"We are all fond of her, I think," said Martha.

"Well, then she went off for a walk by herself, and I don't think she came in until quite late."

"You don't know anything about it," said Martha. "Now, look here, girls, don't waste your time talking rubbish. You are very low down in the school compared to Betty Vivian, and, compared to Betty Vivian, you are of no account whatever, for she is a Speciality, and therefore holds a position all her own. Love her as much as you like, and admire her, for she is worthy of admiration. But if I were you, Sibyl, I wouldn't tell tales out of school. Let me tell you frankly that you had no right to rush up to Betty when she was alone and ask her what she was doing. She was quite at liberty to thrust her hand into an old tree as often as ever she liked, and take some rubbish out, and look at it, and drop it in again. You are talking sheer folly. Do attend to your work, or you'll be late for Miss Skeene when she comes to give her lecture on English literature."

No girl could ever be offended by Martha, and the work continued happily. But during recess that day Sibyl beckoned her companions away with her; and she, followed by five or six girls of the lower fifth, visited the spot where Betty had stood on the previous evening. Betty was much taller than any of these girls, and they found when they reached the old stump that it was impossible for them to thrust their hands in. But this difficulty was overcome by Sibyl volunteering to sit on Mabel Lee's shoulders—and, if necessary, even to stand on her shoulders while the other girls held her firm—in order that she might thrust her hand into the hollow of the oak-tree. This feat was accomplished with some difficulty, but nothing whatever was brought up except withered leaves and debris and a broken piece of wood much saturated with rain.

"This must have been what she saw," said Sibyl. "I asked her if it was wood, and I think she said it was. Only, why did she look so very queer?"

The girls continued their walk, but Martha West stayed at home. She had hushed the remarks made by the younger girls that morning, nevertheless she could not get them out of her mind. Sibyl's story was circumstantial. She had described Betty's annoyance and distress when they met, Betty's almost confusion. She had then said that it was Betty who suggested that she was to wear the marguerites.

Now Martha, in her heart of hearts, thought this suggestion of Betty's very far-fetched; and being a very shrewd, practical sort of girl, there came an awful moment when she almost made up her mind that Betty had done this in order to get rid of Sibyl. Why did she want to get rid of her? Martha began to believe that she was growing quite uncharitable.

At that moment, who should appear in sight, who should utter a cry of satisfaction and seat herself cosily by Martha's side, but Fanny Crawford!

"This is nice," said Fanny with a sigh. "I did so want to chat with you, Martha. I so seldom see you quite all by yourself."

"I am always to be seen if you really wish to find me, Fanny," replied Martha. "I am never too busy not to be delighted to see my friends."

"Well, of course we are friends, being Specialities," was Fanny's remark.

"Yes," answered Martha, "and I think we were friends before. I always liked you just awfully, Fan."

"Ditto, ditto," replied Fanny. "It is curious," she continued, speaking in a somewhat sententious voice, "how one is drawn irresistibly to one girl and repelled by another. Now, I was always drawn to you, Matty; I always liked you from the very, very first. I was more than delighted when I heard that you were to become one of us."

Martha was silent. It was not her habit to praise herself, nor did she care to hear herself praised. She was essentially downright and honest. She did not think highly of herself, for she knew quite well that she had very few outward charms.

Fanny, however, who was the essence of daintiness, looked at her now with blue-gray eyes full of affection. "Martha," she said, "I have such a lot to talk over! What did you think of last night?"

"I thought it splendid," replied Martha.

"And Betty—what did you think of Betty?"

"Your cousin? She is very dramatic," said Martha.

"Yes, that is it," replied Fanny; "she is dramatic in everything. I doubt if she is ever natural or her true self."

"Fanny!"

"Oh, dear old Martha, don't be so frightfully prim! I don't intend to break Rule No. I. Of course I love Betty. As a matter of fact, I have loved her before any of you set eyes on her. She is my very own cousin, and but for father's strong influence would never have been at this school at all. Still, I repeat that she is dramatic and hardly ever herself."

"She puzzles me, I confess," said Martha, a little dubiously; "but then," she added, "I can't help yielding to her charm."

"That is it," said Fanny—"her charm. But look down deep into your heart, Martha, and tell me if you think her charm healthy."

"Well, I see nothing wrong about it." Then Martha became abruptly silent.

"For instance," said Fanny, pressing a little closer to her companion, "why ever did she make your special protege Sibyl Ray such a figure of fun last night?"

"I thought Sibyl looked rather pretty."

"When she entered the room, Martha?"

"Oh no; she was quite hideous then, poor little thing! But Betty soon put that all right; she had very deft fingers."

"I know," said Fanny. "But what I want to have explained is this: why Betty, a girl who is more or less worshiped by half the girls in the school, should trouble herself with such a very unimportant person as Sibyl Ray, I want to know. Can you tell me?"

"Even if I could tell you, remembering Rule No. I., I don't think I would," said Martha.

Fanny sat very still for a minute or two. Then she got up. "I don't see," she remarked, "why Rule No. I. should make us unsociable each with the other. The very object of our club is that we should have no secrets, but should be quite open and above-board. Now, Martha West, look me straight in the face!"

"I will, Fanny Crawford. What in the world are you accusing me of?"

"Of keeping something back from me which, as a member of the Specialities, you have no right whatever to do."

A slow, heavy blush crept over Martha's face. She got up. "I am going to look over my German lesson," she said. "Fraeulein will want me almost immediately." Then she left Fanny, who stared after her retreating figure.

"I will find out," thought Fanny, "what Martha is keeping to herself. That little horror Betty will sow all kinds of evil seed in the school if I don't watch her. I did wrong to promise her, by putting my finger to my lips, that I would be silent with regard to her conduct. I see it now. But if Betty supposes that she can keep her secret to herself she is vastly mistaken. Hurrah, there's Sibyl Ray! Sib, come here, child; I want to have a chat with you."

It was a bitterly cold and windy day outside; there were even sleet-showers falling at intervals. Winter was coming on early, and with a vengeance.

"Why have you come in?" asked Fanny.

"It's so bitterly cold out, Fanny."

"Well, sit down now you are in. You are a nice little thing, you know, Sib, although at present you are very unimportant. You know that, of course?"

"Yes," said Sibyl; "I am told it nearly every hour of the day." She spoke in a wistful tone. "Sometimes," she added, "I could almost wish I were back in the lower school, where I was looked up to by the smaller girls and had a right good time."

"We can never go back, Sib; that is the law of life."

"Of course not."

"Well, sit down and talk to me. Now, I have something to say to you. Do you know that I am devoured with curiosity, and all about a small girl like yourself?"

"Oh Fanny," said Sibyl, immensely flattered, "I am glad you take an interest in me!"

"I must be frank," said Fanny. "Up to the present I have taken no special interest in you, except in so far as you are Martha's protege; but when I saw you in that extraordinary dress last night I singled you out at once as a girl with original ideas. Do look me in the face, Sib!"

Sibyl turned. Fanny's face was exquisitely chiselled. Each neat little feature was perfect. Her eyes were large and well-shaped, her brows delicately marked, her complexion pure lilies and roses; her hair was thick and smooth, and yet there were little ripples about it which gave it, even in its schoolgirl form, a look of distinction. Sibyl, on the contrary, was an undersized girl, with the fair, colorless face, pale-blue eyes, the lack of eyebrows and eyelashes, the hair thin and small in quantity, which make the most hopeless type of all as regards good looks.

"I wonder, Sib," said Fanny, "if you, you little mite, are really eaten up with vanity?"

"I—vain! Why should you say so?"

"I only thought it from your peculiar dress last night."

Sibyl colored and spoke eagerly. "Oh, but that wasn't me at all; it was that quite too darling Betty!"

"Do you mean my cousin, Betty Vivian?"

"Of course, who else?"

"Well, what had she to do with it?"

"I will tell you if you like, Fanny. She didn't expect me to keep it a secret. I met her when I was out——"

"You—met Betty—when you were out?"

"Yes." There was a kind of reserve in Sibyl's tone which made Fanny scent a possible mystery.

"Where did you meet her?" was the next inquiry.

"Well, she was standing by the stump of an old tree which is hollow inside. It is just at the top of the hill by the bend, exactly where the hill goes down towards the 'forest primeval.'"

"Can't say I remember it," said Fanny. "Go on, Sib. So Betty was standing there?"

"Yes, oh yes. I saw her in the distance. I was expecting to meet Clarice and Mary Moss; but they failed me, although they had faithfully promised to come. So when I saw Betty I could not resist running up to her; but when I got quite close I stood still."

"Well, you stood still. Why?"

"Oh Fan, she was doing such a funny thing! She was bending down and looking over into the hollow of the tree. Then, all of a sudden, she thrust her hand in—far down—and took something out of the tree and looked at it. I could just catch sight of what it was——"

"Yes, go on. What was it? Don't be afraid of me, Sib. I have a lot of chocolates in my pocket that I will give you presently."

