But where was the enthusiasm, where the go, the fire, the pathos, of her delivery a week ago? Her voice shook with emotion then; she forgot herself in the grandeur of the scene. Now she thought only of herself—or rather she thought only of that awful hour to-night when all would be known, and she would be disgraced and made miserable forever.
The book suddenly dropped from her hand; she burst into tears.
"I'm not well; I can't do it," she said.
By this frank admission she saved herself from censure. The professor muttered an apology, looked at Miss Peacock as much as to say, "Don't judge her by this ignominious failure," and went on with the lesson.
Star Lestrange was then asked to read the page aloud, and she did so with as much fire and interest as she was capable of.
Christian resumed her seat in the class, and buried her head in her hands. When the professor's hour was over Miss Peacock went up to her and asked if she would like to rest in the library.
"You are not fit for lessons," she said; "you have a bad headache. What can be the matter?"
"My head does ache, but I am quite well. I did not sleep last night; that is the reason. There is really nothing the matter. I would rather go on with my lessons please."
"You are not fit for them, dear. Obey me. There is perfect quiet in the library at present; go there and sleep. If you go, I promise that you shall not be disturbed until dinner-time."
Christian went away at once. The library was a very pleasant apartment, given over partly to the use of the elder girls and partly to the teachers. Christian entered it, sought a chair by the fire, and lay back in it, soothed for the time being by the stillness and the sleepy crackle of the flames. She was just dozing off into real sleep when a girl entered and said: