At last, springing to her feet, and confronting the astonished and almost frightened Hester, she found her voice.

"Hester, you must help me in this. The most dreadful, the most atrocious fraud has been committed. Some one has been base enough, audacious enough, wicked enough, to go to my desk privately, and take away my real essay—my work over which I have labored and toiled. The expressions of my—my—yes, I will say it—my genius, have been ruthlessly burned, or otherwise made away with, and this thing has been put in their place. Hester, why don't you speak—why do you stare at me like this?"

"I am puzzled by the writing," said Hester; "the writing is yours."

"The writing is mine!—oh, you wicked girl! The writing is an imitation of mine—a feeble and poor imitation. I thought, Hester, that by this time you knew your friend's handwriting. I thought that one in whom I have confided—one whom I have stooped to notice because, I fancied we had a community of soul, would not be so ridiculous and so silly as to mistake this writing for mine. Look again, please, Hester Thornton, and tell me if I am ever so vulgar as to cross my t's. You know I always loop them; and do I make a capital B in this fashion? And do I indulge in flourishes? I grant you that the general effect to a casual observer would be something the same, but you, Hester—I thought you knew me better."

Here Hester, examining the false essay, had to confess that the crossed t's and the flourishes were unlike Miss Russell's calligraphy.

"It is a forgery, most cleverly done," said Dora. "There is such a thing, Hester, as being wickedly clever. This spiteful, cruel attempt to injure another can have but proceeded from one very low order of mind. Hester, there has been plenty of favoritism in this school, but do you suppose I shall allow such a thing as this to pass over unsearched into? If necessary, I shall ask my father to interfere. This is a slight—an outrage; but the whole mystery shall at last be cleared up. Miss Good and Miss Danesbury shall be informed at once, and the very instant Mrs. Willis returns she shall be told what a serpent she has been nursing in this false, wicked girl, Annie Forest."

"Stop, Dora," said Hester suddenly. She sprang to her feet, clasping her hands, and her color varied rapidly from white to red. A sudden light poured in upon her, and she was about to speak when something—quite a small, trivial thing—occurred. She only saw little Nan in the distance flying swiftly, with outstretched arms, to meet a girl, whose knees she clasped in baby ecstasy. The girl stooped down and kissed the little face, and the round arms were flung around her neck. The next instant Annie Forest continued her walk alone, and Nan, looking wistfully back after her, went in another direction with her nurse. The whole scene took but a moment to enact, but as she watched, Hester's face grew hard and white. She sat down again, with her lips firmly pressed together.

"What is it, Hester?" exclaimed Dora. "What were you going to say? You surely know nothing about this?"

"Well, Dora, I am not the guilty person. I was only going to remark that you cannot be sure it is Annie Forest."

"Oh, so you are going to take that horrid girl's part now? I wonder at you! She all but killed your little sister, and then stole her love away from you. Did you see the little thing now, how she flew to her? Why, she never kisses you like that."

"I know—I know," said Hester, and she turned away her face with a groan, and leaned forward against the rustic bench, pressing her hot forehead down on her hands.

"You'll have your triumph, Hester, when Miss Forest is publicly expelled," said Dora, tapping her lightly on the shoulder, and then, taking up the forged essay, she went slowly out of the garden.



CHAPTER XXXI.

GOOD AND BAD ANGELS.

Hester stayed behind in the shady little arbor, and then, on that soft spring day, while the birds sang overhead, and the warm light breezes came in and fanned her hot cheeks, good angels and bad drew near to fight for a victory. Which would conquer? Hester had many faults, but hitherto she had been honorable and truthful; her sins had been those of pride and jealousy, but she had never told a falsehood in her life. She knew perfectly—she trembled as the full knowledge overpowered her—that she had it in her power to exonerate Annie. She could not in the least imagine how stupid Susan Drummond could contrive and carry out such a clever and deep-laid plot; but she knew also that if she related what she had seen with her own eyes the night before, she would probably give such a clue to the apparent mystery that the truth would come to light.

If Annie was cleared from this accusation, doubtless the old story of her supposed guilt with regard to Mrs. Willis' caricature would also be read with its right key. Hester was a clever and sharp girl; and the fact of seeing Susan Drummond in the school-room in the dead of night opened her eyes also to one or two other apparent little mysteries. While Susan was her own room-mate she had often given a passing wonder to the fact of her extraordinary desire to overcome her sleepiness, and had laughed over the expedients Susan had used to wake at all moments.

These things, at the time, had scarcely given her a moment's serious reflection; but now she pondered them carefully, and became more and more certain, that, for some inexplicable and unfathomable reason sleepy, and apparently innocent, Susan Drummond wished to sow the seeds of mischief and discord in the school. Hester was sure that if she chose to speak now she could clear poor Annie, and restore her to her lost place in Mrs. Willis' favor.

Should she do so? ah! should she? Her lips trembled, her color came and went as the angels, good and bad, fought hard for victory within her. How she had longed to revenge herself on Annie! How cordially she had hated her! Now was the moment of her revenge. She had but to remain silent now, and to let matters take their course; she had but to hold her tongue about the little incident of last night, and, without any doubt, circumstantial evidence would point at Annie Forest, and she would be expelled from the school. Mrs. Willis must condemn her now. Mr. Everard must pronounce her guilty now. She would go, and when the coast was again clear the love which she had taken from Hester—the precious love of Hester's only little sister—would return.

"You will be miserable; you will be miserable," whispered the good angels sorrowfully in her ear; but she did not listen to them.

"I said I would revenge myself, and this is my opportunity," she murmured. "Silence—just simply silence—will be my revenge."

Then the good angels went sorrowfully back to their Father in heaven, and the wicked angels rejoiced. Hester had fallen very low.



CHAPTER XXXII.

FRESH SUSPICIONS.

Mrs. Willis was not at home many hours before Dora Russell begged for an interview with her. Annie had not as yet heard anything of the changed essay; for Dora had resolved to keep the thing a secret until Mrs. Willis herself took the matter in hand.

Annie was feeling not a little anxious and depressed. She was sorry now that she had led the girls that wild escapade through the wood. Phyllis and Nora were both suffering from heavy colds in consequence, and Susan Drummond was looking more pasty about her complexion, and was more dismally sleepy than usual. Annie was going through her usual season of intense remorse after one of her wild pranks. No one repented with more apparent fervor than she did, and yet no one so easily succumbed to the next temptation. Had Annie been alone in the matter she would have gone straight to Mrs. Willis and confessed all; but she could not do this without implicating her companions, who would have screamed with horror at the very suggestion.

All the girls were more or less depressed by the knowledge that the gypsy woman, Mother Rachel, shared their secret; and they often whispered together as to the chances of her betraying them. Old Betty they could trust; for Betty, the cake-woman, had been an arch-conspirator with the naughty girls of Lavender House from time immemorial. Betty had always managed to provide their stolen suppers for them, and had been most accommodating in the matter of pay. Yes, with Betty they felt they were safe; but Mother Rachel was a different person. She might like to be paid a few more sixpences for her silence; she might hover about the grounds; she might be noticed. At any moment she might boldly demand an interview with Mrs. Willis.

"I'm awfully afraid of Mother Rachel," Phyllis moaned, as she shivered under the influence of her bad cold.

Nora said "I should faint if I saw her again, I know I should;" while the other girls always went out provided with stray sixpences, in case the gypsy mother should start up from some unexpected quarter and demand blackmail.

On the day of Mrs. Willis' return, Annie was pacing up and down the shady walk, and indulging in some rather melancholy and regretful thoughts, when Susan Drummond and Mary Morris rushed up to her, white with terror.

"She's down there by the copse, and she's beckoning to us! Oh, do come with us—do, darling, dear Annie."

"There's no use in it," replied Annie; "Mother Rachel wants money, and I am not going to give her any. Don't be afraid of her, girls, and don't give her money. After all, why should she tell on us? she would gain nothing by doing so."

"Oh, yes, she would, Annie—she would, Annie," said Mary Morris, beginning to sob; "oh, do come with us, do! We must pacify her, we really must."

"I can't come now," said Annie; "hark! some one is calling me. Yes, Miss Danesbury—what is it?"

"Mrs. Willis wishes to see you at once, Annie, in her private sitting-room," replied Miss Danesbury; and Annie, wondering not a little, but quite unsuspicious, ran off.

The fact, however, of her having deliberately disobeyed Mrs. Willis, and done something which she knew would greatly pain her, brought a shade of embarrassment to her usually candid face. She had also to confess to herself that she did not feel quite so comfortable about Mother Rachel as she had given Mary Morris and Susan Drummond to understand. Her steps lagged more and more as she approached the house, and she wished, oh, how longingly! oh, how regretfully! that she had not been naughty and wild and disobedient in her beloved teacher's absence.

"But where is the use of regretting what is done?" she said, half aloud. "I know I can never be good—never, never!"

She pushed aside the heavy velvet curtains which shaded the door of the private sitting-room, and went in, to find Mrs. Willis seated by her desk, very pale and tired and unhappy looking, while Dora Russell, with crimson spots on her cheeks and a very angry glitter in her eyes, stood by the mantel-piece.

"Come here, Annie dear," said Mrs. Willis in her usual gentle and affectionate tone.

Annie's first wild impulse was to rush to her governess' side, to fling her arms round her neck, and, as a child would confess to her mother, to tell her all that story of the walk through the wood, and the stolen picnic in the fairies' field. Three things, however, restrained her—she must not relieve her own troubles at the expense of betraying others; she could not, even if she were willing, say a word in the presence of this cold and angry-looking Dora; in the third place, Mrs. Willis looked very tired and very sad. Not for worlds would she add to her troubles at this instant. She came into the room, however, with a slight hesitation of manner and a clouded brow, which caused Mrs. Willis to watch her with anxiety and Dora with triumph.

