In the midst of their happy little talk together Annie Forest, in her usual careless fashion, entered the play-room. She alone, of all the girls, had taken no notice of the new plaything. She walked to her usual corner, sat down on the floor, and began to play cup and ball for the benefit of two or three of the smallest children. Hester did not regard her in the least; she sat with Nan on her knee, stroking back her sunny curls, and remarking on her various charms to several of the girls who sat round her.

"See, how pretty that dimple in her chin is," she said, "and oh, my pet, your eyes look wiser, and bigger, and saucier than ever. Look at me, Nan; look at your own Hetty."

Nan's attention, however, was diverted by the gaily-painted cup and ball which Annie was using with her wonted dexterity.

"Dat a pitty toy," she said, giving one quick and rather solemn glance at her sister, and again fixing her admiring gaze on the cup and ball.

Annie Forest had heard the words, and she darted a sudden, laughing look at the little one. Annie's power over children was well known. Nan began to wriggle on Hester's knee.

"Dat a pitty lady," she said again, "and that a pitty, tibby [little] toy; Nan go see."

In an instant, before Hester could prevent her, she had trotted across the room, and was kneeling with the other children and shouting with delight over Annie's play.

"She'll get her, you'll see, Hester," said one of the girls maliciously; "she'll soon be much fonder of Annie Forest than of you. Annie wins the heart of every little child in the school."

"She won't win my Nan's from me," said Hester in a confident tone; but in spite of her words a great pang of jealousy had gone through her. She rose to her seat and followed her little sister.

"Nan, you are sleepy, you must go to bed."

"No, no, Hetty; me not s'eepy, me kite awake; go 'way, Hetty, Nan want to see the pitty tibby toy."

Annie raised her eyes to Hester's. She did not really want to be unkind, and at that moment it had certainty never entered into her head to steal Hester's treasure from her, but she could not help a look of suppressed delight and triumph filling her eyes.

Hester could scarcely bear the look; she stooped down, and taking one of Nan's little dimpled hands tried to drag her away.

Instantly Annie threw the cup and ball on the floor.

"The play is all over to-night, little darling," she said; "give Annie Forest one kiss, and run to bed with sister Hester."

Nan, who had been puckering up her face to cry, smiled instantly; then she scrambled to her feet, and flung her little fat arms round Annie's neck.

"Dat a vedy pitty p'ay," she said in a patronizing tone, "and me like 'oo, me do."

Then she gave her hand willingly to Hester, and trotted out of the play-room by her side.



CHAPTER XX.

IN THE SOUTH PARLOR.

Immediately after Easter the real excitement of the school-year began. All the girls who had ambition, who had industry, and who had a desire to please distant fathers, mothers, or guardians, worked hard for that great day at midsummer when Mrs. Willis distributed her valuable prizes.

From the moment of Hester's entrance into the school she had heard this day spoken of. It was, without doubt, the greatest day of the year at Lavender House. Smaller prizes were given at Christmas, but the great honors were always reserved for this long sunshiny June day, when Mrs. Willis herself presented her marks of approbation to her successful pupils.

The girls who had lived in the school for two or three years gave Hester vivid descriptions of the excitements, the pleasures, the delights of this day of days. In the first place it was the first of the holidays, in the second it was spent almost from morning to night in the open air—for a great tent was erected on the lawn; and visitors thronged to Lavender House, and fathers and mothers, and aunts and uncles, arrived from a distance to witness the triumphs of the favored children who had won the prizes. The giving away of the prizes was, of course, the event of the day; but there were many other minor joys. Always in the evenings there was some special entertainment. These entertainments differed from year to year, Mrs. Willis allowing the girls to choose them for themselves, and only making one proviso, that they must take all the trouble, and all the pains—in short, that they themselves must be the entertainers. One year they had tableaux vivants; another a fancy ball, every pretty dress of which had been designed by themselves, and many even made by their own industrious little fingers. Mrs. Willis delighted in the interest and occupation that this yearly entertainment gave to her pupils, and she not only encouraged them in their efforts to produce something very unique and charming, but took care that they should have sufficient time to work up their ideas properly. Always after Easter she gave the girls of the three first classes two evenings absolutely to themselves; and these they spent in a pretty room called the south parlor, which belonged to Mrs. Willis' part of the house, and was rarely used, except for these great preparations.

Hester, therefore, after Easter found her days very full indeed. Every spare moment she devoted to little Nan, but she was quite determined to win a substantial prize, and she was also deeply interested in various schemes proposed in the south parlor.

With regard to prizes, Mrs. Willis also went on a plan of her own. Each girl was expected to come up to a certain standard of excellence in all her studies, and if she fell very much below this standard she was not allowed to try for any prize; if she came up to it, she could select one subject, but only one, for competition.

On the Monday after the Easter holidays the special subjects for the midsummer prizes were given out, and the girls were expected to send in their answers as to the special prize they meant to compete for by the following Friday.

When this day arrived Hester Thornton and Dora Russell both discovered that they had made the same choice—they were going to try for the English composition prize. This subject always obtained one of the most costly prizes, and several of the girls shook their heads over Hester's choice.

"You are very silly to try for that, Hetty," they exclaimed, "for Mrs. Willis has such queer ideas with regard to English composition. Of course, we go in for it in a general way, and learn the rules of grammar and punctuation, and so forth, but Mrs. Willis says that schoolgirls' themes are so bad and affected, as a rule, and she says she does not think any one will go in for her pet prize who has not natural ability. In consequence, she gives only one prize for composition between the three first classes. You had better change your mind, Hetty, before it is too late, for much older girls will compete with you, and there are several who are going to try."

Hester, however, only smiled, and assured her eager friend that she would stick to her pet subject, and try to do the best she could.

On the morning when the girls signified their choice of subject, Mrs. Willis came into the school-room and made one of her little yearly speeches with regard to the right spirit in which her girls should try for these honors. The few and well-chosen words of the head mistress generally roused those girls who loved her best to a fever of enthusiasm, and even Hester, who was comparatively a newcomer, felt a great wish, as she listened to that clear and vibrating voice and watched the many expressions which passed over the noble face, that she might find something beyond the mere earthly honor and glory of success in this coming trial. Having finished her little speech, Mrs. Willis made several remarks with regard to the choice of subjects. She spoke of the English composition prize last, and here she heightened the interest and excitement which always hung around this special prize. Contrary to her usual rule, she would this year give no subject for an English theme. Each girl might choose what pleased her best.

On hearing these words Annie Forest, who had been sitting by her desk looking rather dull and dejected, suddenly sprang to her feet, her face aglow, her eyes sparkling, and began whispering vigorously to Miss Good.

Miss Good nodded, and, going up to Mrs. Willis, said aloud that Annie had changed her mind, and that from not wishing to try for any of the prizes, she now intended to compete for the English composition.

Mrs. Willis looked a little surprised, but without any comment she immediately entered Annie's name in the list of competitors, and Annie sat down again, not even glancing at her astonished schoolfellows, who could not conceal their amazement, for she had never hitherto shown the slightest desire to excel in this department.

On the evening of this Friday the girls of the three first classes assembled for the first time in the south parlor. Hitherto these meetings had been carried on in a systematic and business-like fashion. It was impossible for all the girls who belonged to these three large classes to assemble on each occasion. Careful selections, therefore, were, as a rule, made from their numbers. These girls formed a committee to superintend and carry on the real preparations for the coming treat, and the others only met when specially summoned by the committee to appear.

As usual now the three classes found themselves in the south parlor—as usual they chattered volubly, and started schemes, to reject them again with peals of laughter. Many ideas were put forward, to be cast aside as utterly worthless. No one seemed to have any very brilliant thought, and as the first step on these occasions was to select what the entertainment should be, proceedings seemed to come to a standstill.

The fact was the most daring originator, the one whose ideas were always flavored with a spice of novelty, was absolutely silent.

Cecil Temple, who had taken a seat near Annie, suddenly bent forward and spoke to her aloud.

"We have all said what we would like, and we none of us appear to have thought of anything at all worth having," she said; "but you have not spoken at all, Annie. Give us an idea, dear—you know you originated the fancy ball last year."

Thus publicly appealed to, Annie raised her full brown eyes, glanced at her companions, not one of whom, with the exception of Cecil, returned her gaze fully; then, rising to her feet, she spoke in a slightly contemptuous tone.

"These preparations seem to me to be much ado about nothing; they take up a lot of our time, and the results aren't worth the trouble—I have nothing particular to say. Oh, well, yes, if you like—let's have blind man's buff and a magic lantern;" and then, dropping a mock curtsey to her companions, she dropped out of the south parlor.

"Insufferable girl!" said Dora Russell; "I wonder you try to draw her out, Cecil. You know perfectly that we none of us care to have anything to do with her."

"I know perfectly that you are all doing your best to make her life miserable," said Cecil, suddenly and boldly. "No one in this school has obeyed Mrs. Willis' command to treat Annie as innocent—you are practically sending her to Coventry, and I think it is unjust and unfair. You don't know, girls, that you are ruining poor Annie's happiness."

"Oh, dear! she doesn't seem at all dull," said Miss West, a second-class girl. "I do think she's a hardened little wretch."

"Little you know about her," said Cecil, the color fading out of her pale face. Then after a pause, she added; "The injustice of the whole thing is that in this treatment of Annie you break the spirit of Mrs. Willis' command—you, none of you, certainly tell her that she is guilty, but you treat her as such."

Here Hester Thornton said a daring thing.

"I don't believe Mrs. Willis in her heart of hearts considers Annie guiltless."

These words of Hester's were laughed at by most of the girls, but Dora Russell gave her an approving nod, and Cecil, looking paler than ever, dropped suddenly into her seat, and no longer tried to defend her absent friend.

"At any rate," said Miss Conway, who as the head girl of the whole school was always listened to with great respect, "it is unfortunate for the success of our entertainment that there should be all this discussion and bad feeling with regard to Miss Forest. For my own part, I cannot make out why the poor little creature should be hunted down, or what affair it is of ours whether she is innocent or not. If Mr. Everard and Mrs. Willis say she is innocent, is not that enough? The fact of her guilt or innocence can't hurt us one way or another. It is a great pity, however, for our own sakes, that we should be out with her now, for, whatever her faults, she is the only one of us who is ever gifted with an original thought. But, as we can't have her, let us set to work without her—we really can't waste the whole evening over this sort of talk."

Discussions as to the coming pleasure were now again resumed with vigor, and after a great deal of animated arguing it was resolved that two short plays should be acted; that a committee should be immediately formed, who should select the plays, and apportion their various parts to the different actors.

The committee selected included Miss Russell, Miss Conway, Hester Thornton, Cecil Temple, and two other girls of the second class. The conference then broke up, but there was a certain sense of flatness over everything, and Cecil was not the only girl who sighed for the merry meetings of last year—when Annie had been the life and soul of all the proceedings, and when one brilliant idea after another with regard to the costumes for the fancy ball had dropped from her merry tongue.



CHAPTER XXI.

STEALING HEARTS.

When Annie ran out of the south parlor she found herself suddenly face to face with Mrs. Willis.

"Well, my dear child," said the head mistress in her kindest voice, "where are you running to? But I suppose I must not ask; you are, of course, one of the busy and secret conclave in the south parlor?"

"No. I have left them," said Annie, bending her head, and after her usual habit when agitated, shaking her hair about her face.

"Left them?" repeated Mrs. Willis, "you mean, dear, that they have sent you for some message."

"No. I am not one of them. May I go into the garden, Mrs. Willis?"

"Certainly, my dear."

Annie did not even glance at her governess. She pushed aside the baize door, and found herself in the great stone hall which led to the play-room and school-room. Her garden hat hung on a peg in the hall, and she tossed it off its place, and holding it in her hand ran toward the side door which opened directly into the garden. She had a wild wish to get to the shelter of the forsaken hammock and there cry out her whole heart. The moment she got into the open air, however, she was met by a whole troop of the little children, who were coming in after their usual short exercise before going to bed. Miss Danesbury was with them, and when Annie ran out by the open door, she entered holding two little ones by the hands. Last in this group toddled Hester's little sister Nan. The moment she saw Annie, her little face broke into smiles, she held out two hands eagerly, and fled to the young girl's side.

"Where dat pitty toy?" she said, raising her round face to Annie's; "some one did buy dat toy, and it's vedy pitty, and me wants it—where's dat toy?"

Annie stooped down, and spoke suddenly and impulsively to the little child.

"You shall have the toy for your very own, Nan if you will do something for me?"

Nan's baby eyes looked straight into Annie's.

"Me will," she said emphatically; "me want dat toy."

"Put your arms, round me, little darling, and give me a great tight hug."

This request was great fun to Nan, who squeezed her little arms round Annie's neck, and pressed her dimpled cheek to her lips.

"Dere," she said triumphantly, "will dat do?"

"Yes, you little treasure, and you'll try to love me, won't you?"

"Me do," said Nan, in a solemn voice; but then Miss Danesbury called her, and she ran into the house.

As Nan trotted into the house she put up her dimpled hand to wipe something from her round cheek—it was a tear which Annie Forest had left there.

Annie herself, when all the little ones had disappeared, walked slowly and sadly down toward the shady walk. The sun had just set, and though it was now nearly May, and the evenings long, the wind was sufficiently cold to cause Annie to shiver in her thin house frock. At all times utterly fearless with regard to her health, she gave it no thought now, but entering the walk where she knew she should not be disturbed, she looked up at the hammock, and wondered whether she should climb into it. She decided, however, not to do so—the great and terrible weight of tears which had pressed close to her heart were relieved by Nan's embrace; she no longer cared to cry until she could cry no longer—the worst of her pain had been soothed by the sweet baby graciousness of the little one.

Then there darted into poor Annie's sore heart and perplexed brain that dangerous thought and temptation which was to work so much future pain and trouble. She already loved little Nan, and Nan, as most children did, had taken a fancy to her. Annie stood still, and clasped her hands as the dark idea came to her to steal the heart of little Nan from Hester, and so revenge herself on her. By doing this she would touch Hester in her most vulnerable point—she would take from her what she valued most. The temptation came swiftly, and Annie listened to it, and thought how easy it would be to carry it into effect. She knew well that no little child could resist her when she chose to exercise her charms—it would be easy, easy work to make that part of Nan which was most precious all her own. Annie became fascinated by the idea; how completely then she would have revenged all her wrongs on Hester! Some day Hester would bitterly repent of her unjust prejudice toward her; some day Hester would come to her, and beg of her in agony to give her back her darling's love; ah! when that day came it would be her turn to triumph.

She felt more than satisfied as the temptation grew upon her; she shut out persistently from her view all the other side of the picture; she would not let herself think that the work she was about to undertake was cruel and mean. Hester had been more than unjust, and she was going to punish her.

Annie paced faster and faster up and down the shady walk, and whenever her resolution wavered, the memory of Hester's face as she had seen it the same night in the south parlor came visibly back and strengthened it. Yes, her turn had come at last Hester had contrived since her entrance into the school to make Annie's life thoroughly miserable. Well, never mind, it was Annie's turn now to make her wretched.



CHAPTER XXII.

IN BURN CASTLE WOOD.

In concentrating her thoughts of revenge on Hester, Annie ceased to trouble her head about Dora Russell. She considered Hester a crueler enemy than Dora. Hester belonged to her own set, worked in her own class, and would naturally, had things not turned out so unjustly, so unfairly, have been her friend, and not her enemy. Dora had nothing to say to Annie, and before Hester's advent into the school had scarcely noticed her existence. Annie therefore concentrated all her powers on punishing Hester. This gave her an aim and an occupation, and at first she felt that her revenge might give her real pleasure.

Susan Drummond now shared Annie's bedroom, and Annie was rather startled one evening to hear this phlegmatic young person burst out into a strong tirade against Hester and Dora. Dora had managed, for some inexplicable reason, to offend Susan, and Susan now looked to Annie for sympathy, and boldly suggested that they should get up what she was pleased to called "a lark" between them for the punishment of this very dignified young lady.

Annie had never liked Susan, and she now stared at her, and said, in her quick way:

"You won't catch me helping you in any of your larks. I've had trouble enough on that score as it is."

Susan gazed at her stupidly, and a dull red spread over her face.

"But I thought you hated Dora and Hester," she said—"I'm sure they hate you."

Annie was silent.

"You do hate them, don't you?" persisted Miss Drummond.

"It's nothing to you what I feel toward them, Susy," said Annie. "Please don't disturb me with any more of your chatter; I am very sleepy, and you are keeping me awake."

Thus silenced, Susan had to content herself by turning on her back, and going into the land of dreams; but she was evidently a good deal surprised and disappointed, and began to entertain a certain respect, and even fear, of Annie which had been hitherto unknown to her.

Meanwhile Hester was very busy, very happy, and more satisfied—brighter and better employed than she had ever been in her life before. Nan's love satisfied the affectionate side of her nature, and all her intellect was strained to the utmost to win honors in the coming struggle.

She had stuck firmly to her resolve to work for the English composition prize, and she firmly made up her own mind to leave no stone unturned to win it. What affection she possessed for Miss Russell was not at all of a character to prevent her from thoroughly enjoying taking the prize out of her hands. Her love for Dora had been fed by vanity, and was not at all of a deep or noble character. She was some time carefully choosing the subject of her theme, and at last she resolved to write a brief historical description of the last days of Marie Antoinette. To write properly on this subject she had to read up a great deal, and had to find references in books which were not usually allowed as school-room property. Mrs. Willis, however, always allowed the girls who were working for the English composition prize to have access to her rather extensive library, and here Hester was often to be found during play-hours. Two evenings in the week were also taken up in preparation for the coming plays, and as Hester was to take rather an important part in one, and a small character in another, she was obliged to devote herself to getting up her parts during the weekly half-holidays. Thus every moment was busy, and, except at night, she had little time to devote herself to Nan.

Nan slept in a pretty crib in Hester's room, and each evening the young girl knelt down by her sister's side, and gazed at her with love, which was almost motherly, swelling in her breast.

All that was best of Hester was drawn out at these moments; something greater than ambition—something far and away above school triumphs and school jealousies spoke then in her heart of hearts. These moments found her capable of being both sympathizing and forgiving; these moments followed out in her daily life might have made Hester almost great. Now was the time, with her eyes full of tears and her lips trembling with emotion, for Annie Forest to have caught a glimpse of the divine in Hester; the hardness, the pride, the haughty spirit were all laid aside, and hers was the true child-heart as she knelt by the sleeping baby. Hester prayed earnestly at these moments, and, in in truth, Nan did better for her than any sermon; better for her than even Mrs. Willis' best influences. Nan was as the voice of God to her sister.

Hester, in her very busy life, had no time to notice, however, a very slight and almost imperceptible change in bright little Nan. In the mornings she was in too great a hurry to pay much heed to the little one's chatter; in the afternoons she had scarcely an instant to devote to her, and when she saw her playing happily with the other children she was quite content, and always supposed that when a spare half-hour did come in her busy life, Nan would rush to her with the old ecstasy, and give her the old devotion.

One day, toward the end of a very fine May, the girls were all to go for a picnic to some woods about four miles away. They had looked forward for several days to this relaxation, and were in the highest state of delight and the wildest spirits. After an early dinner they were to drive in several large wagonettes to the place of rendezvous, where they were to be regaled with gypsy-tea, and were to have a few hours in the lovely woods of Burn Castle, one of the show places of the neighborhood. Mrs. Willis had invited the Misses Bruce to accompany them, and they were all to leave the house punctually at two o'clock. The weather was wonderfully fine and warm, and it was decided that all the children, even Nan, should go.

Perhaps none of the girls looked forward to this day's pleasure with greater joy than did Hester; she determined to make it a real holiday, and a real time of relaxation. She would forget her English theme; she would cease to worry herself about Marie Antoinette; she would cease to repeat her part in the coming play; and she would devote herself exclusively and determinately to Nan's pleasure. She pictured the little one's raptures; she heard her gay shouts of joy, her ceaseless little rippling chatter, her baby glee, and, above all things, her intense happiness at being with her own Hetty for the greater part of a whole day. Hester would ride her on her shoulder, would race with her; all her usual companions would be as nothing to her on this occasion, she would give herself up solely to Nan.

As she was dressing that morning she said a word or two to the child about the coming treat.

"We'll light a fire in the wood, Nan, and hang a kettle over it, and make tea—such good tea; won't it be nice?"

Nan clapped her hands. "And may I take out my little ummabella (umbrella), case it might wain?" she asked anxiously.

Hester flew to her and kissed her.

"You funny darling!" she said. "Oh, we shall have such a day! You'll be with your own Hetty all day long—your own Hetty; won't you be glad?"

"Me am," said Nan; "own Hetty, and own Annie; me am glad."

Hester scarcely heard the last words, for the prayer-gong sounded, and she had to fly down stairs.

At dinner time the girls were discussing who would go with each, and all were very merry and full of fun.

"Miss Danesbury will take the little children," said Miss Good. "Mrs. Willis says that all the little ones are to be in Miss Danesbury's charge."

"Oh, please," said Hester, suddenly, "may Nan come with me, Miss Good? She'll be so disappointed if she doesn't, and I'll take such care of her."

Miss Good nodded a careless acquiescence, and Hester proceeded with her dinner, feeling thoroughly satisfied.

Immediately after dinner the girls flew to their rooms to prepare for their expedition. Hastily opening a drawer, Hester pulled out a white frock, white pique pelisse, and washing hat for Nan—she meant her darling to look as charming as possible.

"Oh, dear, Miss Danesbury should have brought her here by now," she said to herself impatiently, and then, hearing the crunching of carriage wheels on the drive, she flew to the bell and rang it.

In a few moments one of the maids appeared.

"Do you know where Miss Nan is, Alice? She is to go to Burn Castle with me, and I want to dress her, for it is nearly time to go."

Alice looked a little surprised.

"If you please, miss," she said, "I think Miss Nan has just gone."

"What do you mean, Alice? Miss Good said especially she was to go with me."

"I know nothing about that, miss; I only know that I saw Miss Forest carrying her down stairs in her arms about three minutes ago, and they went off in the wagonette with all the other little children and Miss Danesbury."

Hester stood perfectly still, her color changed from red to white; for full half a minute she was silent. Then, hearing voices from below calling to her, she said in a cold, quiet tone:

"That will do, Alice; thank you for letting me know."

She turned to her drawer and put back Nan's white and pretty things, and also replaced a new and very becoming shady hat which she had meant to wear herself. In her old winter hat, and looking almost untidy for her, she walked slowly down stairs and took her place in the wagonette which was drawn up at the door.

Cecil Temple and one or two other girls whom Hester liked very much were in the same wagonette, but she scarcely cared to talk to them, and only joined in their laughter by a strong effort. She was deeply wounded, but her keenest present desire was to hide any feelings of jealousy she had toward Annie from the quick eyes of her schoolfellows.

"Why," suddenly exclaimed Julia Morris, a particularly unobservant girl, "I thought you were going to bring that dear baby sister with you, Hester. Oh, I do hope there is nothing the matter with her."

"Nan has gone on in the first wagonette with the little children," said Hester as cheerfully as she could speak, but she colored slightly, and saw that Cecil was regarding her attentively.

Susan Drummond exclaimed suddenly:

"I saw Annie Forest rushing down the stairs with little Nan, and Nan had her arms round her neck, and was laughing merrily. You need not be anxious about Nan, Hester; she was quite content to go with Annie."

"I did not say I was anxious," replied Hester in a cold voice. "How very beautiful that avenue of beech trees is, Cecil!"

"But Annie heard Miss Good say that you were to take Nan," persisted Julia Morris. "She could not but have noticed it, for you did flush up so, Hester, and looked so eager. I never saw any one more in earnest about a trifle in my life; it was impossible for Annie not to have heard."

"The great thing is that Nan is happy," said Hester in a fretted voice. "Do let us change the subject, girls."

Cecil instantly began talking about the coming plays, and soon the conversation became of an absorbing character, and Hester's voice was heard oftener than the others, and she laughed more frequently than her companions.

For all this forced merriment, however, Cecil did not fail to observe that when Hester got to the place of meeting at Burn Castle she looked around her with a quick and eager glance. Then the color faded from her face, and her eyes grew dim.

That look of pain on Hester's face was quite enough for kind-hearted Cecil. She had thrown herself on the grass with an exclamation of delight, but in an instant she was on her feet.

"Now, of course, the first thing is to find little Nan," she said; "she'll be missing you dreadfully, Hetty."

Cecil held out her hand to Hester to run with her through the wood, but, to her surprise, Hester drew back.

"I'm tired," she said; "I daresay we shall find Nan presently. She is sure to be safe, as she is under Miss Danesbury's care."

Cecil made no remark, but set off by herself to find the little children. Presently, standing on a little knoll, and putting her two hands round her lips, so as to form a speaking trumpet, she shouted to Hester. Hester came slowly and apparently unwillingly toward her, but when she got to the foot of the knoll, Cecil flew down, and, taking her by the hand, ran with her to the top.

"Oh, do come quick!" she exclaimed; "it is such a pretty sight."

Down in the valley about fifty yards away were the ten or twelve little children who formed the infant portion of the school. Miss Danesbury was sitting at some distance off quietly reading, and the children, decked with flowers, and carrying tall grasses and reeds in their hands, were flying round and round in a merry circle, while in their midst, and the center attraction, stood Annie, whose hat was tossed aside, and whose bright, curling hair was literally crowned with wild flowers. On Annie's shoulder stood little Nan, carefully and beautifully poised, and round Nan's wavy curls was a starry wreath of wood-anemones. Nan was shouting gleefully and clapping her hands, while Annie balanced her slightest movement with the greatest agility, and kept her little feet steady on her shoulders with scarcely an effort. As the children ran round and round Annie she waltzed gracefully backward and forward to meet them, and they all sang snatches of nursery rhymes. When Cecil and Hester appeared they had reached in their varied collection:

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall."

Here Nan exclaimed, in her clear, high-pitched voice:

"Me no fall, Annie," and the small children on the ground clapped their hands and blew kisses to her.

"Isn't it pretty? Isn't Annie sweet with children?" said Cecil, looking round to Hester with all the admiration she felt for her friend shining in her face. The expression, however, which Hester wore at that moment really startled Cecil; she was absolutely colorless, and presently she called aloud in a harsh, strained voice:

"Be careful of her! How wicked of you to put her like that on your shoulder! She will fall—yes, I know she will fall; oh, do be careful!"

Hester's voice startled the children, who ceased singing and dancing; Annie made a hasty step forward, and one little voice alone kept singing out the words:

"Humpty-Dumpty got a great fall!"—

when there was a crash and a cry, and Nan, in some inexplicable way, had fallen backward from Annie's shoulders.

In one instant Hester was in the midst of the group.

"Don't touch her," she said, as Annie flew to pick up the child, who, falling with some force on her head, had been stunned; "don't touch her—don't dare! It was your doing; you did it on purpose—you wished to do it!"

"You are unjust," said Annie, in a low tone. "Nan was perfectly safe until you startled her. Like all the rest you are unjust. Nan would have come to no harm if you had not spoken."

Hester did not vouchsafe another word. She sat on the ground with the unconscious and pretty little flower-crowned figure laid across her lap; she was terrified, and thought in her inexperience that Nan must be dead.

At the first mention of the accident Cecil had flown to fetch some water, and when she and Miss Danesbury applied it to little Nan's temples, she presently sighed, and opened her brown eyes wide.

"I hope—I trust she is not much hurt," said Miss Danesbury; "but I think it safest to take her home at once. Cecil, dear, can you do anything about fetching a wagonette round to the stile at the entrance of the wood? Now the puzzle is, who is to take care of the rest of the little children? If only they were under Miss Good's care, I should breathe more easily."

"I am going home with Nan," said Hester in a hard voice.

"Of course, my love; no one would think of parting you from your little sister," said the governess, soothingly.

"If you please, Miss Danesbury," said Annie, whose face was quite as pale as Hester's, and her eyes heavy as though she longed to cry, "will you trust me with the little ones? If you do, I will promise to take them straight to Miss Good, and to be most careful of them."

Miss Danesbury's gentle and kind face looked relieved.

"Thank you, Annie—of course I trust you, dear. Take the children at once to the meeting-place under the great oak, and wait there until Miss Good appears." Annie suddenly sprang forward, and threw her arms round Miss Danesbury's neck.

"Miss Danesbury, you comfort me," she said, in a kind of stifled voice, and then she ran off with the children.



CHAPTER XXIII.

"HUMPTY-DUMPTY HAD A GREAT FALL."

All the stupor and languor which immediately followed Nan's fall passed off during her drive home; she chatted and laughed, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. Hester turned with a relieved face to Miss Danesbury.

"My little darling is all right, is she not?" she said. "Oh, I was so terrified—oh, how thankful I am no harm has been done!"

Miss Danesbury did not return Hester's full gaze; she attempted to take little Nan on her knee, but Nan clung to Hetty. Then she said:

"You must be careful to keep the sun off her, dear—hold your parasol well down—just so. That is better. When we get home, I will put her to bed at once. Please God, there is nothing wrong; but one cannot be too careful."

Something in Miss Danesbury's manner affected Hester strangely; she clasped Nan's slight baby form closer and closer to her heart, and no longer joined in the little one's mirth. As the drive drew to a close, Nan again ceased talking, and fell into a heavy sleep.

Miss Danesbury's face grew graver and graver, and, when the wagonette drew up at Lavender House, she insisted on lifting the sleeping child out of Hester's arms, and carrying her up to her little crib. When Nan's little head was laid on the cool pillow, she again opened her eyes, and instantly asked for a drink. Miss Danesbury gave her some milk and water, but the moment she drank it she was sick.

"Just as I feared," said the governess; "there is some little mischief—not much, I hope—but we must instantly send for the doctor."

As Miss Danesbury walked across the room to ring the bell, Hester followed her.

"She's not in danger?" she whispered in a hoarse voice. "If she is, Annie is guilty of murder."

"Don't, my dear," said the governess; "you must keep quiet for Nan's sake. Please God, she will soon be better. All I really apprehend is a little excitement and feverishness, which will pass off in a few days with care. Hester, my dear, I suddenly remember that the house is nearly empty, for all the servants are also enjoying a holiday. I think I must send you for Dr. Mayflower. The wagonette is still at the door. Drive at once to town, my dear, and ask the coachman to take you to No. 10, The Parade. If you are very quick, you will catch Dr. Mayflower before he goes out on his afternoon rounds."

Hester glanced for half an instant at Nan, but her eyes were again closed.

"I will take the best care of her," said the governess in a kind voice; "don't lose an instant, dear."

Hester snatched up her hat and flew down stairs. In a moment she was in the wagonette, and the driver was speedily urging his horses in the direction of the small town of Sefton, two miles and a half away. Hester was terrified now—so terrified, in such an agony, that she even forgot Annie; her hatred toward Annie became of secondary importance to her. All her ideas, all her thoughts, were swallowed up in the one great hope—Should she be in time to reach Dr. Mayflower's house before he set off on his afternoon rounds? As the wagonette approached Sefton she buried her face in her hands and uttered a sharp inward cry of agony.

"Please God, let me find the doctor!" It was a real prayer from her heart of hearts. The wagonette drew up at the doctor's residence, to discover him stepping into his brougham. Hester was a shy child, and had never seen him before; but she instantly raised her voice, and almost shouted to him:

"You are to come with me; please, you are to come at once. Little Nan is ill—she is hurt. Please, you are to come at once."

"Eh! young lady?" said the round-faced doctor "Oh! I see; you are one of the little girls from Lavender House. Is anything wrong there, dear?"

Hester managed to relate what had occurred; whereupon the doctor instantly opened the door of the wagonette.

"Jump out, young lady," he said; "I will drive you back in my brougham. Masters," addressing his coachman, "to Lavender House."

Hester sat back in the soft-cushioned carriage, which bowled smoothly along the road. It seemed to her impatience that the pace at which they went was not half quick enough—she longed to put her head out of the window to shout to the coachman to go faster. She felt intensely provoked with the doctor, who sat placidly by her side reading a newspaper.

Presently she saw that his eyes were fixed on her. He spoke in his quietest tones.

"We always take precisely twenty minutes to drive from the Parade to Lavender House—twenty minutes, neither more or less. We shall be there now in exactly ten minutes."

Hester tried to smile, but failed; her agony of apprehension grew and grew. She breathed more freely when they turned into the avenue. When they stopped at the wide stone porch, and the doctor got out, she uttered a sigh of relief. She took Dr. Mayflower herself up to Nan's room. Miss Danesbury opened the door, the doctor went inside, and Hester crouched down on the landing and waited. It seemed to her that the good physician would never come out. When he did she raised a perfectly blanched face to his, she opened her lips, tried to speak, but no words would come. Her agitation was so intense that the kind-hearted doctor took instant pity on her.

"Come into this room, my child," he said. "My dear, you will be ill yourself if you give way like this. Pooh! pooh! this agitation is extreme—is uncalled for. You have got a shock. I shall prescribe a glass of sherry at once. Come down stairs with me, and I will see that you get one."

"But how is she, sir—how is she?" poor Hester managed to articulate.

"Oh! the little one—sweet, pretty, little darling. I did not know she was your sister—a dear little child. She got an ugly fall, though—came on a nasty place."

"But, please, sir, how is she? She—she—she is not in danger?"

"Danger? by no means, unless you put her into it. She must be kept very quiet, and, above all things, not excited. I will come to see her again to-morrow morning. With proper care she ought to be quite herself in a few days. Ah! now you've got a little color in your cheek, come down with me and have that glass of sherry, and you will feel all right."



CHAPTER XXIV.

ANNIE TO THE RESCUE.

The picnic-party arrived home late. The accident to little Nan had not shortened the day's pleasure, although Mrs. Willis, the moment she heard of it, had come back; for she entered the hall just as the doctor was stepping into his carriage. He gave her his opinion, and said that he trusted no further mischief, beyond a little temporary excitement, had been caused. He again, however, spoke of the great necessity of keeping Nan quiet, and said that her schoolfellows must not come to her, and that she must not be excited in any way. Mrs. Willis came into the great hall where Hester was standing. Instantly she went up to the young girl, and put her arm around and drew her to her side.

"Darling," she said, "this is a grievous anxiety for you; no words can express my sorrow and my sympathy; but the doctor is quite hopeful, Hester, and, please God, we shall soon have the little one as well as ever."

"You are really sorry for me?" said Hester, raising her eyes to the head-mistress' face.

"Of course, dear; need you ask?"

"Then you will have that wicked Annie Forest punished—well punished—well punished."

"Sometimes, Hester," said Mrs. Willis, very gravely, "God takes the punishment of our wrongdoings into His own hands. Annie came home with me. Had you seen her face as we drove together you would not have asked me to punish her."

"Unjust, always unjust," muttered Hester, but in so low a voice that Mrs. Willis did not hear the words. "Please may I go to little Nan?" she said.

"Certainly, Hester—some tea shall be sent up to you presently."

Miss Danesbury arranged to spend that night in Nan's room. A sofa bed was brought in for her to lie on, for Mrs. Willis had yielded to Hester's almost feverish entreaties that she might not be banished from her little sister. Not a sound reached the room where Nan was lying—even the girls took off their shoes as they passed the door—not a whisper came to disturb the sick child. Little Nan slept most of the evening, only sometimes opening her eyes and looking up drowsily when Miss Danesbury changed the cold application to her head. At nine o'clock there came a low tap at the room door. Hester went to open it; one of her schoolfellows stood without.

"The prayer-gong is not to be sounded to-night. Will you come to the chapel now? Mrs. Willis sent me to ask."

Hester shook her head.

"I cannot," she whispered; "tell her I cannot come."

"Oh, I am so sorry!" replied the girl; "is Nan very bad?"

"I don't know; I hope not. Good-night."

Hester closed the room door, took off her dress, and began very softly to prepare to get into bed. She put on her dressing-gown, and knelt down as usual to her private prayers. When she got on her knees, however, she found it impossible to pray: her brain felt in a whirl, her feelings were unprayer-like; and with the temporary relief of believing Nan in no immediate danger came such a flood of hatred toward Annie as almost frightened her. She tried to ask God to make Nan better—quite well; but even this petition seemed to go no way—to reach no one—to fall flat on the empty air. She rose from her knees, and got quietly into bed.

Nan lay in that half-drowsy and languid state until midnight. Hester, with all her very slight experience of illness, thought that as long as Nan was quiet she must be getting better; but Miss Danesbury was by no means so sure, and, notwithstanding the doctor's verdict, she felt anxious about the child. Hester had said that she could not sleep; but at Miss Danesbury's special request she got into bed, and before she knew anything about it was in a sound slumber. At midnight, when all the house was quiet, and Miss Danesbury kept a lonely watch by the sick child's pillow, there came a marked change for the worse in the little one. She opened her feverish eyes wide and began to call out piteously; but her cry now was, not for Hester, but for Annie.

"Me want my Annie," she said over and over, "me do, me do. No, no; go 'way, naughty Day-bury, me want my Annie; me do want her."

Miss Danesbury felt puzzled and distressed. Hester, however, was awakened by the piteous cry, and sat up in bed.

"What is it, Miss Danesbury?" she asked.

"She is very much excited, Hester; she is calling for Annie Forest."

"Oh, that is quite impossible," said Hester, a shudder passing through her. "Annie can't come here. The doctor specially said that none of the girls were to come near Nan."

"Me want Annie; me want my own Annie," wailed the sick child.

"Give me my dressing-gown, please, Miss Danesbury, and I will go to her," said Hester.

She sprang out of bed, and approached the little crib. The brightness of Nan's feverish eyes was distinctly seen. She looked up at Hester, who bent over her; then she uttered a sharp cry and covered her little face.

"Go 'way, go 'way, naughty Hetty—Nan want Annie; Annie sing, Annie p'ay with Nan—go 'way, go 'way, Hetty."

Hester's heart was too full to allow her to speak; but she knelt by the crib and tried to take one of the little hot hands in hers. Nan, however, pushed her hands away, and now began to cry loudly.

"Annie!—Annie!—Annie! me want 'oo; Nan want 'oo—poor tibby Nan want 'oo, Annie!"

Miss Danesbury touched Hester on her shoulder.

"My dear," she said, "the child's wish must be gratified. Annie has an extraordinary power over children, and under the circumstances I shall take it upon me to disobey the doctor's directions. The child must be quieted at all hazards. Run for Annie, dear—you know her room. I had better stay with little Nan, for, though she loves you best, you don't sooth her at present—that is often so with a fever case."

"One moment," said Hester. She turned again to the little crib.

"Hetty is going to fetch Annie for Nan. Will Nan give her own Hetty one kiss?"

Instantly the little arms were flung round Hester's neck.

"Me like 'oo now, dood Hetty. Go for Annie, dood Hetty."

Instantly Hester ran out of the room. She flew quickly down the long passage, and did not know what a strange little figure she made as the moon from a large window at one end fell full upon her. So eerie, so ghost-like was her appearance as she flew noiselessly with her bare feet along the passage that some one—Hester did not know whom—gave a stifled cry. The cry seemed to come from a good way off, and Hester was too preoccupied to notice it. She darted into the room where Susan Drummond and Annie Forest slept.

"Annie, you are to come to Nan," she said in a sharp high-pitched voice which she scarcely recognized as her own.

"Coming," said Annie, and she walked instantly to the door with her dress on and stood in the moonlight.

"You are dressed!" said Hester in astonishment.

"I could not undress—I lay down as I was. I fancied I heard Nan's voice calling me. I guessed I should be sent for."

"Well, come now," said Hester in her hardest tones. "You were only sent for because Nan must be quieted at any risk. Come and see if you can quiet her. I don't suppose," with a bitter laugh "that you will succeed."

"I think so," replied Annie, in a very soft and gentle tone.

She walked back by Hester's side and entered the sick-room. She walked straight up to the little cot and knelt down by Nan, and said, in that strangely melodious voice of hers:

"Little darling, Annie has come."

"Me like 'oo," said Nan with a satisfied coo in her voice, and she turned round on her side with her back to Miss Danesbury and Hester and her eyes fixed on Annie.

"Sing 'Four-and-twenty,' Annie; sing 'Four-and-twenty,'" she said presently.

"Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie," sang Annie in a low clear voice, without a moment's hesitation. She went through the old nursery rhyme once—twice. Then Nan interrupted her fretfully:

"Me don't want dat 'dain; sing 'Boy Blue,' Annie."

Annie sang.

"'Tree Little Kittens,' Annie," interrupted the little voice presently.

For more than two hours Annie knelt by the child, singing nursery rhyme after nursery rhyme, while the bright beautiful eyes were fixed on her face, and the little voice said incessantly:

"Sing, Annie—sing."

"Baby Bun, now," said Nan, when Annie had come almost to the end of her selection.

"Bye baby bunting, Daddy's gone a hunting— He's gone to fetch a rabbit-skin, To place the baby bunting in."

Over and over and over did Annie sing the words. Whenever, even for a brief moment she paused, Nan said:

"Sing, Annie—sing 'Baby Bun.'"

And all the time the eyes remained wide open, and the little hands were burning hot; but, gradually, after more than two hours of constant singing, Annie began to fancy that the burning skin was cooler. Then—could she believe it?—she saw the lids droop over the wide-open eyes. Five minutes later, to the tune of "Baby Bunting," Nan had fallen into a deep and sound sleep.



CHAPTER XXV.

A SPOILED BABY.

In the morning Nan was better, and although for days she was in a very precarious state, and had to be kept as quiet as possible, yet Miss Danesbury's great dread that fever would set in had passed away. The doctor said, however, that Nan had barely escaped real injury to her brain, and that it would be many a day before she would romp again, and play freely and noisily with the other children. Nan had chosen her own nurse, and, with the imperiousness of all babies—to say nothing of sick babies—she had her way. From morning till night Annie remained with her, and when the doctor saw how Annie alone could soothe and satisfy the child he would not allow it to be otherwise. At first Nan would lie with her hand in Annie's, and her little cry of "sing, Annie," going on from time to time; but as she grew better Annie would sit with her by the open window, with her head pillowed on her breast, and her arm round the little slender form, and Nan would smile and look adoringly at Annie, who would often return her gaze with intense sadness, and an indescribable something in her face which caused the little one to stroke her cheek tenderly, and say in her sweet baby voice:

"Poor Annie; poor tibby Annie!"

They made a pretty picture as they sat there. Annie, with her charming gypsy face, her wild luxuriant, curly hair, all the sauciness and unrest in her soothed by the magic of the little child's presence; and the little child herself, with her faint, wild-rose color, her dark, deep eyes, clear as summer pools, and her sunshiny golden hair. But pretty as the picture was Hester loathed it, for Hester thought during these wretched days that her heart would break.

Not that Nan turned away from Hetty; she petted her and kissed her, and sometimes put an arm round Hetty and and an arm round Annie, as though, if she could, she would draw them together; but any one could see that her heart of hearts was given to Annie, and that Hester ranked second in her love. Hester would not for worlds express any of her bitter feelings before Annie; nay, as the doctor and Miss Danesbury both declared that, however culpable Annie might have been in causing the accident, she had saved little Nan's life by her wonderful skill in soothing her to sleep on the first night of her illness, Hester had felt obliged to grumble something which might have been taken for "thanks."

Annie, in reply to this grumble, had bestowed upon Hester one of her quickest, brightest glances, for she fathomed the true state of Hester's heart toward her well enough.

These were very bad days for poor Hester, and but for the avidity with which she threw herself into her studies she could scarcely have borne them.

By slow degrees Nan got better; she was allowed to come down stairs and to sit in Annie's arms in the garden, and then Mrs. Willis interfered, and said that Annie must go back to her studies, and only devote her usual play hours and half-holidays to Nan's service.

This mandate, however, produced woe and tribulation. The spoiled child screamed and beat her little hands, and worked herself up into such a pitch of excitement that that night she found her way in her sleep to Annie's room, and Annie had to quiet her by taking her into her bed. In the morning the doctor had to be sent for, and he instantly prescribed a day or two more of Annie's company for the child.

Mrs. Willis felt dreadfully puzzled. She had undertaken the charge of the little one; her father was already far away, so it was impossible now to make any change of plans; the child was ill—had been injured by an accident caused by Annie's carelessness and by Hester's want of self-control. But weak and ill as Nan still was, Mrs. Willis felt that an undue amount of spoiling was good for no one. She thought it highly unjust to Annie to keep her from her school employments at this most important period of the year. If Annie did not reach a certain degree of excellence in her school marks she could not be promoted in her class. Mrs. Willis did not expect the wild and heedless girl to carry off any special prizes; but her abilities were quite up to the average, and she always hoped to rouse sufficient ambition in her to enable her to acquire a good and sound education. Mrs. Willis knew how necessary this was for poor Annie's future, and, after giving the doctor an assurance that Nan's whims and pleasures should be attended to for the next two or three days, she determined at the end of that time to assert her own authority with the child, and to insist on Annie working hard at her lessons, and returning to her usual school-room life.

On the morning of the third day Mrs. Willis made inquiries, heard that Nan had spent an excellent night, eaten a hearty breakfast, and was altogether looking blooming. When the girls assembled in the school-room for their lessons, Annie brought her little charge down to the large play-room, where they established themselves cozily, and Annie began to instruct little Nan in the mysteries of

"Tic, tac, too, The little horse has lost his shoe."

Nan was entering into the spirit of the game, was imagining herself a little horse, and was holding out her small foot to be shod, when Mrs. Willis entered the room.

"Come with me, Nan," she said; "I have got something to show you."

Nan got up instantly, held out one hand to Mrs. Willis and the other to Annie, and said, in her confident baby tones:

"Me tum; Annie tumming too."

Mrs. Willis said nothing, but holding the little hand, and accompanied by Annie, she went out of the play-room, across the stone hall, and through the baize doors until she reached her own delightful private sitting-room.

There were heaps of pretty things about, and Nan gazed round her with the appreciative glance of a pleased connoisseur.

"Pitty 'oom," she said approvingly. "Nan likes this 'oom. Me'll stay here, and so will Annie."

Here she uttered a sudden cry of rapture—on the floor, with its leaves temptingly open, lay a gaily-painted picture-book, and curled up in a soft fluffy ball by its side was a white Persian kitten asleep.

Mrs. Willis whispered something to Annie, who ran out of the room, and Nan knelt down in a perfect rapture of worship by the kitten's side.

"Pitty tibby pussy!" she exclaimed several times, and she rubbed it so persistently the wrong way that the kitten shivered and stood up, arched its back very high, yawned, turned round three times, and lay down again, Alas! "tibby pussy" was not allowed to have any continuous slumber. Nan dragged the Persian by its tail into her lap, and when it resisted this indignity, and with two or three light bounds disappeared out of the room, she stretched out her little hands and began to cry for it.

"Tum back, puss, puss—tum back, poor tibby puss—Nan loves 'oo. Annie, go fetch puss for Nan." Then for the first time she discovered that Annie was absent, and that she was alone, with the exception of Mrs. Willis, who sat busily writing at a distant table.

Mrs. Willis counted for nothing at all with Nan—she did not consider her of the smallest importance and after giving her a quick glance of some disdain she began to trot round the room on a voyage of discovery. Any moment Annie would come back—Annie had, indeed, probably gone to fetch the kitten, and would quickly return with it. She walked slowly round and round, keeping well away from that part of the room where Mrs. Willis sat. Presently she found a very choice little china jug, which she carefully abstracted with her small fingers from a cabinet, which contained many valuable treasures. She sat down on the floor exactly beneath the cabinet, and began to play with her jug. She went through in eager pantomime a little game which Annie had invented for her, and imagined that she was a little milkmaid, and that the jug was full of sweet new milk; she called out to an imaginary set of purchasers, "Want any milk?" and then she poured some by way of drops of milk into the palm of her little hand, which she drank up in the name of her customers with considerable gusto. Presently knocking the little jug with some vehemence on the floor she deprived it with one neat blow of its handle and spout. Mrs. Willis was busily writing, and did not look up. Nan was not in the least disconcerted; she said aloud:

"Poor tibby zug b'oke," and then she left the fragments on the floor, and started off on a fresh voyage of discovery. This time she dragged down a large photographic album on to a cushion, and, kneeling by it, began to look through the pictures, flapping the pages together with a loud noise, and laughing merrily as she did so. She was now much nearer to Mrs. Willis, who was attracted by the sound, and looking up hastened to the rescue of one of her most precious collections of photographs.

"Nan, dear," she said, "shut up that book at once. Nan mustn't touch. Shut the book, darling, and go and sit on the floor, and look at your nice-colored pictures."

Nan, still holding a chubby hand between the leaves of the album, gave Mrs. Willis a full defiant glance, and said:

"Me won't."

"Come, Nan," said the head-mistress.

"Me want Annie," said Nan, still kneeling by the album, and, bending her head over the photographs, she turned the page and burst into a peal of laughter.

"Pitty bow vow," she said, pointing to a photograph of a retriever; "oh, pitty bow woo, Nan loves 'oo."

Mrs. Willis stooped down and lifted the little girl into her arms.

"Nan, dear," she said, "it is naughty to disobey. Sit down by your picture-book, and be a good girl."

"Me won't," said Nan again, and here she raised her small dimpled hand and gave Mrs. Willis a smart slap on her cheek.

"Naughty lady, me don't like 'oo; go 'way. Nan want Annie—Nan do want Annie. Me don't love 'oo, naughty lady; go 'way."

Mrs. Willis took Nan on her knee. She felt that the little will must be bent to hers, but the task was no easy one. The child scarcely knew her, she was still weak and excitable, and she presently burst into storms of tears, and sobbed and sobbed as though her little heart would break, her one cry being for "Annie, Annie, Annie." When Annie did join her in the play hour, the little cheeks were flushed, the white brow ached, and the child's small hands were hot and feverish. Mrs. Willis felt terribly puzzled.



CHAPTER XXVI.

UNDER THE LAUREL BUSH.

Mrs. Willis owned to herself that she was non-plussed; it was quite impossible to allow Annie to neglect her studies, and yet little Nan's health was still too precarious to allow her to run the risk of having the child constantly fretted.

Suddenly a welcome idea occurred to her; she would write at once to Nan's old nurse, and see if she could come to Lavender House for the remainder of the present term. Mrs. Willis dispatched her letter that very day, and by the following evening the nurse was once more in possession of her much-loved little charge. The habits of her babyhood were too strong for Nan; she returned to them gladly enough, and though in her heart of hearts she was still intensely loyal to Annie, she no longer fretted when she was not with her.

Annie resumed her ordinary work, and though Hester was very cold to her, several of the other girls in the school frankly confided to their favorite how much they had missed her, and how glad they were to have her back with them once more.

Annie found herself at this time in an ever-shifting mood—one moment she longed intensely for a kiss, and a fervent pardon from Mrs. Willis' lips; another, she said to herself defiantly she could and would live without it; one moment the hungry and sorrowful look in Hester's eyes went straight to Annie's heart, and she wished she might restore her little treasure whom she had stolen; the next she rejoiced in her strange power over Nan, and resolved to keep all the love she could get.

In short, Annie was in that condition when she could be easily influenced for good or evil—she was in that state of weakness when temptation is least easily resisted.

A few days after the arrival of Nan's nurse Mrs. Willis was obliged unexpectedly to leave home; a near relative was dangerously ill in London, and the school-mistress went away in much trouble and anxiety. Some of her favorite pupils flocked to the front entrance to see their beloved mistress off. Among the group Cecil stood, and several girls of the first class; many of the little girls were also present, but Annie was not among them. Just at the last moment she rushed up breathlessly; she was tying some starry jasmine and some blue forget-me-nots together, and as the carriage was moving off she flung the charming bouquet into her mistress' lap.

Mrs. Willis rewarded her with one of her old looks of confidence and love; she raised the flowers to her lips and kissed them, and her eyes smiled on Annie.

"Good-by, dear," she called out; "good-by, all my dear girls; I will try and be back to-morrow night. Remember, my children, during my absence I trust you."

The carriage disappeared down the avenue, and the group of girls melted away. Cecil looked round for Annie, but Annie had been the first to disappear.

When her mistress had kissed the flowers and smiled at her, Annie darted into the shrubbery and stood there wiping the fast-falling tears from her eyes. She was interrupted in this occupation by the sudden cries of two glad and eager voices, and instantly her hands were taken, and some girls rather younger than herself began to drag her in the opposite direction through the shrubbery.

"Come; Annie—come at once, Annie, darling," exclaimed Phyllis and Nora Raymond. "The basket has come; it's under the thick laurel-tree in the back avenue. We are all waiting for you; we none of us will open it till you arrive."

Annie's face, a truly April one, changed as if by magic. The tears dried on her cheeks; her eyes filled with sunlight; she was all eager for the coming fun.

"Then we won't lose a moment, Phyllis," she said: "we'll see what that duck of a Betty has done for us."

The three girls scampered down the back avenue, where they found five of their companions, among them Susan Drummond, standing in different attitudes of expectation near a very large and low-growing laurel-tree. Every one raised a shout when Annie appeared; she was undoubtedly recognized as queen and leader of the proceedings. She took her post without an instant's hesitation, and began ordering her willing subjects about.

"Now, is the coast clear? yes, I think so. Come, Susie, greedy as you are, you must take your part. You alone of all of us can cackle with the exact imitation of an old hen: get behind that tree at once and watch the yard. Don't forget to cackle for your life if you even see the shadow of a footfall. Nora, my pretty birdie, you must be the thrush for the nonce; here, take your post, watch the lawn and the front avenue. Now then, girls, the rest of us can see what spoils Betty has provided for us."

The basket was dragged from its hiding-place, and longing faces peered eagerly and greedily into its contents.

"Oh, oh! I say, cherries! and what a lot! Good Betty! dear, darling Betty! you gathered those from your own trees, and they are as ripe as your apple-blossom cheeks! Now then, what next? I do declare, meringues! Betty knew my weakness. Twelve meringues—that is one and a half apiece; Susan Drummond sha'n't have more than her share. Meringues and cheesecakes and—tartlets—oh! oh! what a duck Betty is! A plum-cake—good, excellent Betty, she deserves to be canonized! What have we here? Roast chickens—better and better! What is in this parcel? Slices of ham; Betty knew she dare not show her face again if she forgot the ham. Knives and forks, spoons—fresh rolls—salt and pepper, and a dozen bottles of ginger-beer, and a little corkscrew in case we want it."

These various exclamations came from many lips. The contents of the basket were carefully and tenderly replaced, the lid was fastened down, and it was once more consigned to its hiding place under the thick boughs of the laurel.

Not a moment too soon, for just at this instant Susan cackled fiercely, and the little group withdrew, Annie first whispering:

"At twelve to-night, then, girls—oh, yes, I have managed the key."



CHAPTER XXVII.

TRUANTS.

It was a proverbial saying in the school that Annie Forest was always in hot water; she was exceedingly daring, and loved what she called a spice of danger. This was not the first stolen picnic at which Annie reigned as queen, but this was the largest she had yet organized, and this was the first time she had dared to go out of doors with her satellites.

Hitherto these naughty sprites had been content to carry their baskets full of artfully-concealed provisions to a disused attic which was exactly over the box-room, and consequently out of reach of the inhabited part of the house. Here, making a table of a great chest which stood in the attic, they feasted gloriously, undisturbed by the musty smell or by the innumerable spiders and beetles which disappeared rapidly in all directions at their approach; but when Annie one day incautiously suggested that on summer nights the outside world was all at their disposal, they began to discover flaws in their banqueting hall. Mary Price said the musty smell made her half sick; Phyllis declared that at the sight of a spider she invariably turned faint; and Susan Drummond was heard to murmur that in a dusty, fusty attic even meringues scarcely kept her awake. The girls were all wild to try a midnight picnic out of doors, and Annie in her present mood, was only too eager for the fun.

With her usual skill she organized the whole undertaking, and eight agitated, slightly frightened, but much excited girls retired to their rooms that night. Annie, in her heart of hearts, felt rather sorry that Mrs. Willis should happen to be away; dim ideas of honor and trustworthiness were still stirring in her breast, but she dared not think now.

The night was in every respect propitious; the moon would not rise until after twelve, so the little party could get away under the friendly shelter of the darkness, and soon afterward have plenty of light to enjoy their stolen feast. They had arranged to make no movement until close on midnight, and then they were all to meet in a passage which belonged to the kitchen regions, and where there was a side door which opened directly into the shrubbery. This door was not very often unlocked, and Annie had taken the key from its place in the lock some days before. She went to bed with her companions at nine o'clock as usual, and presently fell into an uneasy doze. She awoke to hear the great clock in the hall strike eleven, and a few minutes afterward she heard Miss Danesbury's footsteps retiring to her room at the other end of the passage.

"Danesbury is always the last to go to bed," whispered Annie to herself; "I can get up presently."

She lay for another twenty minutes, then, softly rising, began to put on her clothes in the dark. Over her dress she fastened her waterproof, and placed a close-fitting brown velvet cap on her curly head. Having dressed herself, she approached Susan's bed, with the intention of rousing her.

"I shall have fine work now," she said, "and shall probably have to resort to cold water. Really, if Susy proves too hard to wake, I shall let her sleep on—her drowsiness is past bearing."

Annie, however, was considerably startled when she discovered that Miss Drummond's bed was without an occupant.

At this moment the room door was very softly opened, and Susan, fully dressed and in her waterproof, came in.

"Why, Susy, where have you been?" exclaimed Annie. "Fancy you being awake a moment before it is necessary!"

"For once in a way I was restless," replied Miss Drummond, "so I thought I would get up, and take a turn in the passage outside. The house is perfectly quiet, and we can come now; most of the girls are already waiting at the side door."

Holding their shoes in their hands, Annie and Susan went noiselessly down the carpetless stairs, and found the remaining six girls waiting for them by the side door.

"Rover is our one last danger now," said Annie, as she fitted the well-oiled key into the lock. "Put on your shoes, girls, and let me out first; I think I can manage him."

She was alluding to a great mastiff which was usually kept chained up by day. Phyllis and Nora laid their hands on her arm.

"Oh, Annie, oh love, suppose he seizes on you, and knocks you down—oh, dare you venture?"

"Let me go," said Annie a little contemptuously; "you don't suppose I am afraid?"

Her fingers trembled, for her nerves were highly strung; but she managed to unlock the door and draw back the bolts, and, opening it softly, she went out into the silent night.

Very slight as the noise she made was, it had aroused the watchful Rover, who trotted around swiftly to know what was the matter. But Annie had made friends with Rover long ago, by stealing to his kennel door and feeding him, and she had now but to say "Rover" in her melodious voice, and throw her arms around his neck, to completely subvert his morals.

"He is one of us, girls," she called in a whisper to her companions; "come out. Rover will be as naughty as the rest of us, and go with us as our body-guard to the fairies' field. Now, I will lock the door on the outside, and we can be off. Ah, the moon is getting up splendidly, and when we have secured Betty's basket, we shall be quite out of reach of danger."

At Annie's words of encouragement the seven girls ventured out. She locked the door, put the key into her pocket, and, holding Rover by his collar, led the way in the direction of the laurel-bush. The basket was secured, and Susan, to her disgust, and Mary Morris were elected for the first part of the way to carry it. The young truants then walked quickly down the avenue until they came to a turnstile which led into a wood.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

IN THE FAIRIES' FIELD.

The moon had now come up brilliantly, and the little party were in the highest possible spirits. They had got safely away from the house, and there was now, comparatively speaking, little fear of discovery. The more timid ones, who ventured to confess that their hearts were in their mouths while Annie was unlocking the side door, now became the most excited, and perhaps the boldest, under the reaction which set in. Even the wood, which was comparatively dark, with only patches of moonlight here and there, and queer weird shadows where the trees were thinnest, could not affect their spirits.

The poor sleepy rabbits must have been astonished that night at the shouts of the revelers, as they hurried past them, and the birds must have taken their sleepy heads from under their downy wings, and wondered if the morning had come some hours before its usual time.

More than one solemn old owl blinked at them, and hooted as they passed, and told them in owl language what silly, naughty young things they were, and how they would repent of this dissipation by-and-by. But if the girls were to have an hour of remorse, it did not visit them then; their hearts were like feathers, and by the time they reached the fields where the fairies were supposed to play, their spirits had become almost uncontrollable.

Luckily for them this small green field lay in a secluded hollow, and more luckily for them no tramps were about to hear their merriment. Rover, who constituted himself Annie's protector, now lay down by her side, and as she was the real ringleader and queen of the occasion, she ordered her subjects about pretty sharply.

"Now, girls, quick; open the basket. Yes, I'm going to rest. I have organized the whole thing, and I'm fairly tired; so I'll just sit quietly here, and Rover will take care of me while you set things straight. Ah! good Betty; she did not even forget the white table-cloth."

Here one of the girls remarked casually that the grass was wet with dew, and that it was well they had all put on their waterproofs.

Annie interrupted again in a petulant voice:

"Don't croak, Mary Morris. Out with the chickens, lay the ham in this corner, and the cherries will make a picturesque pile in the middle. Twelve meringues in all; that means a meringue and a half each. We shall have some difficulty in dividing. Oh, dear! oh, dear! how hungry I am! I was far too excited to eat anything at supper-time."

"So was I," said Phyllis, coming up and pressing close to Annie. "I do think Miss Danesbury cuts the bread and butter too thick—don't you, Annie? I could not eat mine at all to-night, and Cecil Temple asked me if I was not well."

"Those who don't want chicken hold up their hands," here interrupted Annie, who had tossed her brown cap on the grass, and between whose brows a faint frown had passed for an instant at the mention of Cecil's name.

The feast now began in earnest and silence reigned for a short time, broken only by the clatter of plates and such an occasional remark as "Pass the salt, please," "Pepper this way, if you've no objection," "How good chicken tastes in fairy-land," etc. At last the ginger-beer bottles began to pop—the girls' first hunger was appeased. Rover gladly crunched up all the bones, and conversation flowed once more, accompanied by the delicate diversion of taking alternate bites at meringues and cheesecakes.

"I wish the fairies would come out," said Annie.

"Oh, don't!" shivered Phyllis, looking round her nervously.

"Annie darling, do tell us a ghost story," cried several voices.

Annie laughed and commenced a series of nonsense tales, all of a slightly eerie character, which she made up on the spot.

The moon riding high in the heavens looked down on the young giddy heads, and their laughter, naughty as they were, sounded sweet in the night air.

Time flew quickly and the girls suddenly discovered that they must pack up their table-cloth and remove all traces of the feast unless they wished the bright light of morning to discover them. They rose hastily, sighing and slightly depressed now that their fun was over. The white table-cloth, no longer very white, was packed into the basket, the ginger-beer bottles placed on top of it and the lid fastened down. Not a crumb of the feast remained; Rover had demolished the bones and the eight girls had made short work of everything else, with the exception of the cherry-stones, which Phyllis carefully collected and popped into a little hole in the ground.

The party then progressed slowly homeward and once more entered the dark wood. They were much more silent now; the wood was darker, and the chill which foretells the dawn was making itself felt in the air. Either the sense of cold or a certain effect produced by Annie's ridiculous stories, made many of the little party unduly nervous.

They had only taken a few steps through the wood when Phyllis suddenly uttered a piercing shriek. This shriek was echoed by Nora and by Mary Morris, and all their hearts seemed to leap into their mouths when they saw something move among the trees. Rover uttered a growl, and, but for Annie's detaining hand, would have sprung forward. The high-spirited girl was not to be easily daunted.

"Behold, girls, the goblin of the woods," she exclaimed. "Quiet, Rover; stand still."

The next instant the fears of the little party reached their culmination when a tall, dark figure stood directly in their paths.

"If you don't let us pass at once," said Annie's voice, "I'll set Rover at you."

The dog began to bark loudly and quivered from head to foot.

The figure moved a little to one side, and a rather deep and slightly dramatic voice said:

"I mean you no harm, young ladies; I'm only a gypsy-mother from the tents yonder. You are welcome to get back to Lavender House. I have then one course plain before me."

"Come on, girls," said Annie, now considerably frightened, while Phyllis, and Nora, and one or two more began to sob.

"Look here, young ladies," said the gypsy in a whining voice, "I don't mean you no harm, my pretties, and it's no affair of mine telling the good ladies at Lavender House what I've seen. You cross my hand, dears, each of you, with a bit of silver, and all I'll do is to tell your pretty fortunes, and mum is the word with the gypsy-mother as far as this night's prank is concerned."

"We had better do it, Annie—we had better do it," here sobbed Phyllis. "If this was found out by Mrs. Willis we might be expelled—we might, indeed; and that horrid woman is sure to tell of us—I know she is."

"Quite sure to tell, dear," said the tall gypsy, dropping a courtesy in a manner which looked frightfully sarcastic in the long shadows made by the trees. "Quite sure to tell, and to be expelled is the very least that could happen to such naughty little ladies. Here's a nice little bit of clearing in the wood, and we'll all come over, and Mother Rachel will tell your fortunes in a twinkling, and no one will be the wiser. Sixpence apiece, my dears—only sixpence apiece."

"Oh, come; do, do come," said Nora, and the next moment they were all standing in a circle round Mother Rachel, who pocketed her blackmail eagerly, and repeated some gibberish over each little hand. Over Annie's palm she lingered for a brief moment, and looked with her penetrating eyes into the girl's face.

"You'll have suffering before you, miss; some suspicion, and danger even to life itself. But you'll triumph, my dear, you'll triumph. You're a plucky one, and you'll do a brave deed. There—good-night, young ladies; you have nothing more to fear from Mother Rachel."

The tall dark figure disappeared into the blackest shadows of the wood, and the girls, now like so many frightened hares, flew home. They deposited their basket where Betty would find it, under the shadow of the great laurel in the back avenue. They all bade Rover an affectionate "good-night." Annie softly unlocked the side-door, and one by one, with their shoes in their hands, they regained their bedrooms. They were all very tired, and very cold, and a dull fear and sense of insecurity rested over each little heart. Suppose Mother Rachel proved unfaithful, notwithstanding the sixpences?



CHAPTER XXIX.

HESTER'S FORGOTTEN BOOK.

It wanted scarcely three weeks to the holidays, and therefore scarcely three weeks to that auspicious day when Lavender House was to be the scene of one long triumph, and was to be the happy spot selected for a midsummer holiday, accompanied by all that could make a holiday perfect—for youth and health would be there, and even the unsuccessful competitors for the great prizes would not have too sore hearts, for they would know that on the next day they were going home. Each girl who had done her best would have a word of commendation, and only those who were very naughty, or very stubborn, could resist the all-potent elixir of happiness which would be poured out so abundantly for Mrs. Willis' pupils on this day.

Now that the time was drawing so near, those girls who were working for prizes found themselves fully occupied from morning to night. In play-hours even, girls would be seen with their heads bent over their books, and, between the prizes and the acting, no little bees in any hive could be more constantly employed than were these young girls just now.

No happiness is, after all, to be compared to the happiness of healthful occupation. Busy people have no time to fret and no time to grumble. According to our old friend, Dr. Watts, people who are healthily busy have also no time to be naughty, for the old doctor says that it is for idle hands that mischief is prepared.

Be that as it may, and there is great truth in it, some naughty sprites, some bad fairies, were flitting around and about that apparently peaceful atmosphere. That sunny home, governed by all that was sweet and good, was not without its serpent.

Of all the prizes which attracted interest and aroused competition, the prize for English composition was this year the most popular. In the first place, this was known to be Mrs. Willis' own favorite subject. She had a great wish that her girls should write intelligibly—she had a greater wish that, if possible, they should think.

"Never was there so much written and printed," she was often heard to say; "but can any one show me a book with thoughts in it? Can any one show me, unless as a rare exception, a book which will live? Oh, yes, these books which issue from the press in thousands are, many of them, very smart, a great many of them clever, but they are thrown off too quickly. All great things, great books among them, must be evolved slowly."

Then she would tell her pupils what she considered the reason of this.

"In these days," she would say, "all girls are what is called highly educated. Girls and boys alike must go in for competitive examinations, must take out diplomas, and must pass certain standards of excellence. The system is cramming from beginning to end. There is no time for reflection. In short, my dear girls, you swallow a great deal, but you do not digest your intellectual food."

