"Please, please don't bother about me!" she implored. "I dare say it will be a good deal better now, after you and Miss Merryweather being so brave and so kind. I don't want to say anything against anybody. Please, please forget all about it, Peggy."

"I want you to be brave yourself," cried Peggy; and Lobelia started again, and shrank in her chair. "Don't be so—so—well, I don't know any word but meeching, and Margaret won't let me say that. But have a spirit of your own, and stand up to them, and give 'em as good as they send. I would, I tell you, quick enough, if they tried it on me."

Lobelia looked at her with hopeless eyes. "But I am not you!" she said. "I—Peggy, I know just how I look, and how I seem, and how little and ugly and queer I am. I don't wonder they laugh, I don't, really. I haven't any spirit, either; I can't have. You can't do anything with me; it isn't any use."

Peggy gazed at her, with eyes almost as hopeless as her own. Yet she must make one more attempt; and with it the honest blood came into her face.

"Look here, Lobelia!" she said, "I am awkward, too, and shy, and—and stupid, awfully stupid. Why, my cousin Rita used to call me—never mind, that was only before she grew so kind! But I know what it is to be laughed at, my dear! Only this morning, in rhetoric, Miss Pugsley was just as hateful as she could be, and all the girls laughed; yes, they did. So you are not so different as you think. Why,—I don't mind telling you,—when I came along just now, I was trying to get to my own room, so that I could have a good cry. There, Lobelia! now how do you feel?" Lobelia raised her eyes with a wondering look; but next moment her eyes fell on the looking-glass and she shook her head.

"No!" she said. "No, Peggy! You are kind, and you want to make me feel comfortable; but look!"

She motioned toward the mirror. Peggy looked, and her kind heart sank. She herself was no beauty; her round, fair face and honest blue eyes were pleasant to look at, and she had beautiful hair, but that was all; yet she could not help seeing that she was a very vision of loveliness beside the sallow, puny, almost deformed aspect of her poor little neighbour. She coloured deep with angry sympathy, but Lobelia only smiled, a wan little smile.

"You see!" she said. "It's no use, Peggy."

For all answer, Peggy threw her arms around the shrinking figure, and pressed it in a warm embrace. "I don't care!" she cried. "I don't say you are pretty, you poor little thing, but just remember that you are my friend, and if anybody dares to meddle with you again, they'll have to reckon with me, that's all. And now I must go, or I shall lose all the drill. Cheer up, Lobelia, and don't sit here and mope, mind! and if you have any more trouble, just knock on the floor, and I'll be up in half a quarter of a jiffy. Good-bye, dear!" and off she ran, feeling that at least she had left some degree of comfort and cheer behind her.

Soon, however, came something that put Lobelia Parkins and her troubles out of Peggy's head for the time. Bertha Haughton was not at the gymnasium, but when Peggy came back to her own room after an hour of rapture, she found a note pinned on her pincushion.

"DEAR PEGGY:—Study hard, please, and get through before this evening. The Snowy Owl is going to give us a Grand Tell about the wedding she has been to, and we both want you to come, too. I'm going to speak to Miss Russell, but you'd better ask her, too; it will be all right, for the Snowy has asked permission, anyhow. Eight o'clock, just after reading; be sure to come on time!

"Affectionately, "BERTHA."

It was hard to study through that lovely afternoon, when the other girls, or most of them, were out-of-doors, playing tennis or basket-ball, and their voices came in at the window in every tone of joyousness and delight. It was very hard to study the detested rhetoric and history, but Peggy was strong in her good resolve, and bent steadily over her books, trying her very best. Once, indeed, came a sore temptation, when a ball struck her window lightly, and, going to look out, she saw Grace Wolfe standing below.

"Come out, Innocent!" said the Scapegoat, in her deep, musical tones. "Come and sport with me!

"The ship is ready and the wind blows fair, And I am bound for the sea, Mary Anne!"

"Oh! Oh, thank you!" cried Peggy. "I wish I could, but I have to work now, I'm afraid."

"Is this a time to think o' wark, Wi' Scapegoat at the door?"

inquired Grace, looking up with her head on one side. "Why work at this hour, Innocent? Even the slaves of virtue, even the Owls, are at play now."

Peggy leaned out of the window; it really seemed as if her body would be drawn out after her longing spirit, which had been out and away from the first summons.

"Yes, the Owls!" she said. "That's just it, Miss Wolfe."

"No!" interrupted Grace. "Not Miss Wolfe! Not all AEsop! Impossible to be wolf and goat at the same time, and do justice to either character. Let it be Goat, or Grace, as you like."

"Grace, then, thank you! Well, you see, the Owls,—that is, Bertha asked me to come to their room this evening, and of course I want to dreadfully,—though not more dreadfully than I want to come out now," she added, wistfully. "And if I do, you see, I must get my rhetoric done. It's awfully hard, and I am so stupid about it, it takes me for ever. Oh, will you ask me again some time, please?"

The Scapegoat regarded her for a moment, standing with the ball in her hand, swaying her light, graceful body to and fro.

"Another slave of virtue?" she said. "Can I permit this? Innocent, I have half a mind to cause you to come down. I am to be thrown over for owls, who have, if you will consider the matter, neither horns nor hoofs? I am to let you stay and grind through the afternoon for them and for my Puggy? Well—"

Her whole face seemed to lighten with whimsical determination. She laid her hand on the fire-escape, and seemed on the point of mounting it, when suddenly another change came over her. Her eyes darkened into their usual melancholy look.

"Here's luck!" she said, abruptly. "See you later, Innocent!" She was gone, and Peggy, with a revulsion of feeling, wished she had gone with her. Bertha was a dear, and Miss Merryweather looked lovely, but neither of them had the fascination of this strange girl, so unlike any one she had ever seen in her life.

It was a forlorn afternoon; but Peggy stuck to her work manfully, and had the satisfaction of closing the book at last with the feeling that she was sure of it now, however things might be in the morning under Miss Pugsley's hostile eye.

There was still a little time left before supper. She ran out to the lawn, hoping to find Grace Wolfe still there, but she was disappointed. The only occupants of the lawn were half a dozen sophomores clustered together at one end. Blanche Haight was among them, and at sight of Peggy she turned her back pointedly, and whispered to the others. They turned with one accord and stared at Peggy, with a cool insolence that made her blood boil within her and surge up in angry red to her forehead. She could not do anything about it; they had a right to stare, if they had no better manners. She returned the look for a moment, then turned away with a sore and angry heart. Fortunately, at this moment came out two classmates of her own whom she knew slightly,—mild, pleasant girls, with no special traits of interest, but still friendly and approachable. They were going to play tennis, and invited Peggy to join them; so she had a good half-hour of exercise and pleasure, and came in with rosy cheeks, and with the cobwebs all blown away for the time.

At eight o'clock Peggy was standing before her glass, putting a last touch to her hair, and surveying her image with some anxiety. Did she "look nice?" Peggy had as little personal vanity as a girl could well have; but she had learned from her cousin Margaret that it was part of her duty to look as well as she could. Her cousin Rita would have had her go further than this.

"Study, my child," Rita would cry, "to be beautiful! Let it be your dream by night, your thought by day!" And, in all kindness, Rita would try to teach her how to cross her feet so that they might look slender, how to extend her little finger when she raised her hand, "not too much, but to an exact point, cherie!" how to turn her head so as to show the lines of the neck to advantage. But Peggy's own good sense, aided by Margaret's calm wisdom, had told her the inappropriateness of Rita's graceful airs and poses to her own sturdy personality. She was to look nice; more she could not aspire to. So here she was to-night, in a pretty blue silk waist, with a serge skirt of a darker shade, her hair smoothly braided in one mammoth "pigtail," and tied with blue ribbons, her neat collar fastened with a pretty pearl brooch. Thus attired, our Peggy was truly pleasant to look upon; and her "Is that right, Margaret?" brought a little satisfied nod of reply from the smiling image in the glass.

Drawing near the Owl's Nest, she heard a hum of voices, and straightway her heart sank again, and shyness possessed her. There was a crowd there! They would all be juniors and seniors, and she the only freshman among them. How could she go in? Oh! she almost wished she was up in the other corridor with the younger girls!

But at this moment the door opened, and Bertha's kind face looked out.

"Here you are, Peggy!" she cried, cordially. "Come along; there's plenty of room, for I've saved a place for you. Come!"

For a moment Peggy hung back, and knew how Lobelia Parkins felt; then she made an effort, and followed Bertha into the room.

The Owl's Nest was a corner room, with windows on two sides. It seemed to be furnished chiefly with books. There were the two brass beds, of course, the twin bureaus, the desks, and table. All of these, except the beds, were covered with books; bookshelves took up most of the wall space, though there were two or three good pictures, among them a great photograph of the sea, that almost dashed the spray in one's face, so perfect was it. It was at a later visit that Peggy observed the books; now, she was conscious of nothing save the girls. The room was certainly full of them. There were three on each bed, curled up in every variety of picturesque and comfortable attitude; two sat on one of the bureaus, having pushed books and toilet articles up into a toppling and highly perilous mountain behind them; four more crouched somehow on the rather narrow window-seats. The rest were on the floor, except two early birds, who had come in time to get the two chairs. The floor was made comfortable with sofa-pillows, borrowed from the whole length of the corridor. Altogether, there might have been twenty girls in the room, and every girl was, or seemed to be, talking as fast as her tongue could move.