"Oh thank you, Fanny! It is nice to talk to you. I couldn't see very distinctly what she had in her hand, only she was staring at it, and staring at it; and then she dropped it in again, right down into the depths of the tree; and I saw her bending more than ever, as though she were covering it up."

"But you surely saw what it was like?"

"It might have been anything—I wasn't very near then. I ran up to her, and asked her what it was."

"And what did she say?"

"Oh, she said it was a piece of wood, and that she had dropped it into the tree."

Fanny sat very still. A coldness came over her. She was nearly stunned with what she considered the horror of Betty's conduct.

"What is the matter?" asked Sibyl.

"Nothing at all, Sib; nothing at all. And then, what happened?"

"Betty was very cross at being disturbed."

"That is quite probable," said Fanny with a laugh.

"She certainly was, and I—I—I am afraid I annoyed her; but after a minute or two she got up and allowed me to walk with her. We walked towards the house, and she told me all kinds of funny stories; she really made me scream with laughter. She is the jolliest girl! Then, all of a sudden, we came in sight of the flower-gardens; and she asked me what I was going to wear last night, and I told her about the green chiffon dress which auntie had sent me; and then she suggested a wreath of small marguerites, and told me to get Birchall to cut some for me. She said they would be very becoming, and of course I believed her. There's nothing in my story, is there, Fanny?"

"That depends on the point of view," answered Fanny.

"I don't understand you."

"Nor do I mean you to, kiddy."

"Well, there's one thing more," continued Sibyl, who felt much elated at being allowed to talk to one of the most supercilious of all the Specialities. "I couldn't get out of my head about Betty and the oak-tree; so just now—a few minutes ago—I got some of my friends to come with me, and we went to the oak-tree, and I stood on Mabel Lee's shoulder, and I poked and poked amongst the debris and rubbish in the hollow of the trunk, and there was nothing there at all—nothing except just a piece of wood. So, of course, Betty spoke the truth—it was wood."

"How many chocolates would you like?" was Fanny's rejoinder.

"Oh Fanny, are you going to give me some?"

"Yes, if you are a good girl, and don't tell any one that you repeated this very harmless and uninteresting little story to me about my Cousin Betty. Of course she is my cousin, and I don't like anything said against her."

"But I wasn't speaking against darling Betty!" Sibyl's eyes filled with tears.

"Of course not, monkey; but you were telling me a little tale which might be construed in different ways."

"Yes, yes; only I don't understand. Betty had a perfect right to poke her hand into the hollow of the tree, and to bring up a piece of wood, and look at it, and put it back again; and I don't understand your expression, Fanny, that it all depends on the point of view."

"Keep this to yourself, and I will give you some more chocolates sometime," was Fanny's answer. "I can be your friend as well as Martha—that is, if you are nice, and don't repeat every single thing you hear. The worst sin in a schoolgirl—at least, the worst minor sin—is to be breaking confidences. No schoolgirl with a shade of honor in her composition would ever do that, and certainly no girl trained at Haddo Court ought to be noted for such a characteristic. Now, Sibyl, you are no fool; and, when I talk to you, you are not to repeat things. I may possibly want to talk to you again, and then there'll be more chocolates and—and—other things; and as you are in the upper school, and are really quite a nice girl, I shouldn't be at all surprised if I invited you to have tea with me in my bedroom some night—oh, not quite yet, but some evening not far off. Now, off with you, and let me see how well you can keep an innocent little confidence between you and me!"

Sibyl ran off, munching her chocolates, wondering a good deal at Fanny's manner, but in the excitement of her school-life, soon forgetting both her and Betty Vivian. For, after all, there was no story worth thinking about. There was nothing in the hollow of the old tree but the piece of wood, and nothing—nothing in the wide world—could be made interesting out of that.

Meanwhile, Fanny thought for a time. The first great entertainment of the Specialities was over. Betty was now a full-blown member, and as such must be treated in a manner which Fanny could not possibly have assumed towards her before this event took place. Fanny blamed herself for her weakness in consenting to keep Betty's secret. She had done so on the spur of the moment, influenced by the curious look in the girl's eyes, and wondering if she would turn to her with affection if she, Fanny, were so magnanimous. But Betty had not turned to her with either love or affection. Betty was precisely the Betty she had been before she joined the club. It is true she was very much sought after and consulted on all sorts of matters, and her name was whispered in varying notes of admiration among the girls, and she was likely (unless a spoke were put in her wheel) to rise to one of the highest positions in the great school. Betty had committed one act of flagrant wickedness. Fanny was not going to mince matters; she could not call it by any other name. There were no extenuating circumstances, in her opinion, to excuse this act of Betty's. The fact that she had first stolen the packet, and then told Sir John Crawford a direct lie with regard to it, was the sort of thing that Fanny could never get over.

"One act of wickedness leads to another," thought Fanny. "Contrary to my advice, my beseechings, she has joined our club. She has taken a vow which she cannot by any possibility keep, which she breaks every hour of every day; for she holds a secret which, according to Rule No. I., the other Specialities ought to know. What was she doing by the old stump? What did she take out and look at so earnestly? It was not a piece of wood. That idea is sheer nonsense."

Fanny thought and thought, and the more she thought the more uncomfortable did she grow. "It is perfectly horrible!" she kept saying to herself. "I loathe myself for even thinking about it, but I am afraid I must put a spoke in her wheel. The whole school may be contaminated at this rate. If Betty could do what she did she may do worse, and there isn't a girl in the place who isn't prepared to worship her. Oh, of course I'm not jealous; why should I be? I should be a very unworthy member of the Specialities if I were. Nevertheless——"

Just then Sylvia and Hetty Vivian walked through the great recreation-hall arm in arm.

Fanny called them to her. "Where's Betty?" she asked.

"She told us she'd be very busy for half an hour in our room, and that then she was going downstairs to have a sort of conference—with you, I suppose, Fanny, and the rest of the Specialities."

Sylvia gave a very impatient shrug of her shoulders.

"Why do you look like that, Sylvia?" asked Fanny.

"Well, the fact is, Hetty and I do hate our own Betty belonging to your club. Whenever we want her now she is engaged; and she has such funny talk all about committee meetings and private conferences in your odious sitting-room. We don't like it a bit. We much, much preferred our Betty before she joined the Specialities."

"All the same," said Fanny, "you must have felt very proud of your Betty last night."

Hester laughed. "She wasn't half her true self," said the girl. "Oh, of course she was wonderful, and much greater than others; but I wish you could have heard her tell stories in Scotland. We used to have just one blink of light from the fire, and we sat and held each other's hands, and I tell you Betty made us thrill."

"Well, now that you have reminded me," said Fanny, rising as she spoke, "I must go and attend that committee meeting. I really forgot it, so I am greatly obliged to you girls for reminding me. And you mustn't be jealous of your sister; that is a very wrong feeling."

The girls laughed and ran off, while Fanny slowly walked down the recreation-hall and then ascended some stairs, until she found herself in that particularly cosy and bright sitting-room which was set apart for the Specialities.

Martha West was there, also Susie Rushworth, the two Bertrams, and Olive Repton. But Margaret Grant had not yet appeared, nor had Betty Vivian. Fanny took her seat near Olive. The girls began to chat, and the subject of last night's entertainment was discussed pretty fully. Most of the girls present agreed that it was remarkably silly of Sibyl Ray to wear marguerites in her hair, that they were very sorry for her, and hoped she would not be so childish again. It was just at that moment that Margaret Grant appeared, and immediately afterwards Betty Vivian. The minutes of the last committee meeting were read aloud, and then Margaret turned and asked the girls if they were thoroughly satisfied with the entertainment of the previous night. They all answered in the affirmative except Fanny, who was silent. Neither did Betty speak, for she had been the chief contributor to the entertainment.

"Well," continued Margaret, "I may as well say at once that I was delighted. Betty, I didn't know that you possessed so great a gift. I wish you would improvise as you did last night one evening for Mrs. Haddo."

Betty turned a little whiter than usual. Then she said slowly, "Alone with her—and with you—I could."

"I think she would love it," said Margaret. "It would surprise her just to picture the scene as you threw yourself into it last night."

"I could do it," said Betty, "alone with her and with you."

There was not a scrap of vanity in Betty's manner. She spoke seriously, just as one who, knowing she possesses a gift, accepts it and is thankful.

"I couldn't get it out of my head all night," continued Margaret, "more particularly that part where the angels came. It was a very beautiful idea, Betty dear, and I congratulate you on being able to conjure up such fine images in your mind."

It was with great difficulty that Fanny could suppress her feelings, but the next instant an opportunity occurred for her to give vent to them.

"Now," said Margaret, "as the great object of our society is in all things to be in harmony, I want to put it to the vote: How did the entertainment go off last night?"

"I liked every single thing about it," said Susie Rushworth; "the supper, the games, and, above all things, the story-telling."

The same feeling was expressed in more or less different words by each girl in succession, until Fanny's turn came.

"And you, Fanny—what did you think?"

"I liked the supper and the games, of course," said Fanny.

