"If she knew how badly I've always behaved to Monsieur she wouldn't have done that," thought Susan penitently.

"There now rests one great wish in Adolphe's heart," continued Delphine, "and that is, to be able some day to reward Madame Jones for her goodness. Strangers, and without money, she fed and cheered us, and it is to her we owe our success. Never could either of us be so basely ungrateful as to forget that if we are again blessed by prosperity. Often has Adolphe, who is a fine English scholar, repeated to me the lines of your poet, Shakespeare:—

"Freeze, freeze thou winter sky; Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot."

Susan had remained wide awake in spite of great fatigue during the whole of Mademoiselle's story; but now, when she came to the poetry, which she repeated with difficulty and very slowly, there seemed to be something lulling in her voice. The room was warm too, and presently the sounds in it got mixed up together. The crackling of the fire, the bubbling of the saucepan, and Delphine's tones, joined in a sort of lullaby. Susan's eyelids gently closed, and she was fast asleep. So fast that the next thing she knew was that Buskin had somehow arrived and was carrying her upstairs; that Monsieur was in attendance with a candle, and that a cab was waiting at the door. But having noticed this, it was quite easy to go to sleep again, and she scarcely awoke when they arrived at Aunt Hannah's and she was put to bed.

So it was not till broad daylight the next morning that she began to think over her adventures, and to remember all the wonderful things that had happened the day before. And in particular all the details of Delphine's story came back to her, and the earnest gratitude with which she had talked of Mrs Jones' kindness. "'Strangers, and without money, she fed and cheered us.' Now that is just exactly what Monsieur did for me when I first saw him," thought Susan; "and all I've done in return is to laugh at him and give him trouble. I haven't been grateful at all." The more she considered her conduct the more ashamed she began to feel, and she could not help wondering what Mademoiselle Delphine would think of her if she knew. "At any rate," she resolved, "I won't do it any more. I never will laugh at lesson-time, and I'll learn everything quite perfectly and be as good as ever I can, whatever Sophia Jane likes to say." Sophia Jane, that naughty, badly behaved child! After all, it was her fault that Susan had done wrong, she went on to think, and it was also her fault that she had lost herself yesterday, because she had been so disagreeable about the Enemy and the basket. It was a comfort to be able to shift the blame on Sophia Jane's shoulder, for Susan liked to think well of herself, and she began to feel more cheerful and satisfied as she dressed and went down-stairs. Here Nanna and Margaretta were prepared with all manner of questions about Monsieur, his house, and his sister, but Susan was quite determined to tell them very little. She repeated gravely, "They were very kind, and I like them very much;" and this was most unsatisfactory to her listeners, who craved for the tiniest details of her adventure. Sophia Jane alone sat mute, but sharply attentive to all that passed, hunching up her shoulders and fixing her blue eyes on each speaker in turn. She was, as usual, in disgrace Susan and, and had been forbidden to speak at meals; but as soon as breakfast was over she made the best use of the hour before lessons began, and examined her companion narrowly:

"Whatever makes you look so solemn?" she asked at last.

"I'm not going to laugh at Monsieur La Roche ever again," said Susan solemnly. "I've made a good resolution."

"What for?" asked Sophia Jane.

"Because he's been very kind, and it's wrong to laugh at him," answered Susan.

Sophia Jane made a face that Susan very much disliked, it was so full of contempt.

"He hasn't been kind to me, and I don't care if it is wrong," she said. "I shall do as I like."

"But I want you not to either," said Susan.

"I don't care a bit. Why should I?" asked Sophia Jane, who was evidently in one of her most reckless moods.

Susan was silent. There was not much reason certainly that Sophia Jane should wish to please her; then a bright idea came into her head.

"If you'll promise not to laugh at French lessons," she said, "I'll give you a new head for your doll as soon as I've got enough money."

Sophia Jane considered this offer with her head on one side; then she asked:

"What price?"

"Half-a-crown," answered Susan, "and that will buy the very best you can get."

"Well," said Sophia Jane slowly, "I promise."

"But if you whisper, or make faces, or nudge me with your elbow you won't have it," added Susan hastily.

"You didn't say all that at first," said Sophia Jane; "but I will promise."

So the agreement was made, and moreover written down in Susan's best printing hand, and signed by Sophia Jane. Even then Susan felt by no means sure of the result, for it was so much more natural to her companion to be naughty than good.

Thursday came, and Monsieur La Roche also at his usual hour; Susan put on her most discreet behaviour, and kept anxious watch over Sophia Jane. But there was no need for anxiety, her conduct was perfect, and she not only preserved the strictest gravity, but also showed the most marvellous quickness in learning her lessons. Though she might be a naughty child, no one could accuse her of being a dull one; she grasped the meaning of anything like lightning, and while Susan was steadily bringing her mind to bear on a French verb, Sophia Jane knew it already, and could repeat it without a mistake. She showed indeed such zeal and attention throughout the lessons, that it had a sobering effect even upon Nanna and Margaretta, who were so employed in wondering at her that they did not giggle nearly so much as usual.

Monsieur himself was not less surprised at this sudden improvement in his class, and above all in Sophia Jane, who had, without question, been his worst and most backward pupil. When his lesson was finished he beamed kindly at her and said, "It is tr-res bien, mademoiselle. I am much pleased with you to-day."

It was such a new thing for anyone to be much pleased with Sophia Jane that it hardly seemed possible, and everyone stared at her. Aunt Hannah turned round from her chair at the fireside to see who had deserved this praise. Sophia Jane! It was an unheard-of thing. The child herself was so unused to the sound of kindness and approval, that it startled her as though she had received a blow. She reddened, gave all her features a sudden twist, and blinked her eyes at Monsieur for an answer.

"Sit straight, Sophia Jane, and don't make faces," said Aunt Hannah, and the well-known accents of blame at once restored her to her usual state. The moment Monsieur was gone she was the old Sophia Jane again, tiresome and disobedient as ever. And Susan, remembering the compact about the half-crown, was not surprised at this, for, she thought to herself, "she's not really doing it because she wants to be good, but because she wants a new head for the doll." It was quite possible, therefore, still to feel that she was much better than her companion, and this was not unpleasant.

Meanwhile she was much looking forward to seeing Mademoiselle Delphine again, for Aunt Hannah intended to pay her a visit soon to thank her for her kindness, and she had promised to take both the little girls with her. Grace, the doll, must also be fetched home, for Susan had been too sleepy to remember her, and had left her behind. Monsieur's house was found with some difficulty, but at length Sophia Jane's sharp eyes spied a dusty card in a window with "Monsieur La Roche, Professor of French," written on it, and they knew that this must be the right one. Susan wondered whether Mademoiselle would quickly open the door herself as she had done before, but this time a very untidy maid-servant appeared with smudges on her face. There were many other lodgers in the house beside Monsieur and his sister, who had the cheapest rooms of all, an underground one which Susan had thought to be the kitchen, and two tiny attics in the roof. They found Mademoiselle waiting to receive them with a yellow ribbon at her neck, and a manner full of gracious affability. Gambetta sat on the hearth, and the room was perfectly neat and clean, but by daylight; it wanted the air of snugness and comfort which Susan remembered. There was a very tiny fire, and it all looked bare and cold, for the window was so placed that the sunlight could not possibly enter. Mademoiselle partly made up, however, for the dreariness of her lodging by smiles and pleasant conversation. She was delighted to see them all, and to renew her acquaintance with Susan, chattering so fast that Sophia Jane had plenty of time to notice everything, and presently fixed her eyes, full of admiration, on Gambetta, who sat with rather a vexed look on his face by the small fire.

Presently he rose, stretched himself, humped his back, and then jumped up on his mistress' lap.

"Fi donc!" said she, settling her knees more comfortably for him.

"That is a fine cat," remarked Aunt Hannah; "a great pet, no doubt?"

"You say truly, Madame," replied Delphine gently rubbing Gambetta under the chin; "but above all with my brother. I may say that Gambetta is the pupil of his eye. How often have I made him reproaches because he will leave the best of his potage, and pour it in the saucer for this cat! And that in the days when there was not too much potage, look you, for either of us. On his side the animal adores Adolphe. He knows his step, he has his little pleasantries for him, and his caresses. When my brother arrives at night tired, and perhaps a little dejected, it is Gambetta who knows how to cheer him. And then, he reminds us of Paris, he is the only thing of value we brought from there. He is an exile as well as we, and has shared our fortunes."

"No wonder you are so fond of him," said Aunt Hannah; "but I see he has no collar. Are you not afraid of losing such a valuable cat?"

"That is often in my mind," replied Mademoiselle. "I fear it may arrive some day, for at times he makes long courses. The next time we have a little money to spare we will buy him one, and cause the address to be graved upon it."

Both Susan and Sophia Jane listened with much interest to all this, and the latter was particularly impressed by it; she looked from Delphine's expressive face to Gambetta's when the collar was mentioned, and seemed about to ask a question, but checked herself suddenly. Grace being now produced from a table drawer, it was found that Mademoiselle's clever fingers had actually made for her a new bonnet, a most elegant one, of drawn grey silk. While Susan was admiring it, Delphine turned to Sophia Jane:

"And the leetle companion?" she said, "has she also a poupee?"

