"Why did not Miss Lyster go out with us today?" she asked of another governess.
"She complained of headache, and seemed quite out of spirits," was the reply.
Marion hastened to her; she was of a most loving disposition, this motherless girl—tender and kind of heart, and there was no one for her to love—no father, mother, sister or brother; she was very rich, but quite alone in the world. She hastened to Miss Lyster's room, and found that young lady completely prostrated by what she called a nervous headache.
"You have been crying, Adelaide," said Marion. "It's no use either denying it or turning your head so that I cannot see you. What is the matter?"
"I wish you had not come here, Marion. I did not want you to know my trouble."
"But I must know it," and the girl's arms were clasped around her. She stooped down and kissed the treacherous face. "I must know it," she continued, impetuously; "when I say must, Adelaide, I mean it."
"I dare not tell you—I cannot tell you, Miss Arleigh. It would have been well for my brother had he never seen your face."
"You have heard from him, then—it is about him?" and the fair face flushed.
"Yes, it is about him. I have had a letter from him this morning. He says that he must give up his appointment here and go abroad—that he cannot bear the torture of seeing you; and if he does go abroad, I shall never see him again."
The lips that had been caressing her quivered slightly.