Peggy was hailed with a bird-like call from one corner.

"My Veezy-vee! come here, Peggy Montfort, and sit by me."

It was Viola Vincent. She was curled up at the head of one of the beds. She wore the prettiest pink tea-gown imaginable, and her hair was a wonder of puffs and curls.

"Come here!" she repeated, patting the pillows. "Lots of room; miles! Let her come here, Fluffy!"

"Yes, she shall, in a minute, V.," replied Bertha. "But first,—Toots, here's Peggy Montfort!"

The Snowy Owl came swiftly out of the closet, where she had been performing some mystic rite; she took Peggy's two hands in hers, and held them in a warm, firm grasp that was the very soul of cordiality.

"I'm so glad!" she said. "How's the poor little thing? Better? I'm sure you did her a great deal of good."

"Oh, no!" stammered Peggy, pleased and confused. "I couldn't really do anything; but she is feeling better."

Gertrude Merryweather nodded wisely. "My dear, you can do a great deal for her!" she said. "We'll have a talk sometime; no chance now. Only, Bertha has been telling me things, and I'm so glad you are in our street! There, now V. shall have you."

Judge of the glow at Peggy's heart, on these words from the Junior President, the best-loved girl—or so it was said—in the whole school. Those foolish tears actually got half-way up to her eyes,—only they were very different from the last tears; but fortunately Viola's high-pitched babble drove them back again.

"My dear! How nice you look! perf'ly fine! doesn't she, V.? Say, that's a dandy pin you've got on, simply dandy! There! isn't this too quaint for anything? You comfy? so'm I! Room, my dear? gallons of room! I haven't seen you for an age; where have you kept yourself? I looked into your room, though, and it's perf'ly fine! I told you it would be, when you had things fixed. Your chintz is too perfectly sweet for anything; isn't it, V.? We were simply cold with envy, weren't we, V.?"

"Do cackle for yourself, if you must cackle, V.!" responded Vivia Varnham, who sat on the same bed, a little lower down. "I can't hear myself think, you make such a noise."

"No, really?" cried Viola. "But that must be such an advantage sometimes, V. But, say! we came here to hear the Snowy talk, didn't we? She hasn't had much chance yet, has she? Are you ready to talk, Snowy? Oh, you duck! it is too perfectly enchanting to have you back again. I haven't lived since you went away, have I, V.? I've been simply a vegetable, haven't I, V.? Potatoes, my dear, are lively compared to me. Are you ready to talk, Snowy?"

"If you are ready to have me," replied the Snowy Owl, laughing. "First, however—here!"

She produced a mammoth box of "marshmallows," and handed it around. It was received with a shout.

"Toast 'em!" cried one. "Hat-pins!" cried another. There was a movement toward the gas-jet; but Bertha Haughton checked it decidedly. "You have come here to hear the Snowy tell!" she said. "It's a long tell, and if you begin toasting now, there won't be time. Tell first, toast afterward! that's what I say!"

"Hark to the Fluffy! she speaks well!" cried the girls. There was silence; and Gertrude Merryweather, sitting on the floor, with her hands clasped around her knees, began her "tell."



CHAPTER VII.

WEDDING BELLS.

"To begin with, girls, this is Fluffy's idea, not mine! Of course none of you ever saw our Hildegarde, so I didn't suppose you would care particularly; but when I was telling the Fluffy last night, she said it was selfish and all kinds of things to keep it to ourselves, and that you must all hear about it; so if you don't find it interesting, pull out the Fluffy's feathers, not mine.

"Hildegarde Grahame—she is Hildegarde Merryweather now, but I cannot realise it yet—has been a very dear friend of ours for several years. We think there is no one like her in the world; I'll show you a picture of her by and by. Well, a year ago she became engaged to my uncle."

"Your uncle!" cried the girls. "Why, I thought she was a girl!"

"So she is a girl, but Roger—well, he is my uncle, but he isn't so very much older than I am. That is—he is twenty-five, and Hildegarde is twenty; so you see it is just exactly right. There isn't anybody like him, either. He is as near an angel as a man can come and be alive; and he is tremendously clever, really eminent already in his profession, and we all love him to distraction."

"Is he handsome?" asked Viola Vincent.

"I don't know; yes, I think he is. Not a barber-shop beauty, though. He is tall, and very strong, broad-shouldered, with the kindest eyes in the world, and a smile that makes you crinkle all over with pleasure. Well, and so they were engaged, and now they are married; the wedding was on Wednesday, and this is Friday, and here I am. Now I'll begin at the very beginning of the day. Of course we woke up early, and looked out of the window; and it was all gray and cloudy. I thought it was going to rain, and I was in the depths, but Bell—you know Bell, my sister, at college—was sure it would clear before seven, and so it did. The sun came out bright and clear, and soon we saw that it was going to be the most beautiful day that ever was. We had been out in the fields all day before, getting flowers, and we had them all ready in tubs and bowls and pitchers; so after breakfast we could go right to work on the decorations. We did the church first. It is a pretty stone church, with a good deep chancel. We filled in the back of the chancel with great ferns—mostly evergreen ferns, so that they would not wilt—and palms and things; and then we made banks and banks of asters and goldenrod,—oh, it was lovely! Most of them came from the camp-pasture, Bertha; you remember how lovely it is in September."

Bertha nodded. "I should think I did!" she said. "Most beautiful place I ever saw, except the rest of it all."

"Well, I never saw it look more beautiful than that day before the wedding, when Bell and the boys and I rode out on our wheels, and came back by moonlight, with great bundles of purple and gold tied on our backs and nodding over our heads. But all the ferns and the asters and chrysanthemums and roses came mostly from Hildegarde's own garden at Braeside, and from Roseholme, Colonel Ferrers's place. We might have carpeted the church entirely with asters, if we had wanted to; as it was, we had great garlands of them twined over the chancel rail and swinging among the ferns and goldenrod; really, I never saw so many flowers at one time in my life. When that was all done we went to the house, Braeside, the Grahames' house, to see if we could help there; but Mrs. Flower, a friend of Hildegarde's, of whom we used to be the least little bit jealous before we knew her, was there, and another friend, Miss Desmond,—she was one of the bridesmaids,—and they had everything so beautifully arranged that there was nothing for us to do but stand and admire it with all our eyes. People in New York had sent down all kinds of splendid flowers, boxes and boxes of them, so that the house was a perfect bower, and smelt like the Vale of Cashmere; but we knew very well that Hilda would like our flowers best. Then—well, a lot more presents had come since the night before, so as there was time enough before dressing, we went in to see them. I don't suppose you care about the presents, girls!"

"Oh! oh! we do!" cried the girls, in chorus. "We want to hear about every single one, Snowy."

"My dears! it would take me all night, and then I couldn't remember them all. But I'll try and tell you some of them. Let me see! Colonel Ferrers gave her a set of sapphires; the most beautiful things you ever saw. Necklace and pendant and pin, most wonderful dark blue stones, set in star-shape. And Jack Ferrers and his father gave her some wonderful Roman gold-work—I don't know how to describe it, I never saw anything like it—that Jack picked up in Europe. Then there was silver, heaps and heaps of it, from relatives in New York and I don't know where; some of it very handsome indeed, but I don't care so much about silver, do you? I remember there were ten salt-cellars, no two alike. But the things we cared for were the small presents that came from people we knew; people who loved Hildegarde, not just because she was their grandniece or something, but because she was herself. Oh, some of them were funny, girls! There were two dear old people who had come a long way to the wedding, a Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, with whom Hilda spent a summer when she was about fifteen, and whom she has been fond of ever since. I should think she would be; the old lady has a face like Raphael's grandmother—I can't think of any other way of describing it; and Mr. Hartley is simply a duck, the dearest funny old man you ever saw. Well, they brought Hilda the most beautiful toilet-set I ever saw or dreamed of,—something wonderful, all blue dragons and gilding. Papa said it was very rare; and Hilda cried when she saw it, and scolded them dreadfully for bringing it away from its own room; but still she was delighted to have it, and says she will never use any other. Then there was young Doctor Chirk,—funny name, isn't it?—Mrs. Flower's brother. Such a nice, bright, jolly fellow! Well, he was part of that same summer, it seems, and he carved a beautiful frame out of wood that grew in Hartley's Glen; and Mrs. Flower, who paints very well, had made a picture of the glen itself—lovely place!—for the frame, or I suppose the frame was made to fit the picture, no matter which; and that filled her with joy.

"Then there were the people from Bywood. My dear, Miss Wealthy Bond is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, except two. She is just like live Dresden china, smiling and dimpling; and the dear quaint maid who came with her, Martha, had made Hildegarde's whole winter provision of jellies and jams, because 'it wasn't likely Hildegarde would have time herself this first season, and it wasn't a thing you could trust to hired help in general.' Miss Bond herself had brought china—my dear! did you ever see tortoise-shell crockery? Well, it is a most beautiful thing, and the art was lost a hundred years ago, and each piece is worth I don't know how much; but this dear old lady had a dozen plates, all hexagonal, too, and not a single point broken or chipped, and two pitchers,—well, I haven't the heart even to think of those pitchers, I wanted them so,—and they were all for Hilda, because Hilda had brought the sunshine back into her life, she told me.

