“You have seen her mother,” said Mrs Willis—“Do you remember your favourite pupil, Helen Anstey, of long ago?”
“Ah! indeed—indeed! I shall never forget Helen. And are you her child, little one?”
But Hester’s face had grown white. The solemn service in the chapel, joined to all the excitement and anxieties of the day, had strung up her sensitive nerves to a pitch higher than she could endure. Suddenly, as the vicar spoke to her, and Mrs Willis looked kindly down at her new pupil, the chapel seemed to reel round, the pupils one by one disappeared, and the tired girl only saved herself from fainting by a sudden burst of tears.
“Oh, I am unhappy,” she sobbed, “without my mother! Please, please, don’t talk to me about my mother.”
She could scarcely take in the gentle words which her two friends said to her, and she hardly noticed when Mrs Willis did such a wonderful thing as to stoop down and kiss a second time the lips of a new pupil.
Finally she found herself consigned to Miss Danesbury’s care, who hurried her off to her room, and helped her to undress and tucked her into her little bed.
“Now, love, you shall have some hot gruel. No, not a word. You ate little or no tea, to-night—I watched you from my distant table. Half your loneliness is caused by want of food—I know it, my love; I am a very practical person. Now, eat your gruel, and then shut your eyes and go to sleep.”
“You are very kind to me,” said Hester, “and so is Mrs Willis, and so is Mr Everard, and I like Cecil Temple—but, oh. I wish Annie Forest was not in the school!”
“Hush, my dear, I implore of you. You pain me by these words. I am quite confident that Annie will be your best friend yet.”
Hester’s lips said nothing, but her eyes answered “Never” as plainly as eyes could speak.