Miss Symes sat down on the nearest chair, folded her hands on her lap, and looked at Fanny. "Well," she said, "have you nothing to ask me?"

"I am a very miserable girl!" said Fanny. "To begin with, I am hungry, for I scarcely ate any supper to-night; I did not care for the food provided by the Specialities. Hours and hours have passed by, and I could not go to bed."

"And why not, Fanny?" asked Miss Symes. "Why did you stay up against the rules? And why do you think of yourself in a moment like the present?"

"I am sorry," said Fanny; "but one must always think of one's self—at least, I am afraid I must. Not that I mean to be selfish," she added, seeing a look of consternation spread over Miss Symes's face. "The fact is this, St. Cecilia, I have had the most horrible fright. Those ghastly little creatures the twins—the Vivian twins—brought a most enormous spider into your room, hid it in the center of my bed, and then ran away again. I never saw such a monster! I was afraid to go near the creature at first; and when I did it looked at me—yes, absolutely looked at me! I turned cold with horror. Then, before I could find my voice, it began to run—and towards me! Oh, St. Cecilia, I screamed! I did. Susie and Olive heard me, and came to the rescue. Of course they knew that the spider was Dickie, that horrid reptile those girls brought from Scotland. He has hidden himself somewhere in the room. The twins themselves said that his bite was dangerous, so I am quite afraid to go to bed; I am, really."

"Come, Fanny, don't talk nonsense!" said Miss Symes. "The poor little twins are to be excused to-night, for they are really beside themselves. I have just left the poor little children, and Martha West is going to spend the night with them. Martha is a splendid creature!"

"I cannot possibly go to bed, Miss Symes."

"But you really must turn in. We don't want to have more illnesses in the house than we can help; so, my dear Fanny, get between the sheets and go to sleep."

"And you really think that Dickie won't hurt me?"

"Of course not; and you surely can take care of yourself. If you are nervous you can keep one of the electric lights on. Now, do go to bed. I am going to change into a warm dressing-gown, for I want to help the nurse in Betty's room."

"And how is Betty?" asked Fanny in a low tone. "Why is there such a frightful fuss about her? Is she so very ill?"

"Yes, Fanny; your cousin, Betty Vivian, is dangerously ill. No one can quite account for what is wrong; but that her brain is affected there is not the slightest doubt, and the doctor from London says that unless she gets relief soon he fears very much for the result. The child is suffering from a very severe shock, and to-morrow Mrs. Haddo intends to make most urgent inquiries as to the nature of what went wrong. But I needn't talk to you any longer about her now. Go to bed and to sleep."

While Miss Symes was speaking she was changing her morning-dress and putting on a very warm woolen dressing-gown. The next minute she had left the room without taking any further notice of Fanny. Fanny, terrified, cold, afraid to undress, but unable from sheer sleepiness to stay up any longer, got between the sheets and soon dropped into undisturbed slumber. If Dickie watched her in the distance he left her alone. There were worse enemies waiting to spy on poor Fanny than even Dickie.

In a school like Haddo Court dangerous illness must affect each member of the large and as a rule deeply attached family. Betty Vivian had come like a bright meteor into the midst of the school. She had delighted her companions; she had fascinated them; she had drawn forth love. She could do what no other girl had ever done in the school. No one supposed Betty to be free from faults, but every one also knew that her faults were exceeded by her virtues. She was loved because she was lovable. The only one who really hated her was her cousin Fanny.

Now, Fanny knew well that inquiries would be made; for the favorite must not be ill if anything could be done to save her, nor must a stone be left unturned to effect her recovery.

Fanny awoke the next morning with a genuine headache, fearing she knew not what. The great gong which always awoke the school was not sounded that day; but a servant came in and brought Fanny's hot water, waking her at the same time. Fanny rubbed her eyes, tried to recall where she was, and then asked the woman how Miss Vivian was.

"I don't know, miss. It's a little late, but if you are quick you'll be down in hall at the usual time."

Fanny felt that she hated the woman. As she dressed, however, she forgot all about her, so intensely anxious was she to recover the packet from its hiding-place in her own bedroom. She wondered much if she could accomplish this, and presently, prompted by the motto, "Nothing venture, nothing win," tidied her dress, smoothed back her hair, washed her face, tried to look as she might have looked on an ordinary morning, and finding that she had quite ten minutes to spare before she must appear in hall, ran swiftly in the direction of her own room.

She was sufficiently early to know that there was very little chance of her meeting another girl en route, and even if she did she could easily explain that she was going to her room to fetch some article of wardrobe which had been forgotten.

She reached the room. The door was shut. Very softly she turned the handle; it yielded to her pressure, and she went in.

The nurse turned at once to confront her. "You mustn't come in here, miss."

"I just want to fetch something from one of my drawers; I won't make the slightest noise," said Fanny. "Please let me in."

Sister Helen said nothing further. Fanny softly opened one of the drawers. She knew the exact spot where the packet lay hidden. A moment later she had folded it up in some of her under-linen and conveyed it outside the room without Sister Helen suspecting anything. As soon as she found herself in the corridor she removed the packet from its wrappings and slipped it into her inner pocket. It must stay on her person for the present, for in no other place could it possibly be safe. When she regained Miss Symes's room she found that lady already there. She was making her toilet.

"Why, Fanny," she said, "what have you been doing? You haven't, surely, been to your own room! Did Sister Helen let you in?"

"She didn't want to; but I required some—some handkerchiefs and things of that sort," said Fanny.

"Well, you haven't brought any handkerchiefs," said Miss Symes. "You have only brought a couple of night-dresses."

"Sister Helen rather frightened me, and I just took these and ran away," answered the girl. Then she added, lowering her voice, "How is Betty to-day?"

"You will hear all about Betty downstairs. It is time for you to go into the hall. Don't keep me, Fanny."

Fanny, only too delighted, left the room. Now she was safe. The worst of all could not happen to her. When she reached the great central hall, where the girls usually met for a few minutes before breakfast, she immediately joined a large circle of girls of the upper school. They were talking about Betty. Among the group was Sibyl Ray. Sibyl was crying, and when Fanny appeared she turned abruptly aside as though she did not wish to be seen. Fanny, who had been almost jubilant at having secured the packet, felt a new sense of horror at Sibyl's tears. Sibyl was the sort of girl to be very easily affected.

As Fanny came near she heard Susie Rushworth say to Sibyl, "Yes, it is true; Betty has lost something, and if she doesn't find it she will—the doctor, the great London doctor, says that she will—die."

Sibyl gave another great, choking sob.

Fanny took her arm. "Sibyl," she said, "don't you want to come for a walk with me during recess this morning?"

"Oh, I don't know, Fanny!" said poor Sibyl, raising her eyes, streaming with tears, to Fanny's face.

"Well, I want you," said Fanny. Then she added in a low tone, "Don't forget Brighton and Aunt Amelia, and the excellent time you will have, and the positive certainty that before a year is up you will be a Speciality. Don't lose all these things for the sake of a little sentiment. Understand, too, that doctors are often wrong about people. It is ridiculous to suppose that a strong, hearty girl like Betty Vivian should have her life in danger because you happened to find——"

"Oh, don't!" said Sibyl. "I—I can't bear it! I saw Sylvia and Hetty last night. I can't bear it!"

"You are a little goose, Sibyl! It's my opinion you are not well. You must cling to me, dear, and I will pull you through—see if I don't."

As Fanny took her usual place at the breakfast-table Susie Rushworth said to her, "You really are kind to that poor little Sibyl, Fan. After all, we must have been a little hard on her last night. She certainly shows the greatest distress and affection for poor dear Betty."

"I said she was a nice child. I shouldn't be likely to propose her for the club if she were not," said Fanny.

Susie said nothing more. All the girls were dull, grave, distressed. The twins were nowhere to be seen. Betty's sweet face, Betty's sparkling eyes, Betty's gay laugh, were conspicuous by their absence. Miss Symes did not appear at all.

