"By changing dependence, if it be so—but I do not like to call it that—for independence."
And she leant forward, and patted her horse's impatient head, with a look of childish unconcern.
"Then how can you remain here if you have the power to leave?"
"You will think me vain if I tell you," she said, carefully smoothing back the mane, which would get on the wrong side.
"No, no—tell me why? for you make me curious."
"Well, then—I hoped Lucy had some real affection for me—and I thought I might influence her, as I hope I have done—and I was deeply interested in my uncle—for he has been so kind to me—and I like him so much. Besides, had I any right, without good cause, to cast off my aunt's protection, since it was a pledge which she had given to my dear mother. No, I should have had no right to do that, at first—and I could not, had I wished to do it—for I had not spirit then to leave the refuge of the lowest hovel, had it given me shelter. There were many discomforts here, which were yet preferable to being so entirely unprotected, as I soon shall be—we women shrink from the idea of being our own protectors. But I cannot stay much longer where I am unwelcome—a few more thoughts for Lucy—a few more efforts to make them all love me, and then I think I shall go."
"But where will you go?"
"Oh, I have thought of that. There is a school friend of mine—a very dear friend, too, though I have not seen her for many years—she is now, poor thing, a widow—and, young as she is, has a family of six children, almost unprovided for, while she herself is in weak health. Now, I am thinking of offering to go, and live with her, and take charge of her children's education; for, you must know, that my aunt has more than six hundred pounds, which belong to me, the interest of which will furnish all I need, and enable me to do without a salary."