Do you remember the day we did them under Fraeulein's very nose?
And here are all our old books, too.

Look, Helen, the Roman history with your wicked drawings on the fly-leaves: Tullia driving over her poor old father, and Cornelia--ironic little wretch you were even then--what a prig she is with her jewels! And what splendid butter-scotch you used to make over the fire on winter evenings.' Helen remembered everything, smiling as she followed Gerald about the room and looked at ruthless Tullia; and Althea, watching them, was touched--for them, and then, with a little counter-stroke of memory, for herself.

She remembered her old home too--the dignified old house in steep Chestnut Street, and the little house on the blue Massachusetts coast where she had often passed long days playing by herself, for she had been an only child.

She loved it here, for it was like a home, peaceful and sheltering; but where in all the world had she really a home?
Where in all the world did she belong?
The thought brought tears to her eyes as she looked out of the schoolroom window and listened to Gerald and Helen.

It had ended, of course, for of course it had really begun, in Althea's decision to take Merriston House.