"Girls, it was the same story everywhere. Mrs. Grahame being so delicate, and Hilda so busy, Bell and I were there a great deal the few days before the wedding, and we took the guests to walk and drive and so on. Everywhere it was the same story, the joy and brightness and love that this one girl had carried with her wherever she went. I never shall forget it—never.

"Then—let me see—what next? Oh! I had nearly forgotten the dear little boy, Benny, Miss Bond's adopted son. He considers Hilda his own private property, and he was furiously jealous of Roger and everybody else. When he first came it was quite sad, really, the child was so unhappy, and there was no consoling him. He wanted Hilda to sing to him and play with him just as she did when she was staying there at Bywood; and naturally she couldn't, poor dear, though it was wonderful how she managed to be with them all a little every day, and to see to almost everything, so that her mother should have no care or worry. Well, where was I? oh! the little boys. Hugh Allen, our Hugh,—I can't stop to tell you about Hugh now, but he is the dearest, queerest little fellow,—Hugh watched all this for awhile, and then he took Benny away with him, down into the garden, and they were gone a long time. And when they came back Benny marched straight up to Roger, and said, 'You are nice! you can have my girl,' and then marched off again, and went and cried, poor lamb, till Hugh comforted him.

"But I am not getting on with the presents, am I? We all gave her linen, because she had to have that, and we wanted to do something ourselves; so we, my mother and Bell and Kitty and I, hemmed every one of the table-cloths and napkins, and embroidered the marks on all the towels, and had a beautiful time over it. Mammy read to us part of the time while we sewed, all the interesting weddings that she could find in history or fiction, and that was great fun; then she wrote some funny verses to go with them, and they really were lovely patterns, so it was a nice present, though strictly necessary, you see. Oh, I haven't told you about the diamonds! Helena Desmond was so funny about them! 'Hilda,' she said, 'it was clear from the beginning that I must be offered up on the altar of diamonds. I detest diamonds. They are absolutely uninteresting; they are almost vulgar. Never mind, you have to have some, and nobody else will be stupid and commonplace enough to give them to you. I had hopes of your Aunt Emily, but she has expended herself in lace, and was so happy over it that I hadn't the heart to whisper "diamonds!" in her ear, as I had meant to do. Here they are, my child; the customary horrors!'

"Well, they were very beautiful, though I confess I should have liked pearls better for Hilda. A diamond crescent and star, really splendid. She is very rich, you know."

"Is that the great beauty?" asked a girl.

"Yes, she is superb, certainly. Next to Hilda, perhaps—but I'll come to that presently. Well, now perhaps I have told you half the things, or rather more than half; but they are the things I cared most about, you see. I can't go into a list of forks and spoons. So now I come to the wedding itself."

The girls drew a long breath and leaned forward; presents were very well, but weddings were better.

"It was at noon, of course. There were only two bridesmaids, Helena Desmond and I. Hilda said she wanted only her nearest and dearest, so she would not ask her cousins, though I fancy they had hoped to be asked. She wanted Bell, but Bell said it was positively necessary that she should play the organ, and so it was. We wore perfectly plain white muslin gowns, but, oh, they were so pretty! with soft pale green sashes, and little wreaths of ivy in our hair. Hildegarde wanted everything as simple as possible, so we didn't go into hats, or any of that kind of nonsense. Jerry—my brother Gerald—was best man, and the ushers were Phil and Willy, my other brothers, and Jack Ferrers and Doctor Chirk and Hugh Allen. Well, so the hour came.

"Helena and I were ready and waiting at Braeside when Hilda came down-stairs. Girls, you never saw anything so lovely in your lives as she was. Her dress was very simple, too, white embroidered muslin, exquisitely fine. Colonel Ferrers brought it from India, years and years ago, for a lovely young girl who died while he was on his way home. It had been made in the house, and it looked just like her, as her dresses always do. She wore a little gold pin that Roger made for her himself,—mined the gold and all,—no other ornament, and a wreath of white roses, roses that the Roseholme gardener had been nursing all summer to make them blossom just at the right time. That was his present; everybody wanted to do something, you see."

"What does she look like?" asked a girl.

"Well, you have to see her to know what she really looks like, for half of it is the expression and the look in her eyes. Gray eyes, so clear and true,—you know she couldn't say or do anything unkind or false to save her life,—and a colour just like a wild rose, and a nose,—well, it's just her own nose, tilted up a little, but perfectly delightful; and when she smiles, you think she has the most beautiful mouth in the world, though I don't suppose she really has. Here, this gives you a little idea of her; just a very little, for it doesn't begin to think of doing her justice."

The girls clustered eagerly to see the photograph, which was passed on from hand to hand. It was a lovely face, indeed, at which they looked; yet, as Gertrude said, the actual beauty was the least part of its charm. Truth and kindness shone from it; not the lightest and most foolish girl there but felt grave for a moment, meeting that steady look of cheer and constancy.

"And yet she looks awfully jolly, too!" said one, breaking the silence, and voicing the thought of all.

"My dear, she is more fun—"

"Than a goat?" asked a new voice; and Grace Wolfe slipped in quietly at the window, and, nodding to the company, took her seat on the floor.

"I have heard all!" she said. "Go on, Snowy! I see now where you got your virtues; this young woman has much to answer for."

Gertrude looked at her kindly, but said nothing; in a moment the story went on.

"We walked over to the church—it is only a few steps—just as we were, without any formal arrangement. Hilda held her mother's hand fast all the time; they were both very quiet. The dear old black cook walked with them, crying all the way. Hugh had Hilda's other hand. I—I can't tell about this part."

Gertrude's voice faltered for a moment; then she went on more steadily.

"Colonel Ferrers was waiting at the church door, with his brother, Mr. Raymond Ferrers. All the ushers were there, too, and we could see that the church was full. And, oh! just a little way from the door was a band of little girls, Hilda's sewing-class, and they all had baskets of flowers, and scattered them in front of her as she walked. I forgot to put that in where it belonged, but it was very pretty, and if you had seen the way they looked at her!

"Well, then it all seemed to happen in a moment. Mr. Raymond Ferrers took Mrs. Grahame up the aisle; and then the organ broke out with the wedding march. I have heard my sister Bell play pretty well, but never as she did then. It seemed to fill the whole world, and yet it was not too loud, either. Then the ushers went up, and then Helena and I, and then came our dear bride on Colonel Ferrers' arm. Roger was waiting at the altar steps with Gerald. He came forward to meet her, and took both her hands,—oh, with such a beautiful look in his face! and then drew her arm through his, so proud and quiet and happy, and then the service went on. They both spoke so clearly, everybody could hear them, and the ring was ready, and there was not a mistake anywhere; only both Jerry and the colonel were on the point of breaking down, both of them, and every time the colonel blew his nose I could see Jerry start and wince. And so they were married, and the music broke out again, and Roger put back the veil and kissed his wife; and—and then they came back down the aisle, and—and—and that is all!"

Gertrude had struggled hard for composure. She had nearly outgrown the childish proneness to tears, which in early days had earned her the home sobriquet of "Chelsea Waterworks;" but this recital touched her too nearly, and she had overcalculated her power of self-restraint. Her voice broke altogether, and she could only nod and smile through her tears on Bertha, who was regarding her remorsefully.

"I ought not to have made you, Toots!" said Bertha. "I did want them to hear it, it has been so beautiful. Don't cry, dear!" But Grace Wolfe came and laid her hand on Gertrude's shoulder, and spoke in a tone one hardly ever heard in that voice.

"Don't stop her!" she said, gravely. "Let her cry! It's good for her—and for all of us! Snowy, your friend is a blessed creature, and you are another."

No one spoke for a few moments. Peggy was crying quietly in her corner, and feeling that she had been at the wedding herself, and wondering what she should possibly do if Margaret should ever get married.

But now the Snowy Owl wiped away her tears in good earnest, and spoke in her own cheerful tones.

"Come, this will never do. Girls, we have extra time to-night, Miss Russell was so kind when I told her what I wanted to do; but even that time will be up if we don't mind. Volunteers to toast marshmallows!"

Instantly there was a rush and a cry. A dozen hands were stretched out. Hat-pins appeared, as if by magic, brandished on every side. In another moment a dozen marshmallows were frizzling over the gas-jets, while the student lamp did duty for several more. As soon as one was done, it was popped, hissing hot, into an open mouth, and the hat-pin, charged with another freight, returned to the charge. Cries of mingled joy and anguish rose on every side.

"Oh, I am burnt entirely! The skin is all off my lips."

"Here, for me one!"

"No, she has had two already! Fluffy, my turn next!"

It was a merry Babel. The fun rose higher and higher. Peggy dried her eyes, and looked on wondering. How could they hear each other? They were all talking at once, each one faster than the other.

