"I haven't any present intention of doing so, Bertha dear," replied Irene in a deliberate tone. "Now, Miss Carter, I want to know if you will forgive me. It will help me to be good if you will forgive me. Will you?"

"Then I will," said Miss Carter.

"Then there is only one way to prove it. You must get right up off your bed and come downstairs with me, and let me rest on your arm, and come out with me on to the lawn, where all the children are having their tea, and you and I between us are to offer them bread-and-jam and cakes and biscuits. Will you or will you not?"

"Of course you will, Cartery dear."

"Are you certain that you mean what you say?" said Miss Carter. "I have got a sort of headache."

"Oh no, you haven't," retorted Bertha. "You are always imagining things, Cartery dear."

"Will you come or will you not, Miss Carter?" said Irene. "Is it to be peace or is it to be war? I offer peace now. Do you accept it?"

"I do," said Miss Carter; and she got off her bed, and went downstairs by Irene's side.



CHAPTER XVI.

AT HOME WITH "THE LEAVES."

Nothing could exceed the astonishment of the school children, the Leaves themselves, and even of Rosamund, when they witnessed this sight. Rosamund's first impulse was to fly up to Irene, kiss her passionately, and assure her that she was a darling, and that nothing would induce her ever to forsake her. But on second thoughts she decided that it was best to take no notice. Accordingly, the children pursued their games, for now tea was almost a thing of the past, and Irene found herself enjoying life as she had not yet enjoyed it. Never was any one more daring seen. She was the centre of attraction. From being dreaded, she was adored. Who but she could climb to the very highest branch of the tallest tree? Who but she could swing so high that she seemed almost to turn a somersault in the air before she came down again? Who but she could invent the most daring games? And then, when all other things failed, who but she could tell such weird stories? Her eyes shone; her lips were wreathed in smiles. She looked the very essence of beauty and happiness. Was this the ogre of The Follies, the terrible girl who kept every one away from the place, whom the servants dreaded, whom the governesses fled from?

Both Miss Carter and Miss Frost, standing side by side, watched the young heroine of the hour as she won her way to popularity. What was the matter? What was wrong? Or, rather, who had put wrong right?

Rosamund, who was herself a very gay, resolute, determined girl, kept more or less in the background on this occasion. She wanted Irene, as she said afterward, to win her spurs. The two governesses stood together and talked.

"Of all the wonderful things I have ever seen, the behavior of Irene Ashleigh beats them," said Miss Carter, turning to Miss Frost. "How do you account for it?" she added.

"How do I account for it?" replied Miss Frost. "I account for it because a blessed angel came to the house in the shape of Rosamund Cunliffe, the most splendid girl I have ever met. She came, and showed not a scrap of fear, even though that child—that terrible child—took her into the middle of the stream, just where she took you, you poor thing!"

"Don't speak of it. Don't mention it," began poor Miss Carter, trembling all over.

"Well, she took Rosamund there, and Rosamund was strong and got the upper hand with her at once, and from that hour Irene has been different. It is true she has done terrible things. She behaved almost as badly to me as she did to you."

"Shall we walk down this shrubbery?" said Miss Carter. "The children are all quite happy. Every one who comes to the Rectory is happy, and you can hear by the shouts of the village children that they are in the very acme of bliss. Shall we walk down here and talk together? I have always been so amazed at your remaining on at The Follies, Miss Frost."

"I have a little sister called Agnes, and a little brother Hugh, and they are the dearest little children. They are only my step-brother and sister, of course; but they are to me just as though they were my very own. They depend on me altogether for their maintenance. I buy everything for them. I spend my holidays with them, and they love me. My darlings! They are like my own children. Were I to give up so good a situation my little ones would starve. You understand, Miss Carter, do you not, that under such circumstances one would endure a great deal?"

"But even under such circumstances," said Miss Carter, in astonishment, "I do not think people would put up with Irene Ashleigh as she used to be. Oh, never, never shall I forget how the boat dashed against the rocks! I thought my last moment had come."

"How did you escape drowning, dear?" said Miss Frost. "I never heard that part."

"It is more than I can tell you myself. I suppose I lost consciousness. When I came to myself I was on dry land, and Irene was dragging me back to the house; and then I had a terrible—most terrible—interview with Lady Jane. I told her that I would go at once, that nothing would induce me to stay. She was nearly in despair, and, metaphorically speaking, went on her knees to me. But I remembered my promise to that dreadful child, and stuck to my word. Go I would. I never saw Lady Jane in a temper before, but she was then. She refused to let me have a carriage. She said Irene's conduct was past bearing, and that I ought to stay if only to support her. But I couldn't, for my nerves were frightfully shattered. I went away as quickly as ever I could that very afternoon, intending to send a porter from the railway station for my luggage. Before I got half-way there I nearly fainted, and the dear, kind rector found me on the road. I told him my story, and he brought me home—yes, home, for this is indeed a complete and absolute home to me. I cannot tell you how kind they have been."

"I have lived through my horrors too; but I will not speak about them to-day," said Miss Frost. "Irene is immensely improved. I believe as long as Rosamund remains with her she will be a really good girl. She is making great efforts."

"She is; that is the astonishing part of it," said Miss Carter. "She came up to my room—I will confess to you that I was hiding from her, absolutely hiding, and shaking from head to foot, scarcely knowing what to do—and she came in as bold as brass, and yet with a new sort of humility about her, and she said to me, 'Will you forgive me? And if you forgive me, will you come downstairs and let me put my hand inside your arm?' And somehow, although it was the very last thing on earth that I wanted to do, I did it; and now here I am, and I don't feel nearly so much afraid of her as I used."

"It is all owing to Rosamund," said Miss Frost again. "She is the most wonderful girl I have ever met. I know one of her objects now is that you and I, Irene, herself, and the Singletons should be friends. She means Irene to invite you all over to The Follies to-morrow or the next day, and I hope you will have the courage to come."

"Indeed I don't know how I can. It is one thing to have Irene here; it is another thing to look at that terrible lake and reflect that the boat is at hand. Oh, of course, she will excuse me."

"But I don't think she will. If you come I will look after you, and we will both firmly refuse to go in the boat. It wouldn't hold us all, so there is no fear of that."

"But she is very ingenious. There is no end to her resources."

"At present her mood is different. You and I, who are so much older, ought to try to encourage her; for, after all, she has been a most sadly mismanaged child, allowed even from her earliest days to see that people were afraid of her, and thus the spirit of cruelty gained a strong hold; but there is a great deal of good in her nature."

Miss Carter was called loudly by Maud, who requested her to help the little ones to play Puss-in-the-corner. The group broke up into different detachments, and by-and-by the time came when Rosamund whispered to Irene that it was necessary to order the governess-cart so that they might go home.

"But I am so happy," said Irene, who had been helping some of the little girls to climb up and tumble down cocks of hay, and otherwise disport themselves. "I didn't know other children could be so nice; but I find poor children are much nicer than rich ones. They have no manners, which I detest, and just say what they think. They have been telling me some home-truths, and I have been laughing like anything. I didn't know I was such an ogre; but it is great fun to hear it from the lips of the children."

"We must go home; it is time," said Rosamund. "But before we go, Irene, will you kindly ask the Singletons to come to see us on Thursday? They might come to lunch, and spend the time until after tea. Thus we should have a long afternoon."

"But if they must come, why not to-morrow?" said Irene. "I didn't know that other children could be so charming."

"They can't come to-morrow. We have our music lessons with Mr. Fortescue to-morrow."

"Can't we put him off?"

"Of course we can't. His time is all engaged. Ask them for Thursday, or, if you prefer it, for Saturday. Anyhow, will you ask them?"

"Oh yes, I'll ask them, and for Thursday."

Irene's flushed face, her speaking eyes, her lips apart in smiles, looked such a different creature from the somewhat pale, queerly dressed little inmate of the woods, that Mr. Singleton, who came out at that moment, did not know her.

"Who is this little lady?" he said, going straight up to her and holding out his hand.

"I am the ogre," was Irene's instant response.

This answer amazed Mr. Singleton, but he kept looking at her and smiling.

"I am sure, my dear, that is not your name. You look more like an angel than an ogre."

"But I am the ogre—the ogre of the whole place. I am Irene Ashleigh."

The clergyman's astonishment was seen now on his face. Rosamund hastened to interpose.

"Irene is my friend," she said, "and I think she is going to turn into a very fine sort of woman, if not into an angel. Anyhow, here she is, and I hope you bid her welcome."

"I do most heartily," said Mr. Singleton. "You must come and see us often. I am very glad you have broken the ice at last. What good news," he continued, turning to Rosamund, "this is about your young friend! It is such a relief to the Merrimans that she is getting on so well."

"And a great relief to me," said Rosamund.

Irene moved away to talk to three little red-haired girls, who made a charming group, standing under an oak-tree. She soon had them in fits of laughter; and Mr. Singleton, just glancing at her, spoke again to Rosamund.

"What a miracle you have performed!" he said. "She is a changed creature. But I suppose there is a great deal of the old Adam in her still."

"Yes; but she will change still more. The fact is, she was so terribly naughty because people used to be afraid of her."

"And you are not?"

"I certainly am not."

"My dear, there is something I want to say to you. Do you know that I have had a conversation with Professor Merriman, and he gave me a very queer account of your conduct? He seemed greatly distressed at the way you have behaved."

Rosamund shrugged her shoulders.

"The Merrimans did not suit me," she said. "Life at The Follies does suit me. At the Merrimans' I was growing to be a very naughty girl myself. I could not stand Lucy, although I liked the Professor; and I liked Laura Everett and one or two of the other girls. But at The Follies, you see for yourself, rector, I have done no harm."

"Harm! Indeed, you have done most blessed good. I never could have believed in such a change in any one. Why, that child is quite lovely."

"And by-and-by she will have a lovely mind," said Rosamund. "But, Mr. Singleton, it is only right to tell you that I am practically expelled from the Merrimans' school."

"That is a very grave matter. It ought not to be allowed," said the rector. "The Professor cannot understand. His eyes must be blinded. You have done a noble work."

"But I don't mind; and, besides, I could not go back."

"But you could if it were just and right, could you not?"

"I don't really think I could."

Just then the pony-cart came round. The rector said no more for the time being; and a few minutes later, the young Singletons and Miss Carter having promised to arrive at The Follies on Thursday, Irene, Rosamund, and Miss Frost took their leave.

"Well, now, wasn't I a darling? Didn't I behave well?" said Irene. "Aren't you pleased with me, Rose—dearest, sweetest, red, red Rose?"

"Yes, on the whole, I am quite pleased with you," said Rosamund; but she leaned back in her seat. She felt tired and sad. She had done a good work, and she knew it, and yet she had injured her reputation; and her mother would be annoyed, and her father displeased. What was to be done?

There was some one else who was very much troubled on Rosamund's behalf, and that was the Rev. John Singleton. It was not his habit to consult any of his children, not even Maud, whom he relied on almost as he had relied on his wife; but he went straight over that very evening to the Merrimans' house; and although he could not go inside for fear of infection, he had a conversation with the Professor in the garden. There he spoke with such verve and enthusiasm with regard to Rosamund, and the marvelous change she had already wrought in the naughtiest girl in the entire district, that he induced that gentleman to change his mind.

"If you think it absolutely necessary, I will give her a chance."

"You must give her a chance. It would be culpable to allow such a girl to enter on the world with such a stigma as being expelled from school would mean. You must give her a chance, sir. I hope you will not hesitate to do so."

Professor Merriman explained that his pupils would not return for at least another fortnight, that Jane would be sent away in a little over a week, that the house would be thoroughly disinfected, and the school would continue.

"Perhaps it would be best for Rosamund to remain where she is for the present," he said, "and come back to us at the beginning of next term. I acknowledge that she is a fine girl; very good-looking, too, and with a most taking way. But she must learn obedience. She would not obey when she was with us. It was for the sin of disobedience that I dismissed her. She also broke her word of honor."

"Give her a chance. Believe me, there are circumstances which overcome all ordinary conditions," said the good clergyman; and he went away feeling assured that Professor Merriman would keep his word.



CHAPTER XVII.

NEW RESPONSIBILITIES.

This was the beginning of July. Towards the end the school would break up and the holidays would begin. The young Singletons were going to the seaside, and every one was about to have a merry-making of one sort or another.

In the past Irene and her mother had lived on in a dull sort of fashion at The Follies. Lady Jane had never the heart to leave home, therefore Irene knew nothing of the delights of traveling. But as the time approached for the holidays Rosamund spoke once or twice of the fun which ought to be before them.

"Where would you like to go?" she said to her young friend. "There are ever so many places where you can have amusement—you and Lady Jane."

"You want to tame me down," said Irene. "I don't think I can be altogether tamed. There is something in me here"—and she put her hand on her breast—"a wild sort of thing that will assert itself now and then. I can't help myself. I can't, for instance, sit still in a drawing-room, or be a very good little girl in church, finding out the hymns and the lessons for the day, and the right psalms. I could not teach in the Sunday-school—no, I couldn't, for all the world. I could do none of those things, because I have a wild living creature that seems to be inside me. I don't know what it means; I don't understand it myself. It is rampant when you are not here; but when you are present it stays quiet mostly, just because I love you. That is the whole reason."

"Aren't you very much happier since I came to you?" said Rosamund.

The two girls were pacing up and down in front of the lake, about a week before the holidays were to begin.

Meanwhile, at Sunnyside, school had recommenced. It is true that Jane, far too delicate to resume her lessons, was away at the seaside; but Lucy, Laura, Annie Millar, Phyllis Flower, and Agnes Sparkes had all returned to their studies. Miss Archer and Mademoiselle Omont were also very much to the fore. The kind Bretts had found rooms for the two governesses at Dartford; but they could not manage to take them in themselves. The girls had therefore gone, after a certain manner, through their lessons; but now the holidays were approaching.

"What a queer term it has been!" said Rosamund, talking to Irene as they walked by the water-side. "I, who belonged to the Merrimans' party, spending all my time with you; you working hard at your daily lessons and enjoying them; Miss Frost and Miss Carter the best of friends, and meeting Sunday after Sunday; and you having quite a fancy—yes, and more than a fancy—for Maud Singleton!"

"I am fond of her," said Irene, "just because she is like yourself, so brave. I wanted brave people. I never came across a brave person until I met you."

"Well, now we have to think of the holidays," said Rosamund. "I have something to tell you, Irene. You have been good—very good; but all our goodness is worth nothing until it has been tried. Yours has not been tried yet."

"What do you mean by that?" said Irene, in some terror, raising her lovely, wild, bright eyes to Rosamund's face.

"Well, it hasn't, darling—has it?"

"I don't understand. I can't tell you what an effort it has been not to collect worms and toads, and frogs and newts, and wasps and bees, and blue-bottles and spiders. I did so adore frightening the servants, particularly James; and there are such heaps of darling wasps this season. I just longed to stick one down his neck; but I refrained when I looked at you."

"You ought not even to speak of these things; they mean downright cruelty, and aren't the least bit funny."

"Aren't they, now? Are you sure? They used to seem very funny to me—the way James used to start at table; because I generally managed, when he attended, to put a spider on my plate when I handed it to him. I used to keep a little collection of them in my handkerchief, and generally popped one on my plate; and he used always to say 'Oh!' and he would generally drop and break the plate, which was a valuable china one, and mother was quite annoyed."

"Well, all those things are past. We needn't talk of them any more. I want to know what you are going to do in the holidays."

"What are you going to do, Rose?"

"I am very sorry, Irene, but I am afraid I must go away from you. I have to visit my parents; and there is something else they want me to do. They want me to go back to the Merrimans' school in the autumn, and stay there for at least a term. They say that in no other way can I get over the disgrace of having, as it were, run away from school. I don't mind a bit having done that, for I know that you wanted me; but I think I ought to go back to the Merrimans' for at least a term."

"Even with Lucy, odious creature?"

"Well, now, you don't know her."

"But you do; and do you like her?"

"I can't honestly say that I do."

"It is Sunday to-morrow; can't we both go to church, and then I can look at Lucy in the distance and see what I think of her?"

"You ought not to go to church in that spirit."

"Well, perhaps something else will happen. Maud Singleton is always asking me to go to church. I think I will, if you will come with me. We can go to the evening service. I have never been. Maud says I wouldn't feel so like a changeling if I could pray like other people, and sing hymns like other people. But then I'm sure I can't. May we sit near the door, and if I feel it impossible to remain quiet any longer, do you mind if I rush out?"

"We will certainly go to church, and we can sit near the door, and you shall rush out if you feel inclined, and I will come with you," said Rosamund. "But this is rather starting away from our question. What do you want to do during the holidays? You wouldn't, for instance, think of spending them with the Singletons at the seaside?"

"I will tell you another time," said Irene. "I can't make up my mind on that point quite so soon. Now, let us come in, and you shall read me some more from those wonderful Arabian Nights fairy-tales. They are so beautiful; I feel they were written for me. Afterwards we will have Hans Andersen."

"For my part, I like Hans Andersen best," said Rosamund.

The two girls went towards the house. Rosamund read, as was her wont, for half-an-hour to Irene, during which time that young person grew very sleepy, and soon afterwards went away to bed. Rosamund was about to follow her when Lady Jane came into the room.

"My dear Rose," she said, "I have had a letter from your mother. She says that you are to join them in Switzerland during the first week of the holidays. I suppose you wouldn't think it possible that Irene and I should accompany you?"

"I should like it very much," said Rosamund. "But I don't know that mother would think it quite fair. Mother is not accustomed to a girl like Irene, and although she is wonderfully good to what she used to be, you can scarcely call her a good girl yet—not an ordinary good girl, I mean."

"I suppose not, but she is quite sweet to me. Only I feel certain that when your influence is withdrawn we shall have the old dreadful things occurring again."

"I don't think so, indeed. But do tell me what mother has said."

"She says that you are to go back to the Merrimans' for the next term; but after that you can come and live with us if we want you. She suggested that we should take a house for the winter in town, so that you and Irene should have the advantage of the best masters possible to be obtained, and the best literature classes, and the best concerts. I am quite agreeable, for I am tired of living at The Follies."

"You ought to take Irene away for the holidays, and of course Miss Frost will go with you," said Rosamund. "I wish I could stay. I would with a heart and a half; but I know father and mother would be terribly put out."

"I feel very despondent," said Lady Jane; "for although Irene is very much improved, there is a lot of the old nature in her still; and when you are gone, even the Singletons will be away, for they are going to the seaside for the month of August—to Herne Bay, I believe. We shall have no one at home, and Irene and I alone at the seaside would make a terrible pair."

"I will write to mother. Something ought to be done," said Rosamund very thoughtfully. "Leave it to me," she continued. "What I have been thinking is this: that Irene ought to come with me to the Merrimans' for one term."

"You mean that I am to part with her—that she is not to live with me? Besides, would the Merrimans take a child with such a character?"

"She is quite a good character now, and it would be just the very thing. It would be the making of her. Then, perhaps, afterwards we might go together to a good foreign school and learn languages properly. I am sure it would do her a lot of good. But I will think about the holidays."

Rosamund felt rather old and worn. A very heavy burden had been laid on her young shoulders. She, a girl of only fifteen years of age, was more or less responsible for the entire life, the entire future, of a brilliant little sprite like Irene Ashleigh.

The next day was Sunday, and it arose in great beauty and majesty. The sun shone out of a cloudless sky, the flowers bloomed everywhere, the birds sang, the heat was excessive, the gardens looked their best. Visitors came and went. Irene, no longer in the objectionable red frock, but now dressed as a pretty young girl of her age ought to be dressed, walked by Rosamund's side and chatted about books, about music, about all sorts of things, the existence of which she had scarcely known a few weeks ago. Her intellect was of such a keen and brilliant order that she grasped knowledge almost as easily as she imbibed her food. Rosamund felt more and more proud of her.

"With such talent and such beauty, what might she not aspire to?" thought the elder girl. The younger looked at her with a light in her eyes.

"What are you thinking about, Rose?" she said.

"I was wondering about something. You have promised to come to church with me this evening. I will tell you after church."

Rosamund went away to her room, and there she sat down and wrote a long letter to her mother. She did not tell any one the contents of that letter; but it took her a long time to write, and when she had finished her cheeks were flushed and her eyes brighter than ever.

At last the sweet bells ringing out the time for evening service smote upon the summer air, and the two girls, in their white dresses, started off to walk to the pretty church, which was in reality not far away. Irene had not been in church since she was a tiny child, when she had screamed loudly, uttered naughty words, declared that the clergyman had no right to come in in his night-gown, and, in short, disgraced herself so thoroughly that she was carried out amidst a tempest of tears and protestations.

Now the older and wiser Irene, beautifully dressed all in white, looking more like an angel than a naughty, wayward, disagreeable girl, entered the old building and sat down near Rosamund in a pew at the end of the church. One of the churchwardens invited the two young people to come up higher; but Rosamund requested to be left where they were, and presently the rest of the congregation streamed in.

Irene was all excitement. She was, in fact, trembling all over. The quiet grayness and the age of the building impressed her, she knew not why. Then the boys in their white surplices excited her wonder; then she watched the congregation. The Singletons, as usual, were in their simple white and green; as usual their beautiful fair hair flowed down their backs; as usual they walked up the old aisle in pairs, two, and two, and two; and last of all came Miss Carter.

"She doesn't look nice at all," said Irene to herself.

"How well I remember all about her: that rather crooked back of hers, those sloping shoulders, that ill-made dress, and that hat put on always at the wrong angle. She is rather like Frosty. I wonder why I never had a stylish governess? But I'd have hated her worse than ever. Well, now I have got Rosamund—my dear, darling Rosamund—and she is beautiful as well as good."

Irene gazed with adoring eyes at her friend. Miss Frost was not present at the evening service.

By-and-by the Merriman party made their appearance, and took their seats in the large square family pew. There was the Professor, with his slightly bent figure and his white hair; there was Mrs. Merriman, round and cherubic, looking as though no care had ever troubled her; and there was Lucy, fair almost as the Singletons, with that particularly prim face which aggravated Rosamund, and which would certainly drive Irene to distraction. None of these three even glanced at Rosamund Cunliffe and her friend; but when Laura Everett and one or two other girls appeared, they did see the pair seated in a pew all alone at the end of the church, and Laura nodded with a bright glance at Rosamund, who colored with pleasure in reply.

"Is that stiff un, all prunes and prisms, Lucy?" whispered Irene in a loud voice.

"I'll talk to you afterwards," said Rosamund. "The service is going to begin. This is the right place. I will find all your places for you to-night. You will find the service so nice. Remember, we are here to pray to God, and not to think evil of our fellow-creatures."

"You're getting quite too goody-goody," laughed Irene in an excited voice.

The service began; the music, of the simplest kind, but quite sweet and true, filled the little church. Irene fidgeted, turned first white, then red, and finally, grasping Rosamund's arm, said in a choking voice, "I don't like it. I can't stand the music. The wild, wild thing in me is just as though it would tear me in pieces. I must get out. Come! You promised to come with me."

Rosamund took her eccentric young friend outside the church.

"What is the matter, Irene? You ought to try to control yourself."

"I do as a rule. I am much better as a rule; but it came over me in church how proper people were, and they all of them talk about being miserable sinners, and every one looks so good and righteous, and knowing down deep in their hearts that every single one of them is a miserable sinner, except your darling, precious self; and they all repeat the words, not feeling them a bit. I couldn't be like that. If they'd all lie flat on their faces, and cry and tear their hair, or do anything to show that they were really sorry, I could sympathize with them. But I can't sympathize with the proper sort of people who fill a village church."

"They have learned to control themselves. They very likely do feel that they are miserable sinners in the sight of God. We must learn not to judge people. Oh, Irene, what am I to do with you? What will you do when I am gone?"

"I know what I will do when you are away," said Irene. "I have thought it all out. I'll have a wild, wild time. I have been good long enough. I'll go back to my frogs and toads and leeches, and spiders and wasps and bees. I'll terrify the servants again, and scare mother, and send Frosty off her head. That's what I'll do; and I'll wear my little red dress, and I'll get Frosty into the middle of the lake, and I'll make her promise to go away, and if she refuses to go—I know she won't, for even those children won't keep her when such a thing as that is thought of"——

"Oh, I have such a splendid thought!" said Rosamund suddenly. "Suppose you make Frosty happy instead of miserable? You can if you like. Suppose you allow her to ask the two children, Agnes and Hughie, to spend the holidays at The Follies?"

"The two children—Frosty's two children?"

"Yes, her little brother and sister. She was telling me the other day she didn't know what to do with them. It would be such a splendid opportunity, and there is really no necessity whatever for you to leave The Follies. You could be there, and they would look up to you. They don't know that you are naughty—they need never know. I would be with you for the first two or three days, for their different schools break up before most schools, so they could come next week, and I could help you with them. What do you think? You wouldn't be without companions, and it would be a tremendous trust to repose in you, Irene. Do you think you would be worthy of it?"

"These were those words the clergyman said—Mr. Singleton, I mean—'I will arise and go to my Father, and will say unto Him: Father, I have sinned.' They made such a lump come in my throat; and when you talk to me a great lump comes in my throat too, and I feel that I have done nothing but sin all my life. Oh, I can't be sure of myself; that's about the end of the matter, Rosamund."

"I know—I know!" said Rosamund. "I know it is very hard; but then, anything worth living for is hard; and you have done so much that is wrong, it would be a splendid thing to turn over a new leaf now. Do you know what I have further in my mind? You know that I am to go back to the Merrimans' next term, but only till Christmas, and I want your mother to let you come with me. The Merrimans want another governess, so Frosty could come; and perhaps her little sister Agnes could be another pupil. Everything can be arranged if only you will promise to be good."

"But you weren't good yourself while you were at the Merrimans'. How can you expect me to be?"

"We'll keep each other good. When I am inclined to be naughty you shall correct me, and when you are inclined to be naughty I will correct you. We will arrange to sleep in the same room. Shall we try it, Irene—shall we?"

Irene paused for a minute. There were tears in her eyes. After a moment she said, "How long is it since I have known you?"

"About six or seven weeks."

"It seems like quite that number of years. I never can believe that there could have been a time when I didn't know you. I know you, oh, so well now, and I love you so much! You have done a great deal for me."

"I don't pretend that I haven't, Irene. But I must do what my father and mother want during the holidays. I do think it would be a splendid plan to ask little Hughie and Agnes to spend August at The Follies. I wonder what Frosty would say? Let us ask her after supper."

Irene flung her arms round Rosamund's neck.

"I don't quite promise to be good," she said; "but I'll do my best. I will do it for your sake, more particularly if you will promise that you will be with us for the first few days."

"Yes, I'll be with you for the first week. They could come early next week, and I am not going away until the week after."

"Oh! don't talk about it; it is too horrible. Let us come into the fields and talk about ourselves."

The two girls did walk together, and it was Irene's turn to tell Rosamund some of the wild and fanciful fairy-tales which she was always making up. But she could never be still very long, and in the midst of her most earnest and fascinating stories she would rush from one end of the field to the other, or turn a somersault, or climb a tree and look down at Rosamund with her laughing, mocking face from the midst of the branches. But then again she would be good, and come back and say that the wicked little living thing inside her was quiet for the time being.

"I wonder if it will ever go away?" she said. "If it were gone I'd be much like other girls; but as long as it is there I can't be like any girl—I can't."

"There is such a thing as praying to God to take it away. But perhaps it is never meant to go," said Rosamund.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Perhaps it is a very beautiful gift that God has given you—something that you can't quite control at present, but something which will make you by-and-by different from others: more earnest, more enthusiastic, more full of spirit, more full of zeal. You have set your face steadily towards everything that has been naughty. You don't know yourself. Just tell that thing, as you call it, inside you that you are going up, not down, in future, and see if it won't behave itself and help you all the time."

"I wonder if it will?" said Irene. "It is a good thought."



CHAPTER XVIII.

FROSTY'S DARLINGS.

Miss Frost's alarm, surprise, and delight when Rosamund had an earnest talk with her on the following morning can be better imagined than described.

"Of course, you can understand," she said, "that nothing would give me greater pleasure than having the darlings here with me; but how am I to trust Irene? Agnes is rather a timid little thing. Hughie is brave enough. I should not be afraid of him. He is fourteen; Agnes is only eleven. I am so afraid that Agnes, who has a little bit of me in her nature, will succumb utterly and show Irene that she is afraid of her. Then all would be lost."

"Nothing will be lost," replied Rosamund. "It is the very best plan possible. You must make Irene the guardian of Agnes from the very first. You must make her take that position with her; it is the only thing to do. The mistake has been that people were terrified of her. Her character, which is really very fine, has been spoiled by such a course. Give her a little tender thing to love, and make her guard that creature, and she will fight for her to the very death. I do believe it. Trust me, I have studied her character so carefully."

"I do indeed trust you, dear," replied Miss Frost, with tears in her eyes. "Well, then, if Lady Jane approves"——

Of course Lady Jane approved. She said at once that she did not wish to leave The Follies.

"I like to go away sometimes in November," she said, "or at the end of October, when the leaves are falling. But I love my own beautiful home in the summer weather best of all places on earth, and I am afraid of taking Irene to fashionable places. I tried her once at the seaside for a week; but her conduct was scandalous, and I was forced to bring her home at a minute's notice. I needn't repeat what she did; but she really was unbearable to every one in the house. Of course, Miss Frost, if your little brother and sister can be happy here, I shall be delighted to receive them."

"Then I will write this very day," said Miss Frost; and Rosamund took care that she kept her word.

In consequence, just as the holidays at the Merrimans' began, on the very day that Mrs. Merriman walked all the way to The Follies in order to see Rosamund, the little Frosts also made their appearance on the scene.

Mrs. Merriman came an hour before the children. She was dressed in her usual prim and proper style, and Rosamund could not help owning to a distasteful feeling when she saw her. She and Irene were walking about in a considerable state of excitement. Irene had been planning every hour of the day for her visitors.

"You know I have never had visitors before," she said. "I don't exactly count you as a visitor. You are dearer to me than I am to myself. You are all the world to me; but these are visitors. If I could only forget that they belonged to Frosty all would be well."

"But you must on no account forget it. You must think of Frosty's pleasure as well as your own. You know you have promised—yes, you have promised me, you who don't tell lies—to go up, not down, in future. Oh, there is Mrs. Merriman! I must run and speak to her."

"That prim, dumpling sort of woman? Oh, all right, go; but don't stay long with her. I want you. I am beginning to count the minutes now. I feel so terribly anxious at your leaving me."

Rosamund almost wished that she were not obliged to leave The Follies at this juncture; but her own father and mother would not hear of her staying away from them. She accordingly left Irene on the present occasion, and walked across the lawn to meet Mrs. Merriman.

Mrs. Merriman paused when she saw her.

"How do you do, Rosamund?" she said. She spoke coldly, and did not hold out her hand.

Rosamund replied in as prim a voice as the little lady had used:

"How do you do, Mrs. Merriman? I hope you are all quite well at the school. How was Jane when you heard from her last?"

"Almost quite well, I am glad to say. She will be able to return to her lessons in the middle of September. I have something to say to you, Rosamund, and as we have met here in the avenue, I need not go up to the house."

"Just as you like about that," said Rosamund. "Wouldn't you like to have a cup of tea? I am sure Lady Jane would be pleased to see you. Are you not tired? The walk is a somewhat long one."

"I am never tired," replied Mrs. Merriman. "If my dear husband, my beloved Professor, had even half my strength, we should not be obliged to keep a school full of troublesome girls at all."

"Indeed! are the others troublesome?" asked Rosamund, her eyes sparkling.

"I cannot say that they are particularly troublesome now that you are away."

Rosamund lowered her lids, but her eyes danced. She looked on the ground.

"If I am to go back to the school next term, and take Irene with me, I don't know how I shall bear it," she said to herself.

Mrs. Merriman, however, was nothing if not to the point.

"My dear," she said slowly, "it is my husband's lot and mine to have to earn money in a way which is in no way congenial to either of us."

"But you are always so kind! You never gave any trouble of any sort," was Rosamund's response. "You seemed to understand us in a sort of fashion. It was—Lucy!" she added with a burst.

"Lucy is my darling, beloved, and only child. You must not say a word against her. I cannot stand it."

"Very well, I will try not to; but you know she does not like me."

"She certainly doesn't; but has she any reason for liking you, Rosamund?"

"Perhaps she has not; that is quite probable. I know I was not particularly good when I was at Sunnyside."

"And do you think you are particularly good now?"

"I do not. Perhaps I see my faults more plainly than ever. But I have helped Irene, and Irene is worth helping."

"I hardly dare to think of what I have come about to-day; but the Professor has sent me. He has received a letter from your mother, and he has also seen Mr. Singleton, and Mr. Singleton has suggested an extraordinary thing. He wants both you and Irene—yes, the dreaded, the feared Irene—to come to our beautiful house for next term. You were practically expelled from the school; but he wants you to come back again, and the Professor has sent me to say that he is willing to receive you both, on condition that you will not disturb the peace of the house."

"As far as I am concerned, I will not disturb it; but I cannot answer for Irene."

"I dread her unspeakably," said Mrs. Merriman. "Do walk with me for a little down this path, my dear. You, of course, are only an ordinarily naughty girl. You have been very disobedient, but I can overlook that, and perhaps understand it; but she—some people say she is not quite right in the head. Do you think that is true?"

"I know it to be false. She has cleverer brains than most of us."

"Then, if that is the case, she is just extraordinarily wicked—wicked beyond most people."

"You may think that if you like, Mrs. Merriman, but it is also untrue. I will tell you quite frankly what has been wrong with Irene. People have been afraid of her. I was the only person who ever came across her path who showed no fear at her presence. I simply conquered her by having a stronger will than she has. Now, if all your girls will behave in that sort of fashion to her, not minding her when she does what she considers clever little tricks, she will soon stop them. I don't believe she will even attempt them, for I shall do my utmost to prevent it. But if she does, your only plan is to take no notice of her. If people show no fear, then her fun is gone—her wings are cut, in short. That was the way I got an influence over her, and it is the way in which others may get an influence over her. I want her to sleep in my room, instead of dear Jane, whom I am so fond of."

"Oh! that will be quite easily managed, for no other girl would endure her as a room-fellow."

"I will do my very best to keep her tame. More I cannot say."

"I suppose you are very kind; but do tell me, is it true that she puts wasps down people's necks? Does she put leeches into the beds without any one knowing anything about it? It is perfectly awful to think of."

"I am not going to tell tales out of school," said Rosamund, laughing. "I can only say that Irene is greatly improved; and if your girls, your Lucy included, will behave themselves, and not show the slightest fear—and why should they fear?—I think she will come out of the ordeal a brave and strong and good girl. They all ought to help, and I wish I could see them all and tell them so."

"I do believe you are quite a good girl," said Mrs. Merriman, turning her eyes in some amazement and looking at Rosamund. "I have been very angry with you, and so was Lucy; my poor dear Lucy will never quite forgive you; but I see now that you meant right, although you went the wrong way about it."

"It seemed the only way at the time. I am very sorry if I have troubled you," said Rosamund.

"Well, then, I will expect you and Irene at the beginning of the term. You shall share the same room, and I trust you to keep Irene within bounds. Now, good-by."

Mrs. Merriman turned and walked down the avenue, and was soon lost to view.

Irene, who had been watching this interview from the top branch of a tall tree, now quickly descended and came up to Rosamund's side.

"So she has gone!" she said. "So she is to be my head-mistress in future. But never mind her now. It is a long way off school-days, and the holidays have hardly begun. Frosty has gone off to fetch the children. I am dying with excitement to see them. But it was great fun to watch you, Rosamund. I could not hear what your words were; but I saw that you were pleading for me, and promising to be my sponsor, my godmother. As if I could be good there!"

"You must be good. I have declared it; I have almost staked my reputation on the fact. You will not disappoint me," was Rosamund's reply.

The girls walked about for some little time together, and by-and-by there came the sound of wheels, and they knew that the travelers had arrived.

"Come along, Irene," said Rosamund; and they went down the avenue to meet Miss Frost, who was herself driving the governess-cart. Her thin face was flushed with excitement, her eyes were bright; she looked ten years younger, and almost pretty. An exceedingly pretty little girl, with dark eyes, and a quantity of fair hair tumbling about her face, sat close up to her half-sister. A boy, plain, with freckles, sandy hair, and light-blue eyes, was ejaculating in a lordly tone:

"I tell you, sister, you are not holding the reins right!—Oh, hullo!" he exclaimed as he saw Irene and Rosamund. "Won't you tell my sister that she is not to hold the reins like that? She is nagging at the pony's mouth all the time, and hurting him."

"Of course she is," said Irene, springing forward.

Hugh jumped from the governess-cart. Miss Frost also descended. Hugh and Irene had an earnest harangue on the subject of pony-driving, and Miss Frost, much relieved at such an unceremonious introduction, turned her attention to little Agnes.

"Agnes is tired, and has a headache, and would like me to take her into the house. May I?" she said, looking appealingly at Rosamund.

But Rosamund was not going to shirk her duty. These children were to be Irene's guests, and they must be immediately put into their right position. She turned, therefore, to her little friend and touched her on the arm.

"Irene," she said, "you ought to have a proper introduction to Agnes. This is Agnes Frost."

Little Agnes came shyly forward and looked straight up with her big dark eyes at Irene. She was a smaller girl, and if possible still more delicate-looking, but very pretty and interesting. Hugh, who had been having such an interesting debate with Irene, now stepped up to Agnes and flung his arm round her neck.

"She is tired, poor baby!" he said. "She wants to go in and go to sleep for an hour. You have a headache, haven't you, little un?"

"Yes," replied Agnes. "My head aches rather badly. It is the train—it always makes me feel sick."

"Then shall I take you into the house?" said Irene.

She forgot Hugh, to Hugh's own amazement. She took Agnes' tiny hand and led her toward the house. Miss Frost longed to follow; but Rosamund held her back.

"No, no. On no account go with them," she said. "Let Irene feel that she has got possession of the little one at once. You see how confidently Agnes gave her hand. That is the best possible sign. Let her take her to her room and see after her comforts."

Irene—who never before in all her life had any creature to look up to her, who was looked down upon with terror and shunned by her fellow-creatures, with the exception of Rosamund, who ruled her, although with the weapons of love—felt an altogether new sensation now as the little creature, not so old as herself, clung to her confidently.

"I shall be glad to lie down," said little Agnes. "Have you ever gone long journeys by train, and does your head ache?"

"No, I haven't gone long journeys by train; but I will take you to your room and draw down the blinds, and you can go to sleep."

"May I? That is what I want more than anything else. If I could sleep for half-an-hour I should feel better."

"You shall, of course," said Irene.

She walked slowly through the house, holding this small, dependent creature by the hand. Was she not her guest? She forgot all about poor Miss Frost, whose heart was devoured with jealousy; for little Agnes, in the olden times, had clung to her. Now she clung close to Irene.

"You are so nice," she said, "and so pretty! I am glad I am coming to spend the holidays with you."

"Are you?" said Irene, with a queer look.

James the footman saw them as they went upstairs; and Lady Jane stood at the drawing-room door, but made no sign.

Irene presently reached the small but very prettily arranged room which the little girl was to occupy.

"This room opens out of Frosty's," she said.

"Who is Frosty?" asked the child.

"My governess, of course, and your sister."

"Oh! but I'd rather sleep in a room opening out of yours. Can't I? Of course, I'm very fond of my dear sister Emily; but you are so fresh, and I think you will take care of me."

"There is a tiny room which you could have next to mine, and we could have the doors open, and I promise to be awfully careful of you, if you really like it best," said Irene, who felt more and more charmed at the dependence of this small creature.

"Yes, I know I'd like it best. But may I lie down here just for the present?"

"Of course you may."

Irene herself helped to remove Agnes's boots. She laid her on the bed and put the coverlet over her, and then rang the bell. One of the housemaids appeared.

"I want some tea," said Irene in a lofty tone, "for little Miss Agnes Frost. You can bring it up on a tray with cakes, and I can have some at the same time. And please arrange the pink bedroom opening out of mine for Miss Agnes to sleep in to-night. Do you hear? Do you understand?"

"Yes, miss, of course," said the girl, retiring in a great hurry in the utmost amazement; for over Irene's curious, expressive little face had come a new look—a look of protection, almost of motherhood.

She bent down and kissed little Agnes; and Agnes put her thin arms round her neck, and said, "Oh, you are so beautiful, and so—so kind to me! Of course, I love dear sister Emily; but she is old, and you are young. I want somebody young—somebody like you—to be kind to me, for I am such a timid little girl. Will you take care of me?"

"I vow I will," said Irene.

"Then you will hold my hand if I do drop asleep—for this is such a big, strange house, and I may feel frightened?"

"No one shall frighten you while I am here," was Irene's answer.

The housemaid, the veritable Susan who had once spoken such harsh things to Irene, presently came in with the tea-tray. Irene herself poured out the tea and brought it to little Agnes, who drank it feverishly, and then lay down; but she was too tired and too ill from her journey to care to eat any cakes. Just as she was dropping off to sleep, Miss Frost put in an anxious face.

"Run away, Frosty; run away at once. She is my charge," said Irene; and Miss Frost, smothering the jealousy which could not but arise in her heart, left the room.

This was a position she had not expected. Nevertheless, there was no help for it.

"Now, I am going to munch cakes, and you shall sleep. Would you like me to tell you a story while you are dropping off to sleep?"

"If it isn't at all frightening—if it is nice."

"I will tell you about the little princess in Hans Andersen. My darling, my noble, my beloved Rosamund told it to me, and I will tell it to you. Now then, listen."

Irene began. She could tell that marvelous tale with all the grace and unction and passion which her genius inspired her with. Little Agnes listened and listened, and forgot her terrors. She clung closer and closer to her companion, and when the story came to an end her starry eyes were brimful of tears.

"Oh, that is very sweet!" said the little girl. "And now the little princess is one of the spirits of the air, and she has won something"——

"She has won her soul," said Irene in a strange, strangled sort of voice; for it occurred to her that, after all, the little princess might have a greater resemblance to herself than ever she had thought. For was she not fighting for her own soul all this time?

While little Agnes slept, Irene sat in the room by her side still and quiet. There were voices heard in the distance; the manly voice of Hughie, who was somewhat dictatorial, and was ordering people about, and telling this person or the other that they were doing things wrong, and was terrifying his sister by his manly ways. There was Rosamund's voice, who was quite delighted at the turn events had taken. There was Miss Frost's voice, anxious about Agnes, and quite sure that Irene must end by terrifying her. There was Rosamund again persuading and soothing, and doing all she could to allow the present order of things to take a natural course. But upstairs in the pretty little bedroom the child slept peacefully; and Irene looked at her and felt new sensations, new hopes, new desires struggling in her breast. She had loved Rosamund because she was so strong. She was beginning to love little Agnes because she was so weak. What a strange tangle the world was! What was happening to her? And why was that curious living thing within so satisfied, so happy, so sure of itself?

It was between six and seven o'clock when Agnes, neatly and tidily dressed, came downstairs, accompanied by Irene, who led her straight into the drawing room.

"This is Agnes Frost, mothery," said Irene; "and you are on no account to tire her. She is better now. Are you not, Agnes?"

"Yes, I am better," replied the little girl. "But who is this grand lady you are introducing me to?"

"This is my mother—Lady Jane."

"I never knew anybody called 'Lady' before."

"Well, my mother is Lady Jane—Lady Jane Ashleigh."

Little Agnes held out a timid hand.

"How do you do, dear? I hope you have got over the fatigue of your journey."

"Oh, yes, mothery, she is quite well now. Don't worry her," said Irene almost rudely. "I am going to take her out in the boat on the lake."

"Be sure you are very careful."

"I will be careful enough."

Just then Miss Frost came in.

"Agnes, I hear Irene wants to take you out in the boat. You are not to go."

"But she has promised," said little Agnes.

She raised confiding dark eyes to her new friend's face.

"You must trust me, Frosty. Don't be a perfect goose," said Irene; and taking Agnes' hand, they went down across the summer lawn to the place where the boat was moored. By-and-by Irene was seen by those who watched, gently rowing among the water-lilies, with little Agnes at the other end of the boat.

"What a beautiful girl you are!" little Agnes kept saying; "and how happy my sister ought to be, living always with you!"

"Don't ask her if she is happy for a day or two. I have given directions about your room. You shall sleep in the little pink room next to mine."



CHAPTER XIX.

A SORT OF ANGEL.

Irene pulled with swift, sure strokes across the summer lake. The lake was one of the great features of the place. It was a quarter of a mile wide, and half a mile in length, and had been carefully attended to by owner after owner for generations; so that groups of water-lilies grew here, and swans arched their proud white necks and spread out their feathered plumes. Little Agnes had never seen anything so lovely before, and when she bent forward and saw her own reflection in the water she gave a scream of childish pleasure.

"Oh, how happy sister Emily must be!" was her remark.

Again Irene made the strange answer, "Don't ask for a day or two."

Then little Agnes raised grave dark eyes to Irene's face.

"But any one would be happy with you," she said. "To look at you is such a comfort."

"Tell me about yourself," said Irene suddenly, shipping her oars, bending forward, and fixing her intensely bright eyes on the child.

She did not feel at all like a changeling now. That wild thing in her breast was still. She felt somewhat like a mother, somewhat like an ordinary little girl might feel towards a loved baby-sister, or even towards a doll. This new sense of protection had a marvelous effect upon her. She would not have minded if little Agnes had crept into her arms and laid her head on her breast.

"Tell me what you did before you came here," she said.

"But don't you know?" said Agnes. "Sister Emily has been living with you for a long time. She must have told you about me."

"I am ashamed to say I never asked her anything about you."

"I suppose that is because you are very thoughtful. You were determined—yes, determined—not to give her pain. She is always so sad when she thinks of us; but Hughie and I are not really unhappy. We don't mind things now."

"What do you mean by 'now'? Tell me—do tell me."

"Oh, we are at school. Hughie is at a pretty good school, although it is rather rough. He is learning hard. He is to be apprenticed to a trade some day. Dear sister Emily cannot afford to bring him up as a gentleman; but she is saving every penny of her money to put him into a really good trade. Perhaps he will be a bookbinder, or perhaps a cabinetmaker."

"But people of that sort are not gentry," said Irene. Then she colored and bit her lips.

Little Agnes had seen so much of the rough side of life that she was not at all offended.

"Sister Emily says that she could not afford to bring us up as a lady and gentleman, and so we are to be trained for something else. I think she is going to put me into a shop."

"Indeed she won't," said Irene fiercely, "for I won't let her."

There was a new tone in her voice which frightened little Agnes. She sank back among her soft cushions.

"You mustn't be angry with her, for she is the best sister in all the world. No one else would work so hard to support us. You know, when father and mother died there wasn't a penny-piece to keep us, and we were both very young; and if it hadn't been for Emily I might have been sent to one of those dreadful charity schools. But as it is, I am being taught, and now I am staying at this lovely place for the holidays, and I have met you, and I think you are a sort of angel."

Irene burst into a ringing laugh.

"You're the very first person who has ever called me that," she said. "Now look here, Agnes; there's just one thing I want to ask you."

"What is that?" asked little Agnes.

"Don't speak to the servants about me, nor even to your beloved Emily, nor much to Rosamund. You think certain things about me. Other people may not agree with you."

"I should like to fight them if they differed," said the little girl.

"Well, that's all right; you can fight them by-and-by if you like; but at present say nothing about me. I am your friend; it will depend on whether you keep silence or not whether I continue to be your friend. As long as I am your friend you are safe and happy here, so that is all right."

Little Agnes, never having heard anything about Irene except that she was her sister Emily's pupil, believed these words, and continued to look with a fascinated gaze at the white-throated swans, at the beautiful water-lilies, and at the calm reflection of the boat and their two selves in the water. She saw nothing whatever of the rapid stream in the centre of the lake, where poor Miss Carter had almost met her death, nor did she see any fierce or turbulent side to Irene's erratic nature.

By-and-by the bell sounded, and Irene exclaimed, "I declare it is time for us to go in. You are much too young to sit up to dinner. I will see that you are put to bed, and have something very nice for you to eat, and I will sit with you until you fall asleep."

"But you will want your own dinner," said little Agnes.

"My own dinner doesn't matter in the very least. I will have a snatch of something when I go downstairs. Now come along."

She began to ply her oars again, and in a minute or two they had landed, the boat had been moored, and the two children went up to the house.

Hughie was standing on the steps, blowing a loud whistle through his fingers.

"Hullo, Aggie!" he cried. "Why, you are looking as fresh as possible; and Miss Irene—the wonderful Miss Irene"—here he gave a mocking bow to Irene—"has taken you under her wing. I can tell you sister Emily is pretty jealous."

Irene looked at him with small favor.

"Will you please let us pass?" she said.

The boy made another sweeping bow, and Irene and little Agnes passed into the house. They went upstairs. Irene took her little friend to the pink room next to her own. Here all her things had been unpacked already by Miss Frost herself, who had now, however, vanished. Agnes, tired, happy, pleased with her new friend, fearing nothing, trusting all things, was soon got into bed, and Irene sat by her until she dropped asleep. Then she laid a light kiss on her forehead, closed the door softly, and went downstairs.

Dinner was a thing of the past. Hughie and Miss Frost were pacing about in one of the corridors. Irene ran into the drawing-room. Lady Jane was lying on one of the sofas, half-asleep. She started up when she saw her daughter, and said in a quiet tone, "You will want some dinner, won't you?"

"Yes; I have desired James to give me something. He is getting it ready."

"I will come and sit with you while you eat it," said Rosamund, who was also there, jumping up and tossing down the book she had been looking through somewhat restlessly.

The two girls moved off. Irene satisfied her appetite, and then Rosamund asked her to come with her into one of the greenhouses.

"Well," said Irene, her eyes sparkling, "I suppose you are satisfied with me to-night. I have behaved well to little Agnes, have I not?"

"In one sense you have behaved well enough; but you have quite forgotten one thing."

"I do hope you are not going to scold me, I feel so wonderfully virtuous. She is a dear little soul, and I have promised to take her under my protection—that is, if no one will interfere. But I see you mean to begin at once. It is exceedingly unkind of you. What is wrong now?"

"Only Miss Frost—poor Miss Frost! You seem to have taken the little sister quite away from her. She has not been able to speak to the little thing since she arrived, and she has done everything for her."

"It doesn't matter what Frosty has done in the past. I mean to do everything for little Agnes in the future—that is, if I am not bullied. If I am, I——What is it, Rosamund?"

"Dear Irene, I quite know what you feel. It is the first time you have found some one absolutely to trust you. Little Agnes trusts you; but you ought to remember that she is Miss Frost's little sister. You ought not to hurt her feelings. You ought to let Miss Frost do something for her, too. If you had been supporting somebody very precious and very dear for a great many years, and then quite a fresh person came along and took that treasure from you, how would you feel?"

"I'm sure I don't know. I can't understand the position. I only know that I like little Agnes, and as long as she is left with me I shall be good to her. The best possible thing for Frosty and yourself and that horrid, tiresome boy to do is to go away, I'll look after little Agnes."

"You were very sweet to her to-day, I will admit that; but what I want to say is, do try and remember that Miss Frost will want to see something of her too. Don't let Miss Frost become too jealous, for she is devoted to her little sister."

"Well, I hate the boy," said Irene. "He was so rude when we came off the lake, and he whistled in such a defiant way. He isn't one bit a gentleman. Little Agnes told me that he was going to be a sort of tradesman. We oughtn't to have those people coming to the house. You shouldn't have insisted on my inviting them; you really shouldn't, Rosamund."

"I thought you were quite above that sort of thing," said Rosamund in a lofty tone. "But never mind. Do what you wish; only remember that both the boy and girl are your guests, and that I am going away next week."

Irene suddenly felt that Rosamund, much as she adored her, was a little too dictatorial that evening. She had expected great praise for her conduct, instead of which she had been blamed. She ran out into the cool night air, notwithstanding the expostulations of her mother, and came in late, feeling fagged and wearied. She did not invite Rosamund, as was her custom, to come to her bedroom; but she went there alone, locking the outer door, and then softly opening the door between herself and the new treasure she had found. Yes, little Agnes was a treasure. She was something more precious than gold. She was like a doll of the most beautiful order.

Now, Irene had always despised dolls; but this living doll, with the pink cheeks, and the black eyelashes, and the soft hair, and the sweet little face, was altogether a different matter. The little one stirred in her sleep and breathed a name softly. Irene bent to listen—the name was her own.

"Irene darling!" murmured little Agnes.

"Oh, she is a pet! I am so glad she has come! I'd almost die for her!" thought the girl.

She went back to her own room after gazing once again at the sweet little face. That night, for the first time for years, Irene deliberately dropped on her knees and uttered a prayer full of thankfulness to God. "I thank Thee, great good God, for having given me a darling little girl to protect and love. Please don't allow Frosty to be jealous, and please let her stay with me, for she is just the person to quiet that horrid living thing inside me," whispered the child. Then she got into bed and fell fast asleep.

She was awakened by cries before morning dawned. In a moment she started up, sprang out of bed, and rushed into the next room. Little Agnes was sitting up in her bed, puzzled and terrified.

"Where am I? Oh, what has happened?"

"Are you frightened, darling?" said Irene. "Are you really frightened? Would you like to come into my bed? Have you had a bad dream?"

"I have. I thought I was at school, and that Mrs. Treadgold, one of our mistresses, had beaten me. I fancied that she was beating me hard, and that made me wake. Now I remember that I am with you. Oh, yes, I should like to come into your bed."

"Then you shall come at once," said Irene.

She lifted the little girl out. She herself felt quite old and motherly beside the little one. During the remainder of the night they slept in each other's arms, and much of the hardness and the wildness of Irene's nature melted away during that sleep, and some of that motherhood which is the most blessed gift God can give to a girl visited her.

She herself insisted on helping Agnes to dress in the morning, and then they went down to breakfast hand in hand.



CHAPTER XX.

A SORT OF WITCH.

Hughie was a dictatorial, troublesome sort of boy; but Rosamund took him in hand from the first, and kept him somewhat in order. Miss Frost, looking very patient, followed her brother and sister and Irene about. Once little Agnes was all alone in a bower, where she was waiting for Irene to come to her. This was Rosamund's opportunity. She went straight up to the child, took one of her hands, and sat down near her.

"I am so glad, Agnes," she said, "that you love Irene. But now I want to say something to you."

"I love you, too," said little Agnes, who was the gentlest and most affectionate creature under the sun.

"And don't you love your own dear sister Emily?"

"Oh, of course I do! I love her very much indeed."

"Then I wish you would go and tell her so, for she is sitting not far away crying very bitterly."

"Crying?" said little Agnes.

"Yes—because you haven't been with her at all to-day, and hardly yesterday; she can't make out what it means, and it troubles her a good deal. Do go and put your arms round her neck, and tell her that although you love Irene, you can never love any one like you do her."

"But I think," said little Agnes, who was the soul of truth, "that I do love Irene quite as much as I love Emily."

"Then you oughtn't to, for Miss Frost is your own sister, and she has done so much for you—far more than you can in the least understand at present."

"Anyhow, I do love her very much, and I'll tell her so," said the little girl.

She flew away from Rosamund, who sat down on the seat which Agnes had occupied. She had not been there more than a minute or two before Irene, carrying a basket of fruit in her hand, entered in great excitement.

"Where is Agnes? Where is my dear little pet? Oh, you are there, Rosamund!"

"Yes, Irene, and I hope you are glad to see me."

"Of course I am, Rosamund. I am always that. But where is my little Agnes? I want her to have some of these ripe plums. She is so fond of plums."

"Well, she oughtn't to have any more, for she ate too many yesterday, and Miss Frost says they don't agree with her."

"As if Frosty knew anything about the matter! I am the person who is going to take care of Agnes in the future. I have settled all that with myself. As to mother, she will do as I wish. I am going to adopt Agnes; I call her my adopted child."

"But that is rather ridiculous, isn't it, Irene, seeing that you are almost the same age?"

"There are two years between us; but then, Agnes is so very small, so petite in every way, and so—so sweet and so defenseless."

"I always thought you did not care for defenseless people, nor for weak people, nor timid people."

"Oh, I like her sort. You see, she believed in me from the first."

"I hope she always will," said Rosamund.

"Well, where is she now?"

"She has gone to talk to her sister. You cannot expect her to give up all her time to you."

"But indeed that is just what I do. What can she have in common with that tiresome, frowzy old Frosty?"

"Only she happens to be her sister, and that tiresome, frowzy old Frosty, as you call her, has looked after her since she was a little child, when her mother died."

"Oh, yes, I've heard all that story. I suppose it's very noble; but, all the same, little Agnes is fonder of me."

"You have no right to steal her heart from Miss Frost."

"Rosamund, I don't know what to make of you. You always have a great influence over me; but what is the matter now? Do you want to take Agnes away from me? If you wish to, you may; but I shall follow, for I don't intend to give her up, and nobody living will make me. I am sure you can do what you like with that detestable Hugh, and Frosty can go for her holidays. It would be a very good idea. Agnes and I would be quite happy at The Follies, with dear mother, of course, to take care of us."

Just at that moment there came a whoop and a spring, and Hughie, his red face redder than ever, his freckles more marked, his carroty hair sticking up all over his head, and his light-blue eyes wearing a most mischievous expression, entered the little arbor and sat down at one side of Irene.

"I say," he remarked, "I want to ask you a direct question."

"What is that?" she said, moving slightly away from him.

He edged a little nearer.

"Is it true that you gave sister Emily horrid live things that curled themselves up into so-called pills, and she swallowed them and nearly died afterward? Is it true—tell me?"

"It's quite true," said Irene, all the dancing wickedness coming to the front at once, and her eyes blazing with anger.

"Then you are a really wicked girl. You might have been had up by the police and put into prison."

"And what if I had, you wicked boy—for you are about the wickedest and rudest boy I have ever come across? Much do I care! I wanted her to go, and I thought that would be a good way to get rid of her."

"Oh, that's all right!" said Hugh. "I'll just go and tell Agnes. I'll tell her that you'll do things of that sort to her, that you are a sort of witch, and will show your true colors before long. Now, what is the matter?"

"You sha'n't tell her. You daren't!" said Irene.

She caught both his hands as though in a vise. He was amazed at their strength, also at the beautiful, extraordinary passion of her face. Rosamund started up to interfere.

"Come, children," she said, "don't quarrel. Hughie, you do extremely wrong to speak in that tone to Irene. Come and have a walk with me. You know I am going away to-morrow, and I wouldn't have asked Irene to invite you both to this beautiful house, and to give you such a splendid holiday, if I hadn't thought you were going to be quite good. Ah! here comes Agnes."

Agnes was seen flying across the lawn. She was wearing a pretty white dress, and her whole dainty little figure, with her light hair flying wildly behind her, made her a most charming little picture. She dashed up to Irene, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her passionately.

"Oh," she said, "it seemed hours while I was away from you! I was with Emily, and Emily says that perhaps I had better not eat plums—at least not more than one or two."

"Then I'll pick out the ripest in the basket for you," said Irene, her voice trembling.

"You take care there are no—no live things"——

"Hush, Hughie! Come with me," said Rosamund; and she pulled the reluctant boy out of the summer-house.

"Now, Hughie," she said when she had got him quite by herself, "I want to know, in the first instance, exactly how old you are."

"I was fourteen my last birthday," he said, drawing himself up to his full height.

"You suppose yourself to be a good bit of a man, don't you?"

"Well, I'm not far from being a man, am I, Rosamund? You don't mind my calling you Rosamund, do you?"

"You may call me anything in the world you please."

"Well, I'll call you Rosamund, because all the rest of the people here do; but by-and-by perhaps I shall be behind a counter, and you will come in and ask for stationery—I want particularly to go into a stationer's shop—or any other article you fancy, and I'll have to say, 'Yes, miss.' That is, unless you're married. You'll be much too grand to notice me in those days, won't you, Rosamund?"

Rosamund turned and looked calmly at him.

"Hugh," she said, "I'll never be too grand to take notice of you if you turn out the sort of boy I expect you to be."

"And what is that?" he asked, touched and astonished at her words.

"Well, now, I want you to undertake a rather difficult office."

"Oh, I say, and these are holidays!" grumbled the boy.

"Nevertheless, even in holidays a true boy, who means to be a true man, will act according to the best of his abilities; and what I want you to do now is to help and not hinder me with regard to Irene."

"That horrid, spiteful, handsome little witch?" said the boy.

"You admit that she is handsome?"

"I should rather think so. I never saw such eyes or such a face. But she's a horrid little thing for all that. Last night I was in the pantry, and James told me a lot of things about her; how she used to get wasps to sting him, and how she frightened away such a lot of servants from the place with leeches and toads, and all sorts of horrors. He said he didn't believe she was a girl at all, but that she was a sort of half-witch; and she is having that effect now upon our dear little Agnes, for Agnes doesn't care a bit for any one but her. She likes to spend all her time with her. She even insists on sleeping in her bed at night, and poor old Emily never gets a sight of Agnes, nor do I; and if it weren't for you I don't know where we'd be."

"Well, I'm leaving to-morrow," said Rosamund; "and it is just because I am leaving—and I am forced to go—that I intend to put a trust in you. I intend to tell you all about Irene—there is no other way to manage a boy like you; but I intend to tell you in such a way that you must give me your word of honor you will never repeat what I say."

"You have a queer way of talking," replied the lad, "and you do look wonderfully handsome, and unlike any other girl I ever saw. Little Aggie is a poor sort, you know. She is very sweet and pretty, and gentle and easily influenced."

"She is a dear little soul," said Rosamund, "and I don't wonder that you and your sister love her so much."

"Of course we love her; that is just what I say to Em. Of course we love her, and I don't think it is right of Emily to spend all her time crying. Her eyes are as red as anything. I never saw anything like it; and whenever she talks to me it is to say something of the way Agnes has forsaken her; and Agnes is quite unsuspicious."

"That is just it, and I want her to be unsuspicious. You must be kind to poor Frosty—forgive me, we always call her Frosty; but at the same time she must exercise the wonderful and healing influence she possesses over Irene."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You see, Irene is a very fine character"——

Hugh whistled.

"A fine character!" he said. "What about the toad in the bread-pan? What about the horrid live things she made poor dear Emily swallow? If Em had died, she'd have been had up for murder."

"It was a cruel and wicked thing to do; but I am sure she would never do it now—that is, unless you goaded her to it. You are in the mood to torment her to do wrong things. It is exceedingly wicked of you, and I tell you plainly I don't know what I shall do if all my hard work of the whole summer will be overthrown, unless you make me a solemn promise before I leave."

"Well, it is good of you to trust me," said Hughie, softening in spite of himself, for such a bold, handsome, independent girl as Rosamund had never addressed him in such a way before; and, like all lads, he was susceptible to a girl's influence.

"I am at a horrid common school," he grumbled. "All the fellows there say horrid common things; but it is the best that poor old Em can afford, and I ought to be content. Some day I'll be a tradesman—not a gentleman. But now Aggie and I are both staying here with gentry of the first class in every way, and you say you'll be my friend even if I am a tradesman?"

"My hand on it," said Rosamund suddenly; and she held out her little white hand, which the boy grasped heartily.

"Now then," she continued, "I am going to tell you my story."

She did tell it, very simply, describing her influence from the very first over Irene, and contriving to put Irene's character into altogether a new light to the boy.

"There is the making of a splendid woman in her," she said; "but if you taunt her now you will undo all the good that I have done. Instead of doing this, suppose you take my place when I am away, and help Frosty not to be jealous, and help Irene and Agnes to enjoy themselves. Just show Irene that you are not a scrap afraid of her; but at the same time do not rouse her passions. Will you do this, and for my sake? If so, I do really believe all will be well."

Hughie was amazed at his own sensations.

"I declare," he said, "you'd turn any fellow into a brick. If there were more girls like you in the world I shouldn't be surprised if there were a lot of good men too; and the world could be oiled on all its hinges, so to speak, so that it wouldn't creak and jump and fret one at every turn as it seems to have an unpleasant habit of doing at the present moment."

"Will you promise, Hughie? I think you are the sort of boy who would keep your word at any and all times."

Hughie mumbled something that Rosamund took for a promise. In truth, he could not raise his eyes to her face, for they were full of tears, which he was ashamed to show.

"I wish you'd let me go away all by myself for a minute. I'll come back before lunch," he said. "You make a fellow feel like a gentleman, and that's the truth of it."

Then he dashed out of sight among the flowers.

Rosamund's last day at The Follies was spent in trying to soothe all parties. She tried to make Miss Frost rather less miserable. Hughie kept a good deal out of sight. Irene was so absorbed with Agnes—her new toy, as the servants called the little girl—that she did not even remember that Rosamund was to leave on the following day.

But when the next morning came, and she saw the carriage arrive at the door, and perceived Rosamund's trunks being put on the roof, she suddenly woke to the fact that the strong influence of her life during the last couple of months had come to a complete end; that Rosamund, the strong, the vivacious, the daring, the noble, was leaving her. All in a minute even little Agnes seemed distasteful to the excited girl. She flew up to Rosamund's side and flung her arms round her neck.

"Oh, you are going! You are going, and what is to become of me without you?"

Rosamund drew her into a little room leading out of the hall.

"Just one word, Irene," she said. "I know you are very fond of Agnes, and you are behaving splendidly to her; but you will think of Miss Frost and of Hughie. You will write to me once or twice a week, and afterward, you know, it is settled that you and I are both to meet at the Merrimans', where we are to spend one term together."

"Oh, dear, how am I to endure that?"

"You will endure it when I give you a piece of news. It is arranged that little Agnes comes also, and"——

"Oh, have you settled that, you darling?"

"Partly. And Miss Frost comes, too, as they want another governess; and your dear mother, who needs change, will spend the time with one of her sisters in Scotland. Now you know exactly what is before you, and I must be off. I trust you, Irene. You won't disappoint me? If I thought you could, I don't really know what would become of me."



CHAPTER XXI.

A REAL ROUSING FRIGHT.

Wonderful to relate, the holidays passed smoothly enough. Hughie was the sort of boy to be touched by Rosamund's words. No one had before appealed to him just in Rosamund's way. He found, too, considerable pleasure and interest on his own account at The Follies, for Lady Jane was singularly kind to him, and gave him a pony to ride, and he was permitted the rare indulgence of going with the gamekeeper into the woods to take his first lesson in partridge-shooting; but this came later on.

Meanwhile Miss Frost made a great effort to recover her self-control; but such an agony of jealousy had taken possession of the poor lady that she could scarcely bear to be in the society either of her pupil or her little sister. Irene exercised more and more influence over Agnes, and for a long time that influence was altogether for good. When the child asked simple questions Irene replied simply. She felt ashamed of her own want of knowledge on many particulars. She went regularly to church twice every Sunday because little Agnes thought that no living person could do otherwise. She did not at all want to go, and she trembled as much as ever when the choir sang, and when the place became hushed and people called themselves "miserable sinners," and looked so unconcerned and so well-dressed. But for the sake of Agnes she restrained herself, for Agnes' little, pale, calm face appeared not to think at all about the matter.

Nevertheless, it was scarcely possible that such a cloudless state of things could continue. As to Hughie, he and Irene were more or less neutral, neither speaking much to the other. They were both absolutely different, but both were absolutely without fear.

There came a day, however, when Irene took it into her wild little head that Hughie needed a lesson to be taught him.

"I know by his looks," she thought, "that he hates my loving Agnes so much."

Accordingly, she made up her mind to administer a lesson, and to make it as stiff a piece of terrorism as she could devise.

"He thinks he knows a great deal; but I'll teach him!" thought the girl.

Some of her old wicked spirit had come back to her. She had no longer any lessons to employ her time; she had no longer Rosamund's wholesome influence—Rosamund who was in Switzerland, and whose letters, delightful as they were, could not take the place of her constant presence.

The day was a sultry one toward the end of August. Miss Frost, pale and dejected, was seated in one of the arbors. She was doing some needlework, and little Agnes was sitting on a low stool at her sister's feet. Miss Frost looked up when Irene suddenly entered.

"I wonder," she said, "if you and Agnes would go to town for me after lunch? Mother says you may have the pony-trap and drive in. I want you to get"——

She produced a list of all sorts of materials, including a new doll for Agnes.

"I want Agnes to have a doll, and a cradle to put it in at night, and she shall make the clothes for it. Between you and me, we can show her how. Would you like it, Agnes darling?"

"Oh, shouldn't I just love it!" said little Agnes. "Fancy my being your baby, and then having a baby of my own! Oh, it seems altogether too beautiful! Isn't she sweet, Emily?"

Miss Frost looked with her nervous eyes at her pupil. Irene's own bright eyes looked back in reply. They were full of dancing mischief.

"Mothery will give you some money to buy the necessary things," she said. "I have spoken to her about it; indeed, she is going with you, and lunch is to be a quarter of an hour earlier."

"But would you—would you," said Miss Frost, who was trembling all over with delight at the thought of having her beloved little sister all to herself for a whole afternoon—"wouldn't you like to keep Agnes? I would buy the things for her."

She felt herself very noble as she made this remark.

"No," said Irene, shaking her head. "No; I want Agnes to choose her own doll. You can have a boy-dolly or a girl-dolly," she said, "just as you please. There is a beautiful shop at Dartford, in the High Street, where you can buy everything you want. It is called Millar's. You know all about it, don't you, Frosty? Now, there is the luncheon-bell."

The luncheon-bell sounded. Miss Frost, little Agnes, Irene, and the rest of the party all assembled in the cool dining-room.

Soon after lunch, Lady Jane, Agnes, and Miss Frost started for Dartford, and Irene turned and faced Hughie.

"Hughie," she said, "would you like to come for a row on the lake with me?"

"If you wish," he replied.

He had kept his promise to Rosamund so far. He had made no further inquiries with regard to Irene. He had tried, as he expressed it, to wash his hands of her. He did not like her. He felt that he never could like her. There was something to him repugnant about her. He had a kind of uncanny feeling that she was a sort of changeling; that she could do extraordinary, defiant, and marvelous things. Now, as she looked full up at him, trying to steady her face, and trying to look as like an ordinary girl as possible, he endeavored to conceal a queer sort of fear which stole suddenly over his heart. He remembered the old stories; the servants who shrank from her, the wild creatures that seemed to be her constant companions, and the tricks she was capable of playing on any one.

"I will go with you, of course," he said. "Do you want me to row?"

"No; I want you to sit in the stern and steer. Will you come? Just wait a minute. I'll be ready in no time."

She flew upstairs, and came down in the obnoxious red dress, which she had not worn for such a long time. It made a queer change in her, giving her a more elf-like appearance than usual.

"Why do you wear that? It isn't pretty," said Hughie.

"Never you mind whether it is pretty or not," retorted Irene.

"Well, I'll try not; but a fellow must make remarks. You know, you look ripping in your white dresses, and that silk thing you wear in the evening; but I don't like that."

"Don't you? Well, I do. Anyhow, I'm going to wear it to-day while we are having our fun on the lake. It's just a perfect day for the lake. Do you know, there's a storm coming on."

As Irene spoke she fixed her bright eyes on the sky. It was blue over the house; but in the distance, coming rapidly nearer and nearer, was a terrible black cloud—a cloud almost as black as ink—and already there were murmurs in the trees and cawings among the birds, the breeze growing stronger and stronger—the prelude to a great agitation of nature.

"I suppose we won't go on the lake to get drowned," said Hughie. "That is a thunder-cloud."

"Never mind; it will be all the greater fun. I am in my red dress, and you can put on any shabby clothes you happen to have. If you are going to be a counter-jumper you must have got some very shabby things."

"Why do you speak to me in that tone?" said Hughie.

"Oh, I don't know. I didn't mean anything. You can put on anything you like, and you needn't come if you don't want to; but I thought you were a plucky sort of chap."

"You may be quite sure I am. Of course I will come with you. Let us run down to the boat-house. Perhaps," continued Hughie, struggling with the promise he had made to Rosamund, "the storm may go off in another direction, and we sha'n't have it."

"I see you are awfully afraid of it, and it mayn't come here at all," said Irene, who knew perfectly well that it would, for the cloud was coming more and more in the direction of the house each moment.

In a very short time the two children were in the boat, Irene taking both the oars, and giving Hughie simple directions to steer straight for the stream in the middle of the lake.

"Now I will give him a real rousing fright," she said to herself. "After that perhaps he will be my slave, the same as Carter was. Anyhow, I have a crow to pluck with him; and the storm, and my knowledge of the water, and his absolute ignorance will enable me to win the day."

Aloud, she said in a gentle voice, "Perhaps you'd like to take the oars?"

"I will if you like," said Hughie; "but the fact is, I'm not very good at rowing. I have never been much in a boat."

"Ah! I thought as much. But I can teach you. Come and sit here."

They had just entered the stream, which made the lake dangerous even on a calm day. Hughie stumbled to his feet; Irene sat in the stern, took the ropes, and skillfully guided the boat into the centre of the stream. It began to rock tremendously.

"Now pull! Pull hard!" she said to the boy.

Just then a blinding flash of lightning came across their faces.

"Oh!" said Hughie, "the storm is on us. It will rain in a few minutes. Hadn't we better get back?"

"What a coward you are!" said Irene. "It is the most awful fun to be out on the lake in a storm like this. Ah! do you hear that growl?"

"But I can't manage the boat a bit."

"I thought all boys could manage boats. You don't expect a girl to do it—a girl out in the midst of a storm of this sort? Besides, I must put up my umbrella or I shall be soaked."

"But I told you it would rain. You shouldn't have come out," said Hughie, who felt more annoyed, distressed, and angry than he had ever felt in his life before. He felt that suddenly the boat was quite unmanageable, that it was rocking and racing and taking them he did not know where.

All of a sudden Irene sprang to her feet.

"Get back into the stern," she said. "Sit quite still, and let me take the oars. I wanted to see if you could row. I see you can't. There is another flash of lightning. Don't be frightened. I know you are; but try to keep it under. I have something to say to you."

She seated herself, and the two children faced each other. The flash of lightning was followed by a crashing peal of thunder. The trees bowed low to meet the gale; the frightened birds, the swans and others, took shelter where they could best find it; but as yet there was not a drop of rain.

"How hot it is!" said Irene. "Let us fly down the stream."

"What do you mean by that?" said Hughie, whose freckled face was deadly white.

"I will tell you if you like; but don't speak."

He looked at her with fascinated eyes. In her red dress, with her witch-like face and glancing, dancing, naughty eyes, she became to him for the moment an object of absolute terror. Was this the gentle and exceedingly pretty girl whom little Agnes so adored? He was alone with her, and they were, so to speak, flying through the water, although she scarcely touched the oars, allowing them to lie almost idle by her side.

Suddenly she shipped them and bent toward him.

"We needn't row any more," she said. "We are in the current. The current will take us. Hughie, can you swim?"

"I don't know anything about swimming," he said.

"Well, that is rather bad for you; for in about five minutes of this sort of thing we go right down the cascade at the end of the lake and among the breakers. The boat will be upset, and you will have to fight for your life, unless I choose to save you. I could save you, for I have perfect control of myself in the water."

"But you don't mean to say you are going to do anything of that sort! Can't we get into the calmer part of the lake? I don't understand you," said Hughie.

"But I understand you. You don't like me, and I don't like you. From the very first you have been disagreeable. I like your little sister, but you don't want me to like her."

"Well, I think you are a bit rough on old Em," was Hughie's remark.

"What a flash that was!" said Irene; and her eyes danced with cruel pleasure. "Ah! here comes the rain."

A terrific hail-shower drenched the two children as they sat within the rocking boat. For the first time in her life Irene was really slightly frightened. Had she dared too much? Even she might not be able to get the boat out of the current just at present; and if she did not, and they really got among the breakers and over the cascade in the present storm, it might be beyond her power to save Hughie. As to herself, she was not at all afraid. She felt she could swim through anything and over anything; but she was not certain that she could swim and support a boy so big and strong as Hughie.

Then there rose before her vision the face of Rosamund—Rosamund's face with its noble expression, its clear, steadfast, dark eyes—Rosamund with her ringing voice. Oh, what influence for good she had exercised over Irene's wild, worthless, almost terrible life, and yet she was disobeying all her precepts now, and frightening poor Hughie almost to death!

"I tell you what it is," she said in a husky voice; "we will both try to get out of this current if you will make me a promise."

"It seems to me that I am spending my whole life in making promises," said Hughie. "But I will make any promise if that will help you now. Oh, what a flash that was! I expect we shall both be struck by the lightning."

"I suppose that doesn't matter. I suppose you are not afraid to die, are you?"

"I haven't thought of it," said the boy. "People of fourteen don't think much about dying, do they? But I don't think I'd be specially afraid. It might be a sort of relief to poor old Em to have only one of us to keep. But for you there is your mother and little Agnes."

"Yes; I wouldn't like to die on account of little Agnes," replied Irene very gravely. "I love her just as though she were my own little child."

"Well, I am her brother. I suppose you ought to be pleasant to me because I happen to be her brother, and Emily happens to be her sister," retorted the lad.

"That is true enough. I will tell you why I did this. I brought you out into the current to test your courage. If I do nothing, if we both sit still as we are now, in all probability you will be drowned; but if you will exert yourself and help me with all your might and main, then I will respect you as a truly courageous person, and perhaps we'll be better friends than we have hitherto been."

"What do you want me to do? I will do anything," said the boy.

"Well, look here. I will take one oar and you take the other, and we must get out of this current whatever happens. As soon as we are out of it we are safe. Oh, never mind the lightning, and don't listen to the thunder."

"It almost blinds me," said Hughie, passing his hand across his eyes as he spoke, dazzled by the vividness of the ever-increasing storm. Irene gave him strict directions.

"You are strong," she said. "When you see me pull, you must pull, too, and you must be very quick, for the nearer we get to the cascade the swifter runs the current. On a calm day I could save you, there wouldn't be a bit of fear; but on a rough day, in a storm like this, I mightn't be able to manage it. Now then, a strong pull, and a pull all together!"

The boy obeyed her directions. Whatever she might have thought of him a minute ago, he was indeed no coward. He pulled with all his might and main. Irene did likewise, and in a few minutes' time they were out of the dangerous current, in smooth water. But it was a close shave, and the girl's hands trembled and for a minute she dropped her oar.

"Never mind," she said to Hughie.

"But you look as white as death, just as though you would faint. Did that last flash touch your hair? It seemed to me that it was almost hot on my cheeks."

"No, it wasn't that; and the storm is going off," said Irene. "Somehow I am ashamed of myself. I oughtn't to have been so mean."

"Please tell me."

"I have tested you, and you are brave. You are not a coward like poor Carter."

"Who is Carter?"

"A governess I once had. I took her on to the lake, and into the central current, and she was in such terror! I wanted her to go away, and I wouldn't get out of the current, however hard she implored. But I promised to save her when we got among the breakers if only she would go afterward. She promised, and I did save her, and she is all right now; and Frosty—your dear Emily, I mean—and she are the best of friends. And I am friendly with her, too. I have been much better lately—much better since dear Rosamund came—only somehow I felt that you defied me, and I wanted to test you. I have tested you, and I respect you, for you weren't really frightened that time, and you did row all right. What a strong arm you have! I wish I had an arm like that."

Hughie colored with absolute pleasure.

"You are a plucky un," he said; "but I didn't know that you really wanted to drown me."

"Of course I didn't want to drown you. I knew a storm was coming on, and that it would be very rough in the current to-day, and I wanted to test you; and you have proved worthy of the test, and we are in safe water now. The storm is dying away, too; and shall it be pax? Shall we be friends for the remainder of your stay at The Follies?"

"I think you are a splendid girl, although you are quite the queerest I ever came across," said the boy.

"And you are awfully plucky. Now, I tell you what it is. Mothery and I will do our best to make you a gentleman by and by. You won't be too proud if mother and I help Frosty—your Emily, as you call her—to make you into something better than a counter-jumper?"

"Would you indeed?" he asked, his eyes glowing, and the color coming into his cheeks. "You know, I always hated the thought of it, for my people were gentry. My mother was such a refined woman, something like sweet little Agnes, and it always cut me to the very heart to think that I was going down in the social scale."