When breakfast was over, and the brief morning prayers had been gone through by Mr. Fairfax—for these prayers were not said in the chapel—Mrs. Haddo rose and faced the school. "Girls," she said, "I wish to let you all know that one of your number—one exceedingly dear to us all—is lying now at the point of death. Whether God will spare her or not depends altogether on her mind being given a certain measure of relief. I need not tell you her name, for you all know it, and I believe you are all extremely grieved at what has occurred. It is impossible for any of you to help her at this moment except by being extra quiet, and by praying to God to be good to her and her two little sisters. I propose, therefore, to make a complete alteration in the arrangements of to-day. I am going to send the whole of the upper school—with the exception of the members of the Speciality Club—to London by train. Two of the teachers, Mademoiselle and Miss Oxley, will accompany you. You will all be driven to the station, and win return to-night—having, I hope, enjoyed a pleasant day. By that time there may be good news to greet you. No lessons to-day for any of the upper school; so, girls, go at once and get ready."

All the girls began now to leave the great hall, with the exception of the Specialities and Sibyl Ray.

"Go, Sibyl!" said Fanny. "What are you lingering for?"

"Yes, Sibyl, be quick; don't delay!" said Mrs. Haddo, speaking rather sharply. "You will all be back in time to-night to hear the latest report of dear Betty, and we trust we may have good news to tell you."

Sibyl went with extreme slowness and extreme unwillingness. But for the fact that Fanny kept her eye fixed on Sibyl she might have refused to budge. As it was, she left the hall; and a very few minutes later wagonettes and motors appeared in view, and the girls of the upper school drove to the railway station.

As Fanny saw Sibyl driving off with the others she became conscious of a new sense of relief. She had been so anxious with regard to Sibyl that she had not had time to wonder why the Specialities were not included in the entertainment. Now, however, her thoughts were turned into a different channel.

Susie Rushworth came up to Fanny. "Fanny," she said, "you and I, and the Bertrams, and Olive, and Margaret, and Martha are all to go immediately to Mrs. Haddo's private sitting-room."

"What for?" asked Fanny.

"I expect that she will explain. We are to go, and at once."

Fanny did not dare to say any more. They all went slowly together in the direction of that beautiful room where Mrs. Haddo, usually so bright, so cheery, so full of enthusiasm, invited her young pupils to meet her. But there was no smile of welcome on that lady's fine face on the present occasion. She did not even shake hands with the girls as they approached. All she did was to ask them to sit down.

Fanny took her place between Olive and one of the Bertrams. She could not help noticing a great change in their manner towards her. As a rule she was a prime favorite, and to sit next Fanny Crawford was considered a very rare honor. On this occasion, however, the girls rather edged away from Fanny.

Mrs. Haddo seated herself near the fire. Then she turned and spoke to Margaret Grant. "Margaret," she said, "I ask you, in the name of the other members of your club, to give me full and exact particulars with regard to your expulsion of Betty Vivian. I must know, and fully, why Betty was expelled. Pause a minute before you speak, dear. For long years I have allowed this club to exist in the school, believing much in its good influence—in its power to ennoble and raise the impressionable character of a young girl. I have not interfered with it; on the contrary, I have been proud of it. To each girl who became a Speciality I immediately granted certain privileges, knowing well that no girl would be lightly admitted to a club with so high an aim and so noble a standard.

"When Betty first came I perceived at once that she was fearless, very affectionate, and possessed a strong, pronounced, willful character; I saw, in short, that she was worth winning and loving. I liked her sisters also; but Betty was superior to her sisters. I departed from several established customs when I admitted the Vivians to this school, and I will own that I had my qualms of conscience notwithstanding the fact that my old friend Sir John Crawford was so anxious for me to have them here. Nevertheless, when first I saw Betty I knew that he was right and I was wrong. That such a girl might stir up deep interest, and perhaps even bring sorrow into the school, I knew was within the bounds of probability; but I did not think it possible that she could ever disgrace it. I own I was a little surprised when I was told that so new a girl was made a member of your club; but as you, Margaret, were secretary, and as Susie Rushworth and my dear friend Fanny were members, I naturally had not a word to say, and only admired your discernment in reading aright that young character.

"Then there came the news—the terrible news—that Betty was expelled; and since then there has been confusion, sorrow, and now this most alarming illness. The girl is dying of a broken heart. She has lost something that she treasures. Margaret, the rules of the club must give place to the greater rules of the school; and I demand a full explanation from you of the exact reason why Betty Vivian is no longer a member of the Specialities."

Margaret looked round at the other members. All their faces were white. No one spoke for a minute.

Then Fanny rose and said, "Is it fair, for Betty's sake, that we should break our own rules? The reason of her being no longer a member is at present known only to the rest of us. Is it right that it should be made public property?"

"It must be made my property, Fanny Crawford; and I do not ask you, much as I esteem your father's friendship, to dictate to me in this matter."

Fanny sat down again. She felt the little packet in her pocket. That, at least, was secure; that, at least, would not rise up and betray her.

Margaret gave a very simple explanation of the reason why Betty could not remain in the club. She said that Betty had taken the rules and studied them carefully; had most faithfully promised to obey them; and then, a fortnight later, had stood up and stated that she had broken Rule No. I., for she had a secret which she had not divulged to the other members.

"And that secret, Margaret?" asked Mrs. Haddo.

"She had, she said, a packet—a sealed packet of great value—that she did not wish any one in the school to know about. It had been given to her by one she loved. She was extremely reticent about it, and seemed to be in great trouble. She explained why she had not spoken of it at first by saying that she did not think that the secret concerned any one in the school, but since she had joined the club she had felt that she ought to tell. We asked her all the questions we could; and she certainly gave us to understand that the packet was hers by right, but that, rather than give it up, she had told an untruth about it to Fanny's father, Sir John Crawford. We were very much stunned and distressed at her revelation, and we begged of her to go with the story to you, and also to put the packet in your charge, and tell you what she had already told us. This she emphatically refused to do, saying that she would never give the packet up under any conditions whatever. We had a special meeting of the club on the following night, when we again asked Betty what she meant to do. She said her intention was to keep firmly to her resolve that she would never give up the packet nor tell where she had hidden it. We then felt it to be our bounden duty to ask her to withdraw from the club. She did so. I think that is all."

"Only," said Mrs. Haddo, speaking in a voice of great distress, "that the poor, unhappy child seems to have lost the packet—which contained nobody knows what, but some treasure which she prized—and that the loss and the shock together are affecting her life to the point of danger. Girls, do any of you know—have you any clue whatsoever to—where the packet is now? Please remember, dear girls, that Betty's life—that beautiful, vivid young life—depends on that packet being restored. Don't keep it a secret if you have any clue whatsoever to give me, for I am miserable about this whole thing."

"Indeed we wouldn't keep it a secret," said Margaret. "How could we? We'd give all the world to find it for her. Who can have taken it?"

"Some one has, beyond doubt," said Mrs. Haddo. "Children, this is a terrible day for me. I have tried to be kind to you all. Won't you help me now in my sorrow?"

The girls crowded round her, some of them kneeling by her side, some of them venturing to kiss her hand; but from every pair of lips came the same words, "We know nothing of the packet." Even Fanny, who kept it in her pocket, and who heartily wished that it was lying at the bottom of the sea, repeated the same words as her companions.



CHAPTER XXI

A RAY OF HOPE

A few minutes later the Speciality girls had left Mrs. Haddo's room. There were to be no lessons that day; therefore they could spend their time as they liked best. But an enforced holiday of this kind was no pleasure to any of them.

Martha said at once that she was going to seek the twins. "I have left them in my room," she said. "They hardly slept all night. I never saw such dear, affectionate little creatures. They are absolutely broken-hearted. I promised to come to them as soon as I could."

"Have you asked them to trust you—to treat you as a true friend?" asked Fanny Crawford.

"I have, Fanny; and the strange thing is, that although beyond doubt they know pretty nearly as much about Betty's secret and about the lost packet as she does herself, poor child, they are just as reticent with regard to it. They will not tell. Nothing will induce them to betray Betty. Over and over again I have implored of them, for the sake of her life, to take me into their confidence; but I might as well have spoken to adamant. They will not do it."

