Until the advent of Betty Vivian, Fanny was rather a favorite at Haddo Court. She was certainly not the least bit original. She was prim and smug and self-satisfied to the last degree, but she always did the right thing in the right way. She always looked pretty, and no one ever detected any fault in her. Her mistresses trusted her, and some of the girls thought it worth their while to become chums with her.

Fanny, however, now saw at a glance that she was in the black looks of the other Specialities. This fact angered her uncontrollably, and she made up her mind to bring Betty to further shame. It was not sufficient that she should be expelled from the Speciality Club; the usual formula must be gone through. All the girls knew of this formula; and they all, with the exception of Fanny, wished it not to be observed in the case of Betty Vivian. But Fanny knew her power, and was resolved to use it. The Speciality Club exercised too great an influence in the school for its existence to be lightly regarded. A member of the club, as has been said, enjoyed many privileges besides being accorded certain exemptions from various irksome duties. It was long, long years since any member had been dismissed in disgrace; it was certainly not within the memory of any girl now in the school. But Fanny had searched the old annals, and had come across the fact that about thirty years ago a Speciality had done something which brought discredit on herself and the club, and had therefore been expelled; she had also discovered that the fact of her expulsion had been put up in large letters on a blackboard. This board hung in the central hall, and generally contained notices of entertainments or class-work of a special order for the day's programme. Miss Symes wrote out this programme day by day.

On the morning after Betty had been expelled from the Specialities, Fanny ran up to Miss Symes. "By the way," she said, "I am afraid you will have to do it, for it is the rule of the club."

"I shall have to do what, my dear Fanny?"

"You will just have to say, please, on the blackboard that Betty Vivian is no longer a member of the Specialities."

Miss Symes stopped writing. She was busily engaged notifying the hour of a very important German lesson to be given by a professor who came from town. "What do you mean, Fanny?"

"What I say. By the rules of the club we can give no reasons, but must merely state that Betty Vivian is no longer a member. It ought to be known. Will you write it on the blackboard?"

Miss Symes looked at Fanny with a curious expression on her face. "Thank you for telling me," she said. She then crossed the great hall to where Margaret and some other girls of the Specialities were assembled. She told Margaret what Fanny had already imparted to her, and asked if it was true.

"It is true, alas!" said Margaret.

"But I thought Betty was such a prime favorite with you all," said Miss Symes; "and she really is such a sweet girl! I have never been more attracted by any one."

"I cannot give you any particulars, Miss Symes; but I think we have done right," said Margaret.

"If you have had any hand in it, dear, I make no doubt on the subject," replied Miss Symes. "It is a sad pity. Fanny says it is one of your rules that an expelled member has her name published on the blackboard, the fact being also stated that she has been expelled."

"Oh," said Margaret, "that is a very old rule. We don't want it to be carried into effect in Betty's case."

"But if it is a rule, dear, and if it has never been abolished——"

"It has not been abolished," said Margaret. "It would distress Betty very much."

"Nevertheless, Margaret, if it is right to expel Betty it is right to publish that fact on the blackboard, always provided it is a rule of the Specialities."

"I am afraid it is a rule," said Margaret. "But we are all unhappy about her. We hate having her expelled."

"Can I help you in any way, dear Margaret?"

"No, Miss Symes; no one can help us, and the deed is done now."

Miss Symes went very slowly to the blackboard, and wrote on it simply: "Betty Vivian has resigned her membership of the Speciality Club."

This notice caused flocks of girls to surround the blackboard during the morning, and the news flew like wildfire all over the school. Betty herself approached as an eager group were scrutinizing the words, saw her name, read it calmly (her lips curling slightly with scorn), and turned away. No one dared to question her, but all looked at her in wonder.

Betty went through her lessons with her accustomed force and animation, and there was no difference to be observed between her manner of to-day and that of yesterday. After school she very simply told her sisters that she had withdrawn from the Specialities, and then begged of them not to pursue the subject. "I am not going to explain," she said, "so you needn't ask me. I shall have more time to devote to you in the future, and that'll be a good thing." She then left them and went for a long walk by herself.

Now, it is one of those dreadful things which most surely happen to weak human nature that when an evil and jealous and unkind thought gets into the heart, that same thought, though quite unimportant at first, gradually increases in dimensions until it overshadows all other thoughts and gains complete and overwhelming mastery of the mind. Had any one said to Fanny Crawford a fortnight or three weeks before the Vivians' arrival at the school that she would have felt towards Betty as she now did, Fanny would have been the first to recoil at the monstrous fungus of hatred which existed in her mind. Had Betty been a very plain, unattractive, uninteresting girl, Fanny would have patronized her, kept her in her place, but at the same time been kind to her. But Fanny's rage towards Betty now was almost breaking its bounds. Was not Fanny's own father educating the Vivians? Was it not he who had persuaded Mrs. Haddo to admit them to the school? She herself was the only daughter of a rich and distinguished man. The Vivians were nobodies. Why should they be fussed about, and talked of, and even loved—yes, loved—while she, Fanny, was losing her friends? The thought was unbearable! Fanny had managed by judicious precaution to get Betty to reveal part of her secret, and Betty was no longer a member of the Specialities. Betty's name was on the blackboard too, and by no means honorably mentioned. But more things could be done.

For Fanny felt that the school was turning against her—the upper school, whose praise she so prized. The Specialities asked her boldly why she did not love Betty Vivian. There would be no peace for Fanny until Mrs. Haddo knew everything, and dismissed the Vivians to another school. This she would, of course, do at once if she knew the full extent of Betty's sin. Fanny felt that she must proceed very warily. Betty had hidden the packet, and boldly declared that she would not give it up to any one—that she would rather leave the Specialities than tell her story to Mrs. Haddo and put the little sealed packet into her keeping. Fanny's present aim, therefore, was to find the packet. She wondered how she could accomplish this, and looked round her for a ready tool. Presently she made up her mind that the one girl who might help her was Sibyl Ray. Sibyl was by no means strong-minded. Sibyl was unpopular—she pined for notice. Sibyl adored Betty; but suppose—oh, suppose!—Fanny could offer her, as a price for the dirty work she wanted her to undertake, membership in the Speciality Club? Martha West would be on Sibyl's side, for Martha was always friendly to the plain, uninteresting, somewhat lonely girl. Fanny felt at once that the one tool who could further her aims was Sibyl Ray. There was no time to lose.

Sibyl had been frightfully perturbed at seeing Betty's name on the blackboard, and she was as eager to talk to Fanny as Fanny was pleased to listen to her.

"Oh Fan!" she said, running up to her on the afternoon of that same day, "may I go for a very little walk with you? I do want to ask you about poor darling Betty!"

"Poor darling Betty indeed!" said Fanny.

"Oh, but don't you pity her? What can have happened to cause her to be no longer a member of the Specialities?"

"Now, Sibyl, you must be a little goose! Do you suppose for a moment it is within my power to enlighten you?"

"I suppose it isn't; but I am very unhappy about her, and so are we all. We are all fond of Betty. We think her wonderful."

Fanny was silent.

"'Tis good of you, Fan, to let me walk with you!"

"I have something to say to you, Sibyl; but before I begin you must promise me most faithfully that you won't repeat anything I am going to say."

"Of course not," said Sibyl. "As if I could!"

"I don't suppose you would dare. You see, I am one of the older girls of the school, and have been a Speciality for some little time, and it wouldn't be at all to your advantage if you did anything to annoy me. I should find out at once, for instance, if you whispered a syllable of this to Martha West, Margaret Grant, or any other member of the Speciality Club."

"I won't! I won't! You may trust me, indeed you may," said Sibyl.

"I think I may," answered Fanny, looking down at Sibyl's poor little apology of a face. "I think you are the sort who would be faithful."

Sibyl's small heart swelled with pride. "Betty was kind to me too," she said; "and she did make me look nice—didn't she?—when she suggested that I should wear the marguerites."

"To tell you the truth, Sibyl, you were a figure of fun that night. Betty was laughing in her sleeve at you all the time."

Sibyl colored, and her small light-blue eyes contracted. "Betty laughing at me! I don't believe it."

"Of course she was, child. We all spoke of it afterwards. Why, you don't know what you looked like when you came into the room in that green dress, with that hideous wreath on your head."

"I know," said Sibyl in a humble tone. "I couldn't make it look all right; but Betty took me behind a screen, and managed it in a twinkling, and put a white sash round my waist, and—oh, I felt nice anyhow!"

"I am glad you felt nice," said Fanny, "for I can assure you it was more than you looked."

"Oh Fanny, don't hurt me! You know I can't afford very pretty dresses like you. We are rather poor at home, and there are so many of us."

"I don't want to hurt you, child; only, haven't you a grain of sense? Don't you know perfectly well why Betty wanted you to wear the wreath of marguerites?"

"Just because she was sweet," said Sibyl, "and she thought I'd look really nice in them."

"That is all you know! Now, recall something, Sibyl."

"Yes?"

"Do you remember when you saw Betty stoop over that broken stump of the old oak and take something out?"

"Of course I do," said Sibyl. "It was a piece of wood. I found it the next day."

"Well, it wasn't a piece of wood," said Fanny.

"What can you mean?" asked Sibyl. She stood perfectly still, staring at her companion. Then she burst into a sort of frightened laugh. "But it was a piece of wood, really," she added. "You are mistaken, Fanny. Of course you know a great deal, but even you can't know more than I have proved by my own eyesight. It looked in the distance like a small brown piece of wood; and I asked Betty if it was, and she admitted it."

"Just like her! just like her!" said Fanny.

"Well, then, the very next day," continued Sibyl, "several girls and I went to the old stump and poked and poked, and found it; so, you see——"

"I don't see," replied Fanny. "And now, if you will allow me, Sibyl, and if you won't chatter quite so fast, I will tell you what I really do know about this matter. I don't think for a single moment—in fact, I am certain—that Betty Vivian did not trouble herself to poke amongst withered leaves in the stump of the old oak-tree in order to produce a piece of sodden wood. There was something else; and when you asked her if it was a piece of wood she told you—remember, Sibyl, this is in absolute confidence—an untruth. Oh, I am trying to put it mildly; but I must mention the fact—Betty told you an untruth. Did you observe, or did you not, that she was excited and looked slightly annoyed when you suddenly called to her and ran up to her side?"