"Come here, Annie," repeated the governess. "I want to speak to you. Something very dishonorable and disgraceful has been done in my absence."

Annie's face suddenly became as white as a sheet. Could the gypsy mother have already betrayed them all?

Mrs. Willis, noticing her too evident confusion, continued in a voice which, in spite of herself, became stern and severe.

"I shall expect the truth at any cost, my dear. Look at this manuscript-book. Do you know anything of the handwriting?"

"Why, it is yours, of course, Dora," said Annie, who was now absolutely bewildered.

"It is not mine," began Dora, but Mrs. Willis held up her hand.

"Allow me to speak, Miss Russell. I can best explain matters. Annie, during my absence some one has been guilty of a very base and wicked act. One of the girls in this school has gone secretly to Dora Russell's desk and taken away ten pages of an essay which she had called 'The River,' and which she was preparing for the prize competition next month. Instead of Dora's essay this that you now see was put in its place. Examine it, my dear. Can you tell me anything about it?"

Annie took the manuscript-book and turned the leaves.

"Is it meant for a parody?" she asked, after a pause; "it sounds ridiculous. No, Mrs. Willis, I know nothing whatever about it; some one has imitated Dora's handwriting. I cannot imagine who is the culprit."

She threw the manuscript-book with a certain easy carelessness on the table by her side, and glanced up with a twinkle of mirth in her eyes at Dora.

"I suppose it is meant for a clever parody," she repeated; "at least it is amusing."

Her manner displeased Mrs. Willis, and very nearly maddened poor Dora.

"We have not sent for you, Annie," said her teacher, "to ask you your opinion of the parody, but to try and get you to throw light on the subject. We must find out, and at once, who has been so wicked as to deliberately injure another girl."

"But why have you sent for me?" asked Annie, drawing herself up, and speaking with a little shade of haughtiness.

"Because," said Dora Russell, who could no longer contain her outraged feelings, "because you alone can throw light on it—because you alone in the school are base enough to do anything so mean—because you alone can caricature."

"Oh, that is it," said Annie; "you suspect me, then. Do you suspect me, Mrs. Willis?"

"My dear—what can I say?"

"Nothing, if you do. In this school my word has long gone for nothing. I am a naughty, headstrong, willful girl, but in this matter I am perfectly innocent. I never saw that essay before: I never in all my life went to Dora Russell's desk. I am headstrong and wild, but I don't do spiteful things. I have no object in injuring Dora; she is nothing to me—nothing. She is trying for the essay prize, but she has no chance of winning it. Why should I trouble myself to injure her? Why should I even take the pains to parody her words and copy her handwriting? Mrs. Willis, you need not believe me—I see you do not believe me—but I am quite innocent."

Here Annie burst into sudden tears, and ran out of the room.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

UNTRUSTWORTHY.

Dora Russell had declared, in Hester's presence, and with intense energy in her manner, that the author of the insult to which she had been exposed should be publicly punished and, if possible, expelled. On the evening of her interview with the head teacher, she had so far forgotten herself as to reiterate this desire with extreme vehemence. She had boldly declared her firm conviction of Annie's guilt, and had broadly hinted at Mrs. Willis' favoritism toward her. The great dignity, however, of her teacher's manner, and the half-sorrowful, half-indignant look she bestowed on the excited girl, calmed her down after a time. Mrs. Willis felt full sympathy for Dora, and could well understand how trying and aggravating this practical joke must be to so proud a girl; but although her faith was undoubtedly shaken in Annie, she would not allow this sentiment to appear.

"I will do all I can for you, Dora," she said, when the weeping Annie had left the room; "I will do everything in my power to find out who has injured you. Annie has absolutely denied the accusation you bring against her, and unless her guilt can be proved it is but right to believe her innocent. There are many other girls in Lavender House, and to-morrow morning I will sift this unpleasant affair to the very bottom. Go, now, my dear, and if you have sufficient self-command and self-control, try to have courage to write your essay over again. I have no doubt that your second rendering of your subject will be more attractive than the first. Beginners cannot too often re-write their themes."

Dora gave her head a proud little toss, but she was sufficiently in awe of Mrs. Willis to keep back any retort, and she went out of the room feeling unsatisfied and wretched, and inclined for a sympathizing chat with her little friend Hester Thornton.

Hester, however when she reached her, seemed not at all disposed to talk to any one.

"I've had it all out with Mrs. Willis, and there is no doubt she will be exposed to-morrow morning," said Dora half aloud.

Hester, whose head was bent over her French history, looked up with an annoyed expression.

"Who will be exposed?" she asked, in a petulant voice.

"Oh, how stupid you are growing, Hester Thornton!" exclaimed Dora; "why, that horrid Annie Forest, of course—but really I have no patience to talk to you; you have lost all your spirit. I was very foolish to demean myself by taking so much notice of one of the little girls."

Dora sailed down the play-room to her own drawing-room, fully expecting Hester to rise and rush after her; but to her surprise Hester did not stir, but sat with her head bent over her book, and her cheeks slightly flushed.

The next morning Mrs. Willis kept her word to Dora, and made the very strictest inquiries with regard to the practical joke to which Dora had been subjected. She first of all fully explained what had taken place in the presence of the whole school, and then each girl was called up in rotation, and asked two questions: first, had she done this mischievous thing herself? second, could she throw any light on the subject.

One by one each girl appeared before her teacher, replied in the negative to both queries, and returned to her seat.

"Now, girls," said Mrs. Willis, "you have each of you denied this charge. Such a thing as has happened to Dora could not have been done without hands. The teachers in the school are above suspicion; the servants are none of them clever enough to perform this base trick. I suspect one of you, and I am quite determined to get at the truth. During the whole of this half-year there has been a spirit of unhappiness, of mischief, and of suspicion in our midst. Under these circumstances love cannot thrive; under these circumstances the true and ennobling sense of brotherly kindness, and all those feelings which real religion prompt must languish. I tell you all now plainly that I will not have this thing in Lavender House. It is simply disgraceful for one girl to play such tricks on her fellows. This is not the first time nor the second time that the school desks have been tampered with. I will find out—I am determined to find out, who this dishonest person is; and as she has not chosen to confess to me, as she has preferred falsehood to truth, I will visit her, when I do discover her, with my very gravest displeasure. In this school I have always endeavored to inculcate the true principles of honor and of trust. I have laid down certain broad rules, and expect them to be obeyed; but I have never hampered you with petty and humiliating restraints. I have given you a certain freedom, which I believed to be for your best good, and I have never suspected one of you until you have given me due cause.

"Now, however, I tell you plainly that I alter all my tactics. One girl sitting in this room is guilty. For her sake I shall treat you all as guilty, and punish you accordingly. For the remainder of this term, or until the hour when the guilty girl chooses to release her companions, you are all, with the exception of the little children and Miss Russell, who can scarcely have played this trick on herself, under punishment. I withdraw your half-holidays, I take from you the use of the south parlor for your acting, and every drawing-room in the play-room is confiscated. But this is not all that I do. In taking from you my trust, I must treat you as untrustworthy—you will no longer enjoy the liberty you used to delight in—everywhere you will be watched. A teacher will sit in your play-room with you, a teacher will accompany you into the grounds, and I tell you plainly, girls, that chance words and phrases which drop from your lips shall be taken up, and used, if necessary, to the elucidation of this disgraceful mystery."

Here Mrs. Willis left the room, and the teachers desired the several girls in their classes to attend to their morning studies.

Nothing could exceed the dismay which her words had produced. The innocent girls were fairly stunned, and from that hour for many a day all sunshine and happiness seemed really to have left Lavender House.

The two, however, who felt the change most acutely, and on whose altered faces their companions began to fix suspicious eyes, were Annie Forest and Hester Thornton. Hester was burdened with an intolerable sense of the shameful falsehood she had told; Annie, guilty in another matter, succumbed at last utterly to a sense of misery and injustice. Her orphaned and lonely position for the first time began to tell on her; she ate little and slept little, her face grew very pale and thin, and her health really suffered.

All the routine of happy life at Lavender House was changed. In the large play-room the drawing-rooms were unused; there were no pleasant little knots of girls whispering happily and confidentially together, for whenever two or three girls sat down to have a chat they found that one or another of the teachers was within hearing. The acting for the coming play progressed so languidly that no one expected it would really take place, and the one relief and relaxation to the unhappy girls lay in the fact that the holidays were not far off, and that in the meantime they might work hard for the prizes.

The days passed in a truly melancholy fashion, and, perhaps, for the first time the girls fully appreciated the old privileges of freedom and trust which were now forfeited. There was a feeble little attempt at a joke and a laugh in the school at Dora's expense. The most frivolous of the girls whispered of her as she passed as "the muddy stream;" but no one took up the fun with avidity—the shadow of somebody's sin had fallen too heavily upon all the bright young lives.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

BETTY FALLS ILL AT AN AWKWARD TIME.

The eight girls who had gone out on their midnight picnic were much startled one day by an unpleasant discovery. Betty had never come for her basket. Susan Drummond, who had a good deal of curiosity, and always poked her nose into unexpected corners, had been walking with a Miss Allison in that part of the grounds where the laurel-bush stood. She had caught a peep of the white handle of the basket, and had instantly turned her companion's attention to something else. Miss Allison had not observed Susan's start of dismay; but Susan had taken the first opportunity of getting rid of her, and had run off in search of one of the girls who had shared in the picnic. She came across Annie Forest, who was walking, as usual, by herself, with her head slightly bent, and her curling hair in sad confusion. Susan whispered the direful intelligence that old Betty had forsaken them, and that the basket, with its ginger-beer bottles and its stained table-cloth, might be discovered at any moment.