"They have exactly the same stubborn nature," said Fanny.

The other girls looked reproachfully at her.

Then Olive said, "You have never liked your cousins, Fanny; and it does pain us all that you should speak against them at a moment like the present."

"Then I will go away," said Fanny. "I can see quite well that my presence is uncongenial to you all. I will find my own amusements. But I may as well state that if I am to be tortured and looked down on in the school, I shall write to Aunt Amelia and ask her to take me in until father writes to Mrs. Haddo about me. You must admit, all of you, that it has been a miserable time for me since the Vivians came to the school."

"You have made it miserable yourself, Fanny," was Susie's retort.

Then Fanny got up and went away. A moment later she was joined by Martha West.

"Fanny, dear Fanny," said Martha, "won't you tell me what is changing you so completely?"

"There is nothing changing me," said Fanny in some alarm. "What do you mean, Martha?"

"Oh, but you look so changed! You are not a bit what you used to be—so jolly, so bright, so—so very pretty. Now you have a careworn, anxious expression. I don't understand you in the very least."

"And I don't want you to," said Fanny. "You are all bewitched with regard to that tiresome girl; even I, your old and tried friend, have no chance against her influence. When I tell you I know her far better than any of you can possibly do, you don't believe me. You suspect me of harboring unkind and jealous thoughts against her; as if I, Fanny Crawford, could be jealous of a nobody like Betty Vivian!"

"Fanny, you know perfectly well that Betty will never be a nobody. There is something in her which raises her altogether above the low standard to which you assign her. Oh, Fanny, what is the matter with you?"

"Please leave me alone, Martha. If you had spent the wretched night I have spent you might look tired and worn out too. I was turned out of my bedroom, to begin with, because Sister Helen required it."

"Well, surely there was no hardship in that?" said Martha. "I, for instance, spent the night gladly with dear little Sylvia and Hester; we all had a room together in the lower school. Do you think I grumbled?"

"Oh, of course you are a saint!" said Fanny with a sneer.

"I am not, but I think I am human; and just at present, for some extraordinary reason, you are not."

"Well, you haven't heard the history of my woes. I had to share Miss Symes's room with her."

"St. Cecilia's delightful room! Surely that was no great hardship?"

"Wait until you hear. St. Cecilia was quite kind, as she always is; and I was told that I could have a room to myself to-night. I found, to begin with, however, that most of the clothes I wanted had been left behind in my own room. Still, I made no complaint; although, of course, it was not comfortable, particularly as Miss Symes intended to sit up in order to see the doctors. But as I was preparing to get into bed, those twins—those horrid girls that you make such a fuss about, Martha—rushed into the room and put an awful spider into the center of my bed, and when I tried to get rid of it, it rushed towards me. Then I screamed out, and Susie and Olive came in. But we couldn't catch the spider nor find it anywhere. You don't suppose I was likely to go to bed with that thing in the room? The fire went nearly out. I was hungry, sleepy, cold. I assure you I have my own share of misery. Then Miss Symes came in and ordered me to bed. I went, but hardly slept a wink. And now you expect me to be as cheerful and bright and busy as a bee this morning!"

"Oh, not cheerful, poor Fanny!—we can none of us be that with Betty in such great danger; but you can at least be busy, you can at least help others."

"Thank you," replied Fanny; "self comes first now and then, and it does on the present occasion;" and Fanny marched to Miss Symes's room.

Martha looked after her until she disappeared from view; then, with a heavy sigh, she went towards her own room. Here a fire was burning. Some breakfast had been brought up for the twins, for they were not expected to appear downstairs that morning. The untasted breakfast, however, remained on the little, round table beside the fire, and Sylvia and Hetty were nowhere to be seen.

"Where have they gone?" thought Martha. "Oh, I trust they haven't been so mad as to go to Betty's room!"

She considered for a few minutes. She must find the children, and she must not trouble any one else in the school about them. Dr. Ashley had paid his morning visit, and there was quietness in the corridor just outside Betty's room. Martha went there and listened. The high-strung, anxious voice was no longer heard crying aloud piteously for what it could not obtain. The door of the room was slightly ajar. Martha ventured to peep in. Betty was lying with her face towards the wall, her long, thick black hair covering the pillow, and one small hand flung restlessly outside the counterpane.

Sister Helen saw Martha, and with a wave of her hand, beckoned the girl not to come in. Martha retreated to the corridor. Sister Helen followed her.

"What do you want, dear?" said the nurse. "You cannot possibly disturb Betty. She is asleep. Both the doctor and I most earnestly hope that she may awake slightly better. Dr. Jephson is coming to see her again this evening. If by that time her symptoms have not improved he is going to bring another brain specialist down with him. Dr. Ashley is to wire him in the middle of the day, stating exactly how Betty Vivian is. If she is the least bit better, Dr. Jephson will come alone; if worse, he will bring Dr. Stephen Reynolds with him. Why, what is the matter? How pale you look!"

"You think badly of Betty, Sister Helen?"

Sister Helen did not speak for a moment except by a certain look expressed in her eyes. "Another nurse will arrive within an hour," she said, "and then I shall be off duty for a short time. What can I do for you? I mustn't stay whispering here."

"I have come to find dear Betty's little sisters."

"Oh, they left the room some time ago."

"Left the room!" said Martha. "Oh, Sister Helen, have they been here?"

"Yes, both of them, poor children. I went away to fetch some hot water. Betty was lying very quiet; she had not spoken for nearly an hour. I hoped she was dropping asleep. When I came back I saw a sight which would bring tears to any eyes. Her two little sisters had climbed on to the bed and were lying close to her, one on each side. They didn't notice me at all; but as I came in I heard one of them say, 'Don't fret, Bettina; we are going now, at once, to find it.' And then the other said, 'And we won't come back until we've got it.' There came the ghost of a smile over my poor little patient's face. She tried to speak, but was too weak. I went up to one of the little girls and took her arm, and whispered to her gently; and then they both got up at once, as meekly as mice, and said, 'Betty, we won't come back until we've found it.' And poor little Betty smiled again. For some extraordinary reason their visit seemed to comfort her; for she sighed faintly, turned on her side, and dropped asleep, just as she is now. I must go back to her at once, Miss—Miss——"

"West," replied Martha. "Martha West is my name."

The nurse said nothing further, but returned to the sickroom. Martha went very quickly back to her own. She felt she had a task cut out for her. The twins had in all probability gone out. Their curious reticence had been the most painful part of poor Martha's night-vigil. She had to try to comfort the little girls who would not confide one particle of their trouble to her. At intervals they had broken into violent fits of sobbing, but they had never spoken; they had not even mentioned Betty's name. By and by, towards morning, they each allowed Martha to clasp one arm around them, and had dropped off into an uneasy slumber.

Now they were doubtless out of doors. But where? Martha was by no means acquainted with the haunts of the twins. She knew Sibyl Ray fairly well, and had always been kind to her; but up to the present the younger Vivian girls had not seemed to need any special kindness. They were hearty, merry children; they were popular in the school, and had made friends of their own. She wanted to seek for them now, but it never occurred to her for a single moment where they might possibly be discovered.

The grounds round Haddo Court were very extensive, and Martha did not leave a yard of these grounds unexplored, yet nowhere could she find the twins. At last she came back to the house, tired out and very miserable. She ran once more to her own room, wondering if they were now there. The room was quite empty. The housemaid had removed the breakfast-things and built up the fire. Martha had been told as a great secret that the Vivians possessed an attic, where they kept their pets. She found the attic, but it was empty. Even Dickie had forsaken it, and the different caterpillars were all buried in their chrysalis state. Martha quickly left the Vivians' attic. She wandered restlessly and miserably through the lower school, and visited the room where she had slept, or tried to sleep, the night before. Nowhere could she find them.

Meanwhile Sylvia and Hester had done a very bold deed. They were reckless of school rules at a moment like the present. Their one and only desire was to save Betty at any cost. They knew quite well that Betty had hidden the packet, but where they could not tell. Betty had said to them in her confident young voice, "The less you know the better;" and they had trusted her, as they always would trust her as long as they lived, for Betty, to them, meant all that was noble and great and magnificent in the world.