"And the story-telling, Fanny? You ought to be proud of having such a gifted cousin."

"I didn't like the story-telling, and Betty knows why I didn't like it."

The unmistakable look of hatred on Fanny's face, the queer flash in her eyes as she glanced at Betty, and Betty's momentary quiver as she looked back at her, could not fail to be observed by each girl present.

"Fanny, I am astonished at you!" said Margaret Grant in a voice of marked displeasure.

"You asked a plain question, Margaret. I should have said nothing if nothing had been asked; but you surely don't wish me to commit myself to a lie?"

"Oh no, no!" said Margaret. "But sisterly love, and—and your own cousin too!"

"I want to say something in private to Betty Vivian; and I would earnestly beg of you, Margaret, not to propose to Mrs. Haddo that Betty should tell her any story until after I have spoken. I have my reasons for doing this; and I do not think, all things considered, that I am really breaking Rule No. I. in adopting this course of action."

"This is most strange!" said Margaret.

Betty rose and came straight up to Fanny. "Where and when do you want to speak to me, Fanny?" she asked.

"I will go with you now," said Fanny.

"Then I think," said Margaret, "our meeting has broken up. The next meeting of the Specialities will be held in Olive Repton's room on Thursday next. There are several days between now and then; but to-morrow at four o'clock I mean to give a tea to all the club here. I invite you, one and all, to be present; and afterwards we can talk folly to our hearts' content. Listen, please, girls: the next item on my programme is that we invite dear Mr. Fairfax to tea with us, and ask him a few questions with regard to the difficulties we find in the reading of Jeremy Taylor's 'Holy Living.'"

"I don't suppose, Margaret, it is absolutely necessary for me to attend that meeting?" said Betty.

"Certainly not, Betty. No one is expected to attend who does not wish to."

"You see, I have no difficulties to speak about," said Betty with a light laugh.

Margaret glanced at her with surprise.

"Come, Betty," said Fanny; and the two left the room.

"Where am I to go to?" asked Betty when they found themselves outside.

"Out, if you like," said Fanny.

"No, thank you. The day is very cold."

"Then come to my room with me, will you, Betty?"

"No," said Betty, "I don't want to go to your room."

"I must see you somewhere by yourself," said Fanny. "I have something important to say to you."

"Oh, all right then," said Betty, shrugging her shoulders. "Your room will do as well as any other place. Let's get it over."

The girls ran upstairs. They presently entered Fanny's bedroom, which was a small apartment, but very neat and cheerful. It was next door to the Vivians' own spacious one.

The moment they were inside Betty turned and faced Fanny. "Do you always intend to remain my enemy, Fanny?" she asked.

"Far from that, Betty; I want to be your truest friend."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, don't talk humbug! If you are my truest friend you will act as such. Now, what is the matter—what is up?"

"I will tell you."

"I am all attention," said Betty. "Pray begin."

"I hurt your feelings downstairs just now by saying that I did not care for your story-telling."

"You didn't hurt them in the least, for I never expected you to care. The story-telling wasn't meant for you."

"But I must mention now why I didn't care," continued Fanny, speaking as quickly as she could. "Had you been the Betty the rest of the school think you I could have lost myself, too, in your narrative, and I could have seen the picture you endeavored to portray. But knowing you as you are, Betty Vivian, I could only look down into your wicked heart——"

"What an agreeable occupation!" said Betty with a laugh which she tried to make light, but did not quite succeed.

Fanny was silent.

After a minute Betty spoke again. "Do you spend all your time, Fanny, gazing into my depraved heart?"

"Whenever I think of you, Betty—and I confess I do think of you very often—I remember the sin you have sinned, the lack of repentance you have shown, and, above all things, your daring spirit in joining our club. It is true that when you joined—after all my advice to you to the contrary, my beseeching of you to withstand this temptation—I gave you to understand that I would be silent. But my conscience torments me because of that tacit promise I gave you. Nevertheless I will keep it. But remember, you are in danger. You know perfectly well where the missing packet is. It is—or was, at least—in the hollow stump of the old oak-tree at the top of the hill, and you positively told Sibyl Ray a lie about it when she saw you looking at it yesterday. Afterwards, in order to divert her attention from yourself, you sent her to gather marguerites to make a wreath for her hair—a most ridiculous thing for the child to wear. What you did afterwards I don't know, and don't care to inquire. But, Betty, the fact is that you, instead of being an inspiring influence in this school, will undermine it—will ruin its morals. You are a dangerous girl, Betty Vivian; and I tell you so to your face. You are bound—bound to come to grief. Now, I will say no more. I leave it to your conscience what to do and what not to do. There are some fine points about you; and you could be magnificent, but you are not. There, I have spoken!"

"Thank you, Fanny," replied Betty in a very gentle tone. She waited for a full minute; then she said, "Is that all?"

"Yes, that is all."

Betty went away to her own room. As soon as ever she entered, she went straight to the looking-glass and gazed at her reflection. She then turned a succession of somersaults from one end of the big apartment to the other. Having done this, she washed her face and hands in ice-cold water, rubbed her cheeks until they glowed, brushed her black hair, and felt better. She ran downstairs, and a few minutes later was in the midst of a very hilarious group, who were all chatting and laughing and hailing Betty Vivian as the best comrade in the wide world.

Betty was not only brilliant socially; at the same time she had fine intellectual powers. She was the delight of her teachers, for she could imbibe knowledge as a sponge absorbs water. On this particular day she was at her best during a very difficult lesson at the piano from a professor who came from London. Betty had always a passionate love of music, and to-day she revelled in it. She had been learning one of Chopin's Nocturnes, and now rendered it with exquisite pathos. The professor was delighted, and in the midst of the performance Mrs. Haddo came into the music-room. She listened with approval, and when the girl rose, said, "Well done!"

Another girl took her place; and Betty, running up to Mrs. Haddo, said, "Oh, may I speak to you?"

"Yes, dear; what is it? Come to my room for a minute, if you wish, Betty."

"It isn't important enough for that. Dear Mrs. Haddo, it's just that I am mad for a bit of frolic."

"Frolic, my child! You seem to have plenty."

"Not enough—not enough—not nearly enough for a wild girl of Aberdeenshire, a girl who has lived on the moors and loved them."

"What do you want, dear child?"

"I want most awfully, with your permission, to go with my two sisters Sylvia and Hester to have tea with the Mileses. I want to pet those dogs again, and I want to go particularly badly between now and next Thursday."

"And why especially between now and next Thursday?"

"Ah, I can't quite give you the reason. There is a reason. Please—please—please say yes!"

"It is certainly against my rules."

"But, dear Mrs. Haddo, it isn't against your rules if you give leave," pleaded the girl.

"You are very clever at arguing, Betty. I certainly have liberty to break rules in individual cases. Well, dear child, it shall be so. I will send a line to Mrs. Miles to ask her to expect you and your sisters to-morrow. A servant shall accompany you, and will call again later on. You can only stay about one hour at the farm. To-morrow is a half-holiday, so it will be all right."

"Oh, how kind of you!" said Betty.

But again Mrs. Haddo noticed that Betty avoided looking into her eyes. "Betty," she said, "this is a small matter—my yielding to the whim of an impetuous girl in whom I take an interest. But, my dear child, I have to congratulate you. You made a marvellous success—a marvellous success—last night. Several of the girls in the school have spoken of it, and in particular dear Margaret Grant. I wonder if you would improvise for me some evening?"

"Gladly!" replied Betty. And now for one minute her brilliant eyes were raised and fixed on those of Mrs. Haddo. "Gladly," she repeated—and she shivered slightly—"if you will hear me after next Thursday."



CHAPTER XIV

TEA AT FARMER MILES'S

"It's all right, girls!" said Betty in her most joyful tone.

"What is all right, Betty and Bess?" asked Sylvia saucily.

"Oh, kiss me, girls," said Betty, "and let's have a real frolic! To-morrow is Saturday—a half-holiday, of course—and we're going to the Mileses' to have tea."

"The Mileses'!"

"Yes, you silly children; those dear farmer-folk who keep the dogs."

"Dan and Beersheba?" cried Hetty.

"Yes, Dan and Beersheba; and we're going to have a real jolly time, and we're going to forget dull care. It'll be quite the most delightful sport we've had since we came to Haddo Court. What I should love most would be to vault over the fence and go all by our lonesome selves. But we must have a maid—a horrid, stupid maid; only, of course, she'll walk behind, and she'll leave us alone when we get to the farm. She'll fetch us again by-and-by—that'll be another nuisance. Still, somehow, I don't know what there is about school, but I'm not game enough to go without leave."

"You are changed a good bit," said Hetty. "I think myself it's since you were made a Speciality."

"Perhaps so," said Betty thoughtfully.

Sylvia nestled close to her sister; while Hetty knelt down beside her, laid her elbows on Betty's knee, and looked up into her face.

"I wonder," said Sylvia, "if you like being a Special, or whatever they call themselves, Betty mine?"

Betty did not speak.

"Do you like it?" said Hester, giving her sister a poke in the side as she uttered the words.