Mrs. Willis hailed with pleasure any little dawnings of real thought in her girls' prize essays. More than once she bestowed the prize upon the essay which seemed to the girls the most crude and unfinished.

"Never mind," she would say, "here is an idea—or at least half an idea. This little bit of composition is original, and not, at best, a poor imitation of Sir. Walter Scott or Lord Macaulay."

Thus the girls found a strong stimulus to be their real selves in these little essays, and the best of them chose their subject and let it ferment in their brains without the aid of books, except for the more technical parts.

More than one girl in the school was surprised at Dora Russell exerting herself to try for the prize essay. She was just about to close her school career, and they could not make out why she roused herself to work for the most difficult prize, for which she would have to compete with any girl in the school who chose to make a similar attempt.

Dora, however, had her own, not very high motive for making the attempt. She was a thoroughly accomplished girl, graceful in her appearance and manner; in short, just the sort of girl who would be supposed to do credit to a school. She played with finish, and even delicacy of touch. There was certainly no soul in her music, but neither were there any wrong notes. Her drawings were equally correct, her perspective good, her trees were real trees, and the coloring of her water-color sketches was pure. She spoke French extremely well, and with a correct accent, and her German also was above the average. Nevertheless, Dora was commonplace, and those girls who knew her best spoke sarcastically, and smiled at one another when she alluded to her prize essay, and seemed confident of being the successful competitor.

"You won't like to be beaten, Dora, say, by Annie Forest," they would laughingly remark; whereupon Dora's calm face, would slightly flush and her lips would assume a very proud curve. If there was one thing she could not bear it was to be beaten.

"Why do you try for it, Dora?" her class-fellows would ask; but here Dora made no reply: she kept her reason to herself.

The fact was, Dora, who must be a copyist to the end of the chapter, and who could never to her latest day do anything original, had determined to try for the composition prize because she happened accidentally to hear a conversation between Mrs. Willis and Miss Danesbury, in which something was said about a gold locket with Mrs. Willis' portrait inside.

Dora instantly jumped at the conclusion that this was to be the great prize bestowed upon the successful essayist. Delightful idea; how well the trinket would look round her smooth white throat! Instantly she determined to try for this prize, and of course as instantly the bare idea of defeat became intolerable to her. She went steadily and methodically to work. With extreme care she chose her subject. Knowing something of Mrs. Willis' peculiarities, she determined that her theme should not be historical; she believed that she could express herself freely and with power if only she could secure an unhackneyed subject. Suddenly an idea which she considered brilliant occurred to her. She would call her composition "The River." This should not bear reference to Father Thames, or any other special river of England, but it should trace the windings of some fabled stream of Dora's imagination, which, as it flowed along, should tell something of the story of the many places by which it passed. Dora was charmed with her own thought, and worked hard, evening after evening, at her subject, covering sheets of manuscript paper with penciled jottings, and arranging and rearranging her somewhat confused thoughts. She greatly admired a perfectly rounded period, and she was most particular as to the style in which she wrote. For the purpose of improving her style she even studied old volumes of Addison's Spectator; but after a time she gave up this course of study, for she found it so difficult to mold her English to Addison's that she came to the comfortable conclusion that Addison was decidedly obsolete, and that if she wished to do full justice to "The River" she must trust to her own unaided genius.

At last the first ten pages were written. The subject was entered upon with considerable flourishes, and some rather apt poetical quotations from a book containing a collection of poems; the river itself had already left its home in the mountain, and was careering merrily past sunny meadows and little rural, impossible cottages, where the golden-haired children played.

Dora made a very neat copy of her essay so far. She now began to see her way clearly—there would be a very powerful passage as the river approached the murky town. Here, indeed, would be room for powerful and pathetic writing. She wondered if she might venture so far as to hide a suicide in her rushing waters; and then at last the brawling river would lose itself in the sea; and, of course, there would not be the smallest connection between her river, and Kingsley's well-known song,

"Clear and cool."

She finished writing her ten pages, and being now positively certain of her gold locket, went to bed in a happy state of mind.

This was the very night when Annie was to lead her revelers through the dark wood, but Dora, who never troubled herself about the younger classes, would have been certainly the last to notice the fact that a few of the girls in Lavender House seemed little disposed to eat their suppers of thick bread and butter and milk. She went to bed and dreamed happy dreams about her golden locket, and had little idea that any mischief was about to be performed.

Hester Thornton also, but in a very different spirit, was working hard at her essay. Hester worked conscientiously; she had chosen "Marie Antoinette" as her theme, and she read the sorrowful story of the beautiful queen with intense interest, and tried hard to get herself into the spirit of the times about which she must write. She had scarcely begun her essay yet, but she had already collected most of the historical facts.

Hester was a very careful little student, and as she prepared herself for the great work, she thought little or nothing about the prize—she only wanted to do justice to the unfortunate queen of France. She was in bed that night, and just dropping off to sleep, when she suddenly remembered that she had left a volume of French poetry on her school desk. This was against the rules, and she knew that Miss Danesbury would confiscate the book in the morning, and would not let her have it back for a week. Hester particularly wanted this special book just now, as some of the verses bore reference to her subject, and she could scarcely get on with her essay without having it to refer to. She must lose no time in instantly beginning to write her essay, and to do without her book of poetry for a week would be a serious injury to her.

She resolved, therefore, to break through one of the rules, and, after lying awake until the whole house was quiet, to slip down stairs, enter the school-room and secure her poems. She heard the clock strike eleven, and she knew that in a very few moments Miss Danesbury and Miss Good would have retired to their rooms. Ah, yes, that was Miss Danesbury's step passing her door. Ten minutes later she glided out of bed, slipped on her dressing-gown, and opening her door ran swiftly down the carpetless stairs, and found herself in the great stone hall which led to the school-room.

She was surprised to find the school-room door a little ajar, but she entered the room without hesitation, and, dark as it was, soon found her desk, and the book of poems lying on the top. Hester was about to return when she was startled by a little noise in that portion of the room where the first class girls sat. The next moment somebody came heavily and rather clumsily down the room, and the moon, which was just beginning to rise, fell for an instant on a girl's face. Hester recognized the face of Susan Drummond. What could she be doing here? She did not dare to speak, for she herself had broken a rule in visiting the school-room. She remained, therefore, perfectly still until Susan's steps died away, and then, thankful to have secured her own property, returned to her bedroom, and a moment or two later was sound asleep.



CHAPTER XXX.

"A MUDDY STREAM."

In the morning Dora Russell sat down as usual before her orderly and neatly-kept desk. She raised the lid to find everything in its place—her books and exercises all as they should be, and her pet essay in a neat brown paper cover, lying just as she had left it the night before. She was really getting quite excited about her river, and as this was a half-holiday, she determined to have a good work at it in the afternoon. She was beginning also to experience that longing for an auditor which occasionally is known to trouble the breasts of genius. She felt that those graceful ideas, that elegant language, those measured periods, might strike happily on some other ears before they were read aloud as the great work of the midsummer holidays.

She knew that Hester Thornton was making what she was pleased to term a poor little attempt at trying for the same prize. Hester would scarcely venture to copy anything from Dora's essay; she would probably be discouraged, poor girl, in working any longer at her own composition; but Dora felt that the temptation to read "The River," as far as it had gone, to Hester was really too great to be resisted. Accordingly, after dinner she graciously invited Hester to accompany her to a bower in the garden, where the two friends might revel over the results of Dora's extraordinary talents.

Hester was still, to a certain extent, under Dora's influence, and had not the courage to tell her that she intended to be very busy over her own essay this afternoon.

"Now, Hester, dear," said Dora, when they found themselves both seated in the bower, "you are the only girl in the school to whom I could confide the subject of my great essay. I really believe that I have hit on something absolutely original. My dear child, I hope you won't allow yourself to be discouraged. I fear that you won't have much heart to go on with your theme after you have read my words; but, never mind, dear, it will be good practice for you, and you know it was rather silly to go in for a prize which I intended to compete for."

"May I read your essay, please, Dora?" asked Hester. "I am very much interested in my own study, and, whether I win the prize or not, I shall always remember the pleasure I took in writing it."

"What subject did you select, dear?" inquired Miss Russell.

"Well, I am attempting a little sketch of Marie Antoinette."

"Ah, hackneyed, my dear girl—terribly hackneyed; but, of course, I don't mean to discourage you. Now I—I draw a life-picture, and I call it 'The River.' See how it begins—why, I declare I know the words by heart, 'As our eyes rest on this clear and limpid stream, as we see the sun sparkle——' My dear Hester, you shall read me my essay aloud. I shall like to hear my own words from your lips, and you have really a pretty accent, dear."

Hester folded back the brown paper cover, and wanting to have her task over began to read hastily. But, as her eyes rested on the first lines, she turned to her companion, and said:

"Did you not tell me that your essay was called 'The River'?"

"Yes, dear; the full title is 'The Windings of a Noble River.'"

"That's very odd," replied Hester. "What I see here is 'The Meanderings of a Muddy Stream.' 'As our dull orbs rest on this turbid water on which the sun cannot possibly shine.' Why, Dora, this cannot be your essay, and yet, surely, it is your handwriting."

Dora, with her face suddenly flushing a vivid crimson, snatched the manuscript from Hester's hand, and looked over it eagerly. Alas! there was no doubt. The title of this essay was "The Meanderings of a Muddy Stream," and the words which immediately followed were a smart and ridiculous parody on her own high flown sentences. The resemblance to her handwriting was perfect. The brown paper cover, neatly sewn on to protect the white manuscript, was undoubtedly her cover; the very paper on which the words were written seemed in all particulars the same. Dora turned the sheets eagerly, and here for the first time she saw a difference. Only four or five pages of the nonsense essay had been attempted, and the night before, when finishing her toil, she had proudly numbered her tenth page. She looked through the whole thing, turning leaf after leaf, while her cheeks were crimson, and her hands trembled. In the first moment of horrible humiliation and dismay she literally could not speak.