It flashed now, however, through Sylvia's little brain that perhaps Betty had taken the lost treasure to Mrs. Miles to keep. She whispered her thought to Hester, who seized it with sudden rapture.

"We can, at least, confide in Mrs. Miles," said Hetty; "and we can tell the dogs. Perhaps the dogs could scent it out; dogs are such wonders."

"We will go straight to Mrs. Miles," said Sylvia.

Betty had told them with great glee—ah, how merry Betty was in those days!—how she had first reached the farm, of her delightful time with Dan and Beersheba, of her dinner, of her drive back. Had not they themselves also visited Stoke Farm? What a delightful, what a glorious, time they had had there! That indeed was a time of joy. Now was a time of fearful trouble. But they felt, poor little things! though they could not possibly confide either in kind Martha West or in any of their school-friends, that they might confide in Mrs. Miles.

Accordingly they managed to vault over the iron railings, get on to the roadside, and in course of time to reach Stoke Farm. The dogs rushed out to meet them. But Dan and Beersheba were sagacious beasts. They hated frivolity, they hated unfeeling people, but they respected great sorrow; and when Hetty said with a burst of tears, "Oh, Dan, Dan, darling Dan, Betty, your Betty and ours, is so dreadfully ill!" Dan fawned upon the little girl, licked her hands, and looked into her face with all the pathos in the world in his brown doggy eyes. Beersheba, of course, followed his brother's example. So the poor little twins, accompanied by the dogs, entered Mrs. Miles's kitchen.

Mrs. Miles sprang up with a cry of rapture and surprise at the sight of them. "Why, my dears! my dears!" she said. "And wherever is the elder of you? Where do she be? Oh, then it's me is right glad to see you both!"

"We want to talk to you, Mrs. Miles," said Sylvia.

"And we want to kiss you, Mrs. Miles," said Hester.

Then they flung themselves upon her and burst into floods of most bitter weeping.

Mrs. Miles had not brought up a large family of children for nothing. She was accustomed to childish griefs. She knew how violent, how tempestuous, such griefs might be, and yet how quickly the storms would pass, the sunshine come, and how smiles would replace tears. She treated the twins, therefore, now, just as though they were her own children. She allowed them to cry on her breast, and murmured, "Dear, dear! Poor lambs! poor lambs! Now, this is dreadful bad, to be sure! But don't you mind how many tears you shed when you've got Mrs. Miles close to you. Cry on, pretties, cry on, and God comfort you!"

So the children, who felt so lonely and desolate, did cry until they could cry no longer. Then Mrs. Miles immediately did the sort of thing she invariably found effectual in the case of her own children. She put the exhausted girls into a comfortable chair each by the fire, and brought them some hot milk and a slice of seed-cake, and told them they must sip the milk and eat the cake before they said any more.

Now, as a matter of fact, Sylvia and Hetty were, without knowing it in the least, in a starving condition. From the instant that Betty's serious illness was announced they had absolutely refused all food, turning from it with loathing. Supper the night before was not for them, and breakfast had remained untasted that morning. Mrs. Miles had therefore done the right thing when she provided them with a comforting and nourishing meal. They would have refused to touch the cake had one of their schoolfellows offered it, but they obeyed Mrs. Miles just as though she were their real mother.

And while they ate, and drank their hot milk, the good woman went on with her cooking operations. "I am having a fine joint to-day," she said: "corned beef that couldn't be beat in any county in England, and that's saying a good deal. It'll be on the table, with dumplings to match and a big apple-tart, sharp at one o'clock. I might ha' guessed that some o' them dear little missies were coming to dinner, for I don't always have a hot joint like this in the middle o' the week."

The girls suddenly felt that of all things in the world they would like corned beef best; that dumplings would be a delicious accompaniment; and that apple-tart, eaten with Mrs. Miles's rich cream, would go well with such a dinner. They became almost cheerful. Matters were not quite so black, and they had a sort of feeling that Mrs. Miles would certainly help them to find the lost treasure.

Having got her dinner into perfect order, and laid the table, and put everything right for the arrival of her good man, Mrs. Miles shut the kitchen door and drew her chair close to the children.

"Now you are warm," she said, "and fed, you don't look half so miserable as you did when you came in. I expect the good food nourished you up a bit. And now, whatever's the matter? And where is that darling, Miss Betty? Bless her heart! but she twined herself round us all entirely, that she did."

It would be wrong to say that Sylvia did not burst into fresh weeping at the sound of Betty's name.

But Hester was of stronger mettle. "We have come to you," she said—"Oh, Sylvia, do stop crying! it does no manner of good to cry all the time—we have come to you, Mrs. Miles, to help us to save Betty."

"Lawk-a-mercy! and whatever's wrong with the dear lamb?"

"We are going to tell you everything," said Hester. "We have quite made up our minds. Betty is very, very ill."

"Yes," said Sylvia, "she is so ill that Dr. Ashley came to see her twice yesterday, and then again a third time with a great, wonderful special doctor from London; and we were not allowed to sleep in her room last night, and she's—oh, she's dreadfully bad!

"They whispered in the school," continued Sylvia in a low tone—"I heard them; they did whisper it in the school—that perhaps Betty would—would die. Mrs. Miles, that can't be true! God doesn't take away young, young girls like our Betty. God couldn't be so cruel."

"We won't call it cruelty," said Mrs. Miles; "but God does do it, all the same, for His own wise purposes, no doubt. We'll not talk o' that, my lambs; we'll let that pass by. The thing is for you to tell me what has gone wrong with that bonny, strong-looking girl. Why, when she was here last, although she was a bit pale, she looked downright healthy and strong enough for anything. Eh, my dear dears! you can't mention her name even now to Dan and Beersheba that they ain't took with fits o' delight about her, dancing and scampering like half-mad dogs, and whining for her to come to them. There, to be sure! they know you belong to her, and they're lying down as contented as anything at your feet. I don't expect, somehow, your sister will die, my loves, although gels as young as she have passed into the Better Land. Oh, dear, I'm making you cry again! It's good corned beef and dumplings you want. You mustn't give way, my dears; people who give way in times o' trouble ain't worth their salt."

"We thought perhaps you'd help us," said Sylvia.

"Help you, darlings! That I will! I'd help you to this extent—I'd help you even to the giving up o' the custom o' Haddo Court. Now, what can I do more than that?"

"Oh, but your help—the help you can give us—won't do you any harm," said Hester. "We'll tell you about Betty, for we know that you'll never let it out—except, indeed, to your husband. We don't mind a bit his knowing. Now, this is what has happened. You know we had great trouble—or perhaps you don't know. Anyhow, we had great trouble—away, away in beautiful Scotland. One we loved died. Before she died she left something for Betty to take care of, and Betty took what she had left her. It was only a little packet, quite small, tied up in brown paper, and sealed with a good many seals. We don't know what the packet contained; but we thought perhaps it might be money, and Betty said to us that it would be a very good thing for us to have some money to fall back upon in case we didn't like the school."

"Now, whatever for?" asked Mrs. Miles. "And who could dislike a school like Haddo Court?"

"Of course we couldn't tell," said Sylvia, "not having been there; but Betty, who is always very wise, said it was best be on the safe side, and that perhaps the packet contained money, and if it did we'd have enough to live on in case we chose to run away."

"Oh, missies, did I ever hear tell o' the like! To run away from a beautiful school like Haddo Court! Why, there's young ladies all over England trying to get into it! But you didn't know, poor lambs! Well, go on; tell me the rest."

"There was a man who was made our guardian," continued Sylvia, "and he was quite kind, and we had nothing to say against him. His name is Sir John Crawford."

"Miss Fanny's father, bless her!" said Mrs. Miles; "and a pretty young lady she do be."

"Fanny Crawford is our cousin," said Sylvia, "and we hate her most awfully."

"Oh, my dear young missies! but hate is a weed—a noxious weed that ought to be pulled up out o' the ground o' your hearts."

"It is taking deep root in mine," said Sylvia.