"I can't quite tell you, girls; it's all new to me at present. Everything is new and strange. Oh girls, England is a cold, cold country!"

"But it is declared by all the geography-books to be warmer than Scotland," said Sylvia, speaking in a thoughtful voice.

"I don't mean physical cold," said Betty, half-laughing as she spoke.

"I begin to like school," said Hetty. "Lessons aren't really a bit hard."

"I think school is very stimulating," said Sylvia. "The teachers are all so kind, and we are making friends by degrees. The only thing that Hetty and I don't like is this, Bet, that we see so very little of you."

"Although I see little of you I never forget you," was Betty's answer.

"And then," continued Sylvia, "we sleep in the same room, which is a great blessing. That is something to be thankful for."

"And perhaps," said Betty, "we'll see more of each other in the future."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing—nothing."

"Betty, you are growing very mysterious."

"I hope not," replied Betty. "I should just hate to be mysterious."

"Well, you are growing it, all the same," said Hester. "But, oh Bet, you're becoming the most wonderful favorite in the school! I can't tell you what the other girls say about you, for I really think it would make you conceited. It does us a lot of good to have a sister like you; for whenever we are spoken to or introduced to a new girl—I mean a girl we haven't spoken to before—the remark invariably is, 'Oh, are you related to Betty Vivian, the Speciality?' And then—and then everything is all right, and the girls look as if they would do anything for us. We are the moon and stars, you are the sun; and it's very nice to have a sister like you."

"Well, listen, girls. We're going to have a real good time to-morrow, and we'll forget all about school and the lessons and the chapel."

"Oh, but I do like the chapel!" said Sylvia in a thoughtful voice. "I love to hear Mr. Fairfax when he reads the lessons; and I think if I were in trouble about anything I could tell him, somehow."

"Could you?" said Betty. She started slightly, and stared very hard at her sister. "Perhaps one could," she said after a moment's pause. "Mr. Fairfax is very wonderful."

"Oh yes, isn't he?" said Hester.

"But we won't think of him to-night or to-morrow," continued Betty, rising to her feet as she spoke. "We must imagine ourselves back in Scotland again. Oh, it will be splendid to have that time at the Mileses' farm!"

The rest of the evening passed without anything remarkable occurring. Betty, as usual, was surrounded by her friends. The younger Vivian girls chatted gaily with others. Every one was quite kind and pleasant to Betty, and Fanny Crawford left her alone. As this was quite the very best thing Fanny could do, Betty thanked her in her heart. But that evening, just before prayer-time, Betty crossed the hall, where she had been sitting surrounded by a group of animated schoolfellows, and went up to Miss Symes. "Have I your permission, Miss Symes," she said, "not to attend prayers in chapel to-night?"

"Aren't you well, Betty dear?" asked Miss Symes a little anxiously.

Betty remained silent for a minute. Then she said, "Physically I am quite well; mentally I am not."

"Dear Betty!"

"I can't explain it," said Betty. "I would just rather not attend prayers to-night. Do you mind?"

"No, dear. You haven't perhaps yet been acquainted with the fact that the Specialities are never coerced to attend prayers. They are expected to attend; but if for any reason they prefer not, questions are not asked."

"Oh, thank you!" said Betty. She turned and went slowly and thoughtfully upstairs. When she got to her own room she sat quite still, evidently thinking very hard. But when her sisters joined her (and they all went to bed earlier than usual), Betty was the first to drop asleep.

As has already been stated, Betty's pretty little bed was placed between Sylvia's and Hetty's; and now, as she slept, the two younger girls bent across, clasped hands, and looked down at her small white face. They could just get a glimmer of that face in the moonlight, which happened to be shining brilliantly through the three big windows.

All of a sudden, Sylvia crept very softly out of bed, and, running round to Hester's side, whispered to her, "What is the matter?"

"I don't know," replied Hester.

"But something is," remarked Sylvia.

"Yes, something is," said Hester. "Best not worry her."

Sylvia nodded and returned to her own bed.

On the following morning, however, all Betty's apparent low spirits had vanished. She was in that wild state of hilarity when she seemed to carry all before her. Her sisters could not help laughing every time Betty opened her lips, and it was the same during recess. When many girls clustered round her with their gay jokes, they became convulsed with laughter at her comic replies.

It was arranged by Mrs. Haddo that Betty and her two sisters were to start for the Mileses' farm at three o'clock exactly. It would not take them more than half an hour to walk there. Mrs. Miles was requested to give them tea not later than four o'clock, and they were to be called for at half-past four. Thus they would be back at Haddo Court about five.

"Only two hours!" thought Betty to herself. "But one can get a great deal of pleasure into two hours."

Betty felt highly excited. Her sisters' delight at being able to go failed to interest her. As a rule, with all her fun and nonsense and hilarity, Betty possessed an abundance of self-control. But to-day she seemed to have lost it.

The very staid-looking maid, Harris by name, who accompanied them, could scarcely keep pace with the Vivian girls. They ran, they shouted, they laughed. When they were about half-way to the Mileses' farm they came to a piece of common which had not yet been inclosed. The day was dry and comparatively warm, and the grass on the common was green, owing to the recent rains.

"Harris," said Betty, turning to the maid, "would you like to see some Catharine wheels?"

Harris stared in some amazement at the young lady.

"Come along, girls, do!" said Betty. "Harris must have fun as well as the rest of us. You like fun, don't you Harris?"

"Love it, miss!" said Harris.

"Well, then, here goes!" said Betty. "Harris, please hold our hats."

The next instant the three were turning somersaults on the green grass of the common, to the unbounded amazement of the maid, who felt quite shocked, and shouted to the young ladies to come back and behave themselves. Betty stopped at once when she heard the pleading note in Harris's voice.

"You hadn't ought to have done it," said Harris; "and if my missis was to know! Oh, what shows you all three do look! Now, let me put your hats on tidy-like. There, that's better!"

"I feel much happier in my mind now, Harris—and that's a good thing, isn't it?" said Betty.

"Yes, miss, it's a very good thing. But I shouldn't say, to look at you, that you knew the meaning of the least bit of unhappiness."

"Of course I don't," said Betty; "nor does my sister Sylvia, nor does my sister Hester."

"We did up in Scotland for a time," said Hester, who could not understand Betty at all, and felt more and more puzzled at her queer behavior.

"Well, now, we'll walk sober and steady," said Harris. "You may reckon on one thing, missies—that I won't tell what you done on the common, for if I did you'd be punished pretty sharp."

"You may tell if you like, Harris," said Betty. "I shouldn't dream of asking you to keep a secret."

"I won't, all the same," said Harris.

The walk continued without any more exciting occurrences; and when the girls reached the farm they were greeted by Mrs. Miles, her two big boys, and the farmer himself. Here Harris dropped a curtsy and disappeared.

"Oh, I must kiss you, Mrs. Miles!" said Betty. "And, please, this is my sister Sylvia, and this is Hester. They are twins; but, having two sets yourself, you said you did not mind seeing them and giving them tea, even though they are twins."

"'Tain't no disgrace, missie, as I've heerd tell on," said the farmer.

"Oh Farmer Miles, I am glad to see you!" said Betty. "Fancy dear, kind Mrs. Haddo giving us leave to come and have tea with you!—I do hope, Mrs. Miles, you've got a very nice tea, for I can tell you I am hungry. I've given myself an appetite on purpose; for I would hardly touch any breakfast, and at dinner I took the very teeniest bit."

"And so did I," said Sylvia in a low tone.

"And I also," remarked Hester.

"Well, missies, I ha' got the best tea I could think of, and right glad we are to see you. You haven't spoken to poor Ben yet, missie."

Here Mrs. Miles indicated her eldest son, an uncouth-looking lad of about twelve years of age.

"Nor Sammy neither," said the farmer, laying his hand on Sammy's broad shoulder, and bringing the red-haired and freckled boy forward.

"I am just delighted to see you, Ben; and to see you, Sammy. And these are my sisters. And, please, Mrs. Miles, where are the twins?"

"The twinses are upstairs, sound asleep; but they'll be down by tea-time," said Mrs. Miles.

"And, above all things, where are the dogs?" said Betty.

"Now, missie," said the farmer, "them dogs has been very rampageous lately, and, try as we would, we couldn't tame 'em; so we have 'em fastened up in their kennels, and only lets 'em out at night. You shall come and see 'em in their kennels, missie."

"Oh, but they must be let out!" said Betty, tears brimming to her eyes. "My sisters love dogs just as much as I do. They must see the dogs. Oh, we must have a game with them!"

"I wouldn't take it upon me, I wouldn't really," said the farmer, "to let them dogs free to-day. They're that remarkable rampageous."

"Well, take me to them anyhow," said Betty.