Annie's pale face flushed slightly at Susan's words.

"Why should we try to conceal the thing?" she said, speaking with sudden energy, and a look of hope and animation coming back to her face. "Susy, let's go, all of us, and tell the miserable truth to Mrs. Willis; it will be much the best way. We did not do the other thing, and when we have confessed about this, our hearts will be at rest."

"No, we did not do the other thing," said Susan, a queer, gray color coming over her face; "but confess about this, Annie Forest!—I think you are mad. You dare not tell."

"All right," said Annie, "I won't, unless you all agree to it," and then she continued her walk, leaving Susan standing on the graveled path with her hands clasped together, and a look of most genuine alarm and dismay on her usually phlegmatic face.

Susan quickly found Phyllis and Nora, and it was only too easy to arouse the fears of these timid little people. Their poor little faces became almost pallid, and they were not a little startled at the fact of Annie Forest, their own arch-conspirator, wishing to betray their secret.

"Oh," said Susan Drummond, "she's not out and out shabby; she says she won't tell unless we all wish it. But what is to become of the basket?"

"Come, come, young ladies; no whispering, if you please," said Miss Good, who came up at this moment. "Susan, you are looking pale and cold, walk up and down that path half-a-dozen times, and then go into the house. Phyllis and Nora, you can come with me as far as the lodge. I want to take a message from Mrs. Willis to Mary Martin about the fowl for to-morrow's dinner."

Phyllis and Nora, with dismayed faces, walked solemnly away with the English teacher, and Susan was left to her solitary meditations.

Things had come to such a pass that her slow wits were brought into play, and she neither felt sleepy, nor did she indulge in her usual habit of eating lollipops.

That basket might be discovered any day, and then—then disgrace was imminent. Susan could not make out what had become of old Betty; never before had she so utterly failed them.

Betty lived in a little cottage about half a mile from Lavender House. She was a sturdy, apple-cheeked, little old woman, and had for many a day added to her income—indeed, almost supported herself—by means of the girls at Lavender House. The large cherry-trees in her little garden bore their rich crop of fruit year after year for Mrs. Willis' girls, and every day at an early hour Betty would tramp into Sefton and return with a temptingly-laden basket of the most approved cakes and tarts. There was a certain paling at one end of the grounds to which Betty used to come. Here on the grass she would sit contentedly, with the contents of her baskets arranged in the most tempting order before her, and to this seductive spot she knew well that those little misses who loved goodies, cakes and tartlets would be sure to find their way. Betty charged high for her wares; but, as she was always obliging in the matter of credit, the thoughtless girls cared very little that they paid double the shop prices for Betty's cakes. The best girls in the school, certainly, never went to Betty; but Annie Forest, Susan Drummond, and several others had regular accounts with her, and few days passed that their young faces would not peep over the paling and their voices ask:

"What have you got to tempt me with to-day, Betty?"

It was, however, in the matter of stolen picnics, of grand feasts in the old attic, etc., etc., that Betty was truly great. No one so clever as she in concealing a basket of delicious eatables, no one knew better what schoolgirls liked. She undoubtedly charged her own prices, but what she gave was of the best, and Betty was truly in her element when she had an order from the young ladies of Lavender House for a grand secret feast.

"You shall have it, my pretties—you shall have it," she would say, wrinkling up her bright blue eyes, and smiling broadly. "You leave it to Betty, my little loves; you leave it to Betty."

On the occasion of the picnic to the fairies' field Betty had, indeed, surpassed herself in the delicious eatables she had provided; all had gone smoothly, the basket had been placed in a secure hiding-place under the thick laurel. It was to be fetched away by Betty herself at an early hour on the following morning.

No wonder Susan was perplexed as she paced about and pretended to warm herself. It was a June evening, but the weather was still a little cold. Susan remembered now that Betty had not come to her favorite station at the stile for several days. Was it possible that the old woman was ill? As this idea occurred to her, Susan became more alarmed. She knew that there was very little chance of the basket remaining long in concealment. Rover might any day remember his pleasant picnic with affection, and drag the white basket from under the laurel-bush. Michael the gardener would be certain to see it when next he cleaned up the back avenue. Oh, it was more than dangerous to leave it there, and yet Susan knew of no better hiding-place. A sudden idea came to her; she pulled out her pretty little watch, and saw that she need not return to the house for another half-hour. "Suppose she ran as fast as possible to Betty's little cottage and begged of the old woman to come by the first light in the morning and fetch away the basket?"

The moment Susan conceived this idea she resolved to put it into execution. She looked around her hastily: no teacher was in sight, Miss Good was away at the lodge, Miss Danesbury was playing with the little children. Mademoiselle, she knew, had gone indoors with a bad headache. She left the broad walk where she had been desired to stay, and plunging into the shrubbery, soon reached Betty's paling. In a moment she had climbed the bars, had jumped lightly into the field, and was running as fast as possible in the direction of Betty's cottage. She reached the high road, and started and trembled violently as a carriage with some ladies and gentlemen passed her. She thought she recognized the faces of the two little Misses Bruce, but did not dare to look at them, and hurried panting along the road, and hoping she might be mistaken.

In less than a quarter of an hour she had reached Betty's little cottage, and was standing trying to recover her breath by the shut door. The place had a deserted look, and several overripe cherries had fallen from the trees and were lying neglected on the ground. Susan knocked impatiently. There was no discernible answer. She had no time to wait, she lifted the latch, which yielded to her pressure, and went in.

Poor old Betty, crippled, and in severe pain with rheumatism, was lying on her little bed.

"Eh, dear—and is that you, my pretty missy?" she asked, as Susan, hot and tired, came up to her side.

"Oh, Betty, are you ill?" asked Miss Drummond "I came to tell you you have forgotten the basket."

"No, my dear, no—not forgot. By no means that, lovey; but I has been took with the rheumatism this past week, and can't move hand or foot. I was wondering how you'd do without your cakes and tartlets, dear, and to think of them cherries lying there good for nothing on the ground is enough to break one's 'eart."

"So it is," said Susan, giving an appreciative glance toward the open door. "They are beautiful cherries, and full of juice, I am sure. I'll take a few, Betty, as I am going out, and pay you for them another day. But what I have come about now is the basket. You must get the basket away, however ill you are. If the basket is discovered we are all lost, and then good-by to your gains."

"Well, missy, dear, if I could crawl on my hands and knees I'd go and fetch it, rather than you should be worried; but I can't set foot to the ground at all. The doctor says as 'tis somethink like rheumatic fever as I has."

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Susan, not wasting any of her precious moments in pitying the poor suffering old woman. "What is to be done? I tell you, Betty, if that basket is found we are all lost."

"But the laurel is very thick, lovey: it ain't likely to be found—it ain't, indeed."

"I tell you it is likely to be found, you tiresome old woman, and you really must go for it or send for it. You really must."

Old Betty began to ponder.

"There's Moses," she said, after a pause of anxious thought; "he's a 'cute little chap, and he might go. He lives in the fourth cottage along the lane. Moses is his name—Moses Moore. I'd give him a pint of cherries for the job. If you wouldn't mind sending Moses to me, Miss Susan, why, I'll do my best; only it seems a pity to let anybody into your secrets, young ladies, but old Betty herself."

"It is a pity," said Susan, "but, under the circumstances, it can't be helped. What cottage did you say this Moses lived in?"

"The fourth from here, down the lane, lovey—Moses is the lad's name; he's a freckled boy, with a cast in one eye. You send him up to me, dearie; but don't mention the cherries, or he'll be after stealing them. He's a sad rogue, is Moses; but I think I can tempt him with the cherries."

Susan did not wait to bid poor old Betty "good-bye," but ran out of the cottage, shutting the door after her, and snatching up two or three ripe cherries to eat on her way. She was so far fortunate as to find the redoubtable Moses at home, and to convey him bodily to old Betty's presence. The queer boy grinned horribly, and looked as wicked as boy could look; but on the subject of cherries he was undoubtedly susceptible, and after a good deal of haggling and insisting that the pint should be a quart, he expressed his willingness to start off at four o'clock on the following morning, and bring away the basket from under the laurel-tree.



CHAPTER XXXV.

"YOU ARE WELCOME TO TELL."

Annie continued her walk. The circumstances of the last two months had combined to do for her what nothing had hitherto effected. When a little child she had known hardship and privation, she had passed through that experience which is metaphorically spoken of as "going down hill." As a baby little Annie had been surrounded by comforts and luxuries, and her father and mother had lived in a large house, and kept a carriage, and Annie had two nurses to wait on herself alone. These were in the days before she could remember anything. With her first early memories came the recollection of a much smaller house, of much fewer servants, of her mother often in tears, and her father often away. Then there was no house at all that the Forests could call their own, only rooms of a tolerably cheerful character—and Annie's nurse went away, and she took her daily walks by her mother's side and slept in a little cot in her mother's room. Then came a very, very sad day, when her mother lay cold and still and fainting on her bed, and her tall and handsome father caught Annie in his arms and pressed her to his heart, and told her to be a good child and to keep up her spirits, and, above all things, to take care of mother. Then her father had gone away; and though Annie expected him back, he did not come, and she and her mother went into poorer and shabbier lodgings, and her mother began to try her tear-dimmed eyes by working at church embroidery, and Annie used to notice that she coughed a good deal as she worked. Then there was another move, and this time Mrs. Forest and her little daughter found themselves in one bedroom, and things began to grow very gloomy, and food even was scarce. At last there was a change. One day a lady came into the dingy little room, and all on a sudden it seemed as if the sun had come out again. This lady brought comforts with her—toys and books for the child, good, brave words of cheer for the mother. At last Annie's mother died, and she went away to Lavender House to live with this good friend who had made her mother's dying hours easy.

