Elizabeth

I'm not crying, answered Ermengarde in a muffled, unsteady voice.

And she turned her plump back and took out her handkerchief and boldly hid her face in it.

That night, when Sarah went to her attic, she was later than usual.

She had been kept at work until after the hour at which the pupils went to bed, and after that, she had gone to her lessons in the lonely schoolroom.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she was surprised to see a glimmer of light coming from under the attic door.

Nobody goes there but myself, she thought quickly.

Someone has lighted a candle.

Someone had indeed lighted a candle, and it was not burning in the kitchen candlestick she was expected to use, but in one of those belonging to the pupils' bedrooms.

The someone was sitting upon the battered footstool and was dressed in her nightgown and wrapped up in a red shawl.

It was Ermengarde.

Ermengarde!

cried Sarah.

She was so startled that she was almost frightened.

Ermengarde stumbled up from her footstool.

She shuffled across the attic in her bedroom slippers, which were too large for her.

Her eyes and nose were pink with crying.

Something in her voice made the familiar lump rise in Sarah's throat.

It was so affectionate and simple, so like the old ermengarde who had asked her to be best friends.

It sounded as if she had not meant what she had seemed to mean during these past weeks.

I do like you, Sarah answered.