"I say, Little-sing," he remarked, "whoever has been and done it?"

"What do you mean, James?" said Mrs. Howland.

"Why, the place," said Martin; "it looks sort of different."

"Oh, it's Maggie," said Mrs. Howland. "She went out and bought all those cakes for you herself."

"Bless me, now, did she?" said Martin. "She's a smart girl—a ver-ry smart girl."

"She's a very clever girl, James."

"Yes, that's how I put it—very clever. She has a way about her."

"She has, James. Every one thinks so."

"Well, Little-sing, give me a good meal, and then we'll talk."

Mrs. Howland lifted the teapot and was preparing to pour out a cup of tea for Mr. Martin, when he looked at her, noticed her extreme elegance and grace, and made a spring toward her.

"You haven't give Bo-peep one kiss yet, you naughty Little-sing."

Mrs. Howland colored as she kissed him. Of course she liked him very much; but somehow Maggie had brought a new atmosphere into the house. Even Mrs. Howland felt it.

"Let's eat, let's eat," said Martin. "I never deny myself the good things of life. That girl knows a thing or two. She's a ver-ry clever girl."

"She is, James; she is."

"Now, what on earth do you call me James for? Ain't I Bo-peep—ain't I?"

"Yes, Bo-peep, of course you are."

"And you are Little-sing. You're a wonderfully elegant-looking woman for your years, Victoria."



CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE PARK.

Mrs. Howland did not like to have her years mentioned. Mr. Martin had been careful never to do so until Maggie appeared on the scene. On the contrary, he had dropped hints that his birdling, his Little-sing, his Victoria, was in the early bloom of youth. But now he said that she was a wonderful woman for her years.

Mrs. Howland bridled slightly. "I am not old, James," she said.

"Come, come," said the good-natured grocer; "no 'Jamesing' of me. I'm your Bo-peep. What does it matter whether you are old or young, Victoria, if you suit me and I suit you? This is a first-rate tea, and that girl's clever—uncommon clever. By the way, how old may she happen to be?"

"Sixteen her last birthday," said Mrs. Howland. "I was very, very young, a mere child, when I married, James."

"There you are with your 'James' again! Strikes me, you're a bit huffy to-day, Little-sing."

"No, I am not; only I've been worried since Maggie came back. She was so rude to you yesterday. I felt it terribly."

"Did you now? Well, that was very sensible of you. We'll finish our tea before we begin our talk. Come, Little-sing, eat your cake and drink your tea, and make yourself agreeable to your Bo-peep."

Mrs. Howland felt cheered. She did enjoy her meal; and, if she liked it, Mr. Martin liked it immensely also.

"What a useful girl that would be!" he said. "We could make her housekeeper at Laburnum Villa in no time. She has a head on her shoulders."

Mrs. Howland was silent. She was dreading inexpressibly the little scene which she felt must be endured between her and her intended.

"We'll ring the bell now," said Martin, wiping a few crumbs from his mouth and dusting his trousers with his pocket-handkerchief. "We'll get Tildy to remove all these things, and then what do you say to my taking you for a drive to the Park?"

"Oh, I should like that!" said Mrs. Howland in surprise,

"Thought so. Never say that Bo-peep isn't thoughtful.—Ah, here you be, Tildy. You clear away—smart, my girl, and then whistle for a 'ansom. Do you hear me? A 'ansom, not a four-wheeler. Look as sharp as you can, my girl, and I'll give you sixpence."

"Thank you, sir," said Tildy. She looked with admiring eyes at the pair who were so close to the matrimonial venture, and quickly removed all traces of the meal.

"Now then, Little-sing, go into your room and get dressed for your drive."

Mrs. Howland did so. She put on an elegant sort of bonnet-hat which had been presented to her by Martin, a lace fichu over her shoulders, and a pair of long white gloves. She had also been presented with a white parasol by Martin. He thought that no one could look more beautiful than his ladylove when she reappeared in the drawing-room.

"The 'ansom's at the door," he said. "We'll go now and start on our drive."

