"You aint an ordinary girl, Miss Christian."
"Well, perhaps I am not."
"You always was cut out for the part of heroine," continued Rose; "anyone could see that with half an eye. Why, haven't you been William Tell and Joan of Arc and Charlotte Corday for ever so long? And afore that you were fairy queens and fairy princesses, and witches, and such-like. You're cut for the part, miss, and now the time has come."
"It has," said Christian, whose heart was beating fast. "We must think out most of our plans before we go to sleep."
The two girls did think. They were both far too excited to feel sleepy. Their voices kept on murmuring in an even, monotonous sound, which could scarcely penetrate through the closed door of Christian's bedroom.
After a fashion they made their plans. What Christian had only wildly dreamt of became definite and something that could be done. Seven pounds was seven pounds, and judiciously spent—spent, too, by a girl of the Rosy sort, a girl who knew poverty and how to live very small and very cheap—it would certainly go a long way.
Strange to say, Christian's conscience did not trouble her. She had been thoroughly well brought up, but her heart was sore now. Her mother had spoken almost coldly about parting with her one lonely girl. She, Christian, was to be sent to an awful strict-discipline school, where she had to stay for years and years, away from all those she loved in the world. She would take her life into her own hands; she would do a desperate, wicked thing, and she would not let her conscience prick her.
"We will do it," she said over and over again to Rosy. "You, Rosy, must find out where it is best for us to go, and then you must come and tell me everything."
"I will," replied Rosy. "I know a girl called Judith, and I think she will help us. Once she spent a whole winter in a gypsy's caravan. She did enjoy herself. She had a fine time, and she had to spend nothing at all. But they had to dye her with walnut juice; maybe you wouldn't like that, Miss Christian."