This must have meant something, for Miss Murray bewailed her unhappy fate, whilst William doggedly sat down by the table, across which he darted surly glances at me.
"I do not mean to reproach the memory of my dearest brother," feelingly began Miss Murray, "but really if he had had any consideration for me, and my weak state, he ought to have taken more care of himself, and tried to live longer. William, what do you mean by those atrocious grimaces?"
"I wish she wouldn't;" said William, whose features worked in a very extraordinary manner; "I wish she wouldn't."
Miss Murray followed the direction of his glance, and looked round to where I sat a little behind her.
"I declare the unfortunate child is crying," she exclaimed, in a tone of distress,—"sobbing too! William, ring the bell,—call Abby. My dear, how can you? Oh! Abby, Abby," she added, as the door opened, and Abby entered, "look—is there no way of stopping that?"
"Doesn't she cry though?" observed Abby, astonished.
I had bowed my head on my knees, and I wept and sobbed passionately. Miss Murray, after vainly asking for the means "of stopping that," declared I should go to bed. I made no resistance; Abby took my hand to lead me away; when William, exclaiming, "It's a burning shame, that's what it is," flew at her and attempted a rescue. A scuffle followed, short but decisive. William was ignominiously conquered; he retreated behind the table, his hair in great disorder, his face crimson with shame.
"Oh! the young tiger!" cried Abby, still out of breath with her victory; "that boy will end badly, Ma'am!"
William gave her a look of scorn. Miss Murray, who had wheeled back her chair, from the commencement of the conflict, observed, with feeling reproach, "William, you shall go back to school to-morrow. Abby, put that child to bed; allow me to suggest the passage for your next battle."
Abby slammed the door indignantly, and muttering she would not fight in a passage for any one, she took me to her room, undressed me, and put me to bed. My weeping had not ceased.