I sat by my dearest Annabel, anxious to light my candle and open my books. She shook the frizzes around her cheeks and buried her hands under the scarlet branch in her lap.
"Do you know, Lazarre Williams, I have to leave you?"
I said I was sorry to hear it.
"Yes, I have to go back to my convent, and drag poor Miss Chantry with me, though she is a heretic and bates the forms of our religion. But she has to submit, and so do I, because my father will have nobody but an English governess."
"Mademoiselle," spoke Miss Chantry, "I would suggest that you sit on a chair by yourself."
"What, on one of those little crowded chairs?" said Annabel.
She reached out her sly hand for mine and drew it under cover of the sumach branch.
"I have been thinking about your rank a great deal, Lazarre Williams, and wondering what it is."
"If you thought more about your own it would be better," said Miss Chantry.
"We are Americans here," said Annabel. "All are equal, and some are free. I am only equal. Must your dearest Annabel obey you about the chair, Miss Chantry?"