"Annie, Annie," said the dying mother, "I owe everything to Mrs. Willis; we knew each other long ago when we were girls, and she has come to me now and made everything easy. When I am gone she will take care of you. Oh, my child, I cannot repay her; but will you try?"

"Yes, mother," said little Annie, gazing full into her mother's face with her sweet bright eyes, "I'll—I'll love her, mother; I'll give her lots and lots of love."

Annie had gone to Lavender House, and kept her word, for she had almost worshiped the good mistress who was so true and kind to her, and who had so befriended her mother. Through all the vicissitudes of her short existence Annie had, however, never lost one precious gift. Hers was an affectionate, but also a wonderfully bright, nature. It was as impossible for Annie to turn away from laughter and merriment as it would be for a flower to keep its head determinately turned from the sun. In their darkest days Annie had managed to make her mother laugh; her little face was a sunbeam, her very naughtinesses were of a laughable character.

Her mother died—her father was still away, but Annie retained her brave and cheerful spirit, for she gave and received love. Mrs. Willis loved her—she bestowed upon her among all her girls the tenderest glances, the most motherly caresses. The teachers undoubtedly corrected and even scolded her, but they could not help liking her, and even her worst scrapes made them smile. Annie's companions adored her; the little children would do anything for their own Annie, and even the servants in the school said that there was no young lady in Lavender House fit to hold a candle to Miss Forest.

During the last half-year, however, things had been different. Suspicion and mistrust began to dog the footsteps of the bright young girl; she was no longer a universal favorite—some of the girls even openly expressed their dislike of her.

All this Annie could have borne, but for the fact that Mrs. Willis joined in the universal suspicion. The old glance now never came to her eyes, nor the old tone to her voice. For the first time Annie's spirits utterly flagged; she could not bear this universal coldness, this universal chill. She began to droop physically as well as mentally.

She was pacing up and down the walk, thinking very sadly, wondering vaguely, if her father would ever return, and conscious of a feeling of more or less indifference to everything and every one, when she was suddenly roused from her meditation by the patter of small feet and by a very eager little exclamation:

"Me tumming—me tumming, Annie!" and then Nan raised her charming face and placed her cool baby hand in Annie's.

There was delicious comfort in the clasp of the little hand, and in the look of love and pleasure which lit up the small face.

"Me yiding from naughty nurse—me 'tay with you, Annie—me love 'oo, Annie."

Annie stooped down, kissed the little one, and lifted her into her arms.

"Why ky?" said Nan, who saw with consternation two big tears in Annie's eyes; "dere, poor ickle Annie—me love 'oo—me buy 'oo a new doll."

"Dearest little darling," said Annie in a voice of almost passionate pain; then, with that wonderful instinct which made her in touch with all little children, she cheered up, wiped away her tears, and allowed laughter once more to wreathe her lips and fill her eyes. "Come, Nan," she said, "you and I will have such a race."

She placed the child on her shoulder, clasped the little hands securely round her neck, and ran to the sound of Nan's shouts down the shady walk.

At the farther end Nan suddenly tightened her clasp, drew herself up, ceased to laugh, and said with some fright in her voice:

"Who dat?"

Annie, too, stood still with a sudden start, for the gypsy woman, Mother Rachel, was standing directly in their path.

"Go 'way, naughty woman," said Nan, shaking her small hand imperiously.

The gypsy dropped a low courtesy, and spoke in a slightly mocking tone.

"A pretty little dear," she said. "Yes, truly now, a pretty little winsome dear; and oh, what shoes! and little open-work socks! and I don't doubt real lace trimming on all her little garments—I don't doubt it a bit."

"Go 'way—me don't like 'oo," said Nan. "Let's wun back—gee, gee," she said, addressing Annie, whom she had constituted into a horse for the time being.

"Yes, Nan; in one minute," said Annie. "Please, Mother Rachel, what are you doing here?"

"Only waiting to see you, pretty missie," replied the tall gypsy. "You are the dear little lady who crossed my hand with silver that night in the wood. Eh, but it was a bonny night, with a bonny bright moon, and none of the dear little ladies meant any harm—no, no, Mother Rachel knows that."

"Look here," said Annie, "I'm not going to be afraid of you. I have no more silver to give you. If you like, you may go up to the house and tell what you have seen. I am very unhappy, and whether you tell or not can make very little difference to me now. Good-night; I am not the least afraid of you—you can do just as you please about telling Mrs. Willis."

"Eh, my dear?" said the gypsy; "do you think I'd work you any harm—you, and the seven other dear little ladies? No, not for the world, my dear—not for the world. You don't know Mother Rachel when you think she'd be that mean."

"Well, don't come here again," said Annie. "Good-night."

She turned on her heel, and Nan shouted back:

"Go way, naughty woman—Nan don't love 'oo, 'tall, 'tall."

The gypsy stood still for a moment with a frown knitting her brows; then she slowly turned, and, creeping on all-fours through the underwood, climbed the hedge into the field beyond.

"Oh, no," she laughed, after a moment; "the little missy thinks she ain't afraid of me; but she be. Trust Mother Rachel for knowing that much. I make no doubt," she added after a pause, "that the little one's clothes are trimmed with real lace. Well, little Missie Annie Forest, I can see with half an eye that you set store by that baby-girl. You had better not cross Mother Rachel's whims, or she can punish you in a way you don't think of."



CHAPTER XXXVI.

HOW MOSES MOORE KEPT HIS APPOINTMENT.

Susan Drummond got back to Lavender House without apparent discovery. She was certainly late when she took her place in the class-room for her next day's preparation; but, beyond a very sharp reprimand from mademoiselle, no notice was taken of this fact. She managed to whisper to Nora and Phyllis that the basket would be moved by the first dawn the next morning, and the little girls went to bed happier in consequence. Nothing ever could disturb Susan's slumbers, and that night she certainly slept without rocking. As she was getting into bed she ventured to tell Annie how successfully she had manoeuvered; but Annie received her news with the most absolute indifference, looking at her for a moment with a queer smile, and then saying:

"My own wish is that this should be found out. As a matter of course, I sha'n't betray you, girls; but as things now stand I am anxious that Mrs. Willis should know the very worst of me."

After a remark which Susan considered so simply idiotic, there was, of course, no further conversation between the two girls.

Moses Moore had certainly promised Betty to rise soon after dawn on the following morning, and go to Lavender House to carry off the basket from under the laurel-tree. Moses, a remarkably indolent lad, had been stimulated by the thought of the delicious cherries which would be his as soon as he brought the basket to Betty. He had cleverly stipulated that a quart—not a pint—of cherries was to be his reward, and he looked forward with considerable pleasure to picking them himself, and putting a few extra ones into his mouth on the sly.

Moses was not at all the kind of a boy who would have scrupled to steal a few cherries; but in this particular old Betty, ill as she was, was too sharp for him or for any of the other village lads. Her bed was drawn up close to her little window, and her window looked directly on to the two cherry trees. Never, to all appearance, did Betty close her eyes. However early the hour might be in which a village boy peeped over the wall of her garden, he always saw her white night-cap moving, and he knew that her bright blue eyes would be on him, and he would be proclaimed a thief all over the place before many minutes were over.

Moses, therefore, was very glad to secure his cherries by fair means, as he could not obtain them by foul; and he went to bed and to sleep, determined to be off on his errand with the dawn.

A very natural thing, however, happened. Moses, unaccustomed to getting up at half-past three in the morning, never opened his eyes until the church clock struck five. Then he started upright, rubbed and rubbed at his sleepy orbs, tumbled into his clothes, and, softly opening the cottage door, set off on his errand.

The fact of his being nearly an hour and a half late did not trouble him in the least. In any case, he would get to Lavender House before six o'clock, and would have consumed his cherries in less than an hour from that date.

Moses sauntered gaily along the roads, whistling as he went, and occasionally tossing his battered cap in the air. He often lingered on his way, now to cut down a particularly tempting switch from the hedge, now to hunt for a possible bird's nest. It was very nearly six o'clock when he reached the back avenue, swung himself over the gate, which was locked, and ran softly on the dewy grass in the direction of the laurel bush. Old Betty had given him most careful instructions, and he was far too sharp a lad to forget what was necessary for the obtaining of a quart of cherries. He found his tree, and lay flat down on the ground in order to pull out the basket. His fingers had just clasped the handle when there came a sudden interruption—a rush, a growl, and some very sharp teeth had inserted themselves into the back of his ragged jacket. Poor Moses found himself, to his horror, in the clutches of a great mastiff. The creature held him tight, and laid one heavy paw on him to prevent him rising.

Under these circumstances, Moses thought it quite unnecessary to retain any self-control. He shrieked, he screamed, he wriggled; his piercing yells filled the air, and, fortunately for him, his being two hours too late brought assistance to his aid. Michael, the gardener, and a strong boy who helped him, rushed to the spot, and liberated the terrified lad, who, after all, was only frightened, for Rover had satisfied himself with tearing his jacket to pieces, not himself.

"Give me the b-basket," sobbed Moses, "and let me g-g-go."

"You may certainly go, you little tramp," said Michael, "but Jim and me will keep the basket. I much misdoubt me if there isn't mischief here. What's the basket put hiding here for, and who does it belong to?"

"Old B-B-Betty," gasped forth the agitated Moses.

"Well, let old Betty fetch it herself. Mrs. Willis will keep it for her," said Michael. "Come along, Jim, get to your weeding, do. There, little scamp, you had better make yourself scarce."

Moses certainly took his advice, for he scuttled off like a hare. Whether he ever got his cherries or not, history does not disclose.