"I—yes, I think she did look a little put out; but then she is very proud, is Betty, and I am not her special friend, although I love her so hard," replied Sibyl.

"She walked with you afterwards, did she not?"

"Yes."

"She went towards the house with you?"

"Of course. I have told you all that, Fanny."

"When you both reached the gardens she suggested that you should wear the marguerites in your hair?"

"She did, Fanny; and I thought it was such a charming idea."

"Did it not once occur to you that she wanted to get you out of the way, that she did not care one scrap how you looked at the Speciality entertainment?"

"That certainly did not occur to me," answered Sibyl; then she added stoutly, for she was a faithful little thing at heart, "and I don't believe it either."

"Well, believe it or not as you please; I know it to have been a fact. And now I'll just tell you something. You must never, never repeat it; if you do, I sha'n't speak to you again. I know what I am saying to be a fact: I know the reason why Betty Vivian is no longer a Speciality."

"Oh! oh!" said Sibyl. She colored deeply.

"No longer a Speciality," repeated Fanny; "and I know the reason why; only, of course, I can never say. But there's a vacancy in the Speciality Club now for a girl who is faithful and zealous, and who can prove herself my friend."

Sibyl's heart began to beat very fast. "A vacancy in the Specialities!" she said in a low tone.

Fanny turned quickly round and faced her. "I could get you in if I liked," she said. "Would it suit you to be a Speciality?"

"Would it suit me?" said Sibyl. "Oh Fanny, it sounds like heaven! I don't know what I wouldn't do—I don't know what I wouldn't do to become a member of that club."

"And Martha West would second any suggestions I made," continued Fanny. "Of course I don't know that I could get you in; but I'd have a good try, provided you help me now."

"Fanny, what is it you want me to do?"

"I want you, Sibyl, to use your intelligence; and I want you, all alone and without consulting any one, to find out where Betty Vivian has put the treasure which she told you was a piece of wood and which she hid in the old oak stump. You can manage it quite well if you like."

"I don't understand!" gasped Sibyl.

"If you repeat a word of this conversation I shall use my influence to have you boycotted in the school," said Fanny. "My power is great to help or to mar your career in the school. If you do what I want—well, my dear, all I can say is this, that I shall do my utmost to get you into the club. You cannot imagine how nice it is when you are a member. Think what poor Betty has lost, and think how you will feel when you are a Speciality and she is not."

"I don't know that I shall feel anything," replied Sibyl. "Somehow or other, I don't like this thing you want me to do, Fanny."

"Well, don't do it. I will get some one else."

"And, in the second place," continued Sibyl, "even if I were willing to do it, I don't know how. If Betty chooses to hide things—parcels or anything of that sort—I can't find out where she puts them."

"You can watch her," said Fanny. "Now, if you have any gumption about you—and it is my strong belief that you have—you will be able to tell me this time to-morrow something about Betty Vivian and her movements. If by this time to-morrow you know nothing—why, I will relieve you of the task, and you will be as you were before. But if, on the other hand, you help me to save the honor of a great school—which is, I assure you, at the present moment in serious peril—I shall do my utmost to get you admitted to the Speciality Club. Now, I think that is all."

As Fanny concluded she shouted to Susie Rushworth, who was going towards the arbor at the top of the grounds, and Sibyl found herself all alone. Fanny had taken her a good long way. They had passed through a plantation of young fir-trees to one of the vegetable-gardens, and thence through an orchard, where the grass was long and dank at this time of year. Somehow or other, Sibyl felt chilled to the bone and very miserable. She had never liked Fanny less than she did at this moment. But she was not strong-minded, and Fanny was one of the most important girls in the school. She was rich, her father was a man of great distinction; she might be head-girl of the school, and probably would when Margaret Grant left; she was also quite an old member of the Specialities. Besides Fanny, even Martha West seemed to fade into insignificance. It was as though the friend of the Prime Minister—the greatest possible friend—had held out a helping hand to a struggling nobody, and offered that nobody a dazzling position. Sibyl was that poor little nobody, and Fanny's words were weighted with such power that the girl trembled and felt herself shaking all over.

Sibyl's love for Martha was innocent, pure, and good. Her admiration for Betty was the generous and romantic affection which a little schoolgirl gives to another girl older than herself who is both brilliant and captivating. But, after all, Betty had lost her sceptre and laid down her crown. Betty, for some extraordinary reason, was in disgrace, and Fanny was in the zenith of her power. It would be magnificent to be a Speciality! How those girls who thought little or nothing of Sibyl now would admire her when she passed into that glorious state! She thought of herself as joining the other Specialities in arranging programmes, in devising entertainments; she thought of the privileges which would be hers; she thought of that delightful private sitting-room into which she had once dared to peep, and then shot out her little face again, half-terrified at her own audacity. There was no one in the room at the moment; but it did look cosy—the chairs so easy and comfortable, and all covered with such a delicate shade of blue. Sibyl knew that blue became her. She thought how nice she would look sitting in one of those chairs and being hail-fellow-well-met with Margaret Grant, and Martha her own friend, and all the others. Even Betty would envy her then. She and Betty would change places. It would be her part to advise Betty what to do and what to wear. Oh, it was a very dazzling prospect! And she could gain the coveted distinction—but how?

Sibyl felt her heart beating very fast. She had not been trained in a high school of morals. Her father was a very hard-working clergyman with a large family of eight children. Her mother was dead; her elder sisters were earning their own living. Mrs. Haddo had heard of Sibyl, and had taken her into the school on special terms, feeling sure that charity was well expended in such a case. Mr. Ray was far too busy over his numerous duties to look after Sibyl as her mother would have done had she lived. The little girl was brought up anyhow, and her new life at Haddo Court was a revelation to her in more ways than one. She was not pretty; she was not clever; she was not strong-minded; she was very easily influenced. A good girl could have done much for her—Martha had done her very best; but a bad girl could do even more.

While Sibyl was dallying with temptation, thinking to herself how attractive it would be to feel such an important person as Fanny Crawford, she looked down from the height where she was standing and saw Betty Vivian walking slowly across the common.

Betty was alone. Her head was slightly bent, but the rest of her young figure was bolt upright. She was going towards the spot where those sparse clumps of heather occupied their neglected position at one side of the "forest primeval."

When first Sibyl saw Betty her heart gave a great throb of longing to rush to her, to fling her arms round her, to kiss her, to cling to her side. But she suppressed that impulse. She loved Betty, but she was afraid of her. Betty was the last sort of girl to put up with what she considered liberties; Sibyl was a person to whom she was utterly indifferent, and she would by no means have liked Sibyl to kiss her. From Sibyl's vantage-ground, therefore, she watched Betty, herself unseen. Then it suddenly occurred to her that she might continue to watch her, but from a more favorable point of view.

There was a little knoll at one end of the orchard, and there was a very old gnarled apple-tree at the edge of the knoll. If Sibyl ran fast she could climb into the apple-tree and look right down on to the common. No sooner did the thought come to her than she resolved to act on it. Knowledge is always power, and she need not tell Fanny anything at all unless she liked. She could be faithful to poor Betty, who was in disgrace, and at the same time she might know something about her. It was so very odd that Betty was expelled from the Specialities. She could not possibly have resigned, for had she done so there would have been a great fuss, and everything would have been explained to the satisfaction of the school; whereas that mysterious sentence on the blackboard left the whole thing involved in darkest night. What had Betty done? Had she really told a lie about what she had found in the old stump of oak? Was it not a piece of wood after all? Had she really sent Sibyl into the flower-garden to gather marguerites and make herself a figure of fun at the Specialities' entertainment? Had she done it to get rid of her just because—because she wanted—she wanted to remove something from the stump of the old oak-tree? Oh, if Betty were that sort—if it were possible—even Sibyl Ray felt that she could not love her any longer! It was Fanny, after all, who was a noble girl. Fanny wanted to get to the bottom of things. Fanny herself could not do what an unimportant little girl like Sibyl could do. After all, there was nothing shabby in it. If it were shabby, Fanny Crawford, the last girl in the school to do wrong, would not have asked her to attend to the matter.

Sibyl therefore climbed into the old apple-tree and perched amongst its branches, and gazed eagerly down on the bit of common land. She was far nearer to Betty than Betty had the least idea of. She saw her walk towards the pieces of heather, but could not, from her point of view, see what the plants were. She had really no idea that there was any special heather in the grounds; she was not interested in a stupid thing like heather. But she did see Betty go on her knees, and she did see her pull up a root of some sort or other, and she did see her take something out and look at it and put it back again. Then Betty returned very slowly across the common towards the house.

Sibyl was fairly panting now with excitement. Was there ever, ever in all the world, such an easy way of becoming a Speciality? Betty had a secret; and she, Sibyl, had found it out without the slightest difficulty. Betty had hidden something in the old oak, and now she had buried it under some plants at the edge of the common. Sibyl forgot pretence, she forgot honor, she forgot everything but the luring voice of Fanny Crawford and her keen desire to perfect her quest. At that time of year few girls troubled themselves to walk across the "forest primeval." It was a sort of place that was pleasant enough in warm days of summer, but damp and dull and dreary at this season, when the girls of Haddo Court preferred the upper walks, or the hockey-ground, or the different places where the various games were played. Certainly the "forest primeval" did not occupy much of their attention.

It was getting a little dusk; but Sibyl, too excited to care, scrambled down from her tree, and a few minutes later had dashed across the common, and had discovered by the loosened earth the exact spot where Betty had stooped. She was now beside herself with excitement. It was her turn to go on her knees. She was doing good work; she was, according to Fanny Crawford, saving the honor of the school. She poked and poked with her fingers, and soon got up the already loosened roots of the piece of heather. Down went her hard little hands into the cold clay until at last they touched the tiny packet, which was sealed and tied firmly with strong string.

"Eureka! I have found it!" was Sibyl's exclamation. She slipped the packet into her pocket, put the heather back into its place, tried to give the disturbed earth the appearance of not having been disturbed at all, and went back to the house. She was so excited she could scarcely contain herself.

The days were getting shorter. Tea was at half-past four, and a kind of light supper at seven o'clock. The girls of the lower school had this meal a little earlier. Sibyl was just in time for tea, which was always served in the great refectory; and here the various members of the upper school were all assembled—except the Specialities, who had tea in their own private room.