"And in mine," said Hester.

"But please let us tell you the rest, Mrs. Miles. Sir John Crawford had a letter from our dear aunt, who left the packet for Betty; and we cannot understand it, but she seemed to wish Sir John Crawford to take care of the packet for the present. He looked for it everywhere, and could not find it. Was he likely to when Betty had taken it? Then he asked Betty quite suddenly if she knew anything about it, and Betty stood up and said 'No.' She told a huge, monstrous lie, and she didn't even change color, and he believed her. So we came here. Well, Betty was terribly anxious for fear the packet should be found, and one night we helped her to climb down from the balcony out of our bedroom. No one saw her go, and no one saw her return, and she put the packet away somewhere—we don't know where. Well, after that, wonderful things happened, and Betty was made a tremendous fuss of in the school. There was no one like her, and she was loved like anything, and we were as proud as Punch of her. But all of a sudden everything changed, and our Betty was disgraced. There were horrid things written on a blackboard about her. She was quite innocent, poor darling! But the things were written, and Betty is the sort of girl to feel such disgrace frightfully. We were quite preparing to run away with her, for we thought she wouldn't care to stay much longer in the school—notwithstanding your opinion of it, Mrs. Miles. But all of a sudden Betty seemed to go right down, as though some one had felled her with an awful blow. She kept crying out, and crying out, that the packet was lost. Anyhow, she thinks it is lost; she hasn't an idea where it can be. And the doctors say that Betty's brain is in such a curious state that unless the packet is found she—she may die.

"So we went to her, both of us, and we told her we would go and find it," continued Sylvia. "We have got to find it. That is what we have come about. We don't suppose for a minute that it was right of Betty to tell the lie; but that was the only thing she did wrong. Anyhow, we don't care whether she did right or wrong; she is our Betty, the most splendid, the very dearest girl in all the world, and she sha'n't die. We thought perhaps you would help us to find the packet."

"Well," said Mrs. Miles, "that's a wonderful story, and it's a queer sort o' job to put upon a very busy farmer's wife. Me to find the packet?"

"Yes; you or your husband, whichever of you can or will do it. It is Betty's life that depends upon it. Couldn't your dogs help us? In Scotland we have dogs that scent anything. Are yours that sort?"

"They haven't been trained," said Mrs. Miles, "and that's the simple truth. Poor darlings! you must bear up as best you can. It's a very queer story, but of course the packet must be found. You stay here for the present, and I'll go out and meet my husband as he comes along to his dinner. I reckon, when all's said and done, I'm a right good wife and a right good mother, and that there ain't a farm kept better than ours anywhere in the neighborhood, nor finer fowls for the table, nor better ducks, nor more tender geese and turkeys. Then as to our pigs—why, the pigs themselves be a sight. And we rears horses, too, and very good many o' them turn out. And in the spring-time we have young lambs and young heifers; in fact, there ain't a young thing that can be born that don't seem to have a right to take up its abode at Stoke Farm. And I does for 'em all, the small twinses being too young and the old twinses too rough and big for the sort o' work. Well, my dears, I'm good at all that sort o' thing; but when it comes to dertective business I am nowhere, and I may as well confess it. I am sorry for you, my loves; but this is a job for the farmer and not for me, for he's always down on the poachers, and very bitter he feels towards 'em. He has to be sharp and sudden and swift and knowing, whereas I have to be tender and loving and petting and true. That's the differ between us. He's more the person for this 'ere job, and I'll go and speak to him while you sit by the kitchen fire."

"Do, please, please, Mrs. Miles!" said both the twins.

Then she left them, and they sat very still in the warm, silent kitchen; and by and by Sylvia, worn out with grief, and not having slept at all during the previous night, dropped into an uneasy slumber, while Hetty stroked her sister's hand and Dan's head until she also fell asleep.

The dogs, seeing that the girls were asleep, thought that they might do the same. When, therefore, Farmer Miles and his wife entered the kitchen, it was to find the two girls and the dogs sound asleep.

"Poor little lambs! Do look at 'em!" said Mrs. Miles. "They be wore out, and no mistake."

"Let's lay 'em on the sofa along here," said Miles. "While they're having their sleep out you get the dinner up, wife, and I'll go out and put on my considering-cap."

The farmer had no sooner said this than—whispering to the dogs, who very unwillingly accompanied him—he left the kitchen. He went into the farmyard and began to pace up and down. Mrs. Miles had told her story with some skill, the farmer having kept his attention fixed on the salient points.

Miss Betty—even he had succumbed utterly to the charms of Miss Betty—had lost a packet of great value. She had hidden it, doubtless in the grounds of Haddo Court. She had gone had gone to look for it, and it was no longer there. Some one had stolen it. Who that person could be was what the farmer wanted to "get at," as he expressed it. "Until you can get at the thief," he muttered under his breath, "you are nowhere at all."

But at present he was without any clue, and, true man of business that he was, he felt altogether at a loose end. Meanwhile, as he was pacing up and down towards the farther edge of the prosperous-looking farmyard, Dan uttered a growl and sprang into the road. The next minute there was a piercing cry, and Farmer Miles, brandishing his long whip, followed the dog. Dan was holding the skirts of a very young girl and shaking them ferociously in his mouth. His eyes glared into the face of the girl, and his whole aspect was that of anger personified. Luckily, Beersheba was not present, or the girl might have had a sorry time of it. With a couple of strides the farmer advanced towards her; dealt some swift lashes with his heavy whip on the dog's head, which drove him back; then, taking the girl's small hand, he said to her kindly, "Don't you be frightened, miss; his bark's a sight worse nor his bite."

"Oh, he did terrify me so!" was the answer; "and I've been running for such a long time, and I'm very, very tired."

"Well, miss, I don't know your name nor anything about you; but this land happens to be private property—belonging to me, and to me alone. Of course, if it weren't for that I'd have no right to have fierce dogs about ready to molest human beings. It was a lucky thing for you, miss, that I was so close by. And whatever be your name, if I may be so bold as to ask, and where be you going now?"

"My name is Sibyl Ray, and I belong to Haddo Court."

"Dear, dear, dear! seems to me, somehow, that Haddo Court and Stoke Farm are going to have a right good connection. I don't complain o' the butter, and the bread, and the cheese, and the eggs, and the fowls as we sarve to the school; but I never counted on the young ladies taking their abode in my quarters."

"What do you mean, and who are you?" said Sibyl in great amazement.

"My name, miss, is Farmer Miles; and this house"—he pointed to his dwelling—"is my homestead; and there are two young ladies belonging to your school lying fast asleep at the present moment in my wife's kitchen, and they has given me a problem to think out. It's a mighty stiff one, but it means life or death; so of course I have, so to speak, my knife in it, and I'll get the kernel out afore I'm many hours older."

Sibyl, who had been very miserable before she started, who had endured her drive with what patience she could, and whose heart was burning with hatred to Fanny and passionate, despairing love for Betty Vivian, was so exhausted now that she very nearly fainted.

The farmer looked at her out of his shrewd eyes. "Being a member o' the school, Miss Ray," he said, "you doubtless are acquainted with them particularly charming young ladies, the Misses Vivian?"

"Indeed I know them all, and love them all," said Sibyl.

"Now, that's good hearing; for they be a pretty lot, that they be. And as to the elder, I never see'd a face like hers—so wonderful, and with such a light about it; and her courage—bless you, miss! the dogs wouldn't harm her. It was fawning on her, and licking her hand, and petting her they were. Is it true, miss, that Miss Betty is so mighty bad?"

"It is true," said Sibyl; "and I wonder——Oh; please don't leave me standing here alone on the road. I am so miserable and frightened! I wonder if it's Sylvia and Hester who are in your house?"

"Yes, they be the missies, and dear little things they be."

"And have they told you anything?" asked Sibyl.

"Well, yes; they have set me a conundrum—a mighty stiff one. It seems that Miss Betty Vivian has lost a parcel, and she be that fretted about it that she's nigh to death, and the little uns have promised to get it back for her; and, poor children! they've set me on the job, and how ever I'm to do it I don't know."