Mrs. Howland rose, and Tildy agreed with Martin as to Mrs. Howland's appearance when she stepped into that hansom. Tildy said she looked bride-like. Mrs. Ross remarked that as elegant women before now had become widows in no time. Tildy shuddered, and said that Mrs. Ross should not say things of that sort. Mrs. Ross replied that she invariably spoke the truth, and then returned to her dismal kitchen.

Meanwhile Martin and Mrs. Howland were driven swiftly in the direction of Hyde Park. London society people were fast going out of town, for it was very nearly the end of July; but still there were a few carriages about, and some fine horses, and some gaily dressed ladies and several smart-looking men. Martin provided a couple of chairs for himself and his future wife, and they sat for some little time enjoying the fresh air and looking on at the gay scene.

"It is wonderful," said Martin, "what a sight of money is wasted in this sort of thing."

"But they enjoy it, don't they?" said Mrs. Howland.

"Yes, my pet," he replied, "but not as you and me will enjoy Laburnum Villa. And now, Little-sing, can you attend to business?"

"I have a very weak head for business, Bo-peep," was the reply.

"Don't I know it, my pet; and I am the last person on earth to allow you to be worried; but I tell you what it is, Victory, if your head is weak as regards money matters, your girl has a topping good brain in that direction. Now, I have a notion in my head about her."

"You can't do anything with her," said Mrs. Howland; "she is quite impossible. I never thought she would treat you as she did. I could weep when I think of it. I shouldn't be surprised if, on account of her rudeness and ingratitude, we broke off the engagement. I shouldn't really, James."

"What do you take me for?" said James. "It isn't the girl I want to marry! it's you."

"Oh dear!" said Mrs. Howland; "of course, I know."

"She ain't a patch on you, Little-sing—that is, I mean as regards looks. But now, don't you fret. If you have been turning things over in your mind, so have I been turning things over in my mind, and the sum and substance of it all is that I believe that girl's right after all."

"Right after all! But dear, dear James, the child can't live on nothing!"

"Who said she was to live on nothing?" said Martin. "Don't tremble, Little-sing; it's more than I can stand. I have been thinking that a sharp young miss like that wants a bit more training. She wants breaking in. Now, I've no mind to the job. I can manage my shop-people—not one of them can come round me, I can tell you—but a miss like your daughter, brought up altogether, I will say, above her station, is beyond me. What I have been turning over in my mind is this, that a year or two's training longer will do her no sort of harm."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Howland. She was trembling exceedingly.

"I think, too," continued Martin, "that Laburnum Villa might not be agreeable to her at present; and if it ain't agreeable to her she'll put on the sulks, and that's more than I can abide. Cheerfulness I must have. My joke I must be allowed to make. My fun in my own way I must enjoy. You and me—we'll hit it off splendid, and let the girl go for the present."

"But she must go somewhere," said Mrs. Howland.

"Good gracious, my lady! do you suppose I'd allow the girl to be destitute? No; I'm ready to do the generous; and now, I'll tell you something. You mustn't blame her too much. She repented of her ill-natured manner last night, and came to me as pretty as you please this morning, and asked me to breakfast with her. I was taken aback, but she came round me, and we went to Harrison's and had a topping meal. Then she spoke to me very sensible, and explained that she wanted more 'parlez-vooing' and more 'pi-annofortying,' and all the rest of the so-called ladies' accomplishments. She consulted me very pretty and very proper indeed; and the long and the short of it is that I am willing to allow her forty pounds a year for her education at that blessed Aylmer House where all the swells go, and to keep her there for two years certain; and I am willing, further, to give her twenty pounds a year to spend on dress. Of course she takes her holidays with us. Then, if at the end of that time she turns out what I hope she will, I will make her an accountant in the shop; it will be a first-rate post for her, and I am sure, from the way she talks, she has a splendid head for business. Now, what do you say to that, Little-sing?"

"I say there never was your like, Bo-peep."