The farmer, his wife, Ben and Sammy, and the three Vivian girls tramped across the yard, and presently arrived opposite the kennels where Dan and Beersheba were straining at the end of their chains. When they heard footsteps they began to bark vociferously, but the moment they saw Betty their barking ceased; they whined and strained harder than ever in their wild rapture. Betty instantly flung herself on her knees by Dan's side and kissed him on the forehead. The dog licked her little hand, and was almost beside himself with delight. As to poor Beersheba, he very nearly went mad with jealousy over the attention paid to Dan.

"You see for yourself," said Betty, looking into the farmer's face, "the dogs will be all right with me. You must let them loose while I am here."

"It do seem quite wonderful," said the farmer. "Now, don't it, wife?"

"A'most uncanny, I call it," said Mrs. Miles.

"But before you let them loose I must introduce my sisters to them," said Betty. "Sylvia, come here. Sylvia, kneel by me."

The girl did so. The dogs were not quite so much excited over Sylvia as they were over Betty, but they also licked their hands and wagged their tails in great delight. Hester went through the same form of introduction; and then, somewhat against his will, the farmer gave the dogs their liberty. Betty said, in a commanding tone, "To heel, good boys, at once!" and the wild and savage dogs obeyed her.

She paced up and down the yard in a state of rapture at her conquest over these fierce animals. Then she whispered something to Sylvia, who in her turn whispered to Mrs. Miles, who in her turn whispered to Ben; the result of which was that three wicker chairs were brought from the house, Betty and her sisters seated themselves, and the dogs sprawled in ecstasy at their side.

"Oh, we are happy!" said Betty. "Mrs. Miles, was your heart ever very starvingly empty?"

"Times, maybe," said Mrs. Miles, who had gone, like most of her sex, through a chequered career.

"And weren't you glad when it got filled up to the brim again?"

"That I was," said Mrs. Miles.

"My heart was a bit starved this morning," said Betty; "but it feels full to the brim now. Please, dear, good Mrs. Miles, leave us five alone together. Go all of you away, and let us stay alone together."

"Meanin' by that you three ladies and them dogs?"

"Yes, that is what I mean."

The farmer bent and whispered something to his wife, the result of which was that a minute later Betty and her sisters were alone with the animals. They did not know, however, that the farmer had hidden himself in the big barn ready to spring out should "them fierce uns," as he termed the animals, become refractory. Then began an extraordinary scene. Betty whispered in the dogs' ears, and they grovelled at her feet. Then she sang a low song to them; and they stood upright, quivering with rapture. The two girls kept behind Betty, who was evidently the first in the hearts of these extraordinary dogs.

"I could teach them no end of tricks. They could be almost as lively and delightful as Andrew and Fritz," said Betty, turning to her sisters.

"Oh yes," they replied. Then Sylvia burst out crying.

"Silly Sylvia! What is the matter?" said Betty.

"It's only that I didn't know my heart was hungry until—until this very minute," said Sylvia. "Oh, it is awful to live in a house without dogs!"

"I have felt that all along," said Betty. "But I suppose, after a fashion, we've got to endure. Oh do stop crying, Sylvia! Let's make the most of a happy time."

The culmination of that happy time was when Mrs. Miles appeared on the scene, accompanied by four little children—two very pretty little girls, dressed in white, their short sleeves tied up with blue ribbons for the occasion; and two little boys a year or two older.

"These be the twinses," said Mrs. Miles. "These two be Moses and Ephraim, and these two be Deborah and Anna. The elder of the twinses are Moses and Ephraim, and the younger Deborah and Anna. Now, then children, you jest drop your curtsies to the young ladies, and say you are glad to see them."

"But, indeed, they shall do nothing of the kind," said Betty. "Oh, aren't they the sweetest darlings! Deborah, I must kiss you. Anna, put your sweet little arms round my neck."

The children were in wild delight, for all children took immediately to Betty. But, lo and behold! one of the dogs gave an ominous growl. Was not his idol devoting herself to some one else? In one instant the brute might have sprung upon poor little Deborah had not Betty turned and laid her hand on his forehead. Instantly he gave a sound between a groan and a moan, and crouched at her feet.

"There! I never!" said Mrs. Miles. "You be a reg'lar out-and-out lion-tamer, miss."

"I'm getting more and more hungry every minute," said Betty. "Will—will tea be ready soon, Mrs. Miles?"

"I was coming out to fetch you in, my loves."

The whole party then migrated to the kitchen, which was ornamented especially for the occasion. The long center-table was covered with a snowy cloth, and on it were spread all sorts of appetizing viands—great slabs of honey in the comb, cakes of every description, hot griddle-cakes, scones, muffins, cold chicken, cold ham, and the most delicious jams of every variety. Added to these good things was a great bowl full of Devonshire cream, which Mrs. Miles had made herself from a well-known Devonshire recipe that morning.

"Oh, but doesn't this look good!" said Betty. She sat down with a twin girl at each side of her, and with a dog resting his head on the lap of each of the twins, and their beseeching eyes fixed on Betty's face.

"I ha' got a treat for 'em afterwards, missie," said Mrs. Miles; "two strong beef-bones. They shall eat 'em, and they'll never forget you arter that."

Betty became so lively now that at a whispered word from Sylvia she began to tell stories—by no means the sort of stories she had told at the Specialities' entertainment, but funny tales, sparkling with wit and humor—tales quite within the comprehension of her intelligent but unlearned audience. Even the farmer roared with laughter, and said over and over to his wife, as he wiped the tears of enjoyment from his eyes, "Well, that do cap all!"

Meanwhile the important ceremony of eating the many good things provided went steadily on, until at last even Betty had to own that she was satisfied.

All rose from their seats, and as they did so Mrs. Miles put a pretty little basket into each girl's hand. "A few new-laid eggs, dearies," she said, "and a comb of honey for each of you. You must ask Mrs. Haddo's leave afore you eats 'em, but I know she won't mind. And there's some very late roses, the last of the season, that I've put into the top of your basket, Miss Betty."

Alack and alas, how good it all was! How pleasant was the air, how genial the simple life! How Betty and Sylvia and Hester rejoiced in it, and how quickly it was over!

Harris appeared, and at this signal the girls knew they must go. Betty presented her canine darlings with a beef-bone each; and then, with a hug to Mrs. Miles, a hearty hand-clasp to the farmer and the boys, and further hugs to both sets of twins, the girls returned to Haddo Court.



CHAPTER XV

A GREAT DETERMINATION

The visit to the farm was long remembered by Betty Vivian. It was the one bright oasis, the one brilliant spark of intense enjoyment, in a dark week. For each day the shadow of what lay before her—and of what she, Betty Vivian, had made up her mind to do—seemed to creep lower and lower over her horizon, until, when Thursday morning dawned, it seemed to Betty that there was neither sun, moon, nor stars in her heaven.

But if Betty lacked much and was full of grave and serious thoughts, there was one quality, admirable in itself, which she had to perfection, and that was her undoubted bravery. To make up her mind to do a certain thing was, with Betty Vivian, to do it. She had not quite made up her mind on Saturday; but on Sunday morning she had very nearly done so, and on Sunday evening she had quite done so. On Sunday evening, therefore, she knelt rather longer than the others, struggling and praying in the beautiful chapel; and when she raised her small white face, and met the eyes of the chaplain fixed on her, a thrill went through her. He, at least, would understand, and, if necessary, give her sympathy. But just at present she did not need sympathy, or rather she would not ask for it. She had great self-control, and she kept her emotions so absolutely to herself that no one guessed what she was suffering. Every day, every hour, she was becoming more and more the popular girl of the school; for Betty had nothing mean in her nature, and could love frankly and generously. She could listen to endless confidences without dreaming of betraying them, and the girls got to know that Betty Vivian invariably meant what she said. One person, however, she avoided, and that person was Fanny Crawford.

Thursday passed in its accustomed way: school in the morning, with recess; school in the afternoon, followed by play, games of all sorts, and many another delightful pastime. Betty went for a walk with her two sisters; and presently, almost before they knew, they found themselves surveying their three little plots of ground in the gardens, which they had hitherto neglected. While they were so employed, Mrs. Haddo quite unexpectedly joined them.

"Oh, my dear girls, why, you have done nothing here—nothing at all!"

Sylvia said, "We are going to almost immediately, Mrs. Haddo."

And Hetty said, "I quite love gardening. I was only waiting until Betty gave the word."

"So you two little girls obey Betty in all things?" said Mrs. Haddo, glancing at the elder girl's face.

"We only do it because we love to," was the response.

"Well, my dears, I am surprised! Why, there isn't a sight of your Scotch heather! Has it died? What has happened to it?"

"We made a burnt-offering of it," said Betty suddenly.

"You did what?" said Mrs. Haddo in some astonishment.

"You see," said Betty, "it was this way." She now looked full up at her mistress. "The Scotch heather could not live in exile. So we burnt it, and set all the fairies free. They are in Aberdeenshire now, and quite happy."

"What a quaint idea!" said Mrs. Haddo. "You must tell me more about this by-and-by, Betty."

Betty made no answer.