Michael, looking gravely at Jim, opened the basket, examined its contents, and, shaking his head solemnly, carried it into the house.

"There's been deep work going on, Jim, and my missis ought to know," said Michael, who was an exceedingly strict disciplinarian. Jim, however, had a soft corner in his heart for the young ladies, and he commenced his weeding with a profound sigh.



CHAPTER XXXVII

A BROKEN TRUST.

The next morning Annie Forest opened her eyes with that strange feeling of indifference and want of vivacity which come so seldom to youth. She saw the sun shining through the closed blinds; she heard the birds twittering and singing in the large elm-tree which nearly touched the windows; she knew well how the world looked at this moment, for often and often in her old light-hearted days she had risen before the maid came to call her, and, kneeling by the deep window-ledge, had looked out at the bright, fresh, sparkling day. A new day, with all its hours before it, its light vivid but not too glaring, its dress all manner of tender shades and harmonious colorings! Annie had a poetical nature, and she gloried in these glimpses which she got all by herself of the fresh, glad world.

To-day, however, she lay still, sorry to know that the brief night was at an end, and that the day, with its coldness and suspicion, its terrible absence of love and harmony, was about to begin.

Annie's nature was very emotional; she was intensely sensitive to her surroundings; the grayness of her present life was absolute destruction to such a nature as hers.

The dressing-bell rang; the maid came in to draw up the blinds, and call the girls. Annie rose languidly and began to dress herself.

She first finished her toilet, and then approached her little bed, and stood by its side for a moment hesitating. She did not want to pray, and yet she felt impelled to go down on her knees. As she knelt with her curls falling about her face, and her hands pressed to her eyes, one line of one of her favorite poems came flashing with swiftness and power across her memory:

"A soul which has sinned and is pardoned again."

The words filled her whole heart with a sudden sense of peace and of great longing.

The prayer-bell rang: she rose, and, turning to Susan Drummond, said earnestly:

"Oh, Susy, I do wish Mrs. Willis could know about our going to the fairy-field; I do so want God to forgive me."

Susan stared in her usual dull, uncomprehending way; then she flushed a little, and said brusquely:

"I think you have quite taken leave of your senses, Annie Forest."

Annie said no more, but at prayers in the chapel she was glad to find herself near gentle Cecil Temple, and the words kept repeating themselves to her all during the morning lessons:

"A soul which has sinned and is pardoned again."

Just before morning school several of the girls started and looked distressed when they found that Mrs. Willis lingered in the room. She stood for a moment by the English teacher's desk, said something to her in a low voice, and then, walking slowly to her own post at the head of the great school-room, she said suddenly:

"I want to ask you a question, Miss Drummond. Will you please just stand up in your place in class and answer me without a moment's hesitation."

Phyllis and Nora found themselves turning very pale; Mary Price and one or two more of the rebels also began to tremble, but Susan looked dogged and indifferent enough as she turned her eyes toward her teacher.

"Yes, madam," she said, rising and dropping a courtesy.

"My friends, the Misses Bruce, came to call on me yesterday evening, Susan, and told me that they saw you running very quickly on the high road in the direction of the village. You, of course, know that you broke a very distinct rule when you left the grounds without leave. Tell me at once where you were going."

Susan hesitated, colored to her dullest red, and looked down. Then, because she had no ready excuse to offer, she blurted out the truth:

"I was going to see old Betty."

"The cake-woman?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"I—I heard she was ill."

"Indeed—you may sit down, Miss Drummond. Miss Good, will you ask Michael to step for a moment into the school-room?"

Several of the girls now indeed held their breath, and more than one heart beat with heavy, frightened bumps as a moment later Michael followed Miss Good into the room, carrying the redoubtable picnic-basket on his arm.

"Michael," said Mrs. Willis, "I wish you to tell the young ladies exactly how you found the basket this morning. Stand by my side, please, and speak loud enough for them to hear."

After a moment's pause Michael related somewhat diffusely and with an occasional break in his narrative the scene which had occurred between him and Moses that morning.

"That will do, Michael; you can now go," said the head mistress.

She waited until the old servant had closed the door, and then she turned to her girls:

"It is not quite a fortnight since I stood where I now stand, and asked one girl to be honorable and to save her companions. One girl was guilty of sin and would not confess, and for her sake all her companions are now suffering. I am tired of this sort of thing—I am tired of standing in this place and appealing to your honor, which is dead, to your truth which is nowhere. Girls, you puzzle me—you half break my heart. In this case more than one is guilty. How many of the girls in Lavender House are going to tell me a lie this morning?"

There was a brief pause; then a slight cry, and a girl rose from her seat and walked up the long school-room.

"I am the most guilty of all," said Annie Forest.

"Annie!" said Mrs. Willis, in a tone half of pain, half of relief, "have you come to your senses at last?"

"Oh, I'm so glad to be able to speak the truth," said Annie. "Please punish me very, very hard; I am the most guilty of all."

"What did you do with this basket?"

"We took it for a picnic—it was my plan, I led the others."

"Where was your picnic?"

"In the fairies' field."

"Ah! At what time?"

"At night—in the middle of the night—the night you went to London."

Mrs. Willis put her hand to her brow; her face was very white and the girls could see that she trembled.

"I trusted my girls——" she said; then she broke off abruptly.

"You had companions in this wickedness—name them."

"Yes, I had companions; I led them on."

"Name them, Miss Forest."

For the first time Annie raised her eyes to Mrs. Willis' face; then she turned and looked down the long school-room.

"Oh, won't they tell themselves?" she said.

Nothing could be more appealing than her glance. It melted the hearts of Phyllis and Nora, who began to sob, and to declare brokenly that they had gone too, and that they were very, very sorry.

Spurred by their example Mary Price also confessed, and one by one all the little conspirators revealed the truth, with the exception of Susan, who kept her eyes steadily fixed on the floor.

"Susan Drummond," said Mrs. Willis, "come here."

There was something in her tone which startled every girl in the school. Never had they heard this ring in their teacher's voice before.

"Susan," said Mrs. Willis, "I don't ask you if you are guilty; I fear, poor miserable girl, that if I did you would load your conscience with a fresh lie. I don't ask you if you are guilty because I know you are. The fact of your running without leave to see old Betty is circumstantial evidence. I judge you by that and pronounce you guilty. Now, young ladies, you who have treated me so badly, who have betrayed my trust, who have been wanting in honor, I must think, I must ask God to teach me how to deal with you. In the meantime, you cannot associate with your companions. Miss Good, will you take each of these eight girls to their bedrooms."

As Annie was leaving the room she looked full into Mrs. Willis' face. Strange to say, at this moment of her great disgrace the cloud which had so long brooded over her was lifted. The sweet eyes never looked sweeter. The old Annie, and yet a better and a braver Annie than had ever existed before, followed her companions out of the school-room.



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

IS SHE STILL GUILTY?

On the evening of that day Cecil Temple knocked at the door of Mrs. Willis' private sitting-room.

"Ah, Cecil! is that you?" said her governess. "I am always glad to see you, dear; but I happen to be particularly busy to-night. Have you anything in particular to say to me?"

"I only wanted to talk about Annie, Mrs. Willis. You believe in her at last, don't you?"

"Believe in her at last!" said the head-mistress in a tone of astonishment and deep pain. "No, Cecil, my dear; you ask too much of my faith. I do not believe in Annie."

Cecil paused; she hesitated, and seemed half afraid to proceed.

"Perhaps," she said at last in a slightly timid tone, "you have not seen her since this morning?"

"No; I have been particularly busy. Besides, the eight culprits are under punishment; part of their punishment is that I will not see them."

"Don't you think, Mrs. Willis," said Cecil, "that Annie made rather a brave confession this morning?"

"I admit, my dear, that Annie spoke in somewhat of her old impulsive way; she blamed herself, and did not try to screen her misdemeanors behind her companions. In this one particular she reminded me of the old Annie who, notwithstanding all her faults, I used to trust and love. But as to her confession being very brave, my dear Cecil, you must remember that she did not confess until she was obliged; she knew, and so did all the other girls, that I could have got the truth out of old Betty had they chosen to keep their lips sealed. Then, my dear, consider what she did. On the very night that I was away she violated the trust I had in her—she bade me 'good-bye' with smiles and sweet glances, and then she did this in my absence. No, Cecil, I fear poor Annie is not what we thought her. She has done untold mischief during the half-year, and has willfully lied and deceived me. I find, on comparing dates, that it was on the very night of the girls' picnic that Dora's theme was changed. There is no doubt whatever that Annie was the guilty person. I did my best to believe in her, and to depend on Mr. Everard's judgment of her character, but I confess I can do so no longer. Cecil, dear. I am not surprised that you look pale and sad. No, we will not give up this poor Annie: we will try to love her even through her sin. Ah! poor child, poor child! how much I have prayed for her! She was to me as a child of my own. Now, dear Cecil, I must ask you to leave me."

Cecil went slowly out of her governess' presence, and, wandering across the wide stone hall, she entered the play-room. It happened to be a wet night, and the room was full of girls, who hung together in groups and whispered softly. There were no loud voices, and, except from the little ones, there was no laughter. A great depression hung over the place, and few could have recognized the happy girls of Lavender House in these sad young faces. Cecil walked slowly into the room, and presently finding Hester Thornton, she sat down by her side.

"I can't get Mrs. Willis to see it," she said very sadly.

"What?" asked Hester.

