On entering the schoolroom we lost our gayety, all in a moment. Something unpleasant had evidently happened.

Two of the eldest¹ girls were sitting together in a corner, separated from the rest, and looking most wickedly sulky. The teachers were at the other end of the room, appearing to be ill at ease. And there, standing² in the midst of them, with his face flushed and his eyes angry—there was papa, sadly unlike his gentle self in the days of his health and happiness. On former occasions, when the exercise of his authority was required in the school, his forbearing temper always set things right. When I saw him now, I thought of what the doctor had said of his health, on my way home from the station.

Papa advanced to us the moment we showed ourselves at the door.

He shook hands—cordially shook hands—with Philip. It was delightful³ to see him, delightful to hear him say: “Pray don’t suppose, Mr. Dunboyne, that you are intruding⁴; remain with us by all means if you like.” Then he spoke⁵ to Helena and to me, still excited, still not like himself: “You couldn’t have come here, my dears, at a time when your presence was more urgently needed.” He turned to the teachers. “Tell my daughters what has happened; tell them why they see me here—shocked and distressed⁶, I don’t deny it.”

We now heard that the two girls in disgrace had broken the rules, and in such a manner as to deserve severe punishment.

One of them had been discovered hiding a novel in her desk. The other had misbehaved herself more seriously still—she had gone to the theater. Instead of expressing any regret, they had actually dared to complain of having to learn papa’s improved catechism. They had even accused him of treating them with severity, because they were poor girls brought up on charity. “If we had been young ladies,” they were audacious enough to say, “more indulgence would have been shown to us; we should have been allowed to read stories and to see plays.”

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