"My dear! Perf'ly fine, wasn't it? Oh, I do love to hear a tell—"

"When my cousin was married, she had eight bridesmaids, and they wore just mob caps, not another thing—"

"Orange-blossoms are too sweet for anything, but they make some people—"

"Simply pea-green, my dear, with fright, and she had blue woollen socks on over her white slippers—'something blue,' you know,—and forgot to take them off—"

"Her head, and you never saw anything like it in your life. It measured three yards around, if it did—"

"A sunburst, you know, diamonds and pearls. I adore diamonds, for my part. Why, to be married without diamonds would be—"

"Simply fierce! I should die, I know I should, before I got half-way up the aisle. But to see one, and the music and flowers and all, is—"

"Dandy! perf'ly dandy! I wouldn't miss it for all the—"

"Flounces, my dear, up to the waist, as true as I sit here! and she said 'No!' She said: 'Before I'll be flounced to the waist, I'll—'"

"Marry a tin peddler! said there was nothing in the world she'd like better, because then she could—"

"Sit still the whole morning without moving a muscle, for fear of breaking her—"

"Heart, with forty pearls and sixty diamonds. Fact, I assure you, my dear! I had it from—"

"A perfect brute, not fit for any one to—"

Here, Destiny knocked on the door; the round, rosy face of Miss Carey, the housekeeper, looked in.

"Girls, you really must go to bed. Miss Russell sent me to say so. Do you know what time it is?"

Grace Wolfe slipped like a shadow out of the window and was gone unseen; the assembly broke up with laughter and cheers for the Snowy and the Fluffy, and snatches of talk bubbling all the way along the corridor. When Peggy reached her room, she found the Scapegoat already there, sitting on the floor and chanting solemnly:

"I have nailed my Puggy's slippers Down upon her closet floor. She may pray with both her flippers, But she'll never use them more!"



CHAPTER VIII.

BY MOONLIGHT.

The time went quickly enough at Miss Russell's. Once the routine established, lesson followed lesson and day followed day with amazing rapidity. Before Peggy could realise that she was fairly settled, a month had passed. It was not so bad now; in fact, a good deal of it was very pleasant, she was obliged to admit. Her geometry was a constantly progressing joy; so was her anatomy, and she had the happy consciousness that she was doing well in both studies. This enabled her to bear up against the bitterness of rhetoric and of Miss Pugsley. As for the history, once equally dreaded, its terrors had nearly vanished. Miss Cortlandt had a way of making things so clear that one could not help remembering them once they were explained. Furthermore, she managed to invest the lay-figures of dead and gone kings and conquerors with life and motion. Alexander the Great was no longer a tiresome person in a book, who cried in an absurd way when there was nothing left to conquer. That had always exasperated Peggy, "because if he had had any sense, he would have gone on, and found out for himself what a lot more there was, that his old books and seers and things had never found out." But now, she found Alexander in the first place a boy who knew about horses, which in itself was a great thing, and in the second place a man who knew about a great many other things, and who acted on his knowledge in a variety of swift and surprising ways. As with this hero, so with others, till Peggy came to look forward, actually, to the history hour; which shows what a teacher can do when she understands her girls, and knows enough to call Plutarch and his peers (if any!) to aid her in her task.

But when all was said and done, Peggy was not cut out for a student; and her happiest hours were not those of even the pleasantest class-room. Basket-ball claimed her for its own, and she proved an apt and ready learner in this branch of study. Less swift than Grace Wolfe, who seemed a thing compact of steel and gossamer, she was far stronger to meet an attack, and many a rush came and passed, and left the stalwart freshman standing steady and undaunted in her place.

The hours of sport brought the two girls nearer and nearer together; and Peggy found herself yielding more and more—often against her own judgment—to the fascination of the lawless girl, who on her part seemed curiously drawn to the simple, downright, law-abiding freshman.

It was about this time that Peggy found out why her room had been called Broadway. The nights were still fine and warm, though it was now October. Apples were ripe in the neighbouring orchards; and though it was perfectly practicable and allowable to buy all the apples one wanted in the daytime, that method did not approve itself to the wilder spirits at Miss Russell's school.

To slide down the fire-escape, slip across the lawn, keeping well under the trees by the edge, and so out into the road and down to the nearest orchard, only a few rods off,—this was the true way to get apples, and a very thrilling way it was. Peggy had been a good deal startled when the first merry party, with noiseless steps and stifled giggles, came stealing into her room, and, nodding to her, made their way out of the window and down the fire-escape. It never occurred to her to make any effort to stop them; they were sophomores, and she only a freshman. She supposed it was against the rules, but of course they would not really do any harm; and oh, what a good time they would have!

She looked after them with a sigh, and wished them luck in her heart, a successful raid, and a safe return. Indeed, it was not long before they were back, rosy and breathless, with baskets and pockets stuffed with apples. The Fresh Freshman, as Peggy was called, did not fail to receive her share; and she ate it with a little thrill of vicarious guilt which was certainly not unpleasant. The two Owls never came with these parties; and somehow Peggy did not mention the matter to them, though she saw them constantly, and loved them always more and more. Sometimes the expeditions were headed by Grace Wolfe, in her wildest mood; sometimes it was Viola Vincent, who came tripping in with a band of her chosen intimates. Viola had several times asked Peggy to be of the party, but Peggy had not gone,—she could hardly have said why. Why was it that Grace had never asked her? If she had, perhaps—

The night came when Grace did ask her.

Peggy had been studying as usual, and the signal for "lights out" came while she was still at her task. Out went the light, for Peggy was, as we have said, a law-abiding citizen. She was groping about, not yet used to the half-light of the growing moon, when the door opened, and Grace glided in with her usual noiseless tread. She laid her hand over Peggy's mouth without a word, and stood motionless, seeming to listen. Then she said aloud and deliberately:

"Yes, I must go this minute. I had no idea it was so late. Suppose Miss Pugsley should catch us! You know she goes around and listens at the doors every now and then, and looks through the keyholes to see what is going on."

"Oh, Grace!" said Peggy.

"Fact, I assure you. I sometimes wonder what Miss Russell would say if she knew it. That isn't her own style, you see. The fun of it is, the other never realises that the wheeze gives her away every time."

Grace Wolfe had the ears of a fox; but, in the pause that followed, even Peggy heard, or fancied she heard, a breathing outside the door. It was only for an instant, if, indeed, it had been at all; yet in another moment a board creaked somewhere along the corridor, and again in a moment came the slight but unmistakable sound of a closing door.

Grace laughed, and pirouetted merrily on one foot, looking in the moonlight like a glimmering sprite.

"Oh, Grace!" repeated Peggy, aghast. "Was she—could she have been there, do you think?"

"She could very easily have been there. Innocent," replied the Scapegoat. "Indeed, she was. I saw the glitter of her eye, and a sweet thing it was."

"Oh, but how could you? how dared you? Surely, you will get into dreadful trouble, Grace."

"Not I!" said Grace. "She can't report me, you observe, without saying that she was listening at the door. And even if she did, Miss Russell would ask her what I said, and she would be sad and sorry to relate that. No! this time I am safe enough, my Prairie Flower. But come, now that I am here, shall we be merry?

"The owl is abroad, the bat, and the toad, And so is the catamountain.

"Shall the Goat be lacking on such a night as this, or the Wolf either? One has one's responsibilities toward one's names. Come, Innocent, we'll go abroad and celebrate my victory over my Puggy!"

Grace's tone was as quiet as ever, but she was more excited than Peggy had ever seen her. Her eyes shone; her hair, which was very beautiful, was unbraided for some reason—one never knew what whim would seize the whimsical one—and hung like a mantle about her shoulders. Standing thus, with her hand on the window, she looked, as I have said, like a creature from another world.

"Come!" she repeated; and Peggy had never heard sweeter music than her voice.

"Do you—do you think I ought to?" stammered the freshman, moving toward the window.

"One owes it to the catamountain!" cried Grace. "As for the owls,—well, they will be abroad!" she added, with a low laugh. "They would be far enough abroad if they knew. Come, Innocent!"

She glided out of the window, and Peggy followed, her heart beating to suffocation, her cheeks glowing with excitement. To be chosen by the Lone Wolf (for this was another of the wild girl's nicknames, the third being Ishmael) as the companion of one of her solitary rambles was perhaps the most thrilling thing that had ever come into Peggy's simple life. Probably she would have had courage to resist an invitation from any of the frolicsome parties that came and went through her room; she had no power to resist this. Silently she followed the Scapegoat down the iron ladder of the fire-escape, across the lawn, out into the open road.

Grace turned to her with one of her sudden movements, and took both her hands.

"The world's before us, where to choose!" she cried. "What shall it be, Innocent? Shall we climb up into the tower and ring the fire-bell? or go for apples? This is your first expedition, you shall choose."

"Oh, no, Grace; please! I don't know. I cannot. I'll go wherever you go, that's all!"

The Scapegoat meditated. "On the whole," she announced, "soda seems to be the thing. We'll go and have some soda, Innocent."

"Go down-town?" gasped Peggy.

"Yes; why not? Only to Mrs. Button's. You know she is the college grandmother; why shouldn't she be ours? Many's the time Granny Button has sheltered me from the wrath to come. Besides, I have had no marshmallows for a week. A vow, a vow! I have a vow in heaven to have marshmallows once a week, merely for the honour of the school."

Granny Button, as she was called, kept a neat little shop at the corner of the High Street. Here she dispensed soda-water, candy, and cakes to the students of school and college. She was a little old woman, with a face like a dry but still sound winter apple, and she shook her head reprovingly as the two girls entered.

"Now, Miss Wolfe!" she said. "You hadn't ought to come here at this time, now you hadn't, my dear. What do you want? I declare, I've most of a mind not to give it to you, for a wild slip as you are. What would Miss Russell say if she should come in this blessed minute, Miss Grace?"

"Ah, but she won't, granny!" said Grace, coolly. "She's gone to a lecture, you see, so it is all right, truly it is.

