I got up from my seat—Miss Aspinall had not kept me standing—and went upstairs again to my room, where I stayed for the rest of the evening, my supper—a cup of milk and a piece of dry bread—being brought me by a servant, and with it a message that I was to undress and go to bed, which I was not sorry to do.
I lay there, not asleep, and still burning with indignation, when Harriet came up to bed. She had not been told not to speak to me, very likely the teachers thought I would be asleep, and she was very curious to know what had passed. I told her all. She was very sympathising, but at the same time she thought it a pity I had lost my temper with Miss Aspinall.
"I don't know how you'll get on now," she said, "with both her and Miss Broom so against you. You should just not have minded—like Emma said."
"Not mind her saying I told stories!" I burst out. Harriet did not seem to think there was anything specially annoying in that. "Well," I went on, "I mind it, whether you do or not. And I'm going to mind it. I shall write to mamma and tell her I can't stay here any more, and I'm sure when she hears it she'll do something. She won't let me stay here. Or—or—perhaps father will fix to come home again and not stay as long as two years there."
"I don't think he'll do that," said Harriet mysteriously.
"What do you mean? What do you know about it?" I asked, for something in her voice struck me.
"Oh, nothing—I shouldn't have said it—it was only something I heard," she replied, looking rather confused.
"Something you heard," I repeated, starting up in bed and catching hold of her. "Then you must tell me. Do you mean there's been letters or news about father and mamma that I don't know about?"
"No, no," said Harriet. "Of course not."