"Meanwhile," continued Mrs. Haddo, who felt puzzled at the girl's manner, she scarcely knew why, "I will tell a gardener to have the gardens well dug and laid out in little walks. I will also have the beds prepared, and then you must consult Birchall about the sort of things that grow best in this special plot of ground. Let me see, this is Thursday. I have no doubt Birchall could have a consultation with you on the subject this very minute if you like to see him."

"Oh yes, please!" said Sylvia.

But Betty drew back. "Do you greatly mind if we do nothing about our gardens until next week?" she asked.

"If you prefer it, certainly," answered Mrs. Haddo. "The plots of ground are your property while you stay at Haddo Court. You can neglect them, or you can tend them. Some of the girls of this school have very beautiful gardens, full of sweet, smiling flowers; others, again, do nothing at all in them. I never praise those who cultivate their little patch of garden-ground, and I never blame those who neglect it. It is all a matter of feeling. In my opinion, the garden is meant to be a delight; those who do not care for it miss a wonderful joy, but I don't interfere." As Mrs. Haddo spoke she nodded to the girls, and then walked quietly back towards the house.

"Wasn't it funny of her to say that a garden was meant to be a delight?" said Sylvia. "Oh Betty, don't you love her very much?"

"Don't ask me," said Betty, and her voice was a little choked.

"Betty," said Sylvia, "you seem to get paler and paler. I am sure you miss Aberdeenshire."

"Miss it!" said Betty; "miss it! Need you ask?"

This was the one peep that her sisters were permitted to get into Betty Vivian's heart before the meeting of the Specialities that evening.

Olive Repton was quite excited preparing for her guests. School had become much more interesting to her since Betty's arrival. Martha was also a sort of rock of comfort to lean upon. Margaret, of course, was always charming. Margaret Grant was Margaret Grant, and there never could be her second; but the two additional members gave undoubted satisfaction to the others—that is, with the exception of Fanny Crawford, who had, however, been most careful not to say one word against Betty since she became a Speciality.

Olive's room was not very far from the Vivians', and as Betty on this special night was hurrying towards the appointed meeting-place she came across Fanny. Between Fanny and herself not a word had been exchanged for several days.

Fanny stopped her now. "Are you ill, Betty?" she said.

Betty shook her head.

"I wish to tell you," said Fanny, "that, after very carefully considering everything, I have made up my mind that it is not my place to interfere with you. If your conscience allows you to keep silent I shall not speak. That is all."

"Thank you, Fanny," replied Betty. She stood aside and motioned to Fanny to pass her. Fanny felt, for some unaccountable reason, strangely uncomfortable. The cloud which had been hanging over Betty seemed to visit Fanny's heart also. For the first time since her cousin's arrival she almost pitied her.

Olive's room was very bright. She had a good deal of individual taste, and as the gardeners were always allowed to supply the Specialities with flowers for their weekly meetings and their special entertainments, Olive had her room quite gaily decorated. Smilax hung in graceful festoons from several vases and trailed in a cunning pattern round the little supper-table; cyclamen, in pots, further added to the decorations; and there were still some very beautiful white chrysanthemums left in the green-house, a careful selection of which had been made by Birchall that day for the young ladies' festivities.

And now all the girls were present, and supper began. Hitherto, during the few meetings of the Specialities that had taken place since she became a member, Betty's voice had sounded brisk and lively; Betty's merry, sweet laugh had floated like music in the air; and Betty's charming face had won all hearts, except that of her cousin. But to-night she was quite grave. She sat a little apart from the others, hardly eating or speaking. Suddenly she got up, took a book from a shelf, and began to read. This action on her part caused the other girls to gaze at her in astonishment.

Margaret said, "Is anything the matter, Betty? You neither eat nor speak. You are not at all like our dear, lively Speciality to-night."

"I don't want to eat, and I have nothing to say just yet," answered Betty. "Please don't let me spoil sport. I saw this book of yours, Olive, and I wanted to find a certain verse in it. Ah, here it is!"

"What is the verse?" asked Olive. "Please read it aloud, Betty."

Betty obeyed at once.

"Does the road wind uphill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend."

There was a dead silence after Betty had read these few words of Christina Rossetti. The girls glanced from one to another. For a minute or so, at least, they could not be frivolous. Then Olive made a pert remark; another girl laughed; and the cloud, small at present as a man's hand, seemed to vanish. Betty replaced her book on Olive's book-shelf, and sat quite still and quiet. She knew she was a wet blanket—not the life and soul of the meeting, as was generally the case. She knew well that Margaret Grant was watching her with anxiety, that Martha West and also Fanny Crawford were puzzled at her conduct. As to the rest of the Specialities, it seemed to Betty that they did not go as far down into the root of things as did Margaret and Martha.

This evening was to be one of the ordinary entertainments of the guild or club. There was nothing particular to discuss. The girls were, therefore, to enjoy themselves by innocent chatter and happy confidences, and games if necessary.

When, therefore, they all left the supper-table, Margaret, as president, said, "We have no new member to elect to-night, therefore our six rules need not be read aloud; and we have no entertainment to talk over, for our next entertainment will not take place for some little time. I say, therefore, girls, that the club is open to the amusement of all the members. We are free agents, and can do what we like. Our object, of course, will be to promote the happiness of each and all. Now, Susie Rushworth, what do you propose that we shall do this evening?"

Susie said in an excited voice that she would like to spend a good hour over that exceedingly difficult and delightful game of "telegrams" and added further that she had brought slips of paper and pencils for the purpose.

A similar question was asked of each girl, and each girl made a proposal according to her state of mind.

Betty was about the fourth girl to be asked. She rose to her feet and said gravely, "I would propose that Susie Rushworth and the other members of the Specialities have their games and fun afterwards; but I have a short story to tell, and I should like to tell it first, if those present are agreeable."

Margaret felt that the little cloud as big as a man's hand had returned, and that it had grown much bigger. A curious sense of alarm stole over her. Martha, meanwhile, stared full at Betty, wondering what the girl was going to do. Her whole manner was strange, aloof, and mysterious.

"We will, of course, allow you to speak, Betty dear. We are always interested in what you say," said Margaret in her gentlest tone.

Betty came forward into the room. She stood almost in the center, unsupported by any chair, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes fixed on Margaret Grant's face. Just for a minute there was a dead silence, for the girl's face expressed tragedy; and it was impossible for any one to think of "telegrams," or frivolous games, or of anything in the world but Betty Vivian at the present moment.

"I have something to say," she began. "It has only come to me very gradually that it is necessary for me to say it. I think the necessity for speech arose when I found I could not go to chapel."

"My dear Betty!" said Margaret.

"There were one or two nights," continued Betty, "when I could not attend."

"Betty," said the voice of Fanny Crawford, "don't you think this room is a little hot, and that you are feeling slightly hysterical? Wouldn't you rather—rather go away?"

"No, Fanny," said Betty as she almost turned her back on the other girl. Her nervousness had now left her, and she began to speak with her old animation. "May I repeat a part of Rule No. I.: 'Each girl who is a member of the Specialities keeps no secret to herself which the other members ought to know'?"

"That is perfectly true," said Margaret.

"I have a secret," said Betty. After having uttered these words she looked straight before her. "At one time," she continued, "I thought I'd tell. Then I thought I wouldn't. Now I am going to tell. I could have told Mrs. Haddo had I seen enough of her—and you, Margaret, if ever you had drawn me out. I could have told you two quite differently from the manner in which I am going to tell that which I ought to speak of. I stand now before the rest of you members of the Speciality Club as guilty, for I have deliberately broken Rule No. I."

"Go on, Betty," said Margaret. She pushed a chair towards the girl, hoping she would put her hand upon it in order to steady herself.

But Betty seemed to have gathered firmness and strength from her determination to speak out. She was trembling no longer, nor was her face so deadly pale. "I will tell you all my secret," she said. "Before I came here I had great trouble. One I loved most dearly and who was a mother to me, died. She died in a little lonely house in Scotland. She was poor, and could not do much either for my sisters or myself. Before her death she sent for me one day, and told me that we should be poor, but she hoped we would be well-educated; and then she said that she was leaving us girls something of value which was in a small, brown, sealed packet, and that the packet was to be found in a certain drawer in her writing-table. She told me that it would be of great use to us three when we most needed it.

"We were quite heartbroken when she died. I left her room feeling stunned. Then I thought of the packet, and I went into the little drawing-room where all my aunt's treasures were kept. It was dusk when I went in. I found the packet, and took it away. I meant to keep it carefully. I did keep it carefully. I still keep it carefully. I don't know what is in it.

"I have told you as much as I can tell you with regard to the packet, but there is something else to follow. I had made up my mind to keep the packet, being fully persuaded in my heart that Aunt Frances meant me to do so; but when Sir John Crawford came to Aberdeenshire, and visited Craigie Muir, and spent a night with us in the little gray house preparatory to bringing us to Haddo Court, he mentioned that he had received, amongst different papers of my aunt's, a document or letter—I forget which—alluding to this packet. He said she was anxious that the packet should be carefully kept for me and for my sisters, and he asked me boldly and directly if I knew anything about it. I don't excuse myself in the least, and, as a matter of fact, I don't blame myself. I told him I didn't know anything about it. He believed me. You see, girls, that I told a lie, and was not at all sorry.