Sophia Jane hung her head, and looked rather ashamed. "Only one without a head," she muttered.

"Ah! that is sad indeed," said Mademoiselle. "It is impossible to fashion a bonnet for a lady without a head, is it not? But when you have a new one, I will also make her a bonnet like this. I have yet some more silk."

Susan could not help giving a glance full of meaning at her companion, but Sophia Jane did not respond to it, except by a dark frown.

"When Mademoiselle La Roche is so kind, Sophia Jane," said Aunt Hannah, "the least you can do is to thank her and look pleasant. You never see Susan frown like that."

On the way home there was a great deal to be said about Mademoiselle Delphine, and Susan was so delighted with Grace's new bonnet that she could not repeat too often how kind it was of her to have made it.

"And aren't you glad she's going to make one for you too?" she asked.

Sophia Jane had been unusually silent and thoughtful since they had started, and made absent replies to all Susan's remarks. She seemed to be turning something over in her mind, and the question had to be repeated before she took any notice. Then she only answered calmly:

"Oh, yes, of course," as if it were the very merest trifle, and she had presents every day, which was by no means the case. Susan looked curiously at her, there were often moments when she did not know what to make of Sophia Jane. Then she said:

"Shall I ask Aunt Hannah to let us stop and look up at Miss Powter's window?"

Miss Powter kept a toy-shop in the High Street, and only a few days ago had shown in her window quite a collection of dolls' heads, both china and wax.

"If you like," said Sophia Jane indifferently.

Susan ran up to Aunt Hannah, who was walking a little way in front, and put her request, which being granted, the little girls were soon gazing in at Mrs Powter's shop-front. The heads were still there, a long row of them, some fair, some dark, some with blue eyes, some with black.

"Now, which should you choose?" asked Susan with much interest; "a wax or a china one?"

"A wax one," said Sophia Jane; "because I could brush her hair."

"But you couldn't wash her," objected Susan; "and china wears best."

Sophia Jane did not seem disposed to linger long, though generally she was never tired of Miss Powter's window. She did not enter into the matter with nearly enough spirit to please Susan, who as they walked on suggested:

"If I were you I should have that one—the last in the row, with fair hair. She's rather like Grace, and you see, as their bonnets will be alike, we might call them sisters."

"If I buy a head at all perhaps I may," was Sophia's puzzling remark.

"Well, but you're sure to," said Susan. "Next week I shall have the half-crown, and we can go and choose it together. You mean to, don't you?"

"Perhaps I do and perhaps I don't," answered Sophia Jane, and could not be induced to say more on the subject.

Certainly she would win that half-crown easily, for her behaviour to Monsieur La Roche was worthy of all praise. Susan even began to think that she was overdoing it a little, for she was now beyond all the others in the class. Earnest effort, and a naturally quick intelligence joined to it, produced such good results that Monsieur had now a habit of turning to Sophia Jane when he asked an unusually difficult question. Could it be entirely for the sake of the half-crown that she made these extraordinary exertions? Susan began to feel jealous of her companion's progress and a little ill-used; for although she tried hard to please Monsieur, it was quite evident that the pupil he was most proud of was Sophia Jane. "If he knew," thought Susan to herself, "why she does it, perhaps he wouldn't be so pleased. And I don't suppose she'll take so much trouble when once she's got the money."

It was a very new thing for Sophia Jane to be more praised than herself; and though Susan would not perhaps have acknowledged that she was sorry to see her good behaviour, it yet made her feel uncomfortable when Monsieur looked so very pleased with her. She had fully intended to be his model pupil herself, an example to all the others, and it was disappointing to give up that place to one whom she had considered so far beneath her. Besides this, it was a little difficult when the time came to part with the half-crown. It would only leave sixpence in her purse—Maria's lucky sixpence with a hole in it—and that she did not want to spend. It was comforting, however, to remember that her birthday was near, when her mother would certainly send her some money as a present. And she was really anxious for Sophia Jane to have a doll to play with, and it would be nice to go and see Mademoiselle Delphine again about the bonnet; and finally, a bargain was a bargain, and decidedly the half-crown had been fairly earned. So, all these things considered, she cheerfully counted out one shilling, two sixpences, and six pennies, and went to look for Sophia Jane.

She was in the sitting-room alone, seated in Aunt Hannah's large arm-chair with an open book in her lap which she was intently studying.

"Here's your money," said Susan, plunging at once into the business on hand.

Sophia Jane neither answered or took the least notice; but as this was often a tiresome way of hers Susan was not surprised, and only repeated a little louder:

"Here's your money!"

Sophia Jane looked up from her book, which Susan now saw to be a French grammar, and said, holding out her hand:

"Give it to me."

"You ought to say 'Thank you,'" remarked Susan in the reproving voice she often used to her companion.

Sophia Jane counted the coins carefully, going twice through the pennies to be sure there were the right number. Then she said shortly:

"It's all right."

"Of course it's right!" cried Susan indignantly. But it was not of the least use to be angry with Sophia Jane; she was now dropping the pieces of money one by one into her pocket with a thoughtful air, and seemed hardly to know that Susan was there. The latter waited a moment and then said:

"Shall I ask Aunt Hannah if we may go to Miss Powter's this afternoon?"

"What for?" asked Sophia Jane.

"What for!" repeated Jane in extreme astonishment. "Why, of course, now you've got the money, you'll go and buy the head."

Sophia Jane took up her grammar again and bent her eyes doggedly upon it.

"I'm not going to buy a head," she answered.

This decided reply was so unexpected that for the moment Susan was speechless; for on the whole Sophia Jane had seemed to look forward to the purchase, and they had made many plans together about it, so that she had come to think of it as a settled thing. It made her feel injured and disappointed to be thrust out of the matter in this sudden way, for if the head was not to be bought how would Sophia Jane spend the money? She evidently had some secret plan of her own in which Susan was not to share. With a rising colour in her face she said at last:

"I don't think that's fair."

"It's my money, and I shall do as I like with it," was Sophia Jane's only reply.

"But I shouldn't have given it you," said Susan hotly, "unless you were going to buy a head."

Sophia Jane chuckled. "Well, I've got it now," she said, "and I shall keep it."

"What a naughty, selfish, disagreeable little girl she was!" thought Susan as she stood looking angrily at her.

"What are you going to do with it?" she asked.

"That's a secret," said Sophia Jane, chinking the money gently in her pocket.

"I believe," said Susan, now irritated beyond endurance, "that you mean to spend it all on Billy Stokes' day."

Billy Stokes was a man who came round once a week selling sweetmeats, and it was Sophia Jane's custom to spend her pennies in this way when she had any.

"If you do," continued Susan, getting more cross every moment, "you'll be dreadfully greedy, and most likely you'll make yourself ill."

Sophia Jane only smiled gently and settled herself more comfortably in her chair.

"And I suppose you remember," said Susan, whose voice became louder and more defiant with each sentence, "that if you don't get the head you can't have the bonnet."

The last word was almost shrieked, for she had now quite lost her temper, and at this moment Margaretta looked into the room. Now it was always taken for granted by the household that in any dispute Sophia Jane must be in the wrong; so now Margaretta came at once to this conclusion, in spite of Susan's hot and angry looks.

"How can you be so naughty, Sophia Jane," she said, "as to quarrel with a sweet-tempered child like Susan? You must have been very unkind and tiresome to vex her so much."

Neither of the little girls spoke, for Susan was still feeling too angry, and Sophia Jane took a scolding as a matter of course.

"If you don't say you're sorry," pursued Margaretta, "I sha'n't take you out with me this afternoon. I don't wish to have a sulky little girl with me. Susan shall go alone."

There was no word from Sophia Jane, or even any sign of having heard this speech. At another time Susan would have said something in her defence, for she knew this blame to be entirely unjust. But just now she was so vexed with her that she kept silence, and allowed Margaretta to go on without interruption.

"Very well," said the latter, "then you stay at home by yourself. Aunt and Nanna are going to see Mrs Bevis, and Susan and I shall have a walk together. Very likely we should call in at Buzzard's as we come back and have some tarts."

Susan glanced at her companion's face to see how she took this last remark. Buzzard's open tarts were things that Sophia Jane specially liked. Was she vexed? No. One corner of her mouth was tucked in, in a way which looked far more like secret satisfaction. It was very annoying, but after all she could not prefer to be left alone in the dull house that bright day, so most likely she was concealing her disappointment.

Susan herself did not enjoy that walk so much as usual, though the band was playing gay tunes, and the sun shone, and the sea twinkled merrily. For one thing she felt that she had been unjust to Sophia Jane, and allowed her to be punished for no fault; for, after all, it was her money, and she had a right to do as she liked with it. Only why should she be so perverse and stupid as to have a will of her own, and not to carry out Susan's wishes? What could she possibly be going to do with that half-crown? What could it be that she wanted so much that she was ready to give up all the nice games and plans they had thought of together? As she walked soberly along by Margaretta's side Susan came to the conclusion that it would be best to make no more inquiries about it; she had noticed that Sophia Jane would seldom yield to persuasion and never to force, but sometimes if you left her quite alone she would do what you wished of her own accord. This once settled in her mind she felt more cheerful, but the walk was dull with no one but Margaretta to talk to, the open tarts at Buzzard's had lost their flavour, and she was not at all sorry to get home.