"I think perhaps I can help you," said Sibyl suddenly. "I'll tell you this much, Farmer Miles. I can get that packet back, and I'd much rather get it back with your help than without it."

"Shake hands on that, missie. I wouldn't like to be, so to speak, in a thing, and then cast out o' it again afore the right moment. But whatever do you mean?"

"You shall know all at the right time," said Sibyl. "Mrs. Haddo is so unhappy about Betty that she wouldn't allow any of the upper-school girls to have lessons to-day, so she sent them off to spend the day in London. I happened to be one of them, and was perfectly wretched at having to go; so while I was driving to the railway station in one of the wagonettes I made up my mind. I settled that whatever happened I'd never, never, never endure another night like the last; and I couldn't go to London and see pictures or museums or whatever places we were to be taken to while Betty was lying at death's door, and when I knew that it was possible for me to save her. So when we got to the station there was rather a confusion—that is, while the tickets were being bought—and I suddenly slipped away by myself and got outside the station, and ran, and ran, and ran—oh, so fast!—until at last I got quite beyond the town, and then I found myself in the country; and all the time I kept saying, and saying, 'I will tell. She sha'n't die; nothing else matters; Betty shall not die.'"

"Then what do you want me to help you for, missie?"

"Because," said Sibyl, holding out her little hand, "I am very weak and you are very strong, and you will keep me up to it. Please do come with me straight back to the school!"

"Well, there's a time for all things," said the farmer; "and I'm willing to give up my arternoon's work, but I'm by no means willing to give up my midday meal, for we farmers don't work for nothing—as doubtless you know, missie. So, if you'll come along o' me and eat a morsel, we'll set off afterwards, sure and direct, to Haddo Court; and I'll keep you up to the mark if you're likely to fail."



CHAPTER XXII

FARMER MILES TO THE RESCUE

Sylvia and Hetty had awakened when the farmer brought Sibyl Ray into the pleasant farmhouse kitchen. The twin-boys were absent at school, and only the little twins came down to dinner. The beef, potatoes, dumplings, apple-tart and cream were all A1, and Sibyl was just as glad of the meal as were the two Vivian girls.

The Vivians did not know Sibyl very well, and had not the least idea that she guessed their secret. She rather avoided glancing at them, and was very shy and retiring, and stole up close to the farmer when the dogs were admitted. But Dan and Beersheba knew what was expected of them. Any one in the Stoke Farm kitchen had a right to be there; and were they going to waste their precious time and affection on the sort of girl they would love to bite, when Sylvia and Hetty were present? So they fawned on the twin-girls, taking up a good deal of their attention; and by and by the dinner came to an end.

When it was quite over the farmer got up, wiped his mouth with a big, red-silk handkerchief, and, going up to the Vivian twins, said quietly, "You can go home, whenever you like; and I think the job you have put upon me will be managed. Meanwhile, me and this young party will make off to Haddo Court as fast as we can."

As this "young party" happened to be Sibyl Ray, the girls looked up in astonishment; but the farmer gave no information of any kind, not even bestowing a wink on his wife, who told the little twins when he had left the kitchen accompanied by Sibyl that she would be ready to walk back with them to the school in about half an hour.

"You need have no frets now, my loves," she said. "The farmer would never have said words like he've spoken to you if he hadn't got his knife right down deep into the kernel. He's fond o' using that expression, dears, when he's nailed a poacher, and he wouldn't say no less nor no more for a job like you've set him to."

During their walk the farmer and Sibyl hardly exchanged a word. As they went up the avenue they saw that the place was nearly empty. The day was a fine one; but the girls of the lower school had one special playground some distance away, and the girls of the upper school were supposed to be in London. Certainly no one expected Sibyl Ray to put in an appearance here at this hour.

As they approached quite close to the mansion, Sibyl turned her very pale face and stole her small hand into that of the farmer. "I am so frightened!" she said; "and I know quite well this is going to ruin me, and I shall have to go back home to be a burden to father, who is very poor, and who thinks so much of my being educated here. But I—I will do it all the same."

"Of course you will, missie; and poverty don't matter a mite."

"Perhaps it doesn't," said Sibyl.

"Compared to a light heart, it don't matter a gossoon, as they say in Ireland," remarked the farmer.

Sibyl felt suddenly uplifted.

"I'll see you through, missie," he added as they came up to the wide front entrance.

A doctor's carriage was standing there, and it was quite evident that one or two doctors were in the house.

"Oh," said Sibyl with a gasp, "suppose we are betrayed!"

"No, we won't be that," said the farmer.

Sibyl pushed open the door, and then, standing in the hall, she rang a bell. A servant presently appeared.

Before Sibyl could find her voice Farmer Miles said, "Will you have the goodness to find Mrs. Haddo and tell her that I, Farmer Miles of the Stoke Farm, have come here accompanied by one o' her young ladies, who has something o' great importance to tell her at once?"

"Perhaps you will both come into Mrs. Haddo's private sitting-room?" said the girl.

The farmer nodded assent, and he and Sibyl entered. When they were inside the room Sibyl uttered a faint sigh. The farmer took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

"What a lot o' fal-lals, to be sure!" he said, looking round in a by no means appreciative manner.

Sibyl and the farmer had to wait for some little time before Mrs. Haddo made her appearance. When she did so a great change was noticeable in her face; it was exceedingly pale. Her lips had lost their firm, their even noble, expression of self-restraint; they were tremulous, as though she had been suffering terribly. Her eyes were slightly red, as though some of those rare tears which she so seldom shed had visited them. She looked first at Farmer Miles and then in great amazement at Sibyl.

"Why are you here, Sibyl Ray?" she said. "I sent you to London with the other girls of the upper school this morning. What are you doing here?"

"Perhaps I can tell you best, ma'am, if you will permit me to speak," said the farmer.

"I hope you will be very brief, Farmer Miles. I could not refuse your request, but we are all in great trouble to-day at the school. One of our young ladies—one greatly beloved by us all—is exceedingly, indeed I must add most dangerously, ill."

"It's about her we've come," said the farmer.

Here Mrs. Haddo sank into a seat. "Why, what do you know about Miss Betty Vivian?"

"Ah, I met her myself, not once, but twice," said Miles; "and I love her, too, just as the wife loves her, and the big twins, and the little twins, and the dogs—bless 'em! We all love Miss Betty Vivian. And now, ma'am, I must tell you that Miss Betty's little sisters came to see the good wife this morning."

Mrs. Haddo was silent.

"They told their whole story to the good wife. A packet has been lost, and Miss Betty lies at death's door because o' the grief o' that loss. The little uns—bless 'em!—thought that the wife could find the packet. That ain't in her line; it's mothering and coddling and loving as is in her line. So she put the job on me; and, to be plain, ma'am, I never were more flabbergasted in the whole o' my life. For to catch a poacher is one thing, and to catch a lost packet—nobody knowing where it be nor how it were lost—is another."

"Well, why have you come to me?" said Mrs. Haddo.

"Because, ma'am, I've got a clue, and a big one; and this young lady's the clue."

"You, Sibyl Ray—you?"

"Yes," said Sibyl.

"Speak out now, missie; don't be frightened. There are miles worse things than poverty; there's disgrace and heart-burnings. Speak you out bold, missie, and don't lose your courage."

"I was miserable," said Sibyl. "I didn't want to go to town, and when I got to the station I slipped away; and I got into the lane outside Stoke Farm and a dog came out and frightened me, and—and—then this man came—this kind man——"

"Well, go on, Sibyl," said Mrs. Haddo; "moments are precious just now."

"I—took the packet," said Sibyl.

"You—took—the packet?"

"Yes. I don't want to speak against another. It was my fault—or mostly my fault. I did love Betty, and it didn't matter at all to me that she was expelled from the Specialities; I should love her just as much if she were expelled from fifty Specialities. But Fanny—she—she—put me against her."

"Fanny! What Fanny do you mean?"

"Fanny Crawford."

Mrs. Haddo rose at once and rang her bell. When the servant appeared she said, "Send Miss Crawford here immediately, and don't mention that any one is in my study. Now, Sibyl, keep the rest of your story until Fanny Crawford is present."