"Why, that we have got our old Annie back again; that she did take the girls out to that picnic, and was as wild, and reckless, and naughty as possible about it; and then, just like the old Annie I have always known, the moment the fun was over she began to repent, and that she has gone on repenting ever since, which has accounted for her poor sad little face and white cheeks. Of course she longed to tell—Nora and Phyllis have told me so—but she would not betray them. Now at last there is a load off her heart, and, though she is in great disgrace and punishment, she is not very unhappy. I went to see her an hour ago, and I saw in her face that my own darling Annie has returned. But what do you think Mrs. Willis does, Hester? She is so hurt and disappointed, that she believes Annie is guilty of the other thing—she believes that Annie stole Dora's theme, and that she caricatured her in my book some time ago. She believes it—she is sure of it. Now, do you think, Hester, that Annie's face would look quite peaceful and happy to-night if she had only confessed half her faults—if she had this meanness, this sin, these lies still resting on her soul? Oh! I wish Mrs. Willis would see her! I wish—I wish! but I can do nothing. You agree with me, don't you, Hester? Just put yourself in Annie's place, and tell me if you would feel happy, and if your heart would be at rest, if you had only confessed half your sin, and if through you all your schoolfellows were under disgrace and suspicion? You could not, could you, Hester? Why, Hester, how white you are!"

"You are so metaphysical," said Hester, rising; "you quite puzzle me. How can I put myself in your friend Annie's place? I never understood her—I never wanted to. Put myself in her place?—no, certainly that I'm never likely to. I hope that I shall never be in such a predicament."

Hester walked away, and Cecil sat still in great perplexity.

Cecil was a girl with a true sense of religion. The love of God guided every action of her simple and straightforward life. She was neither beautiful nor clever; but no one in the school was more respected and honored, no one more sincerely loved. Cecil knew what the peace of God meant, and when she saw even a shadowy reflection of that peace on Annie's little face, she was right in believing that she must be innocent of the guilt which was attributed to her.

The whole school assembled for prayers that night in the little chapel, and Mr. Everard, who had heard the story of that day's confession from Mrs. Willis, said a few words appropriate to the occasion to the unhappy young girls.

Whatever effect his words had on the others, and they were very simple and straightforward, Annie's face grew quiet and peaceful as she listened to them. The old clergyman assured the girls that God was waiting to forgive those who truly repented, and that the way to repent was to rise up and sin no more.

"The present fun is not worth the after-pain," he said, in conclusion. "It is an old saying that stolen waters are sweet, but only at the time; afterward only those who drink of them know the full extent of their bitterness."

This little address from Mr. Everard strengthened poor Annie for an ordeal which was immediately before her, for Mrs. Willis asked all the school to follow her to the play-room, and there she told them that she was about to restore to them their lost privileges; that circumstances, in her opinion, now so strongly pointed the guilt of the stolen essay in the direction of one girl, that she could no longer ask the school to suffer for her sake.

"She still refuses to confess her sin," said Mrs. Willis, "but, unless another girl proclaims herself guilty, and proves to me beyond doubt that she drew the caricature which was found in Cecil Temple's book, and that she changed Dora Russell's essay, and, imitating her hand, put another in its place, I proclaim the guilty person to be Annie Forest, and on her alone I visit my displeasure. You can retire to your rooms, young ladies. Tomorrow morning Lavender House resumes its old cheerfulness."



CHAPTER XXXIX.

HESTER'S HOUR OF TRIAL.

However calmly or however peacefully Annie slept that night, poor Hester did not close her eyes. The white face of the girl she had wronged and injured kept rising before her. Why had she so deceived Annie? Why from the very first had she turned from her, and misjudged her, and misrepresented her? Was Annie, indeed, all bad? Hester had to own to herself that to-night Annie was better than she—was greater than she. Could she now have undone the past, she would not have acted as she had done; she would not for the sake of a little paltry revenge have defiled her conscience with a lie, have told her governess that she could throw no light on the circumstance of the stolen essay. This was the first lie Hester had ever told; she was naturally both straightforward and honorable, but her sin of sins, that which made her hard and almost unlovable, was an intensely proud and haughty spirit. She was very sorry she had told that lie; she was very sorry she had yielded to that temptation; but not for worlds would she now humble herself to confess—not for worlds would she let the school know of her cowardice and shame. No, if there was no other means of clearing Annie except through her confession, she must remain with the shadow of this sin over her to her dying day.

Hester, however, was now really unhappy, and also truly sorry for poor Annie. Could she have got off without disgrace or punishment, she would have been truly glad to see Annie exonerated. She was quite certain that Susan Drummond was at the bottom of all the mischief which had been done lately at Lavender House. She could not make out how stupid Susan was clever enough to caricature and to imitate peoples' hands. Still she was convinced that she was the guilty person, and she wondered and wondered if she could induce Susan to come forward and confess the truth, and so save Annie without bringing her, Hester, into any trouble.

She resolved to speak to Susan, and without confessing that she had been in the school-room on the night the essay was changed, to let her know plainly that she suspected her.

She became much calmer when she determined to carry out this resolve, and toward morning she fell asleep.

She was awakened at a very early hour by little Nan clambering over the side of her crib, and cuddling down cozily in a way she loved by Hester's side.

"Me so 'nug, 'nug," said little Nan. "Oh, Hetty, Hetty, there's a wy on the teiling!"

Hester had then to rouse herself, and enter into an animated conversation on the subject of flies generally, and in especial she had to talk of that particular fly which would perambulate on the ceiling over Nan's head.

"Me like wies," said Nan, "and me like 'oo, Hetty, and me love—me love Annie."

Hester kissed her little sister passionately; but this last observation, accompanied by the expression of almost angelic devotion which filled little Nan's brown eyes, as she repeated that she liked flies and Hetty, but that she loved Annie, had the effect of again hardening her heart.

Hester's hour of trial, however, was at hand, and before that day was over she was to experience that awful emptiness and desolation which those know whom God is punishing.

Lessons went on as usual at Lavender House that morning, and, to the surprise of several, Annie was seen in her old place in class. She worked with a steadiness quite new to her; no longer interlarding her hours of study with those indescribable glances of fun and mischief, first at one school-companion and then at another, which used to worry her teachers so much.

There were no merry glances from Annie that morning; but she worked steadily and rapidly, and went through that trying ordeal, her French verbs, with such satisfaction that mademoiselle was on the point of praising her, until she remembered that Annie was in disgrace.

After school, however, Annie did not join her companions in the grounds, but went up to her bedroom, where, by Mrs. Willis' orders, she was to remain until the girls went in. She was to take her own exercise later in the day.

It was now the tenth of June—an intensely sultry day; a misty heat brooded over everything, and not a breath of air stirred the leaves in the trees. The girls wandered about languidly, too enervated by the heat to care to join in any noisy games. They were now restored to their full freedom, and there is no doubt they enjoyed the privileges of having little confabs, and whispering secrets to each other without having Miss Good and Miss Danesbury forever at their elbows. They talked of many things—of the near approach of the holidays, of the prize day which was now so close at hand, of Annie's disgrace, and so on.

They wondered, many of them, if Annie would ever be brought to confess her sin, and, if not, how Mrs. Willis would act toward her. Dora Russell said in her most contemptuous tones:

"She is nothing, after all, but a charity child, and Mrs. Willis has supported her for years for nothing."

"Yes, and she's too clever by half; eh, poor old Muddy Stream?" remarked a saucy little girl. "By the way, Dora, dear, how goes the river now? Has it lost itself in the arms of mother ocean yet?"

Dora turned red and walked away, and her young tormentor exclaimed with considerable gusto:

"There, I have silenced her for a bit; I do hate the way she talks about charity children. Whatever her faults, Annie is the sweetest and prettiest girl in the school, in my opinion."

In the meantime Hester was looking in all directions for Susan Drummond. She thought the present a very fitting opportunity to open her attack on her, and she was the more anxious to bring her to reason as a certain look in Annie's face—a pallid and very weary look—had gone to her heart, and touched her in spite of herself. Now, even though little Nan loved her, Hester would save Annie could she do so not at her own expense.

Look, however, as she would, nowhere could she find Miss Drummond. She called and called, but no sleepy voice replied. Susan, indeed, knew better; she had curled herself up in a hammock which hung between the boughs of a shady tree, and though Hester passed under her very head, she was sucking lollipops and going off comfortably into the land of dreams, and had no intention of replying. Hester wandered down the shady walk, and at its farther end she was gratified by the sight of little Nan, who, under her nurse's charge, was trying to string daisies on the grass. Hester sat down by her side, and Nan climbed over and made fine havoc of her neat print dress, and laughed, and was at her merriest and best.

"I hear say that that naughty Miss Forest has done something out-and-out disgraceful," whispered the nurse.

"Oh, don't!" said Hester impatiently. "Why should every one throw mud at a girl when she is down? If poor Annie is naughty and guilty, she is suffering now."

"Annie not naughty," said little Nan. "Me love my own Annie; me do, me do."

"And you love your own poor old nurse, too?" responded the somewhat jealous nurse.

Hester left the two playing happily together, the little one caressing her nurse, and blowing one or two kisses after her sister's retreating form. Hester returned to the house, and went up to her room to prepare for dinner. She had washed her hands, and was standing before the looking-glass re-plaiting her long hair, when Susan Drummond, looking extremely wild and excited, and with her eyes almost starting out of her head, rushed into the room.

"Oh, Hester, Hester!" she gasped, and she flung herself on Hester's bed, with her face downward; she seemed absolutely deprived for the moment of the power of any further speech.

"What is the matter, Susan?" inquired Hester half impatiently. "What have you come into my room for? Are you going into a fit of hysterics? You had better control yourself, for the dinner gong will sound directly."

Susan gasped two or three times, made a rush to Hester's wash-hand stand, and, taking up a glass, poured some cold water into it, and gulped it down.

"Now I can speak," she said. "I ran so fast that my breath quite left me. Hester, put on your walking things or go without them, just as you please—only go at once if you would save her."