To do Sophia Jane justice she was quite ready to meet Susan's advances in a friendly spirit, and did not seem disposed to bear malice. The little girls played together as usual, and Susan, true to her resolution, made not the smallest reference to the half-crown, but this silence made her think of it all the more. It was, indeed, seldom out of her mind, and every day her curiosity grew more intense; morning, noon, and night she wondered about that half-crown, and at last her head was so full of it that she mixed it up with everything she did in lessons or play-time. And at last, one day when she and Sophia Jane were reading aloud to Aunt Hannah, a new idea, and she thought a very good one, was suggested to her.

In the lesson there happened to be an account of a miser, who lived in a wretched hovel, went without sufficient clothing, and almost starved himself for the sake of hoarding money; everyone thought him poor, but after his death it was found that he had lots of gold and silver coins hidden away in the mattress of his bed.

"What makes people misers?" asked Susan, when she came to the end of this history.

"Love of money, my dear," answered Aunt Hannah.

"Is every one who saves up money a miser?" continued Susan.

"No. Because they may be saving it for a wise and good purpose; but if they hide it up as this man did, and only keep it for the pleasure of looking at it, then they certainly would be called misers."

"Are there any now?" asked Susan, fixing her eyes on Sophia Jane.

"Oh, yes, I daresay there are, plenty," answered Aunt Hannah, who was getting tired of the subject. "Now, get your geography books."

But during the rest of the lesson Susan's mind was very far away, and she made all kinds of stupid mistakes, for what she was thinking of had nothing to do with the map of England. It was something much more interesting and important; for quite suddenly, while reading about the misers, an idea relating to Sophia Jane and the half-crown had darted into her head. She had hidden it away somewhere, and did not mean to spend it at all. The manner in which she had chinked those coins in her pocket and counted them over, and her secret and crafty behaviour since, all pointed to this. The next question was, "Where had she hidden it?" What mysterious hole had she found unknown to anyone? Susan ran over all the possible places in her mind, and was earnestly occupied in this when Aunt Hannah suddenly asked her a question:

"Where is the town of Croydon?"

"In the attic," answered Susan hurriedly, and then flushed up and gave a guilty look at Sophia Jane, who merely stared in amazement.

"My dear Susan," said Aunt Hannah, "you are strangely inattentive this morning. I can't let you play in the attic if you think of your games during lesson-time."

As the days passed, Susan, watching her companion narrowly, felt more and more certain that her suspicions were correct. True, she never saw her retire to the attic alone to count over and rejoice in her secret hoard, which real misers were always known to do; but there was this to be remarked: she bought nothing of Billy Stokes. When Susan saw her look wistfully at the cocoa-nut rock, and twisted sticks of sugar-candy, and remembered all those pennies, she asked:

"Which are you going to buy?"

"None of 'em," said Sophia Jane, turning away. And now Susan doubted no longer. Sophia Jane was a miser!

Sunday came soon after this. It was a day the children never liked much, because, for several reasons, it was dull. Aunt Hannah did not allow them either to play at their usual games or to read their usual books. Grace was put away, the attic was forbidden, and they had to be very quiet; the only books considered "fit for Sunday," were Line upon Line, The Peep of Day, The Dairyman's Daughter and The Pilgrim's Progress. Bits of this last were always interesting, and the more so because it was a large old copy with big print and plenty of pictures throughout. That of Saul raising Samuel had a never-ceasing attraction for Susan, and Sophia Jane was fond of the part about Giant Despair and his grievous crab-tree cudgel. In the morning they all went with Aunt Hannah to chapel, which was only five minutes' walk from the house; the prayers were long, and they could seldom understand the sermon, though they had to listen to it because Aunt Hannah asked them questions about it afterwards.

Mr Bevis, the minister, who was a great friend of hers, often came to Belmont Cottage, and stayed to have tea. On these occasions it was difficult to Susan to think that he really was the same man who wore a long black gown on Sundays, and white bands under his chin, and often hit the red cushion so hard that she had seen dust rise from it. His voice was quite different, all mystery had left him, and he became just a common grey-haired gentleman, eating muffins and asking for more sugar in his tea. She was afraid sometimes that he would ask her some questions about his sermons, or perhaps where some text came from out of the Bible, but he never did so, and indeed took very little notice of the children. On this Sunday they were surprised to find, when the time came up for the sermon, that it was not Mr Bevis that was going to preach. A much younger man mounted the steep stairs into the pulpit, and gave out a text about the widow's mite, and Susan began to listen attentively to the sermon which followed, for, strangely enough, it was all about "giving." How exactly suited to Sophia Jane!

"To give," said the minister at the close of the sermon, "though it leaves a man poor, yet makes him rich; but to keep and hoard up treasure, though he be called wealthy, yet makes him exceeding poor. But the thing given need not be money; it may only be a kind effort, a forgiving word, a little trouble for some one, but if love go with it, then it becomes great and worthy at once, for it is part of the giver's very self. It is not what a man gives, but how he gives it, that matters. Gold and silver coming from a full purse and a cold heart, is a barren gift compared to the widow's mite, which was 'all she had.'

"'Not what we give, but what we share, For the gift without the giver is bare.'"

On the way home Aunt Hannah talked about the sermon a good deal with Nanna and Margaretta, for it was rather an event to hear a stranger at the chapel. She said that the preacher was "original," but that she did not consider it a "Gospel" sermon, and preferred Mr Bevis; she doubted also whether the lines quoted at the end were from a sacred writer. Now these lines were just what Susan remembered best; they came into her head again and again that afternoon while she was learning a hymn by heart, and it was difficult not to mix the two up together. She was also occupied with wondering whether Sophia Jane had attended to the sermon, and would alter her mind about the half-crown. That was as mysterious as ever, and Sophia Jane's pointed little face told nothing, though Susan fancied that there was a softer look upon it now and then, and an expression as of secret satisfaction.



CHAPTER FIVE.

"O what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive!"

Susan's mind was very full of all this, and she was still watching her companion with suspicion, when something happened which gave her thoughts a new direction; for shortly after the strange minister had preached at the chapel, Sophia Jane became very ill. She had been ailing for some time, and had refused to join Susan in their usual games; complaining of headache, but no one had taken much notice of this; she was so often perverse and tiresome that it was natural to think her only sulky when she sat about in corners with her head propped on her hand and her eyes closed. But at last Aunt Hannah called in the doctor, and after his visit she looked very grave, and talked in a low voice to Buskin. Susan could not hear all she said, but she gathered enough to know that the doctor thought Sophia Jane very ill, and that he could not yet say what sort of illness it would be. She longed to ask some questions about it, but she knew from the worried look on Aunt Hannah's face that it would be better to wait, so she took Grace and stole upstairs to Sophia Jane's door. She had been put to bed in a small inner room opening out of Aunt Hannah's, which was rather apart from the other bed-rooms, and had a little flight of stairs all to itself. On these stairs Susan took up her post, and listened anxiously to the sounds within; the door was a little open and she could hear her aunt giving some orders to Buskin, who presently came hurriedly out, nearly tumbling over her in her haste.

"Gracious me, miss! find some other place to sit in, do," she said crossly clutching at the balusters.

"What's the matter with Sophia Jane?" asked Susan. But Buskin only muttered to herself, rubbed her elbow, and went quickly on. Susan wished they would let her go in and sit with Sophia Jane. She would be very useful and quiet, she thought to herself; she was quite used to that when Freddie had bad headaches. She wished now that she had not called her companion cross and stupid so often lately; but perhaps to-morrow she would be better, and then she would tell her she was sorry. Just then Nanna came up, and not being so full of business as Buskin, was able to answer a few questions. From her Susan learned that Dr Martin thought Sophia Jane was sickening from a fever of some kind; perhaps, if it did not prove infectious, Susan would be allowed to see her sometimes.

"What is infectious?" asked Susan.

"Anything you can catch," answered Nanna.

"If it's scarlet fever, or measles, or anything of that kind, I should think aunt will send you away."

"Where to?" asked Susan in alarm.

"Oh, I don't know," replied Nanna; "anywhere. But I can't stay now, I have to go to the chemist's for aunt."