"Well, Sibyl, you are late!" said Sarah Butt. "I wanted to take a long walk with you. Where have you been?"

"I have been for a walk with Fanny Crawford," replied Sibyl with an important air.

Betty, who was helping herself to a cup of tea, glanced up at that moment and fixed her eyes on Sibyl. Sibyl colored furiously and looked away. Betty took no further notice of her, but began to chat with a girl near her. Soon a crowd of girls collected round Betty, and laughed heartily at her remarks.

On any other occasion Sibyl would have joined this group, and been the first to giggle over Betty's witticisms. But the little parcel in her pocket seemed to weigh like lead. It was a weight on her spirits too. She was most anxious to deliver it over to Fanny Crawford, and to keep Fanny to her word, in order that she might be proposed as a Speciality at the next meeting. She knew this would not be until Thursday. Oh, it was all too long to wait! But she could put on airs already, for would she not very soon cease to be drinking this weak tea in the refectory? Would she not be having her own dainty meal in the Specialities' private room?

"How red you are, Sibyl!" was Sarah Butt's remark. "I suppose the cold wind has caught your cheeks."

"I wish you wouldn't remark on my appearance," said Sibyl.

"Dear, dear! Hoity-toity! How grand we are getting all of a sudden!"

"You needn't snub me in the way you do, Sarah. You'll be treating me very differently before long."

"Indeed, your Royal Highness! And may I ask how and why?"

"You may neither ask how nor why; but events will prove," said Sibyl. She raised her voice a little incautiously, and once again Betty looked at her. There was something about Betty's glance, at once sorrowful and aloof, which stung Sibyl. Just because she had done Betty a wrong she no longer loved her half as much as she had done. After a pause, she said in a distinct voice, "I am a very great friend of Fanny Crawford, and I am going to see her now on special business." With these words she marched out of the refectory.

Some of the girls laughed. Betty was quite silent. No one dared question Betty Vivian with regard to her withdrawal from the Speciality Club, nor did she enlighten them. But when tea was over she went up to Sylvia and Hetty and said a few words to them both. They looked at her in amazement, but made no kind of protest. After speaking to her sisters, Betty left the refectory.

"What can be the matter with your Betty?" asked one of the girls, addressing the twins.

"There's nothing the matter with her," said Sylvia in a stout voice.

"Why are your eyes so red, then?"

"My eyes are red because Dickie's lost."

"Who's Dickie?"

"He is the largest spider I ever saw, and he grows bigger and fatter every day. But he is lost. We brought him from Scotland. He'd sting any one who tried to hurt him; so if any of you see him in your bedrooms or hiding under your pillows you'd best shriek out, for he is a dangerous sort, and ought not to be interfered with."

"How perfectly appalling!" said the girl now addressed. "You really oughtn't to keep horrid pets of that sort. And I loathe spiders."

"Oh, well, you're not Scotch," replied Sylvia with a disdainful gesture. "Dickie is a darling to those he loves, but very fierce to those he hates."

"And is that really why your eyes are so red?" continued the girl—Hilda Morton by name. "Has it nothing to do with that wonderful sister of yours, and the strange fact that she has been expelled from the Speciality Club?"

"She hasn't been expelled!" said Sylvia in a voice of fury.

"Don't talk nonsense! The fact was mentioned on the blackboard. If you don't believe it, you can come and see for yourself."

"She has left the club, but was not expelled," said Sylvia. "And I hate you, Hilda! You have no right to speak of my sister like that."

Meanwhile two girls were pursuing their different ways. Betty was going towards that wing of the building where Mr. Fairfax's suite of rooms was to be found. She had never yet spoken to him. She wished to speak to him now. The rooms occupied by the Fairfaxes formed a complete little dwelling, with its own kitchen and special servants. These rooms adjoined the chapel; but his family lived apart from the school. It was understood, however, that any girl at Haddo Court was at liberty to ask the chaplain a question in a moment of difficulty.

Betty now rang the bell of the little house. A neat servant opened the door. On inquiring if Mr. Fairfax were within, Betty was told "Yes," and was admitted at once into that gentleman's study.

The clergyman rose at her entrance. He recognized her face, spoke to her kindly, said he was glad she had come to see him, and asked her to sit down. "Is anything the matter, my dear? Is there any way in which I can help you?"

"I don't know," answered the girl. "I thought perhaps you could; it flashed through my mind to-day that perhaps you could. You have seen me in the chapel?"

"Oh yes; yours is not the sort of face one is likely to forget."

"I am not happy," said Betty.

"I am sorry to hear that. But don't you agree with me that we poor human creatures think too much of our own individual happiness and too little of the happiness of others? It seems to me that the golden rule to live by in this: Provided my brother is happy, all is well with me."

"That is true to a certain extent," said Betty; "but—" She paused a minute. Then she said abruptly, "I am not at all the cringing sort, and I am not the girl to grumble, and I love Mrs. Haddo; and, sir, there have been moments when your voice in chapel has given me great consolation. I also love one or two of my schoolfellows. But the fact is, there is something weighing on my conscience, and I cannot tell you what it is. I cannot do the right thing, sir; and I do not see my way ever to do what I suppose you would say was the right thing. I will tell you this much about myself. You have heard of our Speciality Club?"

"Of course I have."

"The girls were very good to me when I came here—for I am a comparative stranger in the school—and they elected me to be a Speciality."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Fairfax. "That is a very great honor."

"I know it is; and I was given the rules, and I read them all carefully. But, sir, in a sudden moment of temptation, before I came to Haddo Court, I did something which was wrong, and I am determined not to mend my ways with regard to that matter. Nevertheless, I became a Speciality, knowing that by so doing I should break the first rule of the club."

Mr. Fairfax was too courteous ever to interrupt any one who came to him to talk over a difficulty. He was silent now, his hands clasped tightly together, his deep-set eyes fixed on Betty's vivid face.

"I was a Speciality for about a fortnight," she continued—"perhaps a little longer. But at the last meeting I made up my mind that I could not go on, so I told the girls what I had done. It is unnecessary to trouble you with those particulars, sir. After I had told them they asked me to leave the room, and I went. They had a special meeting of the club last night to consult over my case, and I was invited to be present. I was then told that, notwithstanding the fact that I had broken Rule No. I., I might continue to be a member of the club if I would give up something which I possess and to which I believe I have a full right, and if I would relate my story in detail to Mrs. Haddo. I absolutely refused to do either of these things. I was then expelled from the club, sir—that is the only word to use; and the fact was notified on the blackboard in the great hall to-day."

"Well," said Mr. Fairfax when Betty paused, "I understand that you repent, and you do not repent, and that you are no longer a Speciality."

"That is the case, sir."

"Can you not take me further into your confidence?"

"There is no use," said Betty, shaking her head.

"I am not surprised, Miss Vivian, that you are unhappy."

"I am accustomed to that," said Betty.

"May I ask what you have come to see me about?"

"I wanted to know this: ought I, or ought I not, being unrepentant of my sin, to come to the chapel with the other girls, to kneel with them, to pray with them, and to listen to your words?"

"I must leave that to yourself. If your conscience says, 'Come,' it is not for me to turn you out. But it is a very dangerous thing to trifle with conscience. Of course you know that. I can see, too, that you are peculiarly sensitive. Forgive me, but I have often noticed your face, and with extreme interest. You have good abilities, and a great future before you in the upward direction—that is, if you choose. Although you won't take me into your confidence, I am well aware that the present is a turning-point in your career. You must at least know that I, as a clergyman, would not repeat to any one a word of what you say to me. Can you not trust me?"

"No, no; it is too painful!" said Betty. "I see that, in your heart of hearts, you think that I—I ought not—I ought not to come to chapel. I am indeed outcast!"

"No, child, you are not. Kneel down now, and let me pray with you."

"I cannot stand it—no, I cannot!" said Betty; and she turned away.

When she had gone Mr. Fairfax dropped on his knees. He prayed for a long time with fervor. But that night he missed Betty Vivian at prayers in the beautiful little chapel.

Meanwhile Betty—struggling, battling with herself, determined not to yield, feeling fully convinced that the only wrong thing she had done was telling the lie to Sir John Crawford and prevaricating to Sibyl—was nothing like so much to be pitied as Sibyl Ray herself.

Sibyl had lingered about the different corridors and passages until she found Fanny, who was talking to Martha West. Sibyl was so startled when the two girls came out of the private sitting-room that she almost squinted, and Fanny at once perceived that the girl had something important to tell her. She must not, however, appear to notice Sibyl specially in the presence of Martha.

Martha, on the contrary, went up at once to Sibyl and said in her pleasant voice, "Why, my dear child, it is quite a long time since we have met! And now, I wonder what I can do for you or how I can possibly help you. Would you like to come and have a cosy chat with me in my bedroom for a little? The fact is this," continued Martha: "we Specialities are so terribly spoilt in the school that we hardly know ourselves. Fancy having a fire in one's bedroom, not only at night, but at this hour! Would you like to come with me, Sib?"

At another moment Sibyl would have hailed this invitation with rapture. On the present occasion she was about to refuse it; but Fanny said with a quick glance, which was not altogether lost on Martha, "Of course go with Martha, Sibyl. You are in great luck to have such a friend."

Sibyl departed, therefore, very unwillingly, with the friend she had once adored. Martha's bedroom was very plain and without ornaments, but there were snug easy-chairs and the fire burned brightly. Martha invited the little girl to sit down, and asked her how she was.

"Oh, I am all right," said Sibyl.

Martha looked at her attentively. "I don't quite understand you, Sib. You have rather avoided me during the last day or two. Is it because I am a Speciality? I do hope that will make no difference with my old friends."

"Oh no," said Sibyl. "There's nothing so wonderful in being a Speciality, is there?"

Martha stared. "Well, to me it is very wonderful," she said; "and I cannot imagine how those other noble-minded girls think me good enough to join them."

"Oh Martha, are they so good as all that?"

"They are," said Martha; and her tone was very gloomy. She was thinking of Betty, whom she longed to comfort, whom she earnestly longed to help.

"It's so queer about Betty," said Sibyl after a pause. "She seemed to be such a very popular Speciality. Then, all of a sudden, she ceased to be one at all. I can't understand it."

"And you are never likely to, Sibyl. What happens in the club is only known to its members."

