She sat down herself, and Ermengarde stood before her. Her face was pale, her voice shook.
"Ermengarde, will you now repeat your imposition poem."
"Casabianca," said Ermengarde. She had felt a vague sense of uneasiness at Miss Nelson's manner. Now her brow cleared. She recited the whole poem with scarcely a mistake, and with some show of feeling.
"You have said it well," said the governess. "It relates the extraordinary exploit of a noble-hearted child. I grieve to say there are few such in the world. May I ask you when you learned this poem, Ermengarde?"
"Yesterday——" began Ermengarde.
"No, don't go on. I will save you, I must save you, poor child, from yourself. You would tell another lie. You would deceive again. Ermie, I have loved you. I—I—have suffered for you."
"I don't know what you mean," said Ermengarde, in a voice which shook with anger. "Am I to be—are dreadful things to be said of me? Why do you accuse me of telling lies? Why?"
"No more, my dear pupil. For, notwithstanding your refractory and rebellious state, you are still my dear pupil."
"You are not my dear teacher, there!"
"Hush, I cannot permit impertinence! Ermengarde, I did not look for open and direct disobedience from you. You are full of faults, but I did not think deceit was one of them. I have found out about your drive yesterday."