She went down-stairs, and Susan was left to her own thoughts. She hoped that Aunt Hannah would not send her away, for she felt sure she could be of great use in nursing Sophia Jane if they would only let her try. And where could she be sent? Perhaps to stay with Mrs Bevis, the minister's wife, who lived in a dull house near the chapel with no children but only Mr Bevis. The idea was an alarming one, but it did not trouble her long, for when Dr Martin called the next morning he declared the illness to be a low fever, and not in the least infectious; there was no necessity, he said, for Susan to leave the house, though she ought not be much in the sick-room. Alter this she was allowed to do very much as she liked; the days passed as they had done in London when Freddie was so ill, for the thought of every one in the house was fixed on the patient. Suddenly, from utter insignificance Sophia Jane was raised to importance. Her whims and fancies, once unheeded, were now attended to with care; the least change in her condition was marked with interest, and her name was in every one's mouth, spoken softly and with kindness. Poor little Sophia Jane! She had not much strength, Dr Martin said, to fight against this attack; it was a serious matter for any one so frail and weak, and she must be carefully nursed. Every one did their best. Aunt Hannah sat up at night with her, and in the day-time while she rested, Nanna and Margaretta took turns to be in the sick-room. Buskin bent her whole mind on beef-tea, broth, and jelly, became shorter in her speech, and less inclined to answer questions as the days went on. Only Susan, in spite of her most earnest wish, was not allowed to go into Sophia Jane's room, and found there was very little she could do to help. She had no opportunity, therefore, of telling her companion that she was sorry for her past unkindness; she could only sit on the stairs outside her room ready to carry messages when wanted, watching for the visits of the doctor, and trying to gather from the expression of his face whether Sophia Jane were better.

It was hard to be left out when every one else was doing something, and at last Susan bethought herself that Grace might be a comfort to the invalid, and sent her in by Nanna. To her disappointment, however, she brought the doll back almost directly, dropped it into Susan's lap, and said:

"She's too ill to take any notice of it."

Too ill to take any notice of Grace dressed in her new bonnet, Sophia Jane must indeed be unlike herself. Perhaps her head ached very badly like Freddie's. "How I wish they would let me help with the bandages!" sighed Susan to herself. Day after day followed, till Sophia Jane had been ill a week. No improvement. The fever did not leave her; each morning she seemed a little weaker and less able to bear it, and each morning Aunt Hannah's face looked graver and more conscious, so that Susan did not like to ask the question always in her mind, "May I see Sophia Jane to-day?"

One afternoon, however, she was in her usual place on the stairs reading when the door behind her opened, and some one said softly, "Susan." She looked up; Aunt Hannah stood there beckoning her to come in.

"You may see Sophia Jane for five minutes," she said; "she wants to ask you something. You must promise her to do whatever she wishes, and speak very gently."

Susan followed on tip-toe through the first room, where there were medicine bottles and a strong smell of vinegar, into the second. She looked timidly towards the bed and felt as though she should see a stranger there and not Sophia Jane. This was almost the case, for the little figure sitting propped up with pillows had nothing familiar about it. Her hair had been cut quite short, and stood up in spikes all over her head, there was a burning pink flush on each cheek, and her eyes glistened like two steel beads.

"My darling," said Aunt Hannah soothingly, as she led Susan forward, "here is Susan, tell her what you wish, and then you must lie down quietly and go to sleep, as you promised."

What a different voice Aunt Hannah had now that Sophia Jane was ill! And she had called her "darling!" Such a thing had never happened before!

But Sophia Jane took no notice of the caressing tone: she waved her hand fretfully as Aunt Hannah bent over her, and the gesture said more plainly than words, "Go away, and let me speak to her." Everything seemed strangely altered, for, to Susan's surprise, Aunt Hannah meekly obeyed, went into the next room, and shut the door.

At this Sophia Jane put out a hand about the size of a canary's claw, and caught hold of Susan's sleeve:

"It's behind the big box in the attic!" she said, in a small hoarse voice. Of course it was the half-crown, but Susan was so confused by the eager gaze fixed on her, that she only said:

"What is?"

"A parcel. Done up in newspaper. For Madmozal. You must give it her."

Susan nodded.

"Soon," said Sophia Jane, with a feeble pull at the sleeve.

"To-morrow, if I can," answered Susan earnestly. "What shall I say to her?"

Sophia Jane's fingers let go their hold, her head drooped on the pillows, and she closed her eyes; but she murmured something as she did so, and, bending down to listen, Susan heard:

"A collar for his cat."

"Come away, my dear," said Aunt Hannah's voice. "She is too tired to talk any more. Perhaps she will sleep now."

Susan went softly out of the room and sat down in her old place on the stairs. So this was how Sophia Jane had spent the half-crown! How differently to anything Susan had imagined. Instead of being miserly and selfish, she was generous and self-sacrificing—instead of her own pleasure, she had preferred to give pleasure to Monsieur. And why? Because he had been kind to her. He was the only person, Susan remembered, who had ever praised Sophia Jane, or had looked at her as though he liked her; and so, in return, she had given him her very best—all she had. As she considered this she grew more and more sorry to think how she had despised her poor little companion, and suspected her of being mean; how she had always joined Margaretta and Nanna in blaming and laughing at her, and how ready she had been to say, "It's Sophia Jane's fault." She longed more than ever now to be able to tell her how sorry she was for all this, and resolved very earnestly that when she got well she would never behave unkindly to her again. Meanwhile, there was the collar—she would go and look for it at once, so that on the first opportunity she might take it to Mademoiselle Delphine. She could not give it to Monsieur, for his lessons had been discontinued since Sophia Jane's illness.

She went up to the attic which she and Sophia Jane had made their play-room, and where they had had such merry games together. How deserted and cheerless it looked! Everything seemed to know that Sophia Jane was ill. It was late in the afternoon, dark, and gloomy; there was never too much light in the attic at the brightest of times, and now it was so shadowy and dull that Susan shivered as she glanced round it. There was the dusty roll of wall-paper leaning up in one corner; there was the thin, bent, old poker, which had somehow a queer likeness to Sophia Jane; there was the body of the poor doll, still headless and forlorn, stretched on the floor; and there, under the cobwebby window, was the big black box. Behind that was what she had come to seek—the collar.

Susan knelt on the top of the box, and, peering down, could plainly see the parcel jammed tightly between it and the wall. It was too far for her to reach, but presently with the help of the poker she got it up, and proceeded to examine it, quite breathless with excitement. The newspaper had been partly torn away from it already, and soon the collar itself was in her hands. She gave an exclamation of delight. It was a pretty collar! Not only was it made of brass and lined with bright scarlet leather, but at the side was fastened a little round bell which gave a charming tinkle. The very present of all others which Susan would have chosen herself for Monsieur—if she had thought of it. But it was not her present at all; it was Sophia Jane who had thought of it, and of course it was very good of her. And yet—she went on to think, turning the collar round and round—Sophia Jane couldn't have bought it if I hadn't given her that half-crown. It really is as much my present as hers, but Monsieur and Mademoiselle won't ever know anything about that. It was not nice of Sophia Jane to keep it all to herself; if she had told me I should have said, "Let me pay half," and then we could have given it together. I liked Monsieur and Mademoiselle before she did.

Every moment, as she looked at the pretty collar, Susan's thoughts became more and more jealous and unjust; she almost forgot her companion's illness and what she had asked her to do, in the sense that she herself had been hardly treated; she forgot, too, all her resolves to behave more kindly. As she sat thus, the shadows grew deeper and deeper in the attic until it became almost dark, and looking up, she could only see one thing quite distinctly: it was the body of Sophia Jane's doll. There it lay without a head—it would most likely never have one now; it had a sad deserted look, and yet it reminded her as nothing else would have done of her promise half an hour ago. She seemed to see Sophia Jane's eager little face, to hear her whisper "soon," and to feel the clasp of her weak fingers. Better feelings came back, to her. She put her jealous thoughts aside with a struggle, and as she wrapped up the collar again determined that to-morrow, if possible, she would take it to Mademoiselle and tell her. It was Sophia Jane's present.

Strange dreams visited Susan that night: sometimes she saw Gambetta's comfortable furry face, which seemed to smile smugly at her; and then it changed; and there was Sophia Jane frowning angrily, with terribly bright eyes. The first thing she saw when she woke in the morning was the collar, which she had put on a chair by her bedside, and she at once remembered what she was to do that day. As she dressed herself she could not help the wish returning strongly that it was to be her present as well as Sophia Jane's. How well Gambetta would look in it, and how delighted Mademoiselle would be! And this time nothing happened to check those reflections, so that by the time she went down-stairs they filled her mind entirely.

Aunt Hannah looked much more cheerful this morning. Sophia Jane had slept quietly for some hours, and the fever was less; it was the first improvement she had seen.

She was quite ready to consent when Susan asked if she might go to see Mademoiselle.

"Certainly," she said; "Margaretta shall take you, and, if convenient to Mademoiselle La Roche, you can stay there an hour or so. Perhaps she will bring you back herself in the afternoon; if not, I will manage to send Buskin."

