All the time she seemed to Miss Monro to be plodding on with her Italian more diligently and sedately than usual, she was planning in her own mind to speak to her father as soon as he returned (and he had said that he should not be late), and beg him to undo the mischief she had done by seeing Mr.Livingstone the next morning, and frankly explaining the real state of affairs to him.

But she wanted to read her letter again, and think it all over in peace; and so, at an early hour, she wished Miss Monro good-night, and went up into her own room above the drawing-room, and overlooking the flower-garden and shrubbery-path to the stable-yard, by which her father was sure to return.

She went upstairs and studied her letter well, and tried to recall all her speeches and conduct on that miserable evening--as she thought it then--not knowing what true misery was.

Her head ached, and she put out the candle, and went and sat on the window-seat, looking out into the moonlit garden, watching for her father.

She opened the window; partly to cool her forehead, partly to enable her to call down softly when she should see him coming along.