Sydney stopped; looked at her good mistress and friend in terror;
and made a confused effort to explain away what she had just
said. As sensibly and kindly self-possessed as ever, Mrs. Linley
told her that she only wanted rest and quiet. "Let me take you to
my room," she proposed. "We will have the sofa moved into the
balcony, and you will soon go to sleep in the delicious warm air.
You may put away your books, Kitty; this is a holiday. Come with
me, and be petted and spoiled by the ladies in the morning-room."

Neither the governess nor the pupil was worthy of the sympathy so
frankly offered to them. Still strangely confused, Sydney made
commonplace apologies and asked leave to go out and walk in the
park. Hearing this, Kitty declared that where her governess went
she would go too. Mrs. Linley smoothed her daughter's pretty
auburn hair, and said, playfully: "I think I ought to be
jealous." To her surprise, Sydney looked up as if the words had
been addressed to herself "You mustn't be fonder, my dear, of
your governess," Mrs. Linley went on, "than you are of your
mother." She kissed the child, and, rising to go, discovered that
Sydney had moved to another part of the room. She was standing at
the piano, with a page of music in her hand. The page was upside
down--and she had placed herself in a position which concealed
her face. Slow as Mrs. Linley was to doubt any person (more
especially a person who interested her), she left the room with a
vague fear of something wrong, and with a conviction that she
would do well to consult her husband.

Hearing the door close, Sydney looked round. She and Kitty were
alone again; and Kitty was putting away her books without showing
any pleasure at the prospect of a holiday.