So it was settled, and at twelve o'clock they set forth, the precious parcel tucked under Susan's arm, and reminding her every moment of her promise to Sophia Jane. Mademoiselle was not there when they arrived; she was generally out at this hour, the woman of the house said, but would certainly return before long. Susan, therefore, was left with Aunt Hannah's note to wait her coming, while Margaretta hastened back at once. There was no one in the room but Gambetta, who sat stiffly upright in Monsieur's arm-chair blinking his yellow eyes. Susan went up to him, scratched his head, and made some friendly advances, but he took very little notice of her. He evidently kept his "pleasantries," as Mademoiselle called them, for his friends, and would not waste them on strangers. How soft and thick his fur was! particularly just at the neck, where it stood out in a sort of ruff. How would he look in the new collar, and would it fit him properly? He had such a large neck. It would surely be a good plan to put the collar on, so that Mademoiselle might have all the pleasure of a great surprise when she came in. It was such a splendid idea, and there was so much risk of her arriving too soon, that Susan's fingers quite trembled with excitement as she unwrapped the newspaper. As she did so, the little bell tinkled, and Gambetta looked up in lazy surprise at the noise close to his ears. "Pretty puss," said Susan coaxingly, and she quickly slipped the collar over his head and fastened the strap. It fitted beautifully, and though it gave Gambetta a somewhat constrained air, like that of a gentleman with too tight a shirt collar, it was certainly very becoming, and made him look like a cat of dignity and high rank. It was hardly done, and Susan still stood with clasped hands admiring his appearance, when Mademoiselle's quick step and quicker chatter were heard on the stairs. In a moment she hurried in with a neat basket on her arm, and her face alive with eagerness. She chattered so fast in French and English that it was some minutes before Susan could present her aunt's note, and when Mademoiselle had read that, she had still more to say. For in one breath she was charmed to see Susan, and in the next desolated to hear that Sophia Jane was ill, and she flew from one subject to the other with such astonishing rapidity that Susan gave up trying to follow her, and waited patiently till she should have leisure to notice Gambetta. And at length he drew attention to himself, for evidently feeling neglected, he opened his mouth and uttered a tiny plaintive mew. Mademoiselle looked round at once at her favourite, and her eye fell on the new decoration.

"Mais—ciel!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands. She was a person of such quick thoughts and impulses that, waiting for no explanation, she at once took for granted that Susan had given the collar, and poured out her delighted thanks mingled with caresses. It was really difficult to get in a word, though Susan several times tried to begin the sentence, "It's Sophia Jane's present;" but the words were choked by hugs and kisses, and she said to herself, "I'll tell her presently when she gets quieter."

This time did not come soon, for even when her first excitement was over Mademoiselle's spirits continued to be very gay, and she talked without ceasing; she was unusually happy, she presently told Susan, because Adolphe had that very day obtained another excellent engagement.

"Figure to yourself," she said, as she carefully took some fresh eggs out of her basket and laid them on a dish, "how rejoiced I am that his patience is at length rewarded. As I went out this morning I said to myself, 'Delphine, this occasion demands a little fete of some kind; it would be well to prepare an omelette au fines herbes for supper.' I therefore buy fresh eggs in addition to my usual outlay. I return, and behold! all good things arrive at once. You are here, petite, and have been so amiable for our cherished Gambetta. He, too, will join the fete this evening in his charming new toilette, for I have not forgotten to provide the morsel of liver he loves much."

Susan looked on and listened, and soon became very much interested in Mademoiselle's preparations. It appeared that as Adolphe was never home till late they were accustomed to have their principal meal together in the evening; to-day, however, in honour of her guest, she was bent on preparing a choice little mid-day repast. First she made some coffee and put the pot on the hearth to keep warm, and then, Susan having helped her to lay the table, she proceeded to make a sweet omelette. This process was most attractive. It was delightful to see how deftly she shook the handle of the little pan, how she coaxed and patted and tossed the eggs into the form of an omelette, and how, just at the very right moment, she hastily removed it into a hot dish, swiftly inserted the jam, and folded it over. It looked like magic to Susan, and for the moment it put everything about Sophia Jane out of her head. She soon thought of her again, however. Mademoiselle, having taken off a large white apron, sat down to do the honour of the table with a slightly increased colour but unsubdued powers of conversation, and her first remark was:

"So the poor little companion is ill. That is a great pity. You are quite alone, petite, are you not?"

Here was the very moment to correct the mistake, and Susan was just going to speak when Delphine added:

"Adolphe has informed me of the excellent progress she has lately made. It is a child of much ability he considers, and very amiable."

Alas for Susan! This remark checked the words on her lips, and brought back all her jealous feelings of Sophia Jane. She could not bear to hear her praised. She would put off saying anything about the present just now, she thought. She would still do it of course; but it would be easier out of doors when she and Mademoiselle were walking home together. And it really seemed as though she were to have constant opportunities given to her; for, when they started an hour or so later, Mademoiselle remarked that the doll Grace wore her new bonnet, and asked:

"And does your little friend yet possess a doll with a head?"

What could be better? The answer in Susan's mind was, "she might have had one, but she bought the collar instead;" but somehow she could not get the words out. A strange voice seemed to reply for her:

"She doesn't care about dolls, now she's ill."

"Pauvre petite!" exclaimed Mademoiselle in a tone full of sympathy, then suddenly glancing across the road her face became alight with smiles, she waved her hand to someone, bowed repeatedly, and said in a low voice, "It is that brave Madame Jones!" Susan looked in the same direction; she had always been curious to see Madame Jones since the story of the beefsteak. There she was, standing at the door of her shop with her sleeves tucked up; joints of meat and carcasses hung all round. Her face was broad and red, and she wore a black net cap with pink roses in it. She might be brave, and noble, and all that Mademoiselle had said, but Susan thought her not at all nice-looking, and was quite disappointed. She had not expected her to be like that.

"It is a most excellent woman," murmured Delphine enthusiastically, "and of a noble heart. It is to her we owe the commencement of our success."

Aunt Hannah's gate was reached wonderfully soon after this, and still Susan had not told her of the mistake. "It was only put off, however," she said to herself, "and it really had not been her fault. She would explain all, the very next time they met."

Mademoiselle left her at the gate with an affectionate good-bye, and as Susan walked up the path to the door the doctor came out. He was generally in's great hurry, but to-day he stopped and smiled at her:

"Good news," he said. "If this improvement continues you may see your companion to-morrow, and sit with her an hour. She's much stronger and better."

Was it good news? Of course Susan was glad that Sophia was better, but the thought at once came into her mind, as she watched the doctor out of the gate, "she will ask me about the collar. She will expect a message from Mademoiselle." All that evening she was troubled about this, and even hoped that Sophia Jane might not be quite so well to-morrow, so that she might have time to see Mademoiselle again and make it all right. "What should I do if Sophia Jane asks me straight out whether I said the collar was from her? I couldn't tell her I didn't, and I couldn't tell her I did. Oh, how I wish I had not put it off." Now, in all her reflections, Susan still made excuses for herself, and still said, "it was not my fault." She did not see that she had been mean and jealous and deceitful; but she did see that she had got herself into a difficulty, and was anxious, not to atone for her fault, but to escape the consequences of it. When conscience told her that the right thing was confession to her companion, she would not listen. "After all," she said, "she perhaps won't ask me, and then it will be all right; for I certainly will explain it to Mademoiselle, as I always meant to." And in this way Susan got more and more enclosed in the tangled web she was weaving; for how can we make anything right unless we first see that it is wrong?

Sophia Jane continued better, and was much looking forward, Aunt Hannah said, to her companion's visit. Susan was cautioned before she went upstairs to be very kind and gentle, not to vex or thwart the invalid, and to call Buskin if anything should be wanted. Aunt Hannah would go out a little while, which she had scarcely done since Sophia Jane's illness. All this was promised, and it seemed another reason against saying anything about the collar; for, if Sophia Jane knew the truth, it would certainly vex and thwart her. Susan collected some things which she thought might amuse her, and perhaps prevent her from dwelling long on the dreaded subject. The game of dominoes, Grace, a box of beads, and Andersen's fairy tales. Struggling upstairs with these, she was soon in the invalid's room.

Sophia Jane looked much more like herself than when Susan had last seen her. She was lying quietly down among her pillows with a very white little face, and one hand resting feebly on the substantial form of Dinah, Margaretta's black doll. By her side was a tiny bunch of snowdrops which Nanna had found in the garden that morning; how kind everyone was to her now! It gave Susan a little pang to remember that she herself had done nothing to please her, but just the opposite. Often, when Sophia Jane was well, she had asked to be allowed to have Dinah to herself for a little while, but had always been refused. Now, here she was. She was a most attractive doll, for there was a foreign air about her that distinguished her from all English ones. The nuns at Bahia had stuffed her so cleverly that her plump black face and limbs glistened; she wore earrings, a gay turban, and very full flowered chintz skirts. All her under-garments would "take off," and were trimmed with curious hand-made lace. It was a great privilege to be allowed to play with her.

Sophia Jane received her visitor quietly, with a small pinched smile. In answer to Susan's inquiries she pronounced herself better, but added with her usual old-fashioned air:

"I'm not well yet, though. I'm still ill and shaky."

"What would you like to play at?" was Susan's next inquiry put rather hastily.

"Nothing at all," was the decided answer. "I want to talk."

"But," said Susan earnestly, "aunt told me you were not to talk much— she did, really."

"Well, I'll ask questions, and you talk," said Sophia Jane.

"Wouldn't you rather have a game of dominoes?" Susan ventured to suggest.

"No," answered Sophia Jane snappishly, "I wouldn't." Such an angry gleam came into her eyes that Susan, remembering she was not to vex or thwart her, resigned herself to be questioned. Her heart beat quickly. What would the first question be? It was quite an easy one.

"Did she like it?" asked Sophia Jane, settling herself comfortably on her elbow, and staring at her companion.

"Very much indeed," answered Susan.

"Did it fit him? Tell me all about it."