"I saw her go; one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet.

"I got so exhausted studying, I feared the vital spark might become extinguished, might pop out, granny, if I didn't have some soda. Two pineapple creams, please, and be quick about it. I'll be getting the marshmallows while you pour it."

The old woman filled the long glasses, shaking her head all the time, and muttering about naughty girls and dark closets.

Peggy drank the soda, but it did not taste very good, and her hand trembled as she held the glass. Her eyes were fixed on the door, and every moment she expected to see it open, and Miss Russell or one of the teachers enter. But no one came. Grace found the marshmallows, and in high spirits brought them to Mrs. Button to count and tie up for her.

"Granny, you look lovely to-night!" she said. "Don't try to look cross, Granny Button, for you don't know how. Smile on me, lovely one, for we must kiss and part."

"Indeed, then, we'd better, Miss Grace," cried the good woman; "and don't let me see you here again this long while, save and except at proper hours. I know well enough I ought to tell that good lady of all the times you've been here out of hours. Yes, dear, I know it well enough, and sometimes it makes me uneasy in my bed. But you have the beguiling of the serpent himself, Grace Wolfe, and you know it, and that's the worst."

"Isn't it?" said Grace, pensively; and her large eyes were full of tender gravity, as she fixed them on the old woman.

"I'll add serpent to my menagerie, and thank you, granny! Nobody ever called you serpent, did they, dear? Wait till you come to my time in life, and you'll know what it is to suffer.

"Well, Innocent, shall we come? After all, it is hard to stay where one isn't wanted, and the only trouble with Granny Button is that she has no heart."

"Yes, go, dear!" said the old woman to Peggy, eagerly. "Go right along home now, and don't let Miss Grace bring ye out again, as she's a naughty girl, and so I always tell her, though I never can say no to her, and that's the truth. But you are different, dear, and a freshman, I'll be bound; and don't let me see ye here again without leave or license, let alone the hour as is getting on for 'lights out.'"

"Fare thee well, my first and fairest!" said Grace, kissing her hand at the door. "Till our next meeting!"

It was only a few steps back from the turn into the High Street. Peggy's pulse began to beat more naturally; in a moment, now, they would be back, safe back, and she would never do it again, no matter what Grace thought of her. Fun was fun, but it was not worth this; and what would Margaret say?

Coming up from the High Street, they skirted a field that lay like waving silver in the moonlight. Nothing would do but that Grace must have a run through this field; she declared that it was her favourite spot in the world.

"After all, soda and marshmallows are carnal!" she insisted. "Our bodies are fed, Innocent, our souls starve for want of poetry. There is poetry in all that silver waving. I must! I must prance, or I shall not rest in my bed. Come along!"

And she went flitting about through the long grass, hither and thither like a will-o'-the-wisp, her long hair floating around her, her arms waving in gestures sometimes fantastic, but always graceful. Peggy could think of nothing but her cousin Rita, as she used to dance in the old days at Fernley. What a pair she and Grace would make! What a mercy they had never come together. Moreover, her heart, the heart of a farmer's daughter, smote her at the treading down of the grass. She stood at the edge of the field, now and then calling to her companion and urging her to come home, but for the most part simply watching her in mingled terror and admiration.

At length the wild spirit was satisfied, and Grace came flying back, radiant and breathless.

"That was glorious!" she said. "Poor little Innocent, you haven't much soul, have you? Still, I love you. Come, we will go back to the shades."

They neared the gate; as they did so, they heard voices and the sound of approaching footsteps. Grace paused for a moment; then held up her hand with a warning gesture. Peggy felt her heart turn cold; it was coming! one of the voices was that of Miss Russell. It was impossible for them to escape being seen. The broad stretch of the lawn lay between them and safety, and the relentless moonlight lay full upon the hedge which had lain in shadow when they came out. Peggy braced herself to meet the shock; but Grace laid a hand on her arm, and then made a gesture. A great tree stood just by the gate of Pentland School; a chestnut-tree, with low-jutting, wide-spreading branches. With the swift movement of some woodland creature, Grace Wolfe swung herself up to the lowest branch, and motioned Peggy to follow; Peggy was a good climber, too; more slowly, but with equal agility, she gained the branch; then softly, slowly, both girls crept along, inward and upward, till a thick screen of leaves hid them completely from sight.

Two ladies came around the turn, and paused a moment at the gate,—Miss Russell and Miss Cortlandt. They stood directly under the chestnut-tree; Peggy could have dropped a nut down exactly on the crown of Miss Russell's bonnet; she never knew how near Grace came to doing so, nor how hard it was to refrain for her, Peggy's, sake.

"I hope not!" said Miss Russell. "I do most earnestly hope not."

"I am afraid there is little doubt of it!" replied Miss Cortlandt. "Miss Pugsley seemed quite positive; I know she means to bring it up at Faculty Meeting to-morrow night."

Miss Russell sighed. "Then it will not be done in the wisest manner!" she said. "I can say this to you, Emily, for you understand her as well as I do. I had hoped," she continued, "that the whole business would be over when Wilhelmina Lightwood—well, I suppose she will always be 'Billy,' even to me—when Billy went away. I put Peggy Montfort there, because she seemed such an honest, steady, sensible kind of girl. I thought I could trust Peggy Montfort."

"I think you can!" said Miss Cortlandt. "I don't believe Peggy has had any share in the flittings. But I do think it might perhaps have been better to tell her all about it, and put her on her guard. Being a new girl, she might not feel at liberty to stop the older ones when they came; and she could not tell of it. You see, Miss Russell, it is such a little time since I was a 'girl' myself, that I haven't got away from their point of view yet."

"I hope you never will, my dear!" said Miss Russell, warmly. "It is when I get too far away from that point of view myself that I make mistakes. Yes, I ought to have put the child on her guard; I'll do so to-morrow."

She looked over toward the school, and sighed again.

"Broad is the way that leadeth to destruction!" she said. "It was Grace who gave it the name, of course. Poor Grace!"

"Poor Grace!" echoed Miss Cortlandt; and then the two passed on.

They were two very silent girls who crossed the lawn five minutes later. Grace Wolfe held her head high, and walked with her usual airy grace; her face was grave, but perhaps no graver than usual. Still, she did not speak; as for Peggy, she was too bowed down with shame and wretchedness to think even of her companion. She had been trusted; and she had betrayed the trust. There seemed nothing in the whole world but that.

They parted outside Peggy's window. Grace was going up a story higher on the fire-escape, Peggy did not think nor ask where.

No word was spoken; only, Grace laid her hand on Peggy's shoulder and looked in her face for a moment. Peggy could not speak, could only shake her head. A single sob broke from her lips; then she hurried in, and closed the window behind her.

Then Grace Wolfe did a singular thing. Standing on the iron step, she took from her pocket the packet of marshmallows, and deliberately scattered them over the lawn, throwing each one as far as her arm could reach.

"For the frogs!" she explained, aloud. "With the compliments of the Goat, the Wolf, and the Serpent,—to which is now added the Beast which Perishes!"



CHAPTER IX.

FACULTY MEETING AND BEDLAM.

"Have you proof of this, Miss Pugsley?"

"I am perfectly sure of it, Miss Russell!"

"Yes; I am sure you would be, before you spoke of it; but have you the proof? Of course, before taking any such serious step as you propose, I should, in justice to all, be obliged to ask for positive proof."

"Proof!" cried Miss Pugsley, in some excitement. "Proof enough! Look at my bonnet, Miss Russell. Oblige me by smelling of it. I can never wear it again, never! I tell you, brandy has been poured over it. Here are the slippers!" She produced a pair of slippers which were certainly in a sad condition. "They were nailed—nailed with tenpenny nails, to the floor of my closet; they are totally ruined. Look—I ask you all, ladies, to look at my hand-glass!" She held up the glass; and at the sight Emily Cortlandt had one of those violent fits of coughing that often troubled her; this one was so bad that she was obliged to leave the room for a moment. The worst of it was that one or two of the other teachers seemed to have caught the infection, for there was a regular outbreak of coughing and choking, which only a severe glance from Miss Russell checked.

Somebody had painted a face on the little mirror. It covered the whole surface; the face of a monkey, with grinning mouth, and twinkling, malicious eyes; it had an undoubted resemblance to Miss Pugsley. As she held it up with a tragic gesture, the effect was so absurd that even Miss Russell might have wished that she could—cough!

"It lay on my dressing-table, face downward," Miss Pugsley went on. "I had just done my hair for tea,—I am scrupulous in such matters,—and took up the glass to see that my pug was straight behind. I looked—and saw this. Ladies, I could have fainted on the floor. My nerves being what they are, it is a marvel that I did not."

"I am very, very sorry, Miss Pugsley," said Miss Russell, gravely. "If I knew who had done this—"

"But I tell you I do know, Miss Russell!" cried Miss Pugsley, vindictively. "I tell you that there is only one girl in the school who is capable of all this, and that girl is Grace Wolfe!"

There was a moment's silence.

"Have you found Grace in your room at any time, Miss Pugsley?" demanded Miss Russell.

No, Miss Pugsley had not, but that made no difference. Grace had done the things, there was no shadow of a doubt of it.

"Have you been careful to lock your door when you left the room?"