Sibyl grew red. What was coming over her? Two or three hours ago she was a girl—weak, it is true; insignificant, it is true—with a passion for Martha West and a most genuine love and admiration for Betty Vivian. Now she almost disliked Betty; and she could not make out what charm she had ever discovered in poor, plain Martha. She got up impatiently. "You will forgive me, Martha," she said; "but I have lots of things I want to do. I don't think I will stay just now. Perhaps you will ask me to come and talk to you another day."

"No, Sibyl, I sha'n't. When you want me you must try to find me yourself. I don't understand what is the matter with you to-day."

Sibyl grew that fiery red which always distressed her inexpressibly. The next minute she had disappeared. She ran straight to Fanny's room, hoping and trusting that she might find its inmate within. She was not disappointed, for Fanny was there alone; she was fully expecting Sibyl to come and see her. To Sibyl's knock she said, "Come in!" and the girl entered at once.

"Well?" said Fanny.

"I have done what you wanted," said Sibyl. "I watched her, and I saw. Afterwards I went to the place where she had hidden it. I took it. It is in my pocket. Please take it from me. I have done what you wished. I want to get rid of it, and never to think of it again. Fanny, when shall I be elected a Speciality?"

But Fanny did not speak. She had snatched the little packet from Sibyl's hand and was gazing at it, her eyes almost starting from her head.

"When shall I become a Speciality?" whispered Sibyl.

"Don't whisper, child! The Vivians' room is next to mine. Sibyl, we must keep this a most profound secret, I am awfully obliged to you! You have been very clever and prompt. I don't wish to ask any questions at all. Thank you, Sibyl, from my heart. I will certainly keep my promise, and at the next meeting will propose you as a member. Whether you are elected or not must, of course, depend on the votes of the majority. In the meanwhile forget all this. Be as usual with your schoolfellows. Rest assured of my undying friendship and gratitude. Keep what you have done a profound secret; if anything leaks out there is no chance of your becoming a Speciality. Now, good-bye Sibyl. I mustn't be seen to take any special notice of you; people are very watchful in cases of this sort. But remember, though I don't talk to you a great deal, I shall be your true friend; and after you have become a member of our club there will, of course, be no difficulty."

"Oh, I should love to be a member!" said Sibyl. "I do so hate the tea in the refectory, and you do seem to have such cosy times in your sitting-room."

Fanny smiled very slightly. "May I give you one word of warning?" she said. "You made a very great mistake to-day when you did not seem willing to pay Martha West a visit. Your election depends far more on Martha than on me. Between now and Thursday—when I mean to propose you as a member in place of Betty Vivian, who has forfeited her right for ever—Martha will be your most valuable ally. I do not say you will be elected—for the rules of the club are very strict, and we are most exclusive—but I will do my utmost."

"But you promised! I thought I was sure!" said Sibyl, beginning to whimper.

"Nonsense, nonsense, child! I said I would do my best. Now, keep up your friendship with Martha—that is, if you are wise."

Sibyl left the room. Her momentary elation was over, and she began to hate herself for what she had done. In all probability she would not be elected a Speciality, and then what reward would she have for acting the spy? She had acted the spy. The plain truth seemed now to flash before her eyes. She had been very mean and hard; and she had taken something which, after all, did not belong to her at all, and given it to Fanny. She could never get that something back. She felt that she did not dare to look at Betty Vivian. Why should not Betty hide things if she liked in the stump of an old oak-tree or under a bit of tiresome heather in the "forest primeval?" After all, Betty had not said the thing was wood; but when Sibyl had asked her she had said, "Have it so if you like." Oh! Sibyl felt just now that she had been made a sort of cat's-paw, and that she did not like Fanny Crawford one bit.



CHAPTER XVII

A TURNING-POINT

After this exciting day matters seemed to move rather languidly in the school. Betty was beyond doubt in low spirits. She did not complain; she did not take any one into her confidence. Even to her sisters she was gloomy and silent. She took long walks by herself. She neglected no duty—that is, no apparent duty—and her lessons progressed swimmingly. Her two great talents—the one for music, the other for recitation—were bringing her into special notice amongst the different teachers. She was looked upon by the educational staff as a girl who might bring marked distinction to the school. Thus the last few days of that miserable week passed.

On Tuesday evening Miss Symes had a little talk with Mrs. Haddo.

"What is it, dear St. Cecilia?" asked the head mistress, looking lovingly into the face of her favorite teacher.

"I am anxious about Betty," was the reply.

"Sit down, dear, won't you? Emma, I have been also anxious. I cannot understand why that notice was put up on the blackboard, and why Betty has left the club. Have you any clue, dear?"

"None whatsoever," was Miss Symes's answer. "Of course I, as a teacher, cannot possibly question any of the girls, and they are none of them willing to confide in me."

"We certainly cannot question them," said Mrs. Haddo. "But now I wish to say something to you. Betty has been absent from evening prayers at the chapel so often lately that I think it is my duty to speak to her on the subject."

"I have also observed that fact," replied Miss Symes. "Betty does not look well. There is something, beyond doubt, weighing on her mind. She avoids her fellow-pupils, whereas she used to be, I may almost say, the favorite of the school. She scarcely speaks to any one now. When she walks she walks alone. Even her dear little sisters are anxious about her; I can see it, although they are far too discreet to say a word. Poor Betty's little face seems to me to grow paler every day, and her eyes more pathetic. Mrs. Haddo, can you not do something?"

"You know, Emma, that I never force confidences; I think it a great mistake. If a girl wishes to speak to me, she understands me well enough to be sure I shall respect every word she says; otherwise, I think it best to allow a girl of Betty Vivian's age to fight out her difficulties alone."

"As her teacher, I have nothing to complain of," said Miss Symes. "She is just brilliant. She seems to leap over mental difficulties as though they did not exist. Her intuition is something marvellous, and she will grasp an idea almost as soon as it is uttered. I should like you to hear her play; it is a perfect delight to teach her; her little fingers seem to be endowed with the very spirit of music. And then that delightful voice of hers thrills one when she recites aloud, as she does twice a week in my recitation-class. As a matter of fact, dear Mrs. Haddo, I am deeply attached to Betty; but I feel there is something wrong just now."

"A turning-point," said Mrs. Haddo. "How often we come to them in life!"

"God grant she may take the right turning!" was Miss Symes's remark. She sat silent, gazing gloomily into the fire.

"It is not like you, Emma, to be so despondent," said the head mistress.

"I cannot help feeling despondent, for I think there is mischief afoot and that Betty is suffering. I wonder if——"

At that moment there came a tap at the door. Mrs. Haddo said, "Come in," and Mr. Fairfax entered.

"Ah," said Mrs. Haddo, "you are just the very man we want, Mr. Fairfax! Please sit down."

Mr. Fairfax immediately took the chair which was offered to him. "I have come," he said, "to speak to you and to Miss Symes with regard to one of your pupils—Betty Vivian."

"How strange!" said Mrs. Haddo. "Miss Symes and I were talking about Betty only this very moment. Can you throw any light on what is troubling her?"

"No," said Mr. Fairfax. "I came here to ask if you could."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you know in my capacity as chaplain different things come to my ears; but I am under a promise not to repeat them. I am, however, under no promise in this instance. I was walking through the shrubbery half-an-hour ago—I was, in fact, thinking out the little address I want to give the dear girls next Sunday morning—when I suddenly heard a low sob. I paused to listen; it was some way off, but I heard it quite distinctly. I did not like to approach—you understand one's feeling of delicacy in such a matter; but it came again, and was so very heartrending that I could not help saying, 'Who is there? Is any one in trouble?' To my amazement, a girl started to her feet; she had been lying full-length, with her face downwards, on the damp grass. She came up to me, and I recognized her at once. She was Betty Vivian. There was very little light, but I could see that she was in terrible distress. She could scarcely get out her words. 'It is lost!' she said—'lost! Some one has stolen it!' And then she rushed away from me in the direction of the house. I thought it my duty to come and tell you, Mrs. Haddo. The girl's grief was quite remarkable and out of the common. The tone in which she said, 'It is lost—lost!' was tragic."

Mrs. Haddo sat very still for a minute. Then she said gently, "Would you rather speak to her, or shall I?"

"Under the circumstances," said Mr. Fairfax, "it is only right for me to say something more. Betty Vivian came to see me some days ago, and said that she had been expelled from the Specialities; and she asked me if, under such conditions, she ought to attend evening prayers in the chapel. I begged for her full confidence. She would not give it."

"And what did you say about evening prayers?"

"I said that was a matter between her own conscience and God. I could not get anything further out of her; but since then you may have observed that she has hardly attended chapel at all."

"I certainly have noticed it," said Miss Symes.

Mrs. Haddo did not speak for a minute. Then she said in an authoritative voice, "Thank you, Mr. Fairfax; I am deeply obliged to you for having come to me and taken me so far into your confidence. Emma, will you ask Betty to come to me here? If she resists, bring her, dear; if she still resists, I will go to her. Dear Mr. Fairfax, we must pray for this child. There is something very seriously wrong; but she has won my heart, and I cannot give her up. Will you leave me also, dear friend, for I must see Betty by herself?"

Miss Symes immediately left the room. The clergyman shortly afterwards followed her example.

Of all the teachers, Miss Symes was the greatest favorite in the upper school. She went swiftly through the lounge, where the girls were usually to be found at this hour chatting, laughing, amusing themselves with different games; for this was the relaxation-hour of the day, when every girl might do precisely what she liked. Miss Symes did not for a moment expect to find Betty in such an animated, lively, almost noisy group. To her amazement, however, she was attracted by peals of laughter; and—looking in the direction whence they came, she perceived that Betty herself was the center of a circle of girls, who were all urging her to "take-off" different girls and teachers in the school.

Betty was an inimitable mimic. At that very moment it seemed to Miss Symes that she heard her own voice speaking—her own very gentle, cultivated, high-bred voice. Amongst the girls who listened and roared with laughter might have been seen Sarah Butt, Sibyl Ray, and several more who had only recently been moved to the upper school.

"Now, please, take-off Mademoiselle. Whoever you neglect, please bestow some attention on Mademoiselle, dear Betty!" cried several voices.

Betty drew herself up, perked her head a little to one side, put on the very slightest suspicion of a squint, and spoke in the high-pitched, rapid tone of the Frenchwoman. She looked her part, and she acted it.

