"What a great quantity of bricks you are making, without any straw at all," said Belle, impatiently. "What was it, after all? Annette asked to look at Delia's exercise, and Emily said she was in a hurry, and must go and see to Delia herself. You all know that Delia is sick, and what was more natural than that Emily should want to get back to her?"
"Dear me, what did I say? You need not be so angry, Belle. I am sure I have no ill-will against Emily, but I do think it was odd that she should not want to show that exercise!"
Emily, meanwhile, had escaped to her room. Delia was now sleeping heavily, her head-aches usually going off in this way, so she sat down by the darkened window in silence, and began to consider what she ought to do.
The hasty glance she had taken at the paper, showed her that it was certainly not a French exercise—not Delia's hand writing at all. It was clearly a letter. Emily now saw through several things which had puzzled her very much of late. Delia's great industry in writing her French exercise, which she always copied carefully, and about which she would accept no assistance, though she had always heretofore, been glad to avail herself of Emily's help in her French lessons—her punctuality at recitations, being always in the school-room several minutes before any one else. All these matters now become plain as daylight.
Instead of abandoning her schemes, Delia was prosecuting them with vigor, and holding a close correspondence with her lover in the very face of her schoolmates and teachers. Emily could not but wonder at her boldness.
Then the thought occurred to her, that after all she might be entirely mistaken in the character of the document. It was probably some private paper of Mr. Hugo's, which he had given her by mistake. This seemed such a likely supposition, that she accepted it at once, and was ready to laugh at herself for her fears, but then the Professor's peculiar manner, recurred to her memory, and she was again in doubt. Finally, she wished to take another look and satisfy herself. She opened the paper and glanced at it. There was no mistake! It was clearly a letter, addressed to his beloved Delia, and signed with the Christian name of Mr. Hugo.
She was just folding it again, when the sound of her own name startled her, and looking round, she beheld Delia setting up in bed, and gazing at her with pale cheeks and lips, and eyes that flashed fire.
"How dare you look at my papers?" was the question uttered in a voice of such concentrated anger, that she could hardly believe it to be Delia's.
"What harm is there in looking at your French exercise?" returned Emily, with a presence of mind which surprised herself. "There is nothing private in that, is there?"
Delia recovered herself with a visible effort and said more calmly, "There is no use in our trying to deceive each other, Emily. You have seen now, if you did not know before, that that paper is not an exercise."