Mr. Martin rubbed his hands. "Thought you'd be pleased," he said. "The girl spoke very proper indeed this morning, and she is a good girl—plain and sensible, and I couldn't but take notice of her words. Now then, s'pose we take a fresh 'ansom, and hurry home; and I'll take you out and give you a right good bit of dinner, and afterwards we'll go to the play."

"Oh dear!" said Mrs. Howland, "you are good to me, Bo-peep."



CHAPTER XV.

TWO SIDES.

Mrs. Ward's school reopened on the 20th of September. For two or three days beforehand the immaculate and beautiful house was being made, if possible, still more immaculate and still more lovely. The window-boxes were refilled with flowers; the dainty little bedrooms were supplied with fresh curtains to the windows and fresh drapery for the beds.

Mrs. Ward herself arrived at the school about a week before her pupils made their appearance. She had much to settle during this week. She had, in short, to prepare her plan of campaign for the ensuing term: to interview her different masters and mistresses, to consult with her resident English governess (a charming girl of the name of Talbot), to talk over matters with Fraeulein Beck, and to reassure Mademoiselle Laplage, who was very lively, very conscientious, but at the same time very nervous with regard to her own powers. "Les jeunes filles Anglaises sont bien capables et bien distinguees mais—ma foi! comme elles me fatiguent les nerfs!" Mademoiselle Laplage would say; and, although she had been at Aylmer House for three terms, she always doubted her powers, and made the same speech over and over again at the beginning of each term. In addition to Miss Talbot, there was a very cheery, bright girl of the name of Johnson, who looked after the girls' wardrobes and helped them, if necessary, with their work, saw that they were punctual at meals, and occasionally took an English class. She was a great favorite with all the girls at Mrs. Ward's school. They called her Lucy, instead of Miss Johnson. She was quite young—not more than twenty years of age.

These four ladies resided at Aylmer House; but masters and mistresses for various accomplishments came daily to instruct the girls. Mrs. Ward loved her teachers almost as much as she loved her girls, and they each and all adored her.

Miss Talbot was an exceedingly clever woman, close on thirty years of age. She had taken very high honors at Cambridge, and was a person of great penetration of character, with a genius for imparting knowledge.

Unlike most head-mistresses, Mrs. Ward seldom changed her staff of teachers. She had the gift of selection to a marvellous degree, and never was known to make a mistake with regard to the choice of those women who helped her in her great work of education.

Summer was, of course, over when the girls assembled at Aylmer House. Nevertheless, there was a sort of afterglow of summer, which was further intensified by the beautiful flowers in the window-boxes and by the fresh, clean, fragrant atmosphere of the house itself.

The two Cardews and the two Tristrams came up to Aylmer House by an early train. Mr. Tristram brought them to school, Mr. and Mrs. Cardew at the last moment feeling unequal to the task of parting with their darlings in the presence of their companions. The real parting had taken place the previous night; and that pain which Merry had felt at intervals during the end of the summer vacation was sharp enough to cause her to cry when she lay down to sleep on the night before going to school. But Merry was brave, and so was Cicely; and, although Merry did hate beyond words the thought of not seeing her beloved father and her dear mother until Christmas, she thought also that very good times were before her, and she was resolved to make the best of them.

Molly and Isabel, who were quite accustomed to going to school, had no pangs of heart at all when they bade their mother good-bye. As to Peterkins and Jackdaw, as they were also going to school on the following day, they scarcely observed the departure of their sisters, only saying, when Belle hugged one and Molly the other, "What a fuss you girls do make! Now, if Spot-ear and Fanciful were to fret about us there'd be some reason in it. But mother's going to look after them; and mother's a brick, I can tell you." The girls laughed very merrily, and asked what message her two adorers would like to send to Maggie.

The two adorers only vouchsafed the remark, "Don't bother; we're going to be with boys now, and boys are worth all the girls in creation put together."

The journey to town was taken without any special adventure, and at about three o'clock in the afternoon an omnibus containing the four girls, accompanied by Mr. Tristram, with their luggage piled on the roof, stopped at Aylmer House.