"Beautifully. I put it on myself, and he looked very nice in it. I had dinner with Mademoiselle, and she made an omelette—and coffee—and I helped to lay the table—and to wash the things afterwards—and she told me Monsieur has got some more lessons. Then she brought me home, and on the way we saw Mrs Jones standing in the door of the shop. She's not a nice-looking woman, but Mademoiselle says she has a noble heart. I should think it must be horrid to be a butcher's wife. Shouldn't you?"

Pausing for a reply, Susan gave a nervous glance at her companion, whose eyes were still fixed upon her, and who took no notice whatever of the question.

"Did Mademoiselle send a message to me about the collar?" she asked.

"No, she didn't," said Susan. Then, seeing how crest-fallen the poor little face looked, she added hastily:

"I expect she means to come and thank you herself, or perhaps to write you a letter."

A small tear had gathered in each of Sophia Jane's eyes, but she winked them quickly away.

"You're sure," she said in a troubled voice, "that she understood it was from me?"

The moment had come. Susan looked straight back in her friend's face and answered instantly:

"Yes; I am quite sure."

It was over. She had now told a real story—a very bad one. Nothing worse could happen.

Sophia Jane seemed satisfied, She gave a little sigh, and said softly:

"Thank you. Then I expect she'll write."

After this she did not mention the collar again, but was willing to play at dominoes, though she could not get through more than one game.

"I'm tired now," she said. "You may read aloud." When, however, she found that Susan had only brought a book of fairy tales, she was much displeased, and declared fretfully that fairy tales were nonsense. "They're wicked too," she added, "because they tell stories."

Susan disputed this, whereupon Sophia Jane grew so excited and angry, and spoke in such a shrill voice that Buskin came in from the next room to see what was the matter.

"You've been here long enough, Miss Susan," she said, glancing at Sophia Jane's flushed cheeks. "You better go down-stairs and let Miss Sophia Jane be quiet. It's time she took her medicine."

Susan collected her property and went away. There were a good many things to carry, but she took one with her which weighed more heavily than all the rest put together—the knowledge that she had told a story.

And now, at last, her eyes were opened wide, and she could see clearly the tangled web she had been weaving for some time past. She could see that she had first despised Sophia Jane, and then been jealous of her; first been conceited and proud, and then mean and deceitful. Good Susan no longer, but far far worse than her poor little friend, whom she had always considered so naughty. Little by little the web had become more and more twisted and confused. Would it ever be straight again? She made no excuse for herself now. Her heart was so full of sorrow and repentance that she hardly knew how to bear it, and, creeping sorrowfully up into the attic, she cast herself down on the big black box and cried. She had thought herself so good since she had come to Ramsgate, they had all told her so, and yet how naughty she had been— naughtier and naughtier, until at last she had told a story. What should she do? An old rhyme of Maria's came into her head as she lay there sobbing:

"A fault confessed Is half redressed."

That was what she must do. Confess it all to Sophia Jane. But what a humbling, miserable thing! She could see the expression on Sophia Jane's face when she heard that Susan—good Susan—who had always been held up as an example, had deceived Mademoiselle and told a story. "Oh, I couldn't!" said Susan to herself. "Anything else—any other punishment I would bear, but not that." And then she went on to remember Monsieur and Mademoiselle would know too, and they would never like her again, or think her a good little girl—it would be too dreadful. "I shall never never be happy again any way," said Susan half aloud. "If I don't tell I shall be miserable, and if I do tell I shall be miserable too."

Nanna's voice calling her down to tea put an end for the moment to these thoughts; but they came back during the evening with yet greater force, and when she went to bed she felt unhappier than she had ever been in her life. She was still, however, undecided about confessing her fault.

During the next few days she did not see Sophia Jane, though the improvement continued. It was a relief not to see her; and yet to go about with a feeling like a lump of lead in her bosom was not, Susan found, a comfortable thing. It did not get lighter as each day passed, and at last something happened which so increased its weight that she thought any punishment—any open disgrace—would be easier to bear. For, how it happened no one could tell, Sophia Jane managed to catch a chill, the fever returned with renewed violence, and she became seriously ill again. Susan could soon tell from the grave face of the doctor, and from the scraps of conversation she overheard, that her poor little companion was even worse than she had been. Besides this, Mr Bevis came one evening, and after he had talked a little while to Aunt Hannah her eyes filled with tears, and Susan heard her say:

"The child's life hangs on a thread."

Mr Bevis said some texts and soon went away, but that one sentence remained in Susan's mind and made her more miserable than ever. A thread! It was such a thin, weak thing to hang on, and if it snapped where would Sophia Jane's life be? Perhaps it would break soon, that very night, before she could see her again and ask her pardon. It was such a dreadful thought that Susan was unable to keep it to herself any longer. She shut her eyes, said her evening prayer all through, and at the end added very earnestly: "Don't let it break. Please don't let it break."

Then Margaretta came rushing into the sitting-room where Susan was curled up in the window seat. She looked pale and frightened.

"Where's Aunt Hannah?" she said.

"Just gone out of the room," answered Susan.

"Oh!" she added, "do tell me—is Sophia Jane worse?"

"I don't know," said Margaretta hurriedly. "I want aunt. She ought to see her; I think perhaps she would send for Dr Martin again."

Dr Martin was sent for, and came, but he did not give much comfort.

"You can't do anything," he said, "but try and keep up her strength. A great deal will depend on the next few hours."

From her lonely corner Susan watched and waited all that wretched evening, and, not daring to ask questions, stayed there, chill with misery, until long past her usual bed-time. At last Buskin came to find her. Wonder of wonders! there were tears in Buskin's eyes, and Susan was encouraged by this display of softness to stretch out her arms to her for comfort, and whisper, "Will she get better?"

"The Lord only knows, my dear," answered Buskin gruffly; "we're all in His hands."



CHAPTER SIX.

SOPHIA JANE POSTS A LETTER, AND SUSAN PAYS A VISIT.

Susan remained awake a long, long time that night listening with strained ears to the subdued noises in the house. She heard Dr Martin come and go away again, his boots creaking softly on each stair; she heard Aunt Hannah's voice, mysterious and low, wishing him good-night, and after that the shutting of the door. Then a great stillness seemed to fall over everything, and she went to sleep at last.

When she next opened her eyes the darkness was over—here was bright daylight again, and Buskin drawing up her blind. The first words she heard were like part of a dream:

"She's had a beautiful sleep, and the fever's taken a turn."

Susan rubbed her eyes to be quite sure she was awake, and that the good news was true.

"The doctor's been already this morning," continued Buskin, coming up to the bedside, "and he says she'll do now with care."

Susan had a hundred questions to ask, and her joy and relief were so great that she wanted to pour it all out at once. But this morning Buskin was "herself again," her soft expression was gone; she was cold and stiff as usual, and would scarcely say more than "yes" and "no" to these eager inquiries. "I shall hear all about it," said Susan to herself, "at breakfast-time;" and she dressed as quickly as she could and went down-stairs.

She was right, for no one mentioned any other subject throughout the meal. Sophia Jane had been neither liked or valued while she was strong and well, but her illness seemed to have drawn all hearts towards her. And yet she was the same Sophia Jane!

"I never could have believed," said Aunt Hannah with tears in her eyes, as she put down her tea-cup, "that I should have grown so fond of that child!"

"Poor little darling!" said Nanna.

"I cried my eyes out last night," added Margaretta, "after Dr Martin had gone."

"The relief of seeing her fall asleep!" continued Aunt Hannah. "I shall never forget it! It was just two o'clock, and I had sent Buskin to bed. Presently, I thought the child was lying more quietly, and her breathing sounded different. I hardly dared to look at her, but when I did she was sleeping as calmly as a baby, and her forehead quite moist. I shall never forget it!"

"Dear little thing!" repeated Nanna.

"We shall all be very thankful, I'm sure," said Aunt Hannah looking round the table, "if Sophia Jane gets quite well again."

"Of course we shall!" exclaimed everyone together.

"And during her illness I have felt that when she was well we were all sometimes too hard upon her faults."

There was silence.

"Everyone is better for being loved," pursued Aunt Hannah. "And I fancy no one has ever loved Sophia Jane much in her life. Perhaps this has made her hard and disagreeable. At any rate, I think we might all with advantage be more patient and kind than we have been."

It seemed difficult to Aunt Hannah to get through this speech, for she stopped very often; and Susan could see that once she was nearly crying. She had been sitting up half the night and was no doubt very tired, but how wonderful it was to hear her speak like that of Sophia Jane! It made her resolve still more firmly than she had yet done, that as soon as ever her companion was well enough she would make full and free confession of her fault.

And this time Sophia Jane seemed to have made up her mind to go straight on and get well, for she improved every day; and though it was only a little way at a time there were no drawbacks. The morning arrived which Susan had long been waiting for, when Aunt Hannah said, "You may see Sophia Jane." Susan thought that Mary Queen of Scots could not have felt worse when they told her that the block was ready; but she did not flinch. The moment she was alone with Sophia Jane she faltered out her story, and stood before her with burning cheeks and downcast eyes. The little invalid peered curiously out of the frilled white cap she wore. It was one of Aunt Hannah's adapted to her size, because she complained that her head felt cold, and it gave her such a strangely old witch-like air that it greatly increased Susan's fear and distress.