"Miss Russell, you know that locks and bolts make no possible difference to Grace Wolfe. The girl is cut out for a malefactor. I prophesy that she will be in State's prison before she has been out of school a year."

"I must request you not to speak in this way of any of my young ladies," said the Principal, sternly. "You have been the victim of some very malicious practical jokes, Miss Pugsley. I shall look into the matter thoroughly, and shall do my best to discover the offender, and shall punish her—or them—as I think best." She laid a slight emphasis on the last words.

"Then you refuse to expel Grace Wolfe?" said Miss Pugsley, quivering with anger.

"On such evidence as you have brought forward to-night? certainly," said Miss Russell, with some severity. "I have no proof whatever that Miss Wolfe played any of these pranks, though I admit it is probable that she may have done so. You found the bandbox outside your door, where Bridget admits she left it several days before. You left your door unlocked on a rainy half-holiday, when sixty or more girls were constantly passing and repassing; there are half a dozen girls, I am sorry to say, who might have been tempted by the open door to play some prank of the kind which seems so clever to children, and so silly to older people."

Why did Miss Russell look toward the window as she spoke? But now she was looking at Miss Pugsley again.

"You and Grace are not friends, I know, Miss Pugsley," she went on. "I am sorry for it, for I think all the rest of us feel how much that is fine and noble might—may still be brought out of that untamed spirit. She has never known a mother, remember. The name of the Scapegoat, which she has given herself, may, I sometimes think, reflect blame on the rest of us as well as on her. It is true that, whatever mischief is afoot, it is sure to be laid at Grace's door. This is mainly her own fault, of course—"

"I should think so!" snorted Miss Pugsley.

"But not entirely," the Principal went on. "There are other mischievous girls in the school. I should like to know how Grace has been doing this month in her various classes," she added, turning to the other teachers.

On this point the testimony was unanimous. Grace Wolfe led many of the classes; she was well up in all, and had passed her examinations in a way that did credit both to her intelligence and her industry. Thus testified every teacher, except the small brown mouse who taught drawing in Pentland School. This mouse, Miss Mink by name, had crept away silently, and left the room, after one glance at the hand-glass; she knew that but one hand in the school could have drawn that monkey, and though her heart swelled with pride, she feared for her darling pupil.

There was a pause after the teachers had given their testimony; then Miss Pugsley returned to the attack.

"I certainly hope justice will be done, Miss Russell," she said, with a smile of sweetened vinegar. "It would be a great pity, wouldn't it, if the school got the reputation—he! he!—of injustice and favouritism?"

"It would," said the Principal, gravely.

"But there is another matter that I feel bound to speak of before we separate," Miss Pugsley went on. "Are you aware that room No. 18, in corridor A, the room formerly occupied by Miss Lightwood, is again being used as a place of exit for parties of students going on lawless expeditions?"

The Principal looked at her steadily.

"I fear that is true," said one of the other teachers. "I had meant to speak to you before about it, Miss Russell, but waited till to-night."

"Of course it makes no possible difference to me!" cried Miss Pugsley. "It is not my corridor, and I have no authority there; but as long as one is in the school, of course one must consider the honour of it, you know, and I am glad some one else is here to bear me out in this complaint."

The Principal still looked at Miss Pugsley; teachers who had been long in the school were glad that she was not looking at them in that way.

"I have heard of this matter before," Miss Russell said, at last. "I am going to devote my own time to investigating it, and think I shall need no help; though I thank you," it was to Miss Ivors that she spoke, "for bringing it to my notice, as it was right for you to do. I think I need not detain you longer, ladies."

When the teachers were gone, Miss Russell stepped to the window and said, softly, "Grace!"

There was no reply. An owl hooted in the distance; a bird chirped somewhere near by. That was all.

"Grace!" said the Principal again. "If you are there, I wish you would come in and let me speak to you."

Still no reply. After waiting a moment, the Principal closed the window with a sigh. On leaving the room she paused a moment to look at the photograph of a lovely young woman, in the dress of twenty years ago, which stood on her desk.

"Dear Edith!" said Miss Russell. "My first pupil! I'll keep your girl for you, Edith, if I can!"

* * * * *

Was Grace Wolfe outside the window when the Principal called her? Who can tell? It is certain that ten minutes after she was at the supper in Bedlam.

The tenant of Bedlam, Miss Cornelia Hatch (familiarly known as Colney Hatch, in remembrance of the famous English Insane Asylum), was not actually mad, though many of the scholars thought her so. She was a special student of natural history, botany, and zoology; she was absent-minded and forgetful to the last degree. When she came into class, she often had to be brought there, some good-natured classmate dragging her away by main force from her private experiments. If she did remember to come of her own accord, she was apt to have a half-completed articulation hanging around her neck, or a dried frog skin stuck behind her ear for safe-keeping. Her hair was generally untidy, owing to this habit of sticking things in it while she worked; you never could tell what it would be, vertebrae, or seaweed, or pine-cones, but you could safely reckon on finding something extraneous in Colney's ruffled black hair. As for her clothes, she was usually enveloped in a huge brown gingham apron, with many pockets, which held snakes, or eggs, or roots, or anything else that would not go comfortably in her hair. When the apron became too dirty (she had had two at the beginning of the term, but one had been destroyed in an explosion), Miss Carey took it away and washed it, while Colney went around looking scared and miserable in a queer flannel gown of a pinkish shade. Report said it had once been brown, but that the colour had been changed by the fumes of something or other, no one knew what. Sometimes she had buttons on frock and apron, more often not. Periodically, Miss Carey or the Owls descended upon her, and sewed on her buttons and mended her up generally; and she was very grateful, and said how nice it was to have buttons. But she soon pulled them off again, because she never had time to do anything but tear her clothes off when she went to bed, and drag them on again when she got up. When a button flew off, she pinned the place over, if a pin was in sight; if not, she went without; it made no difference to her, and she was not conscious of it in five minutes. Miss Russell, and most of the teachers, were very tender with Colney. She was poor, and meant to work her way through college; even now she paid part of her schooling by stuffing birds and setting up skeletons for one of the college professors. If she did not kill herself or somebody else before she graduated, Miss Russell looked forward to a distinguished career for the tenant of Bedlam; so, as I have said, she was tender and patient with her; and good Miss Carey mended her when she could, and saw that she remembered to eat her dinner, and Miss Boyle and Miss Mink rejoiced over her, and Miss Cortlandt led her gently through English literature, giving her Walton and Bacon and all the scientific men of letters that she could find. Only one teacher failed to do her best to smooth poor Colney's path through school; that was Miss Pugsley. Rhetoric was simply an empty noise to the girl. She never by any chance knew a lesson, and Miss Pugsley lashed her with so cruel a tongue that Peggy used to ache and smart for her as well as for herself, and would get hold of Colney's hand and hold it and squeeze it, growing red the while with pity and anger. But Colney never noticed it half as much as Peggy did; she used to look at the angry teacher for a few minutes in an abstracted kind of way, and then retire within herself and make imaginary experiments. This was what happened on the dreadful day when Miss Pugsley said:

"The subject of this sentence is I. How do we go to work to form the predicate, Miss Hatch?"

Cornelia started, but replied, instantly:

"By mixing one part hydrogen with three parts—"

"Indeed!" said Miss Pugsley, with ominous calm. "And what happens next, pray?"

"It turns green, and explodes with a loud report."

And this was exactly what did happen. Poor Colney!

Peggy Montfort did not form one of the party in Bedlam that night. The room lay at the extreme end of the corridor, round a corner, so that it was in a manner shut off from the rest of the wing. It was an extraordinary place. Stretched on the walls, dried or drying, were specimens of every possible variety,—bats, frogs, snake skins, bird skins. Along the mantelpiece were jars and bottles, all containing other specimens preserved in spirits. In one corner stood part of a human skeleton. It stood on one leg, with a jaunty air, having indeed but one leg to stand on; both arms were wanting, but the skull, which was a very fine one, made up for much. On account of this fragmentary skeleton, few of the younger girls ever dared to enter Bedlam, and some of them would run past the door with face averted, and beating heart, fearing lest the door should be open and they should catch a glimpse of the gruesome thing. But this object was the pride of Colney's heart. She could not, of course, afford to buy a whole skeleton, so she was collecting one, bit by bit; even Peggy had been quite uncomfortable one day, when Colney had told her, hanging over each bone with delight, where and how she had come by each one. It was always honestly, one could be sure of that.

Everywhere in the room, underfoot and overhead, were setting-boards and pill-boxes, blowpipes and crucibles. One could not move without upsetting something; and yet it was here that the Gang came to have its annual supper.

Colney Hatch was dissecting a mouse. She was perfectly happy, and oblivious of the world, when the door opened, and in came fluttering the wild spirits of the junior and sophomore classes. Last year the sophomores had been freshmen, and must not know anything about the Gang, save in wondering envious whispers and surmises. Next year the juniors would be seniors, and they too must forget that such a thing as the Gang had been, and think only of dramatics, examinations, and graduation. Such had been the unwritten law at Miss Russell's, since time was.

Here were Vanity and Vexation of Spirit, one smiling and dimpling, the other with her usual air of blase superiority. Here was Blanche Haight, the leader among the sophomores; here were six or eight girls, in fact, chosen from the two classes for the same characteristics, lawlessness and love of fun; last but not least, here was Grace Wolfe, the acknowledged leader and queen of the Gang, when she deigned to be so.