"Save whom?" asked Hester.

"Your little sister—little Nan. I—I saw it all. I was in the hammock, and nobody knew I was there, and somehow I wasn't so sleepy as usual, and I heard Nan's voice, and I looked over the side of the hammock, and she was sitting on the grass picking daisies, and her nurse was with her, and presently you came up. I heard you calling me, but I wasn't going to answer. I felt too comfortable. You stayed with Nan and her nurse for a little, and then went away; and I heard Nan's nurse say to her: 'Sit here, missy, till I come back to you; I am going to fetch another reel of sewing cotton from the house. Sit still, missy; I'll be back directly.' She went away, and Nan went on picking her daisies. All on a sudden I heard Nan give a sharp little cry, and I looked over the hammock, and there was a tall, dark woman, with such a wicked face, and she snatched up Nan in her arms, and put a thick shawl over her face, and ran off with her. It was all done in an instant. I shouted and I scrambled out of the hammock, and I rushed down the path; but there wasn't a sign of anybody there. I don't know where the woman went—it seemed as if the earth swallowed up both her and little Nan. Why, Hester, are you going to faint?"

"Water!" gasped Hester—"one sip—now let me go."



CHAPTER XL.

A GYPSY MAID.

In a few moments every one in Lavender House was made acquainted with Susan's story. At such a time ceremony was laid aside, dinner forgotten, teachers, pupils, servants all congregated in the grounds, all rushed to the spot where Nan's withered daisies still lay, all peered through the underwood, and all, alas! looked in vain for the tall dark woman and the little child. Little Nan, the baby of the school, had been stolen—there were loud and terrified lamentations. Nan's nurse was almost tearing her hair, was rushing frantically here, there, and everywhere. No one blamed the nurse for leaving her little charge in apparent safety for a few moments, but the poor woman's own distress was pitiable to see. Mrs. Willis took Hester's hand, and told the poor stunned girl that she was sending to Sefton immediately for two or three policemen, and that in the meantime every man on the place should commence the search for the woman and child.

"Without any doubt," Mrs. Willis added, "we shall soon have our little Nan back again; it is quite impossible that the woman, whoever she is, can have taken her so far away in so short a time."

In the meantime, Annie in her bedroom heard the fuss and the noise. She leaned out of her window and saw Phyllis in the distance; she called to her. Phyllis ran up, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Oh, something so dreadful!" she gasped; "a wicked, wicked woman has stolen little Nan Thornton. She ran off with her just where the undergrowth is so thick at the end of the shady walk. It happened to her half an hour ago, and they are all looking, but they cannot find the woman or little Nan anywhere. Oh, it is so dreadful! Is that you, Mary?"

Phyllis ran off to join her sister, and Annie put her head in again, and looked round her pretty room.

"The gypsy," she murmured, "the tall, dark gypsy has taken little Nan!"

Her face was very white, her eyes shone, her lips expressed a firm and almost obstinate determination. With all her usual impulsiveness, she decided on a course of action—she snatched up a piece of paper and scribbled a hasty line:

"DEAR MOTHER-FRIEND:—However badly you think of Annie, Annie loves you with all her heart. Forgive me, I must go myself to look for little Nan. That tall, dark woman is a gypsy—I have seen her before; her name is Mother Rachel. Tell Hetty I won't return until I bring her little sister back.—Your repentant and sorrowful

ANNIE."

Annie twisted up the note, directed it to Mrs. Willis, and left it on her dressing-table.

Then, with a wonderful amount of forethought for her, she emptied the contents of a little purse into a tiny gingham bag, which she fastened inside the front of her dress. She put on her shady hat, and threw a shawl across her arm, and then, slipping softly downstairs, she went out through the deserted kitchens, down the back avenue, and past the laurel bush, until she came to the stile which led into the wood—she was going straight to the gypsies' encampment.

Annie, with some of the gypsy's characteristics in her own blood, had always taken an extraordinary interest in these queer wandering people. Gypsies had a fascination for her, she loved stories about them; if a gypsy encampment was near, she always begged the teachers to walk in that direction. Annie had a very vivid imagination, and in the days when she reigned as favorite in the school she used to make up stories for the express benefit of her companions. These stories, as a rule, always turned upon the gypsies. Many and many a time had the girls of Lavender House almost gasped with horror as Annie described the queer ways of these people. For her, personally, their wildness and their freedom had a certain fascination, and she was heard in her gayest moments to remark that she would rather like to be stolen and adopted by a gypsy tribe.

Whenever Annie had an opportunity, she chatted with the gypsy wives, and allowed them to tell her fortune, and listened eagerly to their narratives. When a little child she had once for several months been under the care of a nurse who was a reclaimed gypsy, and this girl had given her all kinds of information about them. Annie often felt that she quite loved these wild people, and Mother Rachel was the first gypsy she cordially shrank from and disliked.

When the little girl started now on her wild-goose chase after Nan, she was by no means devoid of a plan of action. The knowledge she had taken so many years to acquire came to her aid, and she determined to use it for Nan's benefit. She knew that the gypsies, with all their wandering and erratic habits, had a certain attachment, if not for homes, at least for sites; she knew that as a rule they encamped over and over again in the same place; she knew that their wanderings were conducted with method, and their apparently lawless lives governed by strict self-made rules.

Annie made straight now for the encampment, which stood in a little dell at the other side of the fairies' field. Here for weeks past the gypsies' tents had been seen; here the gypsy children had played, and the men and women smoked and lain about in the sun.

Annie entered the small field now, but uttered no exclamation of surprise when she found that all the tents, with the exception of one, had been removed, and that this tent also was being rapidly taken down by a man and a girl, while a tall boy stood by, holding a donkey by the bridle.

Annie wasted no time in looking for Nan here. Before the girl and the man could see her, she darted behind a bush, and removing her little bag of money, hid it carefully under some long grass; then she pulled a very bright yellow sash out of her pocket, tied it round her blue cotton dress, and leaving her little shawl also on the ground, tripped gaily up to the tent.

She saw with pleasure that the girl who was helping the man was about her own size. She went up and touched her on the shoulder.

"Look here," she said, "I want to make such a pretty play by-and-by—I want to play that I'm a gypsy girl. Will you give me your clothes, if I give you mine? See, mine are neat, and this sash is very handsome. Will you have them? Do. I am so anxious to play at being a gypsy."

The girl turned and stared. Annie's pretty blue print and gay sash were certainly tempting bait. She glanced at her father.

"The little lady wants to change," she said in an eager voice.

The man nodded acquiescence, and the girl taking Annie's hand, ran quickly with her to the bottom of the field.

"You don't mean it, surely?" she said. "Eh, but I'm uncommon willing."

"Yes, I certainly mean it," said Annie. "You are a dear, good, obliging girl, and how nice you will look in my pretty blue cotton! I like that striped petticoat of yours, too, and that gay handkerchief you wear round your shoulders. Thank you so very much. Now, do I look like a real, real gypsy?"

"Your hair ain't ragged enough, miss."

"Oh, clip it, then; clip it away. I want to be quite the real thing. Have you got a pair of scissors?"

The girl ran back to the tent, and presently returned to shear poor Annie's beautiful hair in truly rough fashion.

"Now, miss, you look much more like, only your arms are a bit too white. Stay, we has got some walnut-juice; we was just a-using of it. I'll touch you up fine, miss."

So she did, darkening Annie's brown skin to a real gypsy tone.

"You're a dear, good girl," said Annie, in conclusion; and as the girl's father called her roughly at this moment, she was obliged to go away, looking ungainly enough in the English child's neat clothes.



CHAPTER XLI.

DISGUISED.

Annie ran out of the field, mounted the stile which led into the wood, and stood there until the gypsy man and girl, and the boy with the donkey, had finally disappeared. Then she left her hiding-place, and taking her little gingham bag out of the long grass, secured it once more in the front of her dress. She felt queer and uncomfortable in her new dress, and the gypsy girl's heavy shoes tired her feet; but she was not to be turned from her purpose by any manner of discomforts, and she started bravely on her long trudge over the dusty roads, for her object was to follow the gypsies to their next encampment, about ten miles away. She had managed, with some tact, to obtain a certain amount of information from the delighted gypsy girl. The girl told Annie that she was very glad they were going from here; that this was a very dull place, and that they would not have stayed so long but for Mother Rachel, who, for some reasons of her own, had refused to stir.

Here the girl drew herself up short, and colored under her dark skin. But Annie's tact never failed. She even yawned a little, and seemed scarcely to hear the girl's words.

Now, in the distance, she followed these people.

In her disguise, uncomfortable as it was, she felt tolerably safe. Should any of the people in Lavender House happen to pass her on the way, they would never recognize Annie Forest in this small gypsy maiden. When she did approach the gypsies' dwelling she might have some hope of passing as one of themselves. The only one whom she had really to fear was the girl with whom she had changed clothes, and she trusted to her wits to keep out of this young person's way.

When Zillah, her old gypsy nurse, had charmed her long ago with gypsy legends and stories, Annie had always begged to hear about the fair English children whom the gypsies stole, and Zillah had let her into some secrets which partly accounted for the fact that so few of these children are ever recovered.

She walked very fast now; her depression was gone, a great excitement, a great longing, a great hope, keeping her up. She forgot that she had eaten nothing since breakfast; she forgot everything in all the world now but her great love for little Nan, and her desire to lay down her very life, if necessary, to rescue Nan from the terrible fate which awaited her if she was brought up as a gypsy's child.

Annie, however, was unaccustomed to such long walks, and besides, recent events had weakened her, and by the time she reached Sefton—for her road lay straight through this little town—she was so hot and thirsty that she looked around her anxiously to find some place of refreshment.

