Once more, the tell-tale lines began to harden in the governess's face.

She lay back again in her chair.

Her fingers irritably platted and unplatted the edge of her black apron.
Carmina was too deeply absorbed in her thoughts, too eagerly bent on giving them expression, to notice these warning signs.
"I have all my mother's letters to my father," she went on, "when he was away from her on his sketching excursions, You have still a little time to spare--I should so like to read some of them to you.

I was reading one, last night--which perhaps accounts for my dream?
It is on a subject that interests everybody.

In my father's absence, a very dear friend of his met with a misfortune; and my mother had to prepare his wife to hear the bad news--oh, that reminds me! There is something I want to say to you first." "About yourself ?" Miss Minerva asked.
"About Ovid.