"But I thought you said Mademoiselle understood I sent it?"

"So I did," murmured Susan.

"But that was a story?"

No answer.

"But I thought you were always good?" with a gleam of gratification in her eyes.

"I'm very sorry," said the culprit.

Sophia Jane paused a moment, then she asked:

"Does Mademoiselle know now?"

"No," said Susan. "I haven't seen her."

"Well!" exclaimed Sophia Jane scornfully, "I should think you might write."

"So I will," said Susan earnestly; "and then will you forgive me?"

"Oh, I don't know about that!" said Sophia Jane, shaking her head till the frill of her cap trembled. "You see it was so very bad of you."

"I know," said Susan humbly. Then venturing to glance at Sophia Jane's face she was surprised to see a sudden little smile appear, and to hear her exclaim:

"At any rate there's one thing! They'll never be able to say again, 'try to be as good as Susan,' because you've been much naughtier now than I've ever been!"

She chuckled softly to herself, and then said—suddenly and sharply:

"Why don't you write the letter?"

It was not the least part of Susan's punishment to be treated as a child who could not be trusted. But she bore it patiently, fetched her desk, and wrote the words sternly dictated by Sophia Jane. The latter then requested that she might read the letter, and having done so watched while Susan directed the envelope and put a stamp on it. Then she said:

"Give it me," and immediately pushed it under her pillow.

"Sha'n't I post it?" asked Susan humbly.

"Certainly not!" said Sophia Jane decidedly. "That would be a pretty thing indeed!"

Susan felt humbled to the dust, and yet when she left her companion's room her heart was lighter, and she was really happier than she had been for a long time. She had done what she could to repair her fault, and all the pricks and stabs which Sophia Jane thrust into her were not nearly so hard to bear as the reproaches of her own self. True they were painful, for Susan was a proud child and liked to be well thought of; but after all she was suffering justly. Even if Monsieur and Mademoiselle should always despise her after reading that letter she should deserve it. But, oh, what a pity it was! So the thing next to be dreaded was the meeting with Mademoiselle Delphine, and to see her kindly brown face look cold and displeased. Susan could not help hoping that it would not happen just yet. She did not want to see either her or Monsieur for a long time. She wondered whether Sophia Jane had sent the letter at once, and whether Mademoiselle would write in answer or come herself. She was not, however, kept long in uncertainty about this, for two days after her interview with Sophia Jane there came a note for Aunt Hannah, which she opened at breakfast, saying:

"This is from Mademoiselle Delphine."

Susan watched her face anxiously, and saw a puzzled expression as she read on.

"She wants to know," said Aunt Hannah, at last looking up, "if she may come and see Sophia Jane this evening at five o'clock, and says she brings a friend. What friend can she mean?"

"Very strange, indeed!" said Margaretta. "I've no objection whatever to Mademoiselle's seeing the child," continued Aunt Hannah. "In fact, I think it would interest and amuse her to have a visitor. But the friend! I must say I consider that rather thoughtless and ill-judged. I am always glad to see Monsieur La Roche or his sister—but their friends! That is quite another matter."

"Quite," said Nanna and Margaretta both at once.

Susan was at first too occupied with the idea that Mademoiselle was coming that very evening to think about the friend at all, or to wonder whom it could be; she hastened with the news to Sophia Jane, who had now so far improved in strength that she was allowed to sit up a little while every afternoon. She was delighted at the idea of the visit, and at once made a suggestion about the friend which filled Susan with dismay, it was this:

"Perhaps, as she's so fond of Mrs Jones, she means to bring her."

What an idea! and yet when Susan thought it over it did not seem unlikely, for Mademoiselle always spoke with great admiration of "Madame Jones" as an acquaintance to be much valued. "A noble-hearted being," she had called her more than once. Susan wondered what Margaretta and Nanna would think of her if she came. They always talked so much about appearance, and manner, and dress, and if they disapproved of it they said, "rather common." They would certainly call Madame Jones "rather common," for they would not understand about her noble heart; and indeed Susan remembered she should not have done so herself without Mademoiselle's explanation. It was a pity that when people had noble hearts it did not make them look noble outside, and she ended by hoping very much that Madame Jones would not come.

It was between four and five o'clock in the afternoon of the expected visit, and the little girls were alone together. Aunt Hannah had promised that Mademoiselle should have a snug tea with them upstairs if she came alone, so that they were awaiting her arrival with some anxiety. Susan could not help a little secret hope now that she would not be alone, so that the dreaded meeting might be deferred. Sophia Jane had made no further reference to the collar, but Susan felt as much abashed in her presence as any prisoner before his judge, and sometimes found it difficult to talk. She gave a timid look at her; she was in a large arm-chair close to the fire, very much covered up and surrounded by pillows, in the midst of which she looked like a small white mouse in a red-flannel gown. Her features were sharpened by illness, and she still insisted on wearing Aunt Hannah's cap; but though all this made her more like an old woman than a child, there was to-day a softened light in her blue eyes which Susan noticed at once. She had never seen it there before. She took courage.

"Do you suppose," she said, glancing at black Dinah, "that Margaretta will let you play with Dinah when you are well?"

"I don't want to get well," said Sophia Jane at once.

"Don't—want—to get—well!" repeated Susan in surprise.

"I shouldn't mind always being ill," said Sophia Jane. "Everyone's kind, no one scolds you; you have nice things to eat, and lemonade. I don't want to get well."

"I want you to get well to play with me again," said Susan. "And I know everybody wants you to get well."

"Why do they?" asked the invalid.

"Oh, because—of course they do," was the only reason Susan could give.

"Well," said Sophia Jane thoughtfully, "of course there's the trouble of it, and the doctor to pay."

She wrinkled her brow as she said this, and looked sideways at Susan with her old cunning expression.

"Oh, it isn't that," said Susan very earnestly; "why, they're all dreadfully sorry. That night you were worst, you know, Aunt Hannah cried, and every one, and so did Buskin."

"I don't think I should cry if they were ill," said Sophia Jane after some reflection.

"Well, it shows how fond they are of you, doesn't it?" remarked Susan.

"Perhaps," replied Sophia Jane, and after that she was silent for a long time, and Susan stationed herself at the window to watch for Mademoiselle and her friend.

Whenever she saw two people in the distance she cried out, "Here they are!" And this happened so often, and turned out to be not the least like them, that at last it made the invalid quite peevish. So many false alarms, when she could not look out of the window herself, were most distracting.

"You're not to say it again," she exclaimed in a weak voice of command, "unless you see them acshally coming in at the gate."

Susan controlled herself with difficulty, for she was getting very much excited as the time drew near. And now, stepping quickly and neatly along with a large basket on her arm, Mademoiselle's figure did really appear—alone. Where was the friend? Susan's heart sank, and her hands grew quite cold. In another minute she must meet Mademoiselle, and then— "She's coming in at the gate," she announced to the invalid in a trembling voice; "and she hasn't brought Mrs Jones or anyone, but only a large basket."

"You're sure?" said Sophia Jane in a husky agitated tone; "then look here, quick, before she comes in."

Susan turned sharply round from the window. Sophia Jane was leaning forward over the grate, with a flush on her white cheeks and her eyes very bright, and in her hand she held, soiled and crumpled, Susan's letter of confession. The next second it had dropped into the heart of the fire, and as the door opened to admit Mademoiselle a little flame sprang brightly up. And that was how Sophia Jane posted the letter. It was such a sudden thing, and so completely altered the state of affairs that Susan could not at first take it in, or remember that she might now answer Mademoiselle's greetings without shame. These were most affectionate and cheerful, and she presently seated herself close to Sophia Jane's arm-chair with her basket on her knees, and untied her bonnet-strings.

"Madame, your aunt, is so kind to ask me to take tea with you," she said, "and I have taken the liberty to bring also a Monsieur who is anxious to make his compliments to Miss Sophia."

"Is he down-stairs?" asked Sophia Jane.

"Mais non," said Mademoiselle with a little burst of laughter; "he is here, in this room, and waits to make himself known."

She opened the lid of the basket a very little way and peeped in.

"It's Gambetta!" exclaimed Sophia Jane, in a voice hoarse with excitement; "that's what you meant by a friend."

There was the tiny tinkle of a bell. Mademoiselle opened the basket wide, and there indeed was Gambetta in all the dignity of the new collar.

Nothing could exceed Sophia Jane's delight as she clasped her hands in an ecstasy and laughed aloud. "Doesn't he look nice in it?" she said. Mademoiselle smiled and nodded in return; everyone looked pleased except Gambetta himself, who held his neck stiffly as though he said, "Pride must suffer pain."

Susan stood a little behind the group while this was going on; now she came in front of Mademoiselle and caressed Gambetta's soft furry neck.

"It's Sophia Jane's present," she said, "not mine. She sent it to Monsieur for him."

Mademoiselle looked puzzled.

"It was got with Susan's half-crown," added Sophia Jane quickly, "so it's from both of us."