Grace was in her wildest mood to-night. She danced solemnly around poor Colney, who looked up in dismay from her mouse as the silent crowd came pouring in, and assured her that her last hour was come.

"We are the Secret Tribunal!" she cried. "We have come to make a pile of all your rubbish, Colney, and burn it, with you on top, like the Phoenix. I am sure you would come up out of the ashes, if we left the mouse out for you to finish."

"Oh, do be careful, please, Goat!" cried Colney Hatch. "Don't sit down on that frog, he isn't dry! Dear me! do you—do want anything, girls?"

"We want your room, my love; and your company!" replied Grace. "Yet we are merciful. Here!"

She twirled Cornelia's chair around, and set her with her face to the wall; then moved the lamp so that its light fell on the board in her lap.

"There!" she said. "Finish him, poor old dear, and we'll wake you up when supper's ready. Now then! who's brought what?"

Then, from pockets, from surplice folds, from shawls and cloaks hung carelessly over the arm, came forth a strange array of articles. One had brought a chicken, one a cake. Here was a Dutch cheese, a tin of crackers, a bottle of coffee, a bottle of olives, and a box of sardines. Grace herself told in high glee how she had met one of the teachers in the corridor, and had stood for five minutes talking about the next day's lesson. "And with this under me cloak the while!" and with a dramatic gesture she produced and held out a dish of lobster salad.

"If it had been potato," she declared, "I had been lost; the onion had betrayed me. Blessings on the bland, the seductive mayonnaise, which veiled the ardent lobster and his smell. She did smell it, however, and said, so cheerfully, poor dear, that Miss Carey was evidently going to give us a surprise to-morrow, for she smelt lobster. It was Miss Cortlandt, too; I did want to say, 'Oh, come along, and have some!' She is a rectangular fragment of baked clay, used for building purposes, Miss Cortlandt is."

"What do you mean, Goat?" asked some one.

"I never use slang, as you know!" replied Grace, gravely. "It argues a poverty of intellect, as well as a small vocabulary. I suppose you would have said she was a brick, my child."

"Oh, Goat, how funny you are!" giggled the girls.

"Not at all, I assure you," said Grace, unmoved. "But I pray you fall to! Have some salad, Vanity? yes, I'll take a wing, thank you."

"Isn't this perf'ly fine?" cried Viola Vincent. They were all seated by this time, some on the floor, others wherever they could find a few inches of spare room, and were dispensing the viands with reckless liberality. "I say! I wish we had these every week, instead of only once a year. Why, it's just as easy! Oh, what an elegant cream pie! Give me some!"

"No!" said Grace Wolfe, with emphasis.

"Why not? What's the matter, Goat?"

"I will not have pies called elegant while I am leader of this Gang," said Grace. "Take my life, if you will, but spare my feelings!"

"All right," said Viola, cheerily. "Your own way, Goat. I'd just as lief call it dandy, and it is dandy, you can't deny that."

"Perhaps the Goat is thinking of succeeding her Puggy in the rhetoric chair!" said Blanche Haight, with a sneer.

"Perhaps I am thinking of stopping your—" began Grace; but she checked herself, and turned away abruptly.

"Look at Colney!" said Vivia Varnham. "Isn't she too perfectly killing? She doesn't know we are here, I believe. Look at her hair, girls! It gets more ratty, not to say woozzy, every day. I wonder when she brushed it last."

"Possibly when you brushed your manners," said the Scapegoat. "Colney is our hostess, I beg to remind you. And nobody giving her a bite of supper!"

She rose from the floor, piled a plate with good things, and went over to the corner where Colney Hatch was bending over her mouse, conscious of nothing else.

"Here, Colney; here's your supper."

"Oh, thank you, Grace," said Colney, looking up for a moment. "But I can't, you know. Both my hands are full, you see."

"Then open your mouth," commanded the Scapegoat, in tones of authority.

Colney obeyed meekly, and Grace stood over her, feeding her like a baby with the choicest morsels, and now and then casting a glance over her shoulder at the others. Grace's gaiety was fitful to-night, certainly. When she first came in she had been the life of the party; now, as she stood there in the corner, her brow was overcast, her eyes gloomy. What ailed the Lone Wolf?

What were they saying over there? They, at least, were at the very height of glee, breaking into gusts of giggling, into whisperings ending in squeaks and smothered screams.

"To-morrow night? Hurrah! Through Broadway, of course."

"Freshy? Oh, Freshy won't say anything. She wouldn't dare to, in the first place."

"She'd dare fast enough," said Viola. "She isn't afraid of anything, Freshy isn't. But she's safe, she won't say anything."

"What's all this?" demanded the Scapegoat, coming back with the empty plate. "Plans? Does one hear them?"

"The apples are all gone," said Kitty Green. "We're going for some to-morrow night, Goat. You'll go, too, of course?"

"Going out through Broadway," said Viola. "We haven't been out for more than a week, and the moon will be nearly full to-morrow. It'll be perf'ly fine, Goat, won't it?"

"Veto!" said Grace, calmly.

"Veto? Why, what do you mean?"

"What's wrong?"

"What has happened?"

"Nothing has happened. Boots are no longer free, that's all."

"Do speak English, Grace Wolfe! What do you mean?"

"There—are—to—be—no more—free-booting expeditions—through Broadway. Is that sufficiently plain, or shall I spell the words?"

Blanche Haight rose to her feet, several of the other girls following her. "What is the matter with you to-night, Goat?" she said. "We don't seem to succeed in satisfying you. Aren't we good enough company for you, perhaps?" And Blanche sneered in her own particular manner, of which she was proud.

"I make no remarks," said the Scapegoat, in her quietest tones. "I have not been personal. I merely say, while I lead this Gang, there will be no more expeditions through Broadway."

"And how long do you suppose you will lead this Gang, if you play the part of Pope and emperor?" demanded Blanche.

The other girls began to murmur and protest at this. "Listen to the Goat!" said one and another. "She must have some reason, or she wouldn't act so."

But Grace seized her opportunity.

"How long?" she repeated. "Not an hour! not a second! I resign. My last act is to break up this meeting. To your tents, O Israel!"

Then arose such a confusion of whispering, exclaiming, disclaiming, entreating, protesting, that no one voice could be heard. The owner of the room, fairly roused for a moment (but indeed she had finished the mouse), turned round to see what was wrong. For a moment she saw the two leaders, Grace and Blanche, facing each other, the one pale and quiet, the other red with anger, her eyes darting spiteful flames. Next moment, Grace made a single quick movement, and the room was in darkness. She had blown out the lamp.

"To your tents!" she repeated, sternly. And, hurrying, whispering, stumbling over the remains of their feast scattered on the floor, the frightened girls obeyed.



CHAPTER X.

TEACHER AND PUPIL.

The day after the escapade was the worst one that Peggy Montfort had ever known. She was too strong and healthy to lie awake all night, though it was much later than usual before she ceased to toss in uneasy wretchedness and lay peacefully sleeping. When morning came, she woke, and for a moment greeted the bright day joyfully. Then remembrance came like a hand at her throat, and she shivered, and all the blue seemed to fade away, and leave nothing but cold, miserable gray over all the world. What had she done? What would Uncle John and Margaret, what would Brother Hugh think, if they should know this? Slowly and heavily she dressed and went down to breakfast. There, it seemed as if everybody knew what she had done. Miss Russell's eyes rested thoughtfully on her as she bade her good morning; Peggy shrank away, and could not meet the gaze. If she did not know now, she would soon. "An honest, steady, sensible girl!" Well, Miss Russell would find she had been mistaken, that was all; and of course she would never trust again where she had once been deceived. And yet Peggy knew in her heart that there was no girl in the school who was so little likely to do this thing again as herself. She was by nature, as I have said, a law-abiding creature, with a natural reverence for authority. To have set the law at defiance was bad enough; to have done it secretly, and betrayed the trust that had been placed in her, that was worse! That was beyond possibility of pardon. Thus argued Peggy in her wretchedness; and all through the morning she went over it again and again, and yet again, seeing no help or comfort anywhere. Bertha Haughton, always quick in sympathy, saw the trouble in her friend's face, and came over in "gym" and begged to know what was the matter. Wasn't Peggy well? Had anything happened to trouble her? Peggy shook her head; she could not tell even this good friend—yet. There was some one else who must be told first. She promised to come to the Owls' Nest later in the day, and Bertha was forced to be content with this, and left her with a vague sense of uneasiness and a feeling that somehow little Peggy had grown suddenly older and more mature. Yes, there is nothing like trouble for that!

It was almost a relief when the summons came.

"Miss Montfort, Miss Russell would like to see you in the study."

Peggy steadied herself for the encounter, and went quietly. If only she could be met with a cold look, it would be easier, somehow—but no! the Principal's gray eyes were as kind as ever, her smile as gravely sweet, as she said, pleasantly, "Good morning, Miss Montfort. Good afternoon, I should say; I forgot how late it was. Sit down for a moment, will you? I want to ask you about something."

Peggy did not want to sit down. She wanted to stand still and go through with it, and then get away to her own room. But there was no disregarding the request, so she sat down on the edge of a chair and set her teeth.

"I hardly know where to begin!" said Miss Russell. "I am going to take you into my confidence—Peggy."

Peggy shivered a little, but said nothing, only set her teeth harder.