"And now Fraeulein—Fraeulein!" said another voice.

But before Betty could change herself into a stout German Fraeulein, Miss Symes laid a quiet hand on her shoulder. "May I speak to you for a minute, Betty?"

"Why, certainly," said Betty, starting and reddening faintly.

"Oh, dear St. Cecilia," exclaimed several of the girls, "don't take Betty from us now! She is such fun!"

"I was amusing the girls by doing a little bit of mimicry," said Betty. "Miss Symes, did you see me mimicking you?"

"I both saw and heard you, my dear. Your imitation was excellent."

"Oh, please, dear St. Cecilia, don't say you are hurt!" cried Sarah Butt.

"Not in the least," said Miss Symes. "The gift of mimicry is a somewhat dangerous one, but I don't think Betty meant it unkindly. I would ask her, however, to spare our good and noble head mistress."

"We begged of her to be Mrs. Haddo, but she wouldn't," said Sibyl.

"Come, Betty," said Miss Symes. She took the girl's hand and led her away.

"What do you want with me?" said Betty. The brilliance in her eyes which had been so remarkable a few minutes ago had now faded; her cheeks looked pale; her small face wore a hungry expression.

"Mrs. Haddo wants to see you, Betty."

"Oh—but—must I go?"

"Need you ask, Betty Vivian? The head mistress commands your presence."

"Then I will go."

"Remember, I trust you," said Miss Symes.

"You may," answered the girl. She drew herself up and walked quickly and with great dignity through the lounge into the great corridor beyond, and so towards Mrs. Haddo's sitting-room. Here she knocked, and was immediately admitted.

"Betty, I wish to speak to you," said Mrs. Haddo. "Sit down, dear. You and I have not had a chat for some time."

"A very weary and long time ago!" answered Betty. All the vivacity which had marked her face in the lounge had left it.

But Mrs. Haddo, who could read character so rapidly and with such unerring instinct, knew that the girl was, so to speak, on guard. She was guarding herself, and was under a very strong tension. "I have something to say to you, Betty," said Mrs. Haddo.

Betty lowered her eyes.

"Look at me, my child."

With an effort Betty raised her eyes, glanced at Mrs. Haddo, and then looked down again. "Wait, please, will you?" she said.

"I am about to do so. You are unhappy."

Betty nodded.

"Will you tell me what is the matter?"

Betty shook her head.

"Do you think it is right for you to be unhappy in a school like mine, and not to tell me—not to tell the one who is placed over you as a mother would be placed were she alive—what is troubling you?"

"It may be wrong," said Betty; "but even so, I cannot tell you."

"You must understand," said Mrs. Haddo, speaking with great restraint and extreme distinctness, "that it is impossible for me to allow this state of things to continue. I know nothing, and yet in one sense I know all. Nothing has been told me with regard to the true story of your unhappiness, but the knowledge that you are unhappy reached me before you yourself confirmed it. To-night Mr. Fairfax found you out of doors—a broken rule, Betty, but I pass that over. He heard you sobbing in the bitterness of your distress, and discovered that you were lying face downwards on the grass in the fir-plantation. When he called you, you went to him and told him you had lost something."

"So I have," answered Betty.

"Is it because of that you are unhappy?"

"Yes, because of that—altogether because of that."

"What have you lost, dear?"

"Mrs. Haddo, I cannot tell you."

"Betty, I ask you to do so. I have a right to know. I stand to you in the place of a mother. I repeat that I have a right to know."

"I cannot—I cannot tell you!" replied Betty.

Mrs. Haddo, who had been seated, now rose, went over to the girl, and put one hand on her shoulder.

Betty shivered from head to foot. Then she sprang to her feet and moved a little away. "Don't!" she said. "When you touch me it is like fire!"

"My touch, Betty Vivian, like fire!"

"Oh, you know that I love you!" sobbed poor Betty.

"Prove it, then, dear, by giving me your confidence."

"I would," said Betty, speaking rapidly, "if that which is causing me suffering had anything at all to do with you. But it has nothing to do with you, Mrs. Haddo, nor with the school, nor with the girls in the school. It is my own private trouble. Once I had a treasure. The treasure is gone."

"You would, perhaps, like it back again?" said Mrs. Haddo.

"Ah yes—yes! but I cannot get it. Some one has taken it. It is gone."

"Once again, Betty, I ask you to give me your confidence."

"I cannot."

Mrs. Haddo resumed her seat. "Is that your very last—your final—decision, Betty Vivian?"

"It is, Mrs. Haddo."

"How old are you, dear?"

"I have told you. I was sixteen and a half when I came. I am rather more now."

"You are only a child, dear Betty."

"Not in mind, nor in life, nor in circumstances," replied Betty.

"We will suppose that all that is true," answered Mrs. Haddo. "We will suppose, also, that you are cast upon the world friendless and alone. Were such a thing to happen, what would you do?"

Betty shivered. "I don't know," she replied.

"Now, Betty, I cannot take your answer as final. I will give you a few days longer; at the end of that time I will again beg for your confidence. In the meanwhile I must say something very plainly. You came to this school with your sisters under special conditions which you, my poor child, had nothing to do with. But I must say frankly that I was unwilling to admit you three into the school after term had begun, and it was contrary to my rules to take girls straight into the upper school who had never been in the lower school. Nevertheless, for the sake of my old friend Sir John Crawford, I did this."

"Not for Fanny's sake, I hope?" said Betty, her eyes flashing for a minute, and a queer change coming over her face.

"I have done what I did, Betty, for the sake of my dear friend Sir John Crawford, who is your guardian and your sisters' guardian, and who is now in India. I was unwilling to have you, my dears; but when you arrived and I saw you, Betty, I thanked God, for I thought that I perceived in you one whom I could love, whom I could train, whom I could help. I was interested in you, very deeply interested, from the first. I perceived with pleasure that my feelings towards you were shared by your schoolfellows. You became a favorite, and you became so just because of that beautiful birthright of yours—your keen wit, your unselfishness, and your pleasant and bright ways. I did an extraordinary thing when I admitted you into the school, and your schoolfellows did a thing quite as extraordinary when they allowed you, a newcomer, to join that special club which, more than anything else, has laid the foundation of sound and noble morals in the school. You were made a Speciality. I have nothing to do with the club, my dear; but I was pleased—nay, I was proud—when I saw that my girls had such discernment as to select you as one of their, I might really say august, number. You took your honors in precisely the spirit I should have expected of you—sweetly, modestly, without any undue sense of pride or hateful self-righteousness. Then, a few days ago, there came a thunderclap; and teachers and girls were alike amazed to find that you were no longer a member. By the rules of the club we were not permitted to ask any questions——"

"But I, as a late member, am permitted to tell you this much, Mrs. Haddo. I was, and I think quite rightly, expelled from the club."

"Betty!"

"It is true," answered Betty.

"And you will not tell me why?"

"No more can I tell you why than I can explain to you what I have lost."

"Betty, my poor child, there is a mystery somewhere. I am deeply puzzled and terribly distressed. This is Wednesday evening. This day week, at the same hour, I will send for you again and ask for your full and absolute confidence. If you refuse to give it to me, Betty, I will not expel you, my child; but I must send you from Haddo Court. I have an old friend who will receive you until I can get into communication with Sir John Crawford, for the sort of mystery which now exists is bad for the school as a whole. You are intelligent enough to perceive that."

"Yes, Mrs. Haddo, I am quite intelligent enough to perceive it." Betty stood up as she spoke.

"Have you anything more to say?"

"Nothing," replied Betty.

"This day week, then, my child. And one word before we part. The chapel where Mr. Fairfax reads prayers—where God, I hope, is worshiped both in spirit and in truth—is meant as much for the sorrowful, the erring, the sinners, as for those who think themselves close to Him. For, Betty, the God whom I believe in is a very present Help in time of trouble. I want you to realize that at least, and not to cease attending prayers, my dear."

Betty bent her head. The next minute she went up to Mrs. Haddo, flung herself on her knees by that lady's side, took her long white hand, kissed it with passion, and left the room.



CHAPTER XVIII

NOT ACCEPTABLE

It was Thursday evening, and Fanny Crawford did not altogether like the prospect which lay before her. Ever since Sibyl had put the little sealed packet into her hands, that packet had lain on Fanny's heart with the weight of lead. Now that she had obtained the packet she did not want it; she did not dare to let any one guess how it had come into her hands. Fanny the proud, the looked-up-to, the respected, the girl whose conduct had hitherto been so immaculate, had stooped to employ another girl to act as a spy. Fanny was absolutely in the power of that very insignificant person, Sibyl Ray. Sibyl demanded her reward. Fanny must do her utmost to get Sibyl admitted to the club.

On that very evening, as Fanny was going towards the Bertrams' room, where the meeting was to be held, she was waylaid by Sibyl.

"You won't forget?—you have promised."

"Of course I won't forget, Sibyl. What a tease you are!"

"Can you possibly give me a hint afterwards? You might come to my room just for an instant, or you might push a little note under the door. I am so panting to know. I do so dreadfully want to belong to the club. I have been counting up all the privileges. I shall go mad with joy if I am admitted."

"I will do my best for you; but whether I can tell you anything or not to-night is more than I can possibly say," replied Fanny. "Now, do go away, Sibyl; go away, and be quick about it!"

"All right," said Sibyl. "Of course you know, or perhaps you don't know, that Betty isn't well? The doctor came an hour ago, and he says she is to be kept very quiet. I am ever so sorry for her, she is so—so——Oh dear, I am almost sorry now that I took that little packet from under the root of the Scotch heather!"

"Go, Sibyl. If we are seen together it will be much more difficult for me to get you elected," was Fanny's response; and at last, to Fanny's infinite relief, Sibyl took her departure.

All the other members of the club were present when Fanny made her appearance. They were talking in low tones, and as Fanny entered she heard Betty's name being passed from lip to lip.

"She does look bad, poor thing!" said Olive.

"Did you know," exclaimed Susie Rushworth, "that after doing that splendid piece of recitation in the class to-day she fainted right off? Miss Symes was quite terrified about her."

"They say the doctor has been sent for," said Martha. "Oh dear," she added, "I never felt so unhappy about a girl before in my life!"