"We came here. I put the packet away into a safe hiding-place. Then, somehow or other, you all took me up and were specially kind to me, and I think my head was a bit turned; it seemed so charming to be a Speciality and to have a great deal to do with you, Margaret, and indeed with you all more or less. So I said to myself, I haven't broken Rule No. I., for that rule says that 'no secret is to be kept by one Speciality from another if the other ought really to know about it.' I tried to persuade myself that you need not know about the packet—that it was no concern of yours. But, somehow, I could not go on. There was something about the life here, and—and Mrs. Haddo, and the chapel, and you, Margaret, which made the whole thing impossible. I have not been one scrap frightened into telling you this. But now I have told you. I do possess the packet, and I did tell a lie about it. That is all."

Betty ceased speaking. There was profound stillness in the room.

Then Margaret said very gently, "Betty, I am sure that I am speaking in the interests of all who love you. You will tell this story to-morrow morning to dear Mrs. Haddo, and it will rest with her whether you remain a member of the Specialities or not. Your frank confession to us, although it is a little late in the day, and the peculiar circumstances attending your gaining possession of the packet, incline us to be lenient to you—if only, Betty, you will now do the one thing left to you, and give the packet up—put it, in short, into Mrs. Haddo's hands, so that she may keep it until Sir John Crawford, who is your guardian, returns."

Betty's face had altered in expression. The sweetness and penitence had gone. "I have told you everything," she said. "I should have told you long ago. I blame myself bitterly for not doing so. But I may as well add that this story is not for Mrs. Haddo; that what I tell you in confidence you cannot by any possibility relate to her—for that, surely, must be against the rules of the club; also, that I will not give the packet up, nor will I tell any one in this room where I have hidden it."

If Betty Vivian had looked interesting, and in the opinion of some of the girls almost penitent, up to this moment, she now looked so no longer. The expression on her face was bold and defiant. Her curious eyes flashed fire, and a faint color came into her usually pale cheeks. She had never looked more beautiful, but the spirit of defiance was in her. She was daring the school. She meant to go on daring it.

The girls were absolutely silent. Never before in their sheltered and quiet lives had they come across a character like Betty's. Such a character was bound to interest them from the very first. It interested them now up to a point that thrilled them. They could scarcely contain themselves. They considered Betty extremely wicked; but in their hearts they admired her for this, and wondered at her amazing courage.

Margaret, who saw deeper, broke the spell. "Betty," she said, "will you go away now? You have told us, and we understand. We will talk this matter over, and let you know our decision to-morrow. But, first, just say once again what you have said already—that you will not give the packet up, nor tell any one where you have hidden it."

"I have spoken," answered Betty; "further words are useless."

She walked towards the door. Susie Rushworth sprang to open it for her. She passed out, and walked proudly down the corridor. The remaining girls were left to themselves.

Margaret said, "Well, I am bewildered!"

The others said nothing at all. This evening was one of the most exciting they had ever spent. What were "telegrams" or any stupid games compared to that extraordinary girl and her extraordinary revelation?

Margaret was, of course, the first to recover her self-control. "Now, girls," she said, "we must talk about this; and, first, I want to ask a question: Was there any member of the Specialities who knew of this—I am afraid I must call it by its right name—this crime of Betty Vivian's?"

"I knew," said Fanny. Her voice was very low and subdued.

"Then, Fanny, please come forward and tell us what you knew."

"I don't think I can add to Betty's own narrative," said Fanny, "only I happened to be a witness to the action. I was lying down on the sofa in the little drawing-room at Craigie Muir when Betty stole in and took the packet out of Miss Vivian's writing-table drawer. She did not see me, and went away at once, holding the packet in her hand. I thought it queer of her at the time, but did not feel called upon to make any remark. You must well remember, girls, that I alone of all the Specialities was unwilling to have Betty admitted as a member of the club. I could see by your faces that you were surprised at my conduct. You were amazed that I, her cousin, should have tried to stop Betty's receiving this extreme honor. I did so because of that packet. The knowledge that she had taken it oppressed me in a strange way at the time, but it oppressed me much more strongly when my father said to me that there was a little sealed packet belonging to Miss Vivian which could not be found. I immediately remembered that Betty had taken away a sealed packet. I asked him if he had spoken about it, and he said he had; in especial he had spoken to Betty, who had denied all knowledge of it."

"Well," said Margaret, "she told us that herself to-night. You have not added to or embellished her story or strengthened it in any way, Fanny."

"I know that," said Fanny. "But I have to add now that I did not wish her to join the club, and did my very utmost to dissuade her. When I saw that it was useless I held my tongue; but you must all have noticed that, although she is my cousin, we have not been special friends."

"Yes, we have noticed it," said Olive gloomily, "and—and wondered at it," she continued.

"I am sorry for Betty, of course," continued Fanny.

"It was very fine of her to confess when she did," said Margaret.

"It would have been fine of her," replied Fanny, "if she had carried her confession to its right conclusion—if what she told us she had told to Mrs. Haddo and given up the packet. Now, you see, she refuses to do either of these things; so I don't see that her confession amounts to anything more than a mere spirit of bravado."

"Oh no, I cannot agree with you there," said Margaret. "It is my opinion (of course, not knowing all the circumstances) that Betty's sin consisted in telling your father a lie—not in taking the little packet, which she believed she had a right to keep. But we need not discuss her sins, for we all of us have many—perhaps many more than poor dear Betty Vivian. What we must consider is what we are to do at the present time. The Specialities have hitherto kept constantly to their rules. I greatly fear, girls, that we cannot keep Betty as a member of the club unless she changes her mind with regard to the packet. If she does, I think I must put it to the vote whether we will overlook this sin of hers and keep her as one of the members, for we love her notwithstanding her sin."

"Yes, put it to the vote—put it to the vote!" said Susie Rushworth.

Again all hands were raised except Fanny's.

"Fan—Fanny Crawford, you surely agree with us?" said Margaret.

"No, I do not," said Fanny. "I think if the club is worth anything we ought not to have a girl in it who told a lie."

"Ah," said Margaret, "don't you remember that very old story: 'Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone'?" Then she continued, speaking in her sweet and noble voice, "I will own there is something about Betty which most wonderfully attracts me."

"That sort of charm is fatal," said Fanny.

"But," continued Margaret, taking no notice of Fanny's remark, "that sort of charm which she possesses, that sort of fascination—call it what you will—may be at once her ruin or her salvation. If we Specialities are unkind to her now, if we don't show her all due compassion and tenderness, she may grow hard. We are certainly bound by every honorable rule not to mention one word of this to Mrs. Haddo or to any of the teachers. Are we, or are we not, to turn our backs on Betty Vivian?"

"If she confesses," said Fanny, "and returns the packet, you have already decided by a majority of votes to allow her to retain her position in the club."

"Yes," said Margaret, "that is quite true. But suppose she does not confess, suppose she sticks to her resolve to keep the packet and not tell any one where she has hidden it, what then?"

"Ah, what then?" said they all.

Olive, the Bertrams, Susie, Martha, Margaret herself, looked full of trouble. Fanny's cheeks were pink with excitement. She had never liked Betty. In her heart of hearts she knew that she was full of uncharitable thoughts against her own cousin. And how was it, notwithstanding Betty's ignoble confession, the other girls still loved her?

"What do you intend to do, supposing she does not confess?" said Fanny after a pause.

"In that case," answered Margaret, "having due regard to the rules of the club, I fear we have no alternative—she must resign her membership, she must cease to be a Speciality. We shall miss her, and beyond doubt we shall still love her. But she must not continue to be a Speciality unless she restores the packet."

Fanny simulated a slight yawn. She knew well that Betty's days as a Speciality were numbered.

"She was so brilliant, so vivid!" exclaimed Susie.

"There was no one like her," said Olive, "for suggesting all kinds of lovely things. And then her story-telling—wasn't she just glorious!"

"We mustn't think of any of those things," said Margaret. "But I think we may all pray—yes, pray—for Betty herself. I, for one, love her dearly. I love her notwithstanding what she said to-night."

"I think it was uncommonly plucky of her to stand up and tell us what she did," remarked Martha, speaking for the first time. "She needn't have done it, you know. It was entirely a case of conscience."

"Yes, that is it; it was fine of her," said Margaret. "Now, girls, suppose we have a Speciality meeting to-morrow night? You know by our rules we are allowed to have particular meetings. I will give my room for the purpose; and suppose we ask Betty to join us there?"

"Agreed!" said they all; and after a little more conversation the Specialities separated, having no room in their hearts for games or any other frivolous nonsense that evening.



CHAPTER XVI

AFTERWARDS

When Betty had made her confession, and had left Susie Rushworth's room, she went straight to bed; she went without leave, and dropped immediately into profound slumber. When she awoke in the morning her head felt clear and light, and she experienced a sense of rejoicing at what she had done.