In about five minutes' time Fanny appeared. She was very white, and looked rather worn and miserable. "Oh, dear!" she said as she entered, "I am so glad you have sent for me, Mrs. Haddo; and I do trust I shall have a room to myself to-night, for I didn't sleep at all last night, and——Why, whatever is the matter? Sibyl, what are you doing here? And who—who is that man?"

"Sit down, Fanny—or stand, just as you please," said Mrs. Haddo; "only have the goodness not to speak until Sibyl has finished her story. Now, Sibyl, go on. You had come to that part where you explained that Fanny put you against Betty Vivian. No, Fanny, you do not go towards the door. Stay quietly where you are."

Fanny, seeing that all chance of exit was cut off, stood perfectly still, her eyes fixed on the ground.

"Now, Sibyl, go on."

"Fanny was very anxious about the packet, and she wanted me to watch," continued Sibyl, "so that I might discover where Betty had hidden it. I did watch, and I found that Betty had put it under one of the plants of wild-heather in the 'forest primeval.' I saw her take it out and look at it and put it back again, and when she was gone I went to the place and took the packet out myself and brought it to Fanny. I don't know where the packet is now."

"Fanny, where is the packet?" said Mrs. Haddo.

"Sibyl is talking the wildest nonsense," said Fanny. "How can you possibly believe her? I know nothing about Betty Vivian or her concerns."

"Perhaps, miss," said the farmer, coming forward at that moment, "that pointed thing sticking out o' your pocket might have something to do with it. You will permit me, miss, seeing that the young lady's life is trembling in the balance."

Before either Mrs. Haddo or Fanny could utter a word Farmer Miles had strode across the room, thrust his big, rough hand into Fanny's neat little pocket, and taken out the brown paper-packet.

"There, now," he said, "that's the kernel of the nut. I thought I'd do it somehow. Thank you kindly, ma'am, for listening to me. Miss Sibyl Ray, you may be poor in the future, but at least you'll have a light heart; and as to the dirty trick you did, I guess you won't do a second, for you have learned your lesson. I'll be wishing you good-morning now, ma'am," he added, turning to Mrs. Haddo, "for I must get back to my work. It's twelve pounds o' butter the cook wants sent up without fail to-night, ma'am; and I'm much obliged for the order."

The farmer left the room. Fanny had flung herself on a chair and covered her face with her hands. Sibyl stood motionless, awaiting Mrs. Haddo's verdict.

Once again Mrs. Haddo rang the bell. "Send Miss Symes to me," she said.

Miss Symes appeared.

"The doctor's last opinion, please, Miss Symes?"

"Dr. Ashley says that Betty is much the same. The question now is how to keep up her strength. He thinks it better to have two specialists from London, as, if she continues in such intense excitement, further complications may arise."

"Do you know where Betty's sisters are?" was Mrs. Haddo's next inquiry.

"I haven't seen them for some time, but I will find out where they are."

"As soon as ever you find them, send them straight to me. I shall be here for the present."

Miss Symes glanced in some wonder from Sibyl to Fanny; then she went out of the room without further comment.

When she was quite alone with the girls Mrs. Haddo said, "Fanny, a fresh bedroom has been prepared for you, and I shall be glad if you will go and spend the rest of this day there. I do not feel capable of speaking to you at present. As to you, Sibyl, your conduct has been bad enough; but at the eleventh hour—and, we may hope, in time—you have made restitution. You may, therefore, rejoin the girls of the lower school."

"Of the lower school?" said Sibyl.

"Yes. Your punishment is that you return to the lower school for at least a year, until you are more capable of guiding your own conduct, and less likely to be influenced by the wicked passions of girls who have had more experience than yourself. You can go to your room also for the present, and to-morrow morning you will resume your duties in the lower school."

Fanny and Sibyl both turned away, neither of them saying a word to the other. They had scarcely done so before Miss Symes came in, her face flushed with excitement, and accompanied by the twins.

"My dear girls, where have you been?" said Mrs. Haddo.

"With Mrs. Miles," said Sylvia.

"I cannot blame you, under the circumstances, although you have broken a rule. My dears, thank God for His mercies. Here is the lost packet."

Sylvia grasped it.

Hester rushed towards Sylvia and laid her hand over her sister's. "Oh! oh!" she said.

"Now, girls, can I trust you? I was told what took place this morning—how you went to Betty without leave, and promised to return with the packet. Is Betty awake at present, Miss Symes?"

"Yes," said Miss Symes, "she has been awake for a long time."

"Will you take the girls up to Betty's room? Do not go in yourself. Now, girls, I trust to your wisdom, and to your love of Betty, to do this thing very quietly."

"You may trust us," said Hetty.

They left the room. They followed Miss Symes upstairs. They entered the beautiful room where Betty was lying, her eyes shining brightly, fever high on her cheeks.

It was Hetty who put the packet into her hand. "Here it is, Betty darling. We said we'd find it for you."

Then a wonderful thing happened; for Betty looked at the packet, then she smiled, then she raised it to her lips and kissed it, then she put it under her pillow. Finally she said, "Oh, I am sleepy! Oh, I am tired!"



CHAPTER XXIII

RESTORATION

Notwithstanding the fact that the lost packet was restored, Betty's life hung in the balance for at least another twenty-four hours. During that time she tossed and sighed and groaned. The fever ran high, and her little voice kept on saying, "Oh, that I could find the packet!"

It was in this emergency that Miss Symes came to the rescue. She called Sylvia and Hester to her, and desired Hester to stand at one side of Betty's little, narrow, white bed, and Sylvia to place herself at the other.

Betty did not seem even to know her sisters. Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks deeply flushed, and there was a look of intense restlessness and great pain in her face. "Oh, that I might find the packet!" she murmured.

"Do what your heart prompts you, Sylvia," said Miss Symes.

Sylvia immediately pushed her hand under Betty's pillow, and, taking up the lost packet, took one of the girl's little, feverish hands and closed her fingers round the brown-paper parcel.

"It is found, Bettina! it is found!" said Sylvia. "Here it is. You need not fret any more."

"What! what!" said Betty. Into her eyes there crept a new expression, into her voice a new note. "Oh, I can't believe it!" she exclaimed.

But here Hetty threw in a word of affection and entreaty. "Why, Bettina," she said, "it is in your hand. Feel it, darling! feel it! We got it back for you, just as we said we would. Feel it, Bettina! feel it!"

Betty felt. Her fingers were half-numbed; but she was able to perceive the difference between the brown paper and the thick, strong cord, and again the difference between the thick cord and the sealing-wax. "How many seals are there?" she asked in a breathless, eager voice, turning and looking full at her sisters.

"Eight in all," said Sylvia, speaking rapidly: "two in front, two at each side, and two, again, fastening down the naps at the back."

"I knew there were eight," said Betty. "Let me feel them."

Sylvia conducted Betty's fingers over the unbroken seals.

"Count for me, darling, silly Sylvia!" said Betty.

Sylvia began to count: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

"It is my lost packet!" said Betty with a cry.

"It is, Betty! it is!"

"And is any one going to take it from me?"

"No one, Betty, ever again."

"Let me hold it in my hand," said Betty.

Sister Helen came up with a restorative; and when Betty had taken the nourishing contents of the little, white china cup, she again made use of that extraordinary expression, "Oh, I am so sleepy! Oh, I am tired!"

Still holding the packet in her hand, Betty dropped off into slumber; and when she came to herself the doctors said that the crisis was past.

Betty Vivian recovered very slowly, during which time the rules of the school were altogether relaxed, not only in her favor, but also in favor of the twins, Sylvia and Hetty. They were allowed to spend some hours every day with Betty, and although they spoke very little, they were able to comfort their sister immensely. At last Betty was well enough to leave her bed and creep to any easy-chair, where she would sit, feeling more dead than alive; and, by slow degrees, the girls of the school whom she loved best came to see her and comfort her and fuss over her. Margaret Grant looked very strong and full of sympathy; Martha West had that delightful voice which could not but attract all who heard her speak. Susie Rushworth, the Bertrams, Olive, and all the other Specialities, with the exception of Fanny, came to visit Betty, who, in her turn, loved to see them, and grew better each day, and stronger, and more inclined to eat the good, nourishing food which was provided for her.