Fanny was not too gratified to hear these remarks. She perceived all too quickly that, notwithstanding the fact that Betty was no longer a member of the club, she still reigned in the hearts of the girls.

"Well, Fan, here you are!" exclaimed Margaret. "Is there anything very special for us to do to-night? I have no inclination to do anything. We are all so dreadfully anxious about Betty and those darling little twins. Do you know, the doctor has ordered them not to sleep in Betty's room to-night; so Miss Symes is going to look after them. They are such sweet pets! The doctor isn't very happy about Betty. Sometimes I think we made a mistake—that we were cruel to Betty to turn her out of the club."

Fanny felt that if she did not quickly assert herself all would be lost. She therefore said quietly, "I don't pretend to share your raptures with regard to Betty Vivian, and I certainly think that if rules are worth anything they ought not to be broken."

"I suppose you are right," remarked Olive; "only, Betty seemed to make an exception to every rule."

"Well," said Fanny, "if we want a new member——"

"Another Speciality?" said Margaret.

"I was thinking," continued Fanny, her pretty pink cheeks glowing brightly and her eyes shining, "that we might be doing a kindness to a very worthy little girl who will most certainly not break any of the rules."

"Whom in the world do you mean?" asked Susie.

"I suppose you will be surprised at my choice; but although seven is the perfect number, there is no rule whatever against our having eight, nine, ten, or even more members of the club."

"There is no rule against our having twenty members, if those members are worthy," said Margaret Grant. "But whom have you in the back of your head, Fanny? You look so mysterious."

"I cannot think of any one myself," said Martha West.

When Martha said this Fanny made a little gesture of despair. "Well," she said, "I have taken a fancy to her. I think she is very nice; and I know she is poor, and I know she wants help, and I know that Mrs. Haddo takes a great interest in her. I allude to that dear little thing, Sibyl Ray. You, Martha, surely will support me?"

"Sibyl Ray!" The girls looked at each other in unbounded astonishment. Martha was quite silent, and her cheeks turned pale.

After a long pause Margaret spoke, "May I ask, Fanny, what one single qualification Sibyl Ray has for election to membership in the Speciality Club?"

"But what possible reason is there against her being a member?" retorted Fanny.

"A great many, I should say," was Margaret's answer. "In the first place, she is too young; in the second place, she has only just been admitted to the upper school."

"You can't keep her out on that account," objected Fanny, "for she has been longer in the upper school than Betty Vivian."

"Oh, please don't mention Betty and Sibyl in the same breath!" was Margaret's answer.

"I do not," said Fanny, who was fast losing her temper. "Sibyl is a good, straightforward, honorable girl. Betty is the reverse."

"Oh Fanny," exclaimed Martha, "I wouldn't abuse my own cousin if I were you!"

"Nonsense!" said Fanny. "Whether she is a cousin, or even a sister, I cannot be blind to her most flagrant faults."

"Of course you have a right to propose Sibyl Ray as a possible member of this club," said Margaret, "for it is one of our by-laws that any member can propose the election of another. But I don't really think you will carry the thing through. In the first place, what do you know about Sibyl? I have observed you talking to her once or twice lately; but until the last week or so, I think, you hardly knew of her existence."

"That is quite true," said Fanny boldly; "but during the last few days I have discovered that Sibyl is a sweet girl—most charming, most unselfish, most obliging. She is very timid, however, and lacks self-confidence; and I have observed that she is constantly snubbed by girls who are not fit to hold a candle to her and yet look down upon her, just because she is poor. Now, if she were made a member of the club all that would be put a stop to, and she would have a great chance of doing her utmost in the school. We should be holding out a helping hand to a girl who certainly is neither beautiful nor clever, but who can be made a fine character. Martha, you at least will stand up for Sibyl? You have always been her close friend."

"And I am fond of her still," said Martha; "but I don't look upon her at all in the light in which you do, Fanny. Sibyl, at present, would be injured, not improved, by her sudden elevation to the rank of a Speciality. The only thing I would suggest is that you propose her again in a year's time; and if during the course of that year she has proved in any sense of the word what you say, I for one will give her my cordial support. At present I cannot honestly feel justified in voting for her, and I will not."

"Well spoken, Martha!" said Margaret. "Fanny, your suggestion is really ill-timed. We are all unhappy about Betty just now; and to see poor little Sibyl—of course, no one wants to say a word against her—in Betty's shoes would make our loss seem more irreparable than ever."

Fanny saw that her cause was lost. She had the grace not to say anything more, but sat back in her chair with her eyes fixed on Margaret's face. Fanny began to perceive for the first time that some of the girls in this club had immensely strong characters. Margaret Grant and Martha West had, for instance, characters so strong that Fanny discovered herself to be a very unimportant little shadow beside them. The Bertrams were the sort of girls to take sides at once and firmly with what was good and noble, Susie Rushworth was devoted to Margaret, and Olive had been the prime favorite in the club until Betty's advent. Now it seemed to Fanny that each one of the Specialities was opposed to her, that she stood alone. She did not like the situation. She was so exceedingly anxious; for, strong in the belief that she herself was a person of great importance, and in the further belief that Martha would support her, she had been practically sure of getting Sibyl admitted to the club. Now Sibyl had no chance whatever, and Sibyl knew things which might make Fanny's position in the school the reverse of comfortable.

Fanny Crawford on this occasion sat lost in thought, by no means inclined to add her quota to the entertainment of the others, and looking eagerly for the first moment when she might escape from the meeting. Games were proposed; but games went languidly, and once again Betty and Betty's illness became the subject of conversation.

When this took place Fanny rose impatiently. "There are no further questions to be discussed to-night?" she asked, turning to Margaret.

"None that I know of."

"Then, if you will excuse me, girls, I will go. I must tell poor little Sibyl——"

"You don't mean to say you spoke to Sibyl about it?" interrupted Martha.

"Well, yes, I did." Fanny could almost have bitten out her tongue for having made this unwary admission. "She was so keen, poor little thing, that I told her I would do my best for her. I must say, once and for all, that I have never seen my sister members so hard and cold and indifferent to the interests of a very deserving little girl before. I am, of course, sorry I spoke to her on the matter."

"You really did very wrong, Fan," said Margaret in an annoyed voice. "You know perfectly well that we never allude to the possibility of a girl being proposed for membership to that girl herself until we have first made up our minds whether she is worthy or not. Now, you have placed us at a great disadvantage; but, of course, you forgot yourself, Fan. You must tell Sibyl that the thing is not to be thought of. You can put it down to her age or any other cause you like."

"Of course I must speak the truth," said Fanny, raising her voice to a somewhat insolent tone. "The club does not permit the slightest vestige of prevarication. Is that not so?"

"Yes, it is certainly so."

The next minute Fanny had left the room. It was one of the rules of the club that gossip, in the ordinary sense of the world, with regard to any member was strictly forbidden; so no one made any comment when Fanny had taken her departure. There was a sense of relief, however, felt by the girls who remained behind. The meeting was a sorrowful one, and broke up rather earlier than usual.

At prayers that night in the chapel Margaret Grant and the other girls of the Specialities were startled when Mr. Fairfax made special mention of Betty Vivian, praying God to comfort her in sore distress and to heal her sickness. The prayer was extempore, and roused the girls to amazed attention.

Fanny was not present that night at chapel. She was so angry that she felt she must give vent to her feelings to some one; therefore, why not speak to Sibyl at once?

Sibyl was not considered very strong, and though she did belong to the upper school, usually went to bed before prayers. She was in her small room to-night. It was a pretty, neatly furnished room in the west wing—one of those usually given to a lower-school girl on first entering the upper school. Sibyl had no intention, however, of going to bed. She sat by her fire, her heart beating high, her thoughts full of the privileges which would so soon be hers. She was composing, in her own mind, a wonderful letter to send to her people at home; she pictured to herself their looks of delight when they heard that this great honor had been bestowed upon her. For, of course, Sibyl, as a member of the lower school at Haddo Court, had heard much of the Specialities, and what she had heard she had repeated; so that when she wanted to amuse her select friends in her father's parish, she frequently gave them some information on this most interesting subject. Now she was on the point of being a member herself! How she would enjoy her Christmas holidays! How she would be feted and fussed over and petted! How carefully she would guard the secrets of the club, and how very high she would hold her own small head! She a member of the great Haddo Court School, and also a Speciality!

While Sibyl was thus engaged, seeing pictures in the fire and smiling quietly to herself, she suddenly heard a light tap at her room door. She started to her feet, and the next minute she had flown across the room and opened the door. Fanny stood without.

"Oh, you dear, darling Fan!" exclaimed Sibyl. "You are good! Come in—do come in! Is the meeting over? And—and—oh, Fanny! what have they said? Has my name been put to the vote? Of course you and Martha would be on my side, and you and Martha are so strong that you would carry the rest of the members with you. Fan, am I to have a copy of the rules? And—and—oh, Fan! is it settled? Do—do tell me!"

"I wish you weren't quite so excited, Sibyl! Let me sit down; I have a bad headache."

Fanny sank languidly into the chair which Sibyl herself had been occupying. There was only one easy-chair in this tiny room. Sibyl had, therefore, to draw forward a hard and high one for herself. But she was far too excited to mind this at the present moment.

"And what a fearful blaze of light you have!" continued Fanny, looking round fretfully. "Don't you know, Sibyl, that, unless we are occupied over our studies, we are not allowed to turn on such a lot of light? Here, let me put the room in shadow."

"Let's have firelight only," laughed Sibyl, who was not quick at guessing things, and felt absolute confidence in Fanny's powers. The next instant she had switched off the light and was kneeling by Fanny's side. "Now, Fanny—now, do put me out of suspense!"

"I will," said Fanny. "I have come here for the purpose. I did what I could for you, Sib. You must bear your disappointment as best you can. I am truly sorry for you, but things can't be helped."

"You are truly sorry for me—and—and—things can't be helped!" exclaimed Sibyl, amazement in her voice. "What do you mean?"

"Well, they won't have you at any price as a member of the Specialities; and the person who spoke most strongly against you was your dear and special friend, Martha West. I am not at liberty to quote a single word of what she did say; but you are not to be a Speciality—at least, not for a year. If at the end of a year you have done something wonderful—the sort of thing which you, poor Sibyl, could never possibly do—the matter may be brought up again for reconsideration. As things stand, you are not to be elected; so the sooner you put the matter out of your head the better."