"Ah, that is very amiable of you both," said Mademoiselle. "Gambetta has both the two of you to thank—and Adolphe also; that is very agreeable."

And so the event which Susan had thought of and dreaded so much passed with this slight remark. The confession had been made, and her mind was clear again, and free. Free to laugh, and talk, and look people straight in the face, and be her old happy self. But there was one thing she never forgot, and that was Sophia Jane's generosity. By burning that letter she had gained not only Susan's affection but her respect; she should never look down upon her again.

Meanwhile Gambetta became restive, and, in spite of all his mistress's entreaties, broke away from her, and refused to settle down till he had made a thorough examination of the room. He jumped on to the table, smelt all the chairs, looked suspiciously behind the chest of drawers, and walked gingerly in his high furry boots amongst Sophia Jane's medicine bottles. His every movement was watched and admired, and by the time Buskin brought in tea he had finished his inquiries and drawn near the group by the fire. Then, after one thoughtful glance round, he chose Sophia Jane's position as being the warmest, softly leapt on to her lap, and snuggled himself among her shawls, In this situation he presently began a purring song of comfort, in which he was joined by the tea-kettle. Sophia Jane's satisfaction was now complete. Mademoiselle Delphine's face beamed, and Susan, pouring out tea with Aunt Hannah's best pink set, felt almost too happy for words. Probably few rooms held four happier creatures that evening.

It was pleasant to see how Mademoiselle enjoyed herself; how she said, "Excellente!" to the tea, and water-cresses, and muffins, and how she coaxed Sophia Jane to eat, and made her laugh. She was one of those fortunate people who pick up pleasures everywhere, and find amusement in the most common things of life. After tea she told them stories. Interesting details about Paris, and Adolphe, and their journey to England with poor Gambetta in a basket, and all this made the time pass so quickly, that when the clock struck seven everyone was startled. Mademoiselle herself sprang up at once with a little shriek. She had promised to meet Adolphe at a certain point on her way home, and he would without doubt be waiting for her. Gambetta, therefore, was hustled into his basket before he had time to resist, and Mademoiselle, having embraced her little friends heartily, was soon on her way.

The two little girls were silent for a minute after she had gone. Sophia Jane, languid after such unusual excitement, stared absently at the fire, and Susan, not yet quite at her ease, did not like to speak first. But when Buskin entered it seemed to give her courage, and she said:

"Haven't we had a nice tea-party?"

"Yes," answered Sophia Jane; and added thoughtfully, "it's very nice to be ill."

"But I want you to get well," said Susan. "You can't think how dull it is down-stairs without you."

Buskin would not allow any further conversation, and Susan had to say good-night and go away. As she kissed her friend's tiny befrilled face, she felt for the first time really fond of her, and grateful also. She had made the discovery lately that you could not judge people by their outsides, or even by what others said of them. Under her cross, crabbed manner Sophia Jane had hidden a grateful heart, which had answered to the first touch of kindness; and disguised by sharp and shrewish words, she had shown a really generous and forgiving spirit. Like Madame Jones, it appeared that she had a noble heart.

The next day was one of some excitement to Susan, for it had been arranged that she was to spend it with some friends of Margaretta and Nanna who lived at Ramsgate. Their name was Winslow. It was not altogether a pleasant prospect, for she had never been there before, and she had very little hope that she should find them agreeable. Not that she knew anything against them; on the contrary, their name was never uttered without words of admiration, and if Nanna or Margaretta wished to bestow high approval on anything, they always said it was like something the Winslows had. It appeared, indeed, that these friends were much favoured by fortune. Their house was the pleasantest, their horses the best, their taste the most excellent, their children the prettiest and most clever. It was this last point which had specially interested Sophia Jane and Susan, and they had gradually come to dislike the little Winslows, though they knew nothing of them but their names and appearance. Whenever Nanna or Margaretta returned from seeing these friends they were brimful of admiration at the excellent conduct and talent of the children, and did not fail to draw unfavourable contrasts. They described their dresses, repeated their speeches, and gave many instances of their polite behaviour and obedience to rules. Little Eva, who was not so old as Susan, could already play "The Harmonious Blacksmith" without a mistake. Dear Julia, who was Sophia Jane's exact age, danced the minuet with the utmost elegance, and always held herself upright. As for darling Lucy, she spoke French with ease, and had begged to be allowed to begin German.

Although they had never spoken to these wonderful children, the little girls had often met them out of doors walking with their governess, and had long ago made up their minds about them.

They thought them prim and dull-looking, and found something annoying in their neatly-dressed little figures, and the perfect propriety with which they stepped along, holding their small round heads rather high. They imagined, too, that they had seen them cast glances of surprise and disdain on Sophia Jane's clothes, which were often shabby, and never becoming. They agreed, therefore, in considering them disagreeable children, and were by no means anxious for their acquaintance.

Remembering all this, Susan felt there was no chance at all that she should enjoy herself, and she did not get much comfort from Sophia Jane, when she went to say good-bye.

"I'm glad I'm not going," she said. "I know I should hate 'em. You know we always have."

"Perhaps they'll be nicer in-doors," said Susan, though she did not think it probable.

"I believe they're all horrid, every one of 'em," said Sophia Jane decidedly, "in-doors and out, and I'm glad I'm not going."

"It wouldn't be quite so bad if you were," said Susan with a sigh, "because we could talk about it afterwards. But I must go; there's Margaretta calling me."

"I hope, Susan," said Margaretta, as they walked along the parade together, "that you will remember to behave very nicely, and answer properly when Mrs Winslow speaks to you. Don't blush and look shy. The little Winslows never look silly, and I have never seen them blush."

"Are you fond of Mrs Winslow?" asked Susan. "She's very kind," answered Margaretta, "and very clever. She knows a great deal about education."

Susan asked no more questions, and in a quarter of an hour they arrived at the house which was large and tall, with green balconies, and a great many windows. Part of it faced the sea, and part of it went round the corner into a street, and it all looked, inside and out, so bright and clean and new that it was quite dazzling. Susan thought she had never seen a house where everything shone so much, and there was so much light. Not a shadow, not a dark corner anywhere, and all the furniture was polished so highly that she saw herself and Margaretta reflected a dozen times as they moved along. When they reached the drawing-room it was still more confusing, for there were so many mirrors, and windows, and statuettes under glass cases, that the brilliancy almost brought tears to her eyes, it was such a contrast to the dimness of Aunt Hannah's low ceilings and small rooms. Wherever she turned her head, too, another Susan stared at her, and this made her feel shy and uncomfortable.

"Isn't it a beautiful room?" said Margaretta, seating herself on a pompous yellow sofa. "So cheerful!"

Before Susan could answer, Mrs Winslow came in. She was a fair lady with a very straight nose, and she welcomed them kindly, and asked after Sophia Jane.

"My little people," she continued, scarcely waiting, Susan noticed, for Margaretta's answer, "are just returning from their walk. Air and light are as necessary to the young as to flowers, are they not? How can we expect their minds to expand unless the body is healthy?"

"No, indeed," said Margaretta.

Mrs Winslow then proposed that they should go and take off their hats, which being done she led the way down-stairs into the dining-room, where the "little people" were already assembled with their governess for their early dinner. During this Susan had plenty of time for observation, and she soon decided that she should have to tell Sophia Jane that they were not nicer in-doors than out. They were wonderfully alike: all had little straight noses, fair complexions, and pale blue eyes, and when they spoke they said all their words very distinctly, and never cut any of them short. They were very polite to Susan.

"I encourage conversation with my children during meal-time, on principle," said Mrs Winslow. "How can you expect them to acquire right habits of speaking if silence is imposed?"

"No, indeed," said Margaretta again.

"The force of habit," continued Mrs Winslow, putting down her knife and fork, and looking from Margaretta to Miss Pink, the governess, "has never, it seems to me, been sufficiently considered in education. It in a giant power. It rests with us to turn it this way or that, to give it a right or a wrong direction, to use it for good or for evil. I say to my children, for instance, 'always think before you act, in the smallest as well as the greatest things.' By degrees I thus form in them habits of steadiness, thoughtfulness, calmness, which will not desert them when called upon to act in moments of danger and difficulty. 'Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it'—nay more, he cannot depart from it."

It was quite by chance as Mrs Winslow said these last words that her eyes rested on Susan, who had been staring at her all the while she had been speaking, and who now felt that an answer of some kind was expected. She had none to give, however, for she had not been listening at all to what had been said, her mind being filled with wonder and awe at Mrs Winslow, who talked as though she were reading aloud. She only blushed, therefore, and immediately became aware that three pairs of pale blue eyes were fastened upon her from the other side of the table. The little Winslows never blushed, Margaretta had said, and of course they thought her very silly. She longed for the meal to be over, and the visit also. Why, she wondered, were Margaretta and Nanna so fond of coming here? Margaretta did not look as if she were enjoying herself much. She was sitting in a stiff position, with her head a little on one side, watching every glance of Mrs Winslow's, so that she might say, "yes, indeed," or "quite so," or "exactly," in the right place. Her voice did not sound like the voice she had at Aunt Hannah's, but smaller, and she said her words mincingly. Susan felt sure she was not enjoying herself. Why did she come?