see,’ she said; ‘suppose I’ve been trying to get you to act sensibly, Ella?’

‘Then it’s cruel of you!’

‘No it’s not. It’s kind. How am I to help you unless you speak out? I’m younger than you, Ella, but I know this–I would never mope and make myself miserable when a word would put everything right!’

‘But it wouldn’t, Flossie; it is too late to speak now. I can’t tell him how I really feel–I can’t!’

‘Ah, then you own there is something to tell?’

‘What have I said? Flossie, forget what I said; it slipped out. I meant nothing.’

‘And you are perfectly happy and satisfied, are you? Now, I know how people look when they are perfectly happy and satisfied.’

‘It’s no use!’ cried Ella, suddenly. ‘I’ve tried, and tried, and tried to bear it, but I can’t. I must tell somebody … it is making me ill. I am getting cross and wicked, and unlike what I used to be. Flossie, I can’t go and live there–I dread the thought of it; I shrink from it more and more every day! It is all odious, impossible–and yet I must, I must!’

‘No, you mustn’t; and, what’s more, you shan’t!’

‘Flossie, you mean you will tell mother! You must not, do you hear? If you do, it will only make matters worse. Oh, why did I tell you?’ cried Ella, in shame at this lapse from all her heroism. ‘Promise me you will say nothing to mother–it is too late now–promise!’

‘Very well,’ said Flossie reluctantly; ‘then I promise. But, all the same, Ella, I think you’re a great goose!’

‘I didn’t promise I wouldn’t say anything to George, though,’ she reflected; and so, on the very next occasion that she caught him alone, she availed herself of an innocent allusion of his to Ella’s low spirits to give him the benefit of her candid opinion, which was not tempered by any marked consideration for his feelings.

Ella was in the morning-room alone–she had taken to sitting alone lately, brooding over her trials. She was no heroine, after all; her mind, it is to be feared, was far from superior. She was finding out that she had undertaken too heavy a task; she could not console herself for her lost dream of a charmingly appointed house. She might endure to live in such a home as George had made for her; but to be expected to admire it, to let it be understood that it was her handiwork, that she had chosen or approved of it–this was the burden that was crushing her.

Suddenly the door opened and George stood before her. His expression was so altered that she scarcely recognised him; all the cheery buoyancy had vanished, and his stern, set face had a dignity and character in it now that were wanting before.

‘I have just had a talk with Flossie,’ he began; ‘she has shown me what a–what a mistake I’ve been making.’

Ella could not help feeling a certain relief, though she said, ‘It was very wrong of Flossie–she had no right to speak.’

‘She had every right,’ he said. ‘She might have done it more kindly, perhaps, but that’s nothing. Why didn’t you tell me yourself, Ella? You might have trusted me!’

‘I couldn’t–it seemed so cruel, so ungrateful, after all you had done. I hoped you would never know.’

‘It’s well for you, and for me too, that I know this while there’s still time. Ella, I’ve been a blind, blundering fool. I never had a suspicion of this till–till just now, or you don’t think I should have gone on with it a single minute. I came to tell you that you need not make yourself miserable any longer. I will put an end to this–whatever it costs me.’