"I don't believe you'll ever drive her," said Miss Delicia. "I know that sort of character. It's only hardened when it's driven.""Couldn't you write to father, Mrs. Freeman, and tell him that I am not happy? Say, 'Biddy is not happy, and she wants to go back to you and the dogs.' If you say that, he'll let me come home fast enough. You might write by the next post, and father, he'd jump on the jaunting-car and drive into Ballyshannon, and send you a wire. If papa wires to you, Mrs. Freeman, the very moment he gets your letter, I may perhaps be home on Sunday."
She was beginning to collect her somewhat scattered thoughts, when the door was opened suddenly, and, to her surprise, Mrs. Freeman came into the room.
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Evelyn Percival, the head girl of the school, was now between seventeen and eighteen years of age. She was a rather pale, rather plain girl; her forehead was broad and low, which gave indications of thoughtfulness more than originality; her wide open gray eyes had a singularly sweet expression; they were surrounded by dark eyelashes, and were the best features in a face which otherwise might have appeared almost insignificant.
"But why will you dislike our dear Evelyn?""What?" said Katie, her eyes growing big with fascination and alarm.
Mrs. Freeman breathed a sigh of relief.A flash of self-pity filled her eyes, but there was some consolation in reflecting on the fact that no one could force her to eat against her will.Miss Percival's accident, and Bridget O'Hara's share in it, were the subjects of conversation not only that night, but the next morning.
"I shall look to you to help me with this wild Irish girl," she said with a smile. "Now, go to your lessons, my dear."
"But Mrs. Freeman wants you to go to bed early to-night."
Bridget slipped her hand into her pocket, and pulled out an exquisitely embossed vinaigrette.
She stepped out of the open window, and walked rapidly across the wide gravel sweep.