“I have a headache,” said Augusta.
“Are you really ill, Augusta? I am sorry.”
“I am not ill, but I have a headache. I had bad dreams last night.”
“And you never got into bed at all.”
“I fell asleep, and my dreams were troublesome. I can’t get up yet. No, I won’t have any breakfast. I wish I hadn’t come; I don’t like this place.”
I knelt down by the bed and took her hand.
“You know that your mother and your uncle wouldn’t have made such an effort to send you here if they didn’t think it would be for your good,” I said. “Do try and like it.”
There was a new tone in my voice. I really felt sorry for her. She raised her head and fixed her dark eyes on my face.
“Do you think your father would like it?”
“I am sure he would, Augusta,” I said; and an idea flashed through my brain. I would write that very day to my step-mother and beg her to get my father to send Augusta a message. The slightest word from him would control her life; she would work hard at her French, her German, hard at manners, refinement—at everything—if only he would give her the clue. Surely my step-mother would manage it.