Sibyl turned very white. Then her face became suffused with small patches of vivid color.

Fanny was not looking at her; had she looked she might have perceived that Sibyl's expression was anything but amiable at that moment. The girl's extraordinary silence, however—the absence of all remark—the absence, even, of any expression of sorrow—presently caused Fanny to glance round at her. "Well," she said, "I thought I'd tell you at once. You must put it out of your head. I think I will go to bed now. Good-night, Sibyl. Sorry I couldn't do more for you."

"Don't go!" said Sibyl. "What do you mean?"

There was a quality in Sibyl's voice which made Fanny feel uncomfortable.

"I am much too tired," Fanny said, "to stay up any longer chatting with an insignificant little girl like you. I could not even stay to the conclusion of our meeting, and I certainly don't want to be seen in your room. I did my best for you. I have failed. I am sorry, and there's an end of it."

"Oh no, there isn't an end of it!" said Sibyl.

"What do you mean, Sibyl?"

"I mean," said Sibyl, "that you have got to reward me for doing your horrid—horrid, dirty work!"

"You odious little creature! what do you mean? My dirty work! Sibyl, I perceive that I was mistaken in you. I also perceive that Martha West and the others were right. You are indeed unworthy to be a Speciality."

"If all were known," said Sibyl, "I don't think I am half as unworthy as you are, Fanny Crawford. Anyhow, if I am not to be made a Speciality, and if every one is going to despise me and look down on me, why, I have nothing to lose, and I may as well make an example of you."

"You odious child! what do you mean?"

"Why, I can tell Mrs. Haddo as well as anybody else. Every one in the school knows that Betty is ill to-night. Something seems to have gone wrong with her head, and she is crying out about a packet—a lost packet. Now, you know how the packet was lost. You and I both know how it was found—and lost again. You have it, Fanny. You are the one who can cure Betty Vivian—Betty, who never was unkind to any one; Betty, who did not mean me to be a figure of fun, as you suggested, on the night of the entertainment; Betty, who has been kind to me, as she has been kind to every one else since she came to the school. You have done nothing for me, Fanny; so I—I can take care of myself in future, and perhaps Betty too."

To say that Fanny was utterly amazed and horrified at Sibyl's speech—to say that Fanny was thunderstruck when she perceived that this poor little worm, as she considered Sibyl Ray, had turned at last—would be but very inadequately to describe the situation. Fanny lost her headache on the spot. Here was danger, grave and imminent; here was the possibility of her immaculate character being dragged through the mud; here was the terrible possibility of Fanny Crawford being seen in her true colors. She had now to collect her scattered senses—in short, to pull herself together.

"Oh Sibyl," she said after a pause, "you frightened me for a minute—you really did! Who would suppose that you were such a spirited girl?"

"I am not spirited, Fanny; but I love Betty, notwithstanding all you have tried to do to put me against her. And if I am not to be a Speciality I would ever so much rather be Betty's friend than yours. There! Now I have spoken. Perhaps you would like to go now, Fan, as your head is aching so badly?"

"It doesn't ache now," said Fanny; "your conduct has frightened all the aches away. Sibyl, you really are the very queerest girl! I came here to-night full of the kindest feelings towards you. You can ask Martha West how I spoke of you at the club."

"But she won't tell me. Anything that you say in the club isn't allowed to be breathed outside it."

"I know that. Anyhow, I have been doing my utmost to get the school to see you in your true light. I have taken great notice of you, and you have been proud to receive my notice. It is certainly true that I have failed to get you what I hoped I could manage; but there are other things——"

"Other things!" said Sibyl. She stood in a defiant attitude quite foreign to her usual manner.

"Oh yes, my dear child, lots and lots of other things! For instance, in the Christmas holidays I can have you to stay with me at Brighton. What do you say to that? Don't you think that would be a feather in your cap? I have an aunt who lives there, Aunt Amelia Crawford; and she generally allows me—that is, when father cannot have me—to bring one of my school-friends with me to stay in her lovely house. I had a letter from her only yesterday, asking me which girl I would like to bring with me this year. I thought of Olive—Olive is such fun; but I'd just as soon have you—that is, if you would like to come."

Alas for poor Sibyl! She was not proof against such a tempting bait.

"As far as you are concerned," continued Fanny, who saw that she was making way with Sibyl, and breaking down, as she expressed it, her silly little defences, "you would gain far more prestige in being Aunt Amelia's guest than if you belonged to twenty Speciality Clubs. Aunt Amelia is good to the girls who come to stay with her as my friends. And I'd help you, Sib; I'd make the best of your dresses. We'd go to the theatre, and the pantomime, and all kinds of jolly things. We'd have a rattling fine time."

"Do you really mean it?" said Sibyl.

"Yes—that is, if you will give me your solemn word that you will refer no more to that silly matter about Betty Vivian. Betty Vivian had no right to that packet. It belonged to my father, and I have got it back for him. Don't think of it any more, Sibyl, and you shall be my guest this Christmas. But if you prefer to make a fuss, and drag me into an unpleasant position, and get yourself, in all probability, expelled from the school, then you must do as you please."

"But if I were expelled, you'd be expelled too," said Sibyl.

Fanny laughed. "I think not," she said. "I think, without any undue pride, that my position in the school is sufficiently strong to prevent such a catastrophe. No; you would be cutting off your nose to spite your face—that is all you would be doing with this nice little scheme of yours. Give it up, Sibyl, and you shall come to Brighton."

"It is dull at home at Christmas," said Sibyl. "We are so dreadfully poor, and father has such a lot to do; and there are always those half-starved, smelly sort of people coming to the house—the sort that want coal-tickets, you know, and grocery-tickets; and—and—we have to help to give great big Christmas dinners. We are all day long getting up entertainments for those dull sort of people. I often think they are not a bit grateful, and after being at a school like this I really feel quite squeamish about them."

Fanny laughed. She saw, or believed she saw, that her cause was won. "You'll have nothing to make you squeamish at Aunt Amelia's," she said. "And now I must say good-night. Sorry about the Specialities; but, after the little exhibition you have just made of yourself, I agree with the other girls that you are not fit to be a member. Now, ta-ta for the present."



CHAPTER XIX

"IT'S DICKIE!"

Fanny went straight to her own room. "What a nasty time I have lived through!" she thought as she was about to enter. Then she opened the door and started back.

The whole room had undergone a metamorphosis. There was a shaded light in one corner, and the door between Fanny's room and Betty's was thrown open. A grave, kind-looking nurse was seated by a table, on which was a shaded lamp; and on seeing Fanny enter she held up her hand with a warning gesture. The next minute she had beckoned the girl out on the landing.

"What is the meaning of this?" asked Fanny. "What are you doing in my room?"

"The doctor wished the door to be opened and the room to be given up to me," replied the nurse. "My name is Sister Helen, and I am looking after dear little Miss Vivian. We couldn't find you to tell you about the necessary alterations, which were made in a hurry. Ah, I mustn't leave my patient! I hear her calling out again. She is terribly troubled about something she has lost. Do you hear her?"

"I won't give it up! I won't give it up!" called poor Betty's voice.

"I was asked to tell you," said Sister Helen, "to go straight to Miss Symes, who has arranged another room for you to sleep in—that is, if you are Miss Crawford."

"Yes, that is my name. Have my things been removed?"

"I suppose so, but I don't know. I am going back to my patient."

The nurse re-entered the room, closing the door on Fanny, who stood by herself in the corridor. She heard Betty's voice, and Betty's voice sounded so high and piercing and full of pain that her first feeling was one of intense thankfulness that she had been moved from close proximity to the girl. The next minute she was speeding down the corridor in the direction of Miss Symes's room. Half-way there she met St. Cecilia coming to meet her.

"Ah, Fanny, dear," said Miss Symes, "I thought your little meeting would have been over by now. Do you greatly mind sharing my room with me to-night? I cannot get another ready for you in time. Dr. Ashley wishes the nurse who is looking after Betty to have your room for the present. There was no time to tell you, dear; but I have collected the few things I think you will want till the morning. To-morrow we will arrange another room for you. In the meantime I hope you will put up with me. I have had a bed put into a corner of my room and a screen around it, so you will be quite comfortable."

"Thank you," said Fanny. She wondered what further unpleasantness was about to happen to her on that inauspicious night.

"You would like to go to bed, dear, wouldn't you?" said Miss Symes.

"Yes, thank you."

"Well, you shall do so. I cannot go for a couple of hours, as Mrs. Haddo wants me to sit up with her until the specialist arrives from London."

"The specialist from London!" exclaimed Fanny, turning first red and then white. "Do you mean that Mrs. Haddo has sent for a London doctor?"

"Indeed she has. My dear, poor little Betty is dangerously ill. Dr. Ashley is by no means satisfied about her."

By this time the two had reached Miss Symes's beautiful room. Fanny gave a quick sigh. Then, like a flash, a horrible thought occurred to her. Her room had to be given up to-morrow. Her things would be removed. Among her possessions—put safely away, it is true, but still not too safely—was the little sealed packet. If that packet were found, Fanny felt that the world would be at an end as far as she was concerned.

"You don't look well yourself, Fanny," said Miss Symes, glancing kindly at the girl. "Of course you are sorry about Betty; we are all sorry, for we all love her. If you had been at prayers to-night you would have been astonished at the gloom which was felt in our beautiful little chapel when Mr. Fairfax prayed for her."

"But she can't be as ill as all that?" said Fanny.

"She is—very, very ill, dear. The child has evidently got a bad chill, together with a most severe mental shock. We none of us can make out what is the matter; but it is highly probable that the specialist—Dr. Jephson of Harley Street—will insist on the Specialities being questioned as to the reason why Betty was expelled from the club. It is absolutely essential that the girl's mind should be relieved, and that as soon as possible. She is under the influence now of a composing draught, and, we greatly trust, may be more like herself in the morning. Don't look too sad, dear Fanny! I can quite understand that you must feel this very deeply, for Betty is your cousin; and somehow, dear—forgive me for saying it—but you do not act quite the cousin's part to that poor, sweet child. Now I must leave you. Go to bed, dear. Pray for Betty, and then sleep all you can."

"Where are the twins?" suddenly asked Fanny.