"There has been a good deal of trouble," Miss Russell went on, "a good deal of trouble in former years with the room which you now occupy. The girl who occupied it was—was wild and undisciplined, and took pleasure in breaking bounds, and in inducing others to do so. She—there were a number of girls who used to go out without leave, by way of the fire-escape outside the window."

She paused a moment, and looked at Peggy, but Peggy made no sign.

"That girl—left the school last year, not to return; but there are several still here who used to share in those wild pranks (undertaken in mere thoughtlessness, I am glad to think, and not with any evil intent), and I have been afraid—in fact, it has come to my ears, that the room was again being used for the same purpose."

She paused again; but still Peggy was silent. What could she say? Besides, no question had been asked her—yet!

The question came. "You are silent, Peggy. Do you know anything about this matter?"

"Yes, Miss Russell!" said Peggy, faintly.

"I feel," said the Principal, in a tone of regret, "that I have been to blame in not warning you of this beforehand, and putting you on your guard. I had hoped that when Bil—when the young lady of whom I spoke was gone, the whole thing would die out; it is a distressing thing to warn a pupil against her schoolmates. Still, I feel that in this case I ought to have done so. I place entire confidence in you, Peggy. I am sure that you would not yourself break the rules of the school; but you may have been put to inconvenience and distress by the lawlessness of others. I am very sorry if this has been the case."

Peggy shut her eyes tight, and said "Margaret!" twice to herself. Then she looked at the Principal.

"Miss Russell," she said,—she tried to steady her voice, but it would come strange and shaky,—"you are mistaken about me. I am not the kind of girl you think I am. I—I went out last night without leave, by the fire-escape."

There was a silence.

"Who induced you—that is, with whom did you go?" asked Miss Russell, presently.

"I—I didn't say that any one else went."

"No, my dear, you did not say so. But—" and here Miss Russell rose, and, crossing the room, laid her hand on Peggy's shoulder; "if I know anything at all of girls, you did not go alone, and you did not go of your own motion. And—Peggy, if you were not the kind of girl I thought you, you would not be feeling as you do now about the whole thing."

This was too much. Peggy could have borne, or she thought she could have borne, anger or scorn, or the cold indifference that is born of contempt; but the kind tone, the look of affectionate inquiry, the friendly hand on her shoulder,—all this she could not bear. She covered her face with her hands and burst into a passion of tears.

It seemed hours that she wept, and sobbed, and wept again. It did not seem as if she could ever stop, the tears came rushing so fast and so violently; but however long it was, Miss Russell did not try to stop or check her, only stood by with her hand on the girl's shoulder, patting it now and then, or putting back with the other hand—such a soft, firm, motherly hand it was!—the stray locks which kept falling over Peggy's face as the sobs shook her from head to foot.

At last, however, the storm abated a little; and then, while Peggy was trying to dry her tears, and the choking sobs were subsiding into long, deep breathings, Miss Russell spoke again.

"Peggy, we teachers have to go a good deal by instinct, do you know it? It is not possible for me, for example, to know every one of seventy-odd girls as I ought to know her, by actual contact and communion. But I have acquired a sort of sense,—I hardly know what to call it,—an insight by means of which I can tell pretty well what a girl's standard of life is, and how I can best help her. I know that now I can best help you and myself by saying—and meaning—just what I said before. I place entire confidence in you, Peggy Montfort."

Peggy looked up in amazement; could she believe what she heard?

"To some girls," the Principal went on, "the taste of stolen fruit is sweet, and having once tasted it, they hanker for more. To you, it is bitter."

"Oh!" said Peggy; and the gasping exclamation was enough.

"Very bitter!" said the Principal. "I speak not from impulse, but from experience, when I tell you that there is no girl in the school to-day whom I could sooner trust not to commit this offence than you, who committed it last night."

Her own thought, almost her own words. Peggy raise her head again, and this time her eyes were full of a new hope, a new courage.

"I believe that is true, Miss Russell," she said, simply. "I had thought that myself, but I didn't suppose—I didn't think—"

"You did not think that I would know enough to understand it!" said Miss Russell, smiling. "Well, you see I do, though we both owe it partly to dear Emily Cortlandt, who reminded me of my duty and of your position. Now, Peggy, I have a recitation, and we must part. I put you in charge of 'Broadway,' fully and freely. No one must come in, and no one must go out, by that window. And if you have any trouble," she added, with a smile, "if you have any trouble and do not think it right to tell me, call for the Owls, and they will help you. Good-bye, my child!"

She held out her hand, and Peggy took it with a wild desire to kiss it, or to fall down and kiss the hem of her gown who had shown herself thus an angel of sympathy and kindness. But the Principal bent down and kissed the girl's forehead lightly and tenderly.

"We shall be friends always now," she said, simply. "Don't forget, Peggy!"

She was gone, and Peggy took her own way in the opposite direction, hardly knowing whither she was going. Her heart was so full of joy and love and gratitude, it seemed as if she must break out into singing or shouting. Was ever any one so kind, so noble, so lovely? How could any one not try to do her very, very best, to deserve the care and friendship of such a teacher as this?

Passing as if on wings through the geometry room, she saw a figure crouching over a desk, and was aware of Rose Barclay, bent over her book, and crying bitterly. Nothing could hold Peggy back in that moment of exaltation. In an instant she was at the girl's side. "Let me help you!" she cried. "Please let me; I know I can."

Rose Barclay looked up fiercely. "I asked you to help me, once!" she said. "I am not likely to ask again. Go away, please, and let me alone."

"No, I won't!" said stout Peggy. "You never would let me explain, but now you are going to let me. I couldn't show you my example, and I wouldn't, and I never will; but I could make you see how to do your own right, and that's what I am going to do now."

Down she sat without more ado; took the pencil from the unwilling hand, and set to work on an imaginary problem. Rose Barclay sat still for a moment with averted face, pride and shame doing their best to silence the better voices within her. At length she stole a glance at Peggy's face, and there beheld such a shining expanse of goodwill and friendliness that Pride and Co. gave up the battle, and retreated into their dens. Heaving a long sigh of relief, she bent forward, and soon was following with all her might Peggy's clear and lucid explanation.

"Why, yes!" said Rose, at last. "Why, I do see. Why, I do believe I could do that myself."

"Of course you can!" said Peggy. "Here, take the pencil, and I'll give you one."

She did so, and, after some screwing of the mouth and knitting of the brows, Rose actually did do it, and felt like Wellington after Waterloo. Then, at Peggy's instigation, she tackled the actual lesson, and, steered by Professor Peggy, went through it triumphantly. Then she turned on her instructor.

"What made you come and help me, Peggy Montfort? I've been perfectly hateful to you, you know I have. I wouldn't have helped you, if you had acted the way I have."

"Oh, yes, you would," said Peggy, good-naturedly.

"Why—why, you have been crying, too!" said Rose, examining her benefactress more closely. "Peggy, you have been crying awfully, I know you have."

"Yes, I have," said Peggy; "I have cried my eyes out, and I never was so happy in my life. Come on, and have a game of ball!"



CHAPTER XI.

DECORATION—AND OTHER THINGS.

The Junior Reception was "on." In fact, it was to take place this very evening, and an air of subdued excitement hung over the whole school. All the other classes were invited, as well as the Faculty and many friends from outside; it was sure to be a delightful occasion. Peggy was fortunate enough to be one of the auxiliaries called in by the Snowy Owl to help in the decorations, and she counted it a high privilege, as indeed it was. As a general thing, there is more sympathy between juniors and freshmen than between any other two classes in school or college; various reasons may be assigned for this, but it remains the fact. Besides this, however, Peggy felt a very special bond with the "Jews," because her dearest friends were among them. This had come about partly from the accident of her coming late to school, and so being put into the junior corridor; but it was still more due to her making instant acquaintance, as we have seen, with the Fluffy Owl, and through her with the beloved and powerful Snowy. These two girls, through their wise and gentle ways, were a power for good in the whole school, and especially in their own class. They were queens of the steady and right-minded majority, while Grace Wolfe led the wilder and less disciplined spirits. The Owls went their quiet way, and troubled themselves little, less perhaps than they should have done, about the doings of the "Gang." They were busy with study, with basket-ball, with a hundred things; they could not always know (especially when pains were taken that they should not know) what tricks the Scapegoat and her wild mates were up to.

Both Owls had a real affection for Peggy, and though they knew nothing as yet of the recent escapade, they felt that it would be well to keep her rather under their wing, the more so that Grace had undoubtedly taken a fancy to the child, too.

"She's too fascinating!" said the Snowy. "We shall have the Innocent falling in love with her if we don't look out, and that would never do!"

"Never!" said the Fluffy, shaking her head wisely; but she added, in an undertone, "If only the mischief isn't done already!"

So the two asked Peggy to help them in the work of preparing the gymnasium for the great event, and she consented with delight. She was making plenty of friends in her own class, oh, yes; especially now that she and Rose Barclay had made it up. She was the one stay and comfort of poor little Lobelia Parkins, and was devotedly kind to that forlorn creature, taking her out to walk almost by main force, and presenting to all comers a front of such stalwart, not to say pugnacious, determination, that no one dared to molest the girl when Peggy was with her. Spite of all this, however, her heart remained in Corridor A, and she would have left the whole freshman class in the lurch at one whistle from the Owls—or, alas! from the Scapegoat.