All this time she had never once spoke of Fanny Crawford. The other Speciality girls were rather nervous on this account. They wondered how Betty would feel when she heard what had happened to Fanny; for Fanny, after spending a whole day and night in the small and somewhat dismal bedroom prepared for her by Mrs. Haddo's orders, refused to appear at prayers the following morning, and, further, requested that her breakfast should be taken up to her.

Betty's life was still hanging in the balance, although the doctors were not nearly so anxious as they had been the day before. Fanny was biding her time. She knew all the rules of the school, having spent so many years there. She also knew well what desolation awaited her in the future in this bright and pleasant school; for, during that painful day and that terrible night, and this, if possible, more dreadful morning, no one had come near her but the servant who brought her meals, no one had spoken to her. To all appearance she, one of the prime favorites of the school and Sir John Crawford's only daughter, was forgotten as though she had never existed. To Fanny's proud heart this sense of desertion was almost intolerable. She could have cried aloud but that she did not dare to give way; she could have set aside Mrs. Haddo's punishment, but in her heart of hearts she felt convinced that none of the girls would take her part. All the time, however, she was making up her mind. Her nicely assorted garments—her pretty evening frocks, her day-dresses of summer and winter, her underclothing, her jackets, her hats, gloves, and handkerchiefs—had all been conveyed to the small, dull room which she was now occupying. To herself she called it Punishment Chamber, and felt that she could not endure the life there even for another hour.

Being well acquainted with the usual routine of the school, Fanny busied herself immediately after breakfast in packing her different belongings into two neat cane trunks which she had desired a servant to bring to her from the box-room. Having done this, she changed the dress she was wearing for a coat and skirt of neat blue serge and a little cap to match. She wrote out labels at her desk and gummed them on the trunks. She examined the contents of her purse; she had two or three pounds of her own. She could, therefore, do pretty much what she pleased.

But although Fanny Crawford had acted perhaps worse than any other girl had acted in the school before, she scorned to run away. She would go openly; she would defy Mrs. Haddo. Mrs. Haddo could not possibly keep a girl of Fanny's age—for she would soon be seventeen—against her will. Having packed her trunks, Fanny went downstairs. The rest of the upper school were busy at their lessons. Sibyl Ray, who had returned to the lower school, was of course nowhere in sight. Fanny marched bravely down the corridor, along which she had hurried yesterday in nameless fear and trepidation. She knocked at Mrs. Haddo's door. Mrs. Haddo said, "Come in," and she entered.

"Oh, it's you, Fanny Crawford! I haven't sent for you."

"I know that," replied Fanny. "But I cannot stay any longer in disgrace in one room. I have had enough of it. I wish to tell you, Mrs. Haddo, that Haddo Court is no longer the place for me. I suppose I ought to repent of what I have done; and, of course, I never for a moment thought that Betty would be so absurd and silly to get an illness which would nearly kill her. As a matter of fact, I do not repent. The wicked person was Betty Vivian. She first stole the packet, and then told a lie about it. I happened to see her steal it, for I was saying at Craigie Muir at the time. When Miss Symes told me that the Vivians were coming to the school I disliked the idea, and said so; but I wouldn't complain, and my dislike received no attention whatsoever. Betty has great powers of fascination, and she won hearts here at once. She was asked to join the Specialities—an unheard-of-thing for a new girl at the school. I begged and implored of her not to join, referring her to Rule No. I., which prohibits any girl who is in possession of such a secret as Betty had to become a member. She would not listen to me; she would join. Then she became miserable, and confessed what she had done, but would not carry her confession to its logical conclusion—namely, confession to you and restoration of the lost packet."

"I wish to interrupt you for a minute here, Fanny," said Mrs. Haddo. "Since your father left he has sent me several letters of the late Miss Vivian's to read. In one of them she certainly did allude to a packet which was to be kept safely until Betty was old enough to appreciate it; but in another, which I do not think your father ever read, Miss Vivian said that she had changed her mind, and had put the packet altogether into Betty's charge. I do not wish to condone Betty's sins; but her only sin in this affair was the lie she told, which was evidently uttered in a moment of swift temptation. She had a right to the packet, according to this letter of Miss Frances Vivian's."

Fanny stood very still. "I didn't know that," she replied.

"I dare say you didn't; but had you treated Betty differently, and been kind to her from the first, she would probably have explained things to you."

"I never liked her, and I never shall," said Fanny with a toss of her head. "She may suit you, Mrs. Haddo, but she doesn't suit me. And I wish to say that I want you to send me, at once, to stay with my aunt Amelia at Brighton until I can hear from my father with regard to my future arrangements. If you don't send me, I have money in my pocket, and will go in spite of you. I don't like your school any longer. I did love it, but now I hate it; and it is all—all because of Betty Vivian."

"Oh, Fanny, what a pity!" said Mrs. Haddo. Tears filled her eyes. But Fanny would not look up.

"May I go?" said Fanny.

"Yes, my dear. Anderson shall take you, and I will write a note to your aunt. Fanny, is there no chance of your turning to our Divine Father to ask Him to forgive you for your sins of cruelty to one unhappy but very splendid girl?"

"Oh, don't talk to me of her splendor!" said Fanny. "I am sick of it."

"Very well, I will say no more."

Mrs. Haddo sank into the nearest chair. After a minute's pause she turned to her writing-table and wrote a letter. She then rang her bell, and desired Anderson to get ready for a short journey.

About three o'clock that day Fanny, accompanied by Anderson, with her trunks and belongings heaped on top of a station-cab, drove from Haddo Court never to return. There were no girls to say farewell; in fact, not one of her friends even knew of her departure until Mrs. Haddo mentioned it on the following morning.

"Fanny did right to go," she said. "And now we will try to live down all that has been so painful, and turn our faces once again towards the light."

* * * * *

Betty recovered all in good time; but it was not until Christmas had long passed that she first asked for Fanny Crawford. When she heard that Fanny had gone, a queer look—half of pleasure, half of pain—flitted across her little face.

"You're glad, aren't you? You're very, very glad, Bettina?" whispered Sylvia in her sister's ear.

"No, I am not glad," replied Betty. "If I had known she was going I might have spoken to her just once. As it is, I am sorry."

"Oh Bettina, why?"

"Because she has lost the influence of so noble a woman as dear Mrs. Haddo, and of so faithful a friend as Margaret Grant, and of so dear a girl as Martha West. Oh, why did I ever come here to upset things? And why did I ever tell that wicked, wicked lie?"

"You have repented now, poor darling, if any one ever did!" said both the twins.

As they spoke Mrs. Haddo entered the room. "Betty," she said, "I wish to tell you something. You certainly did exceedingly wrong when you told Sir John Crawford that you knew nothing of the packet. But I know you did not steal it, dear, for I hold a letter in my hand from your aunt, in which she told Sir John that she had given the packet absolutely into your care. Sir John could never have read that letter; but I have read it, dear, and I have written to him on the subject."

"Then I may keep the packet?" asked Betty in a very low voice.

"Yes, Betty."

"And it will read me a lesson," said Betty. "Oh, thank you! thank you!" Then she sprang to her feet and kissed Mrs. Haddo's white hands first, and then pressed a light kiss on that good lady's beautiful lips. "God will help me to do better in the future," she added.

And she was helped.

THE END



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CAPTAIN JACK LORIMER; or, The Young Athlete of Millvale High.

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

1. Chapter VIII, A New Member, had a major typesetter's error in the edition this etext was done from—the text for Rule I. was inadvertently inserted for Rule IV. The staff of the Rare Books Collection at Marriott Library, University of Utah, Salt Lake City were kind enough to research their version of the text, and provide the correction, from the original 1909 edition from W. & R. Chambers, Edinburgh.

2. Minor changes have been made to ensure consistent usage of punctuation.

3. A Table of Contents has been added for the reader's convenience.

THE END