"They are sleeping to-night in the lower school. It was necessary to put the poor darlings as far from Betty as possible, for they are in a fearful state about her. Now I will leave you, Fanny. I am wanted elsewhere. When I do come to bed I will be as quiet as possible, so as not to disturb you."

Fanny made no answer, and the next minute Miss Symes had left her.

Fanny now went over to the corner of the room where a snug little white bed had been put up, a washhand-stand was placed and where a small chest of drawers stood—empty at present, for only a few of Fanny's things had been taken out of her own room. The girl looked round her in a bewildered way. The packet!—the sealed packet! To-morrow all her possessions would be removed into a room which would be got ready for her. There were always one or two rooms to spare at Haddo Court, and Fanny would be given a room to herself again. She was far too important a member of that little community not to have the best possible done for her. Deft and skillful servants would take her things out of the various drawers and move them to another room. They would find the packet. Fanny knew quite well where she had placed it. She had put it under a pile of linen which she herself took charge of, and which was always kept in the bottom drawer of her wardrobe. Fanny had put the packet there in a moment of excitement and hurry. She had not yet decided what to do with it; she had to make a plan in her own mind, and in the meantime it was safe enough among Fanny's various and pretty articles of toilet. For it was one of the rules of Haddo Court that each girl, be she rich or poor, should take care of her own underclothing. All that the servants had to do was to see that the things were properly aired; but the girls had to mend their own clothes and keep them tidy.

Absolute horror filled Fanny's mind now. What was she to do? She was so bewildered that for a time she could scarcely think coherently. Then she made up her mind that, come what would, she must get that packet out of her own bedroom before the servants came in on the following day. She was so absorbed with the thought of her own danger that she had no time to think of the very grave danger which assailed poor little Betty Vivian. If she had disliked Betty before, she hated her now. Oh, how right she had been when, in her heart of hearts, she had opposed Betty's entrance into the school! What trouble those three tiresome, wild, uncontrollable girls had brought in their wake! And now Betty—Betty, who was so adored—Betty, who, in Fanny's opinion, was both a thief and a liar—was dangerously ill; and she (Fanny) would in all probability have to appear in a most sorry position. For, whatever Betty's sin, Fanny knew well that nothing could excuse her own conduct. She had spied on Betty; she had employed Sibyl Ray as a tool; she had got Sibyl to take the packet from under the piece of heather; and that very night she had excited the astonishment of her companions in the Speciality Club by proposing a ridiculously unsuitable person for membership as poor Sibyl.

"Things look as black as night," thought Fanny to herself. "I don't want to go to bed. I wish I could get out of this. How odious things are!"

Just then she heard footsteps outside her door—footsteps that came up close and waited. Then, all of a sudden, the door was flung violently open, and Sylvia and Hester entered. They had been crying so hard that their poor little faces were disfigured almost beyond recognition. Sylvia held a small tin box in her hand.

"What are you doing, girls? You had better go to bed," said Fanny.

Neither girl took the slightest notice of this injunction. They looked round the room, noting the position of the different articles of furniture. Then Sylvia walked straight up to the screen behind which Fanny's bed was placed. With a sudden movement she pulled down the bedclothes, opened the little tin box, and put something into Fanny's bed.

"It's Dickie!" said Sylvia. "I hope you will like his company. Come, Hetty."

Before Fanny could find words the girls had vanished. But the look of hatred on Sylvia's face, the look of defiance and horror on Hetty's, Fanny was not likely to forget. They shut the door somewhat noisily behind them. Then, all of a sudden, Hetty opened it again, pushed in her small face, and said, "You had better be careful. His bite is dangerous!"

The next instant quick feet were heard running away from Miss Symes's room, in the center of which Fanny stood stunned and really frightened. What had those awful children put into her bed? She had heard vague rumors of a pet of theirs called Dickie, but had never been interested enough even to inquire about him. Who was Dickie? What was Dickie? Why was his bite dangerous? Why was he put into her bed? Fanny, for all her careful training, for all her airs and graces, was by no means remarkable for physical courage. She approached the bed once or twice, and went back again. She was really afraid to pull down the bedclothes. At last, summoning up courage, she did so. To her horror, she saw an enormous spider, the largest she had ever beheld, in the center of the bed! This, then, was Dickie! He was curled up as though he were asleep. But as Fanny ventured to approach a step nearer it seemed to her that one wicked, protruding eye fastened itself on her face. The next instant Dickie began to run, and when Dickie ran he ran towards her. Fanny uttered a shriek. It was the culmination of all she had lived through during that miserable evening. One shriek followed another, and in a minute Susie Rushworth and Olive Repton ran into the room.

"Oh, save me! Save me!" said Fanny. "Those little horrors have done it! I don't know where it is! Oh, it is such an odious, dangerous, awful kind of reptile! It's the biggest spider I ever saw in all my life, and those horrible twins came and put it into my bed! Oh, girls, what I am suffering! Do have pity on me! Do help me to find it! Do help me to kill it!"

"To kill Dickie!" said Susie. "Why, the poor little twins were heartbroken for two or three days because they thought he was lost. I for one certainly won't kill Dickie."

"Nor I," said Olive.

"Oh, dear! what shall I do?" said poor Fanny. "I really never was in such miserable confusion and wretchedness in my life."

"Do, Fanny, cease to be such a coward!" said Susie. "I must say I am surprised at you. The poor little twins are almost beside themselves—that is, on account of darling Betty. Betty is so ill; and they think—the twins do——I mean, they have got it into their heads that you—you don't like Betty, although she is your cousin and the very sweetest girl in all the world. But as to your being afraid of a spider! We'll have a good hunt for him, and find him. Fanny, I never thought you could scream out as you did. What a mercy that Miss Symes's room is a good way off from poor darling Betty's!"

"Do try to think of some one besides Betty for a minute!" said Fanny; "and you find that horror and put him into his box, or put him into anything, only don't have him loose in the room."

"Well, we'll have a good search," said both the girls, "and we may find him."

But this was a thing easier said than done; for if there was a knowing spider anywhere in the world, that spider was Dickie of Scotland. Dickie was not going to be easily caught. Perhaps Dickie had a secret sense of humor and enjoyed the situation—the terror of the one girl, the efforts of the others to put him back into captivity. In vain Susie laid baits for Dickie all over the room—bits of raw meat, even one or two dead flies which she found in a corner. But Dickie had secured a hiding-place for himself, and would not come out at present.

"I can't sleep in the room—that's all!" said Fanny. "I really can't—that's flat."

"Oh, stop talking for a minute!" said Olive suddenly. "There! didn't you hear it? Yes, that is the sound of the carriage coming back from the station. Dr. Jephson has come. Oh, I wonder what he will say about her!"

"Don't leave me, girls, please!" said Fanny. "I never was so utterly knocked to bits in my whole life!"

"Well, we must go to bed or we'll be punished," said Susie.

"Susie, you are not a bit afraid of reptiles; won't you change rooms with me?" asked Fanny.

"I would, only it's against the rules," said Susie at once.

Olive also shook her head. "It's against the rules, Fanny; and, really, if I were you I'd pull myself together, and on a night like this, when the whole house is in such a state of turmoil, I'd try to show a spark of courage and not be afraid of a poor little spider."

"A little spider! You haven't seen him," said Fanny. "Why, he's nearly as big as an egg! I tell you he is most dangerous."

"That's the doctor! Oh, I wonder what he is going to say!" exclaimed Olive. "Come, Susie," she continued, turning to her companion, "we must go to bed. Good-night, Fanny; good-night."



CHAPTER XX

A TIME OF DANGER

Fanny was left alone with Dickie. It was really awful to be quite alone in a room where a spider nearly the size of an egg had concealed himself. If Dickie would only come out and show himself Fanny thought she could fight him; but he was at once big enough to bite and terrify her up to the point of danger, and small enough effectually to hide his presence. Fanny was really nervous; all the events of the day had conspired to make her so. She, who, as a rule, knew nothing whatever about nerves, was oppressed by them now. There had been the meeting of the Specialities; there had been the blunt refusal to make Sibyl one of their number. Then there was the appalling fact that she (Fanny) was turned out of her bedroom. There was also the unpleasantness of Sibyl's insurrection; and last, but not least, a spider had been put into her bed by those wicked girls.

Oh, what horrors all the Vivians were! What turmoil they had created in the hitherto orderly, happy school! "No wonder I hate them!" thought Fanny. "Well, I can't sleep here—that's plain." She stood by the fire. The fire began to get low; the hour waxed late. There was no sound whatever in the house. Betty's beautiful room was in a distant wing. The doctors might consult in the adjoining room that used to be Fanny's as much as they pleased, but not one sound of their voices or footsteps could reach the girl. The other schoolgirls had gone to bed. They were all anxious, all more or less unhappy; but, compared to Fanny, they were blessed with sweet peace, and could slumber without any sense of reproach.

Fanny found herself turning cold. She was also hungry. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece; the hour was past midnight. As a rule, she was in bed and sound asleep long before this time. Her cold and hunger made her look at the fire; it was getting low.

Mrs. Haddo was so determined to give the girls of her school every possible comfort that she never allowed them to feel cold in the house. The passages were therefore heated in winter-time with steam, and each bedroom had its own cheery fire. The governesses were treated almost better than the pupils. But then people were not expected to sit up all night.

Fanny opened the coal-hod, intending to put fresh coals on the dying fire; but, to her distress, found that the hod was empty. This happened to be a mistake on the part of the housemaid who had charge of this special room.

Fanny felt herself growing colder and colder, and yet she dared not go to bed. She had turned on all the electric lights, and the room itself was bright as day. Suddenly she heard the sound of wheels crunching on the gravel outside. She rushed to the window, and was relieved to observe that the doctor's carriage was bowling down the avenue. The doctors had therefore gone. Miss Symes would come to bed very soon now. Perhaps Miss Symes would know how to catch Dickie. Anyhow, Fanny would not be alone. She crouched in her chair near the dying embers of the fire. The minutes ticked slowly on until at last it was a quarter to one o'clock. Then Miss Symes opened the door and came in. She hardly noticed the fact that Fanny was up, and the further fact that her fire was nothing but embers did not affect her in the very least. Her eyes were very bright, and there were red spots on each cheek. The expression on her face brought Fanny to the momentary consciousness that they were all in a house where the great Angel of Death might enter at any moment.