In an unconscious manner she paused before a restaurant, where she and several other girls of Lavender House had more than once been regaled with buns and milk.

The remembrance of the fresh milk and the nice buns came gratefully before the memory of the tired child now. Forgetting her queer attire, she went into the shop, and walked boldly up to the counter.

Annie's disguise, however, was good, and the young woman who was serving, instead of bending forward with the usual gracious "What can I get for you, miss?" said very sharply:

"Go away at once, little girl; we don't allow beggars here; leave the shop instantly. No, I have nothing for you."

Annie was about to reply rather hotly, for she had an idea that even a gypsy's money might purchase buns and milk, when she was suddenly startled, and almost terrified into betraying herself, by encountering the gentle and fixed stare of Miss Jane Bruce, who had been leaning over the counter and talking to one of the shop-women when Annie entered.

"Here is a penny for you, little girl," she said. "You can get a nice hunch of stale bread for a penny in the shop at the corner of the High street."

Annie's eyes flashed back at the little lady, her lips quivered, and, clasping the penny, she rushed out of the shop.

"My dear," said Miss Jane, turning to her sister, "did you notice the extraordinary likeness that little gypsy girl bore to Annie Forest?"

Miss Agnes sighed. "Not particularly, love," she answered; "but I scarcely looked at her. I wonder if our dear little Annie is any happier than she was. Ah, I think we have done here. Good-afternoon, Mrs. Tremlett."

The little old ladies trotted off, giving no more thoughts to the gypsy child.

Poor Annie almost ran down the street, and never paused till she reached a shop of much humbler appearance, where she was served with some cold slices of German sausage, some indifferent bread and butter, and milk by no means over-good. The coarse fare, and the rough people who surrounded her, made the poor child feel both sick and frightened. She found she could only keep up her character by remaining almost silent, for the moment she opened her lips people turned round and stared at her.

She paid for her meal, however, and presently found herself at the other side of Sefton, and in a part of the country which was comparatively strange to her. The gypsies' present encampment was about a mile away from the town of Oakley, a much larger place than Sefton. Sefton and Oakley lay about six miles apart. Annie trudged bravely on, her head aching; for, of course, as a gypsy girl, she could use no parasol to shade her from the sun. At last the comparative cool of the evening arrived, and the little girl gave a sigh of relief, and looked forward to her bed and supper at Oakley. She had made up her mind to sleep there, and to go to the gypsies' encampment very early in the morning. It was quite dark by the time she reached Oakley, and she was now so tired, and her feet so blistered from walking in the gypsy girl's rough shoes, that she could scarcely proceed another step. The noise and the size of Oakley, too, bewildered and frightened her. She had learned a lesson in Sefton, and dared not venture into the more respectable streets. How could she sleep in those hot, common, close houses? Surely it would be better for her to lie down under a cool hedgerow—there could be no real cold on this lovely summer's night, and the hours would quickly pass, and the time soon arrive when she must go boldly in search of Nan. She resolved to sleep in a hayfield which took her fancy just outside the town, and she only went into Oakley for the purpose of buying some bread and milk.

Annie was so far fortunate as to get a refreshing draught of really good milk from a woman who stood by a cottage door, and who gave her a piece of girdle-cake to eat with it.

"You're one of the gypsies, my dear?" said the woman. "I saw them passing in their caravans an hour back. No doubt you are for taking up your old quarters in the copse, just alongside of Squire Thompson's long acre field. How is it you are not with the rest of them, child?"

"I was late in starting," said Annie. "Can you tell me the best way to get from here to the long acre field?"

"Oh, you take that turnstile, child, and keep in the narrow path by the cornfields; it's two miles and a half from here as the crow flies. No, no, my dear, I don't want your pennies; but you might humor my little girl here by telling her fortune—she's wonderful taken by the gypsy folk."

Annie colored painfully. The child came forward, and she crossed her hand with a piece of silver. She looked at the little palm and muttered something about being rich and fortunate, and marrying a prince in disguise, and having no trouble whatever.

"Eh! but that's a fine lot, is yours, Peggy," said the gratified mother.

Peggy, however, aged nine, had a wiser head on her young shoulders.

"She didn't tell no proper fortune," she said disparagingly, when Annie left the cottage. "She didn't speak about no crosses, and no biting disappointments, and no bleeding wounds. I don't believe in her, I don't. I like fortunes mixed, not all one way; them fortunes ain't natural, and I don't believe she's no proper gypsy girl."



CHAPTER XLII.

HESTER.

At Lavender House the confusion, the terror, and the dismay were great. For several hours the girls seemed quite to lose their heads, and just when, under Mrs. Willis' and the other teachers' calmness and determination, they were being restored to discipline and order, the excitement and alarm broke out afresh when some one brought Annie's little note to Mrs. Willis, and the school discovered that she also was missing.

On this occasion no one did doubt her motive; disobedient as her act was no one wasted words of blame on her. All, from the head-mistress to the smallest child in the school, knew that it was love for little Nan that had taken Annie off; and the tears started to Mrs. Willis' eyes when she first read the tiny note, and then placed it tenderly in her desk. Hester's face became almost ashen in its hue when she heard what Annie had done.

"Annie has gone herself to bring back Nan to you, Hester," said Phyllis. "It was I told her, and I know now by her face that she must have made up her mind at once."

"Very disobedient of her to go," said Dora Russell; but no one took up Dora's tone, and Mary Price said, after a pause:

"Disobedient or not, it was brave—it was really very plucky."

"It is my opinion," said Nora, "that if any one in the world can find little Nan it will be Annie. You remember, Phyllis, how often she has talked to us about gypsies, and what a lot she knows about them?"

"Oh, yes; she'll be better than fifty policemen," echoed several girls; and then two or three young faces were turned toward Hester, and some voice said almost scornfully:

"You'll have to love Annie now; you'll have to admit that there is something good in our Annie when she brings your little Nan home again."

Hester's lip quivered; she tried to speak, but a sudden burst of tears came from her instead. She walked slowly out of the astonished little group, who none of them believed that proud Hester Thornton could weep.

The wretched girl rushed up to her room, where she threw herself on her bed and gave way to some of the bitterest tears she had ever shed. All her indifference to Annie, all her real unkindness, all her ever-increasing dislike came back now to torture and harass her. She began to believe with the girls that Annie would be successful; she began dimly to acknowledge in her heart the strange power which this child possessed; she guessed that Annie would heap coals of fire on her head by bringing back her little sister. She hoped, she longed, she could almost have found it in her heart to pray that some one else, not Annie, might save little Nan.

For not yet had Hester made up her mind to confess the truth about Annie Forest. To confess the truth now meant humiliation in the eyes of the whole school. Even for Nan's sake she could not, she would not be great enough for this.

Sobbing on her bed, trembling from head to foot, in an agony of almost uncontrollable grief, she could not bring her proud and stubborn little heart to accept God's only way of peace. No, she hoped she might be able to influence Susan Drummond and induce her to confess, and if Annie was not cleared in that way, if she really saved little Nan, she would doubtless be restored to much of her lost favor in the school.

Hester had never been a favorite at Lavender House; but now her great trouble caused all the girls to speak to her kindly and considerately, and as she lay on her bed she presently heard a gentle step on the floor of her room—a cool little hand was laid tenderly on her forehead, and opening her swollen eyes, she met Cecil's loving gaze.

"There is no news yet, Hester," said Cecil; "but Mrs. Willis has just gone herself into Sefton, and will not lose an hour in getting further help. Mrs. Willis looks quite haggard. Of course she is very anxious both about Annie and Nan."

"Oh, Annie is safe enough," murmured Hester, burying her head in the bed-clothes.

"I don't know; Annie is very impulsive and very pretty; the gypsies may like to steal her too—of course she has gone straight to one of their encampments. Naturally Mrs. Willis is most anxious."

Hester pressed her hand to her throbbing head.

"We are all so sorry for you, dear," said Cecil gently.

"Thank you—being sorry for one does not do a great deal of good, does it?"

"I thought sympathy always did good," replied Cecil, looking puzzled.

"Thank you," said Hester again. She lay quite still for several minutes with her eyes closed. Her face looked intensely unhappy. Cecil was not easily repelled and she guessed only too surely that Hester's proud heart was suffering much. She was puzzled, however, how to approach her, and had almost made up her mind to go away and beg of kind-hearted Miss Danesbury to see if she could come and do something, when through the open window there came the shrill sweet laughter and the eager, high-pitched tones of some of the youngest children in the school. A strange quiver passed over Hester's face at the sound; she sat up in bed, and gasped out in a half-strangled voice:

"Oh! I can't bear it—little Nan, little Nan! Cecil, I am very, very unhappy."

"I know it, darling," said Cecil, and she put her arms round the excited girl. "Oh, Hester! don't turn away from me; do let us be unhappy together."

"But you did not care for Nan."

"I did—we all loved the pretty darling."

"Suppose I never see her again?" said Hester half wildly. "Oh, Cecil! and mother left her to me! mother gave her to me to take care of, and to bring to her some day in heaven. Oh, little Nan, my pretty, my love, my sweet! I think I could better bear her being dead than this."

"You could, Hester," said Cecil, "if she was never to be found; but I don't think God will give you such a terrible punishment. I think little Nan will be restored to you. Let us ask God to do it, Hetty—let us kneel down now, we two little girls, and pray to Him with all our might."

"I can't pray; don't ask me," said Hester, turning her face away.

"Then I will."

"But not here, Cecil. Cecil, I am not good—I am not good enough to pray."

"We don't want to be good to pray," said Cecil. "We want perhaps to be unhappy—perhaps sorry; but if God waited just for goodness, I don't think He would get many prayers."