"But Miss Morton, that Miss Morton," exclaimed Lucy. "I am quite in earnest, Margaret; you may talk for ever, you may go down upon your knees to me, and I will never agree to go if she does."
"Dear Lucy," said Margaret, covering her with kisses, and speaking in her most persuasive voice, "you know how much I love you, and how miserable I shall be without you; you are only saying this in joke, I am sure."
"You may be sure of anything you like, it does not signify to me; nothing can make me change."
"But you will not care when those girls are gone away," said Margaret; "you are merely vexed because they are so rude."
"Vexed!" repeated Miss Cunningham; "when did I say I was vexed? who cares for school-girls? how can they know good music from bad?"
"No, to be sure not," said Margaret; "and Julia Stanley cannot tell a note."
"I never knew that," exclaimed Lucy, rather pacified. "How foolish she would have looked, if I had asked her to sit down and play it better."
"I wish you had done it, with all my heart," said Margaret; "but it is not too late now: they are here still,—let us go into the schoolroom and say something. I should enjoy making her ashamed of herself, and we shall not have another opportunity; for, as you observe, there is no chance of meeting her in London."
Margaret waited anxiously to hear what effect her words would have, and to remark whether the mention of London would bring back the thought of Emily Morton. But Miss Cunningham had now seized upon this new idea, and forgot that her indignation had been excited by any one but Julia. "Are they all there?" she said; "half the pleasure would be gone, if there was no one by."
"They were all there when I came to you," replied Margaret; "but we must make haste, for Dora was wishing to take them round to the farther side of the lake this morning, because it is the only part of the grounds they have not seen."