"I have told them, and they know," she said to herself. "I have given them the whole story in a nutshell. I don't really care what follows."

Mingled with her feeling of rejoicing was a curious sense of defiance. Her sisters asked her what was the matter. She said "Nothing." They remarked on her sound sleep of the night before, on the early time she had retired from the Specialities' meeting. They again ventured to ask if anything was the matter. She said "No."

Then Sylvia began to break a very painful piece of information: "Dickie's gone!"

"Oh," said Betty, her eyes flashing with anger, "how can you possibly have been so careless as to let the spider loose?"

"He found a little hole just above the door in the attic, and crept into it, and we couldn't get him out," said Sylvia.

"No, he wouldn't come out," added Hetty, "though we climbed on two chairs, one on top of the other, and poked at him with a bit of stick."

"Oh, I dare say he's all right now," said Betty. "You will probably find him again to-day. He's sure to come for his raw meat."

"But don't you care, Bet? Won't it be truly awful if our own Dickie is dead?"

"Dead! He won't die," said Betty; "but there's quite a possibility he may frighten some one. I know one person I'd like to frighten."

"Oh Bet, who do you mean?"

"That horrid girl—that cousin of ours, Fanny Crawford."

"We don't like her either," said the twins.

"She'd be scared to death at Dickie," said Betty. "She's a rare old coward, you know. But never mind, don't bother; you'll probably find him this morning when you go up with his raw meat. He's sure to come out of his hole in order to get his food."

"I don't think so," said Hester in a gloomy voice; "for there are lots and lots of flies in that attic, and Dickie will eat them and think them nicer than raw meat."

"Well, it's time to go downstairs now," said Betty.

She was very lively and bright at her lessons all day, and forgot Dickie in the other cares which engrossed her mind. That said mind was in a most curious state. She was at once greatly relieved and rebellious. Sylvia and Hetty watched her, when they could, from afar. Betty's life as a member of the Specialities separated her a good deal from her sisters. She seldom saw them during the working-hours; but they were quite happy, for they had made some friends for themselves, and the three were always together at night. Betty was not specially reproachful of herself on their account. She could not help being cleverer than they, more brilliant, more able on all occasions to leap to a right conclusion—to discover the meaning of each involved mystery as it was presented to her. All the teachers remarked on her great intelligence, on her curious and wonderful gift for dramatization. The girls in her form were expected once a week to recite from Shakespeare; and Betty's recitations were sufficiently striking to arrest the attention of the entire room. She flung herself into the part. She was Desdemona, she was Portia, she was Rosalind. She was whatever character she wished to personate. Once she chose that of Shylock; and most uncanny became the expression of her face, and her words were hurled forth with a defiance worthy of the immortal Jew.

All these things made Betty a great favorite with the teachers as well as with the girls. She was, as a rule, neither cross nor bad-tempered. She was not vain for her gifts. She was always ready to help the others by every means in her power.

During recess that day Betty received a small three-cornered note in Margaret Grant's handwriting. She opened it, and saw that it was a brief request that she, Betty Vivian, should meet Margaret and the other members of the Speciality Club in Margaret's room at half-past seven that evening. "Our meeting will be quite informal, but we earnestly beg for your attendance."

Betty slipped the note into her pocket. As she did so she observed that Fanny Crawford's eyes were fixed on her.

"Are you going to attend?" asked Fanny.

"You will know," replied Betty, "when you go into the room to-night at half-past seven and find me there or not there. Surely that is enough for you!"

"Thanks!" replied Fanny. Then, summoning a certain degree of courage, she came a step nearer. "Betty, if I might consult with you, if I might warn you——"

"But as you may not consult with me, and as you may not warn me, there is nothing to be done, is there?" said Betty. "Hallo!" she cried the next minute, as a schoolgirl whose friendship she had made during the last day or two appeared in sight, "I want to have a word with you, Jessie. Forgive me, Fan; I am very much occupied just at present."

"Her fall is certain," thought Fanny to herself. "I wonder how she will like what lies before her to-night. I at least have done my best."

Punctual to the hour, the Specialities met in Margaret's room. There was no supper on this occasion, nor any appearance of festivity. The pretty flowers which Margaret usually favored were conspicuous by their absence. Even the electric light was used but sparingly. None of the girls dressed for this evening, but wore their usual afternoon frocks. Betty, however, wore white, and walked into the room with her head well erect and her step firm.

"Sit down, Betty, won't you?" said Margaret.

"Thanks, Margaret!" answered Betty; and she sank into a chair. She chose one that was in such a position that she could face the six girls who were now prepared to judge her on her own merits. She looked at them very quietly. Her face was pale, and her eyes not as bright as usual.

"I am deputed by the others to speak to you, Betty," said Margaret. "We will make no comment whatsoever with regard to what you told us last night. It isn't for us to punish you for having told a lie. We have ourselves done very wrong in our lives, and we doubtless have not been tempted as you have been; and then, Betty Vivian, I can assure you that, although you have been but a short time in the school, we all—I think I may say all—love you."

Betty's eyes softened. She hitched her chair round a little, so that she no longer saw Fanny, but could look at Margaret Grant and Martha West, who were sitting side by side. Susie's pretty face was fairly shining with eagerness, and Olive's eyes were full of tears. The Bertrams clasped each other's hands, and but for Margaret's restraining presence would have rushed to Betty's there and then and embraced her.

"But," said Margaret, "although we do love you—and I think will always love you, Betty—we must do our duty by the club. You confessed a sin to us—not at the time, as you ought to have done, but later on. No one compelled you to confess what you did last night. There was no outside pressure brought to bear on you. It must have been your conscience."

"I told you so," said Betty.

"Therefore," continued Margaret, "your conscience must be very wide-awake, Betty, and you have done—well, so far—very nobly; so nobly that nothing will induce us to ask you to withdraw from our club, provided——"

Betty's eyes brightened, and some of the tension in her face relaxed.

"I have taken the votes of the members on that point," Margaret continued, "therefore I know what I am speaking about. What we do most emphatically require is that you carry your confession to its logical conclusion—that what you have said to us you say to the kindest woman in all the world, to dear Mrs. Haddo, and that you put the little packet which has cost you such misery into Mrs. Haddo's hands. Don't speak for a minute, please, Betty. We have been praying about you, all of us; we have been longing—longing for you to do this thing. Please don't speak for a minute. It is not in our power to turn you from the school, nor to relate to Mrs. Haddo nor to any of the teachers what you have told us. But we can dismiss you from the Speciality Club—that does lie in our province; and we must do so, bitterly as we shall regret it, if you do not carry your confession to its logical conclusion."

"Then I must go," said Betty very gently.

"Oh Betty!" exclaimed Olive; and she burst into a flood of weeping. "Dear, dear, dear Betty, don't go—please don't go!"

"We will all support you if you are nervous," continued Margaret. "I think we may say we will all support you, and Mrs. Haddo is so sweet; and then, if you want to see him, there's Mr. Fairfax, who could tell you what to do better than we can. Don't decide now, dear Betty. Please, please consider this question, and let us know."

"But I have decided," said Betty. "I told you what I thought right. I love the club, and every single member of it—except my cousin, Fanny Crawford. I don't love Fanny, and she doesn't love me—I say so quite plainly; therefore, once again, I break Rule I. You see, girls, I cannot stay. I must become again an undistinguished member of this great school. Don't suppose it will hurt my vanity; but it will touch deeper things in me, and I shall never, never forget your kindness. I can by no possibility do more than I have done. Good-bye, dear Margaret; I am more than sorry that I have given you all this trouble."

As Betty spoke she unclasped the little silver true-lover's knot from the bosom of her dress and put it into Margaret's hand. Then she walked out of the room, a Speciality no longer.

When she had gone, the girls talked softly together. They were terribly depressed.

"We never had a member like her. What a pity our rules are so strict!" said Olive.

"Nonsense, Olive!" said Margaret. "We must do our best, our very best; and even yet I have great hopes of Betty. She can be re-elected some day, perhaps."

"Oh, she is like no one else!" said one girl after another.

The girls soon dispersed; but as Fanny was going to her room Martha West joined her. "Fanny," she said, "I, as the youngest member of the Specialities, would like to ask you a question. Why is it that your cousin dislikes you so much?"

"I can't tell," replied Fanny. "I have always tried to be kind to her."

"But you don't cordially like her yourself!"

"That is quite true," said Fanny; "but then I have seen her at home, when you have not. She has great gifts of fascination; but I know her for what she really is."

"When you speak like that, Fanny Crawford, I no longer like you," remarked Martha; and she walked away in the direction of her room.

All the Speciality girls, including Betty, were present at prayers in the chapel that evening. Betty sat a little apart from her companions, she stood apart from them, she prayed apart from them. She seemed like one isolated and alone. Her face was very white, her eyes large and dark and anxious. From time to time the girls who loved her looked at her with intense compassion. But Fanny gave her very different glances. Fanny rejoiced in her discomfort, and heartily hoped that she would now lose her prestige in the school.