Aneta had already arrived; and as the girls entered with a new feeling of timidity through the wide-open doors they caught a glimpse of Maggie in the distance. There were other girls, absolute strangers to them, who peeped for a minute over the balusters and then retired from view. But, whatever the four strangers might have felt with regard to these interesting occurrences, every other feeling was brought into subjection by the appearance of Mrs. Ward on the scene.

Mrs. Ward looked quite as stately as Mrs. Cardew, with her beautiful face still quite young; with her most kind, most gentle, most protective manner; with the glance of the eye and the pressure of the hand which spoke untold volumes of meaning. Merry felt her loving heart rise in sudden adoration. Cicely gave her a quick, adoring glance. As to Molly and Isabel, they were speechless with pleasure.

"You have come, dears," said Mrs. Ward. "Welcome, all four!—These are your girls, Mr. Tristram"—she singled out Molly and Isabel without being introduced to them. "I know them," she said with a smile, "from their likeness to you. And these are the Cardews. Now, which is Cicely and which Merry? Ah, I think I can tell. This is Merry, is she not?" and she laid her hand on the pretty girl's shoulder.

"Yes, I am Merry," replied Meredith Cardew in a voice which almost choked her.

"And you, of course, are Cicely," said Mrs. Ward. "In this house all the girls speak to each other by their Christian names; and you will be Cicely and Merry to me, as Molly and Isabel Tristram will be Molly and Isabel to me. You know Aneta, of course. She is hovering near, anxious to take possession of you. Go with her, dears. I think all my girls have now come.—Is it not so, Miss Talbot?"

"Yes, Mrs. Ward," replied Miss Talbot.

"Miss Talbot, may I introduce my four new pupils to you, Cicely and Merry Cardew, and Molly and Isabel Tristram?—You will have a good deal to do with Miss Talbot, girls, for she is our English teacher, and my very great friend."

Miss Talbot blushed slightly from pleasure. She said a gentle word to each girl, and a minute afterwards they had, so to speak, crossed the Rubicon, and were in the heart of Aylmer House; for Aneta had seized Merry's hand, and Cicely followed immediately afterwards, while Molly and Belle found themselves one at each side of Maggie Howland.

"Oh, this is delightful!" said Maggie. "We have all met at last. Isn't the day glorious? Isn't the place perfect? Aren't you in love with Mrs. Ward?"

"She seems very nice," said Molly in an almost timid voice.

"How nice Merry and Cicely look!" continued Maggie.

"You look nice, yourself, Maggie. Everything is wonderful," said Molly; "not a bit like the school in Hanover."

"Of course not. Who could compare it?" said Maggie.

Meanwhile Aneta, Cicely, and Merry had gone on in front. But as they were ascending the broad, low stairs, Merry turned and glanced at Maggie and smiled at her, and Maggie smiled back at Merry. Oh, that smile of Merry's, how it caused her heart to leap! Aneta, try as she would, could not take Merry Cardew quite away from her.

Cicely and Merry had a bedroom together. Two little white beds stood side by side. The drugget on the floor was pale blue. The room was a study in pale blue and white. It was all exquisitely neat, fresh, airy, and the smell of the flowers in the window-boxes came in through the open windows.

"Why," said Cicely with a gasp, "we might almost be in the country!"

"This is one of the nicest rooms in the whole house," said Aneta. "But why should I say that," she continued, "when every room is, so to speak, perfect? I never saw Mrs. Ward, however, more particular than she was about your bedroom, girls. I think she is very much pleased at your coming to Aylmer House."

Cicely ran to the window and looked out.

"It is so nice to be in London," she said; "but somehow, I thought it would be much more noisy."

Aneta laughed.

"Aylmer House," she said, "stands in the midst of a great square. We don't have huge traffic in the squares; and, really, at night it is as quiet as the country itself."

"But hark! hark!" said Merry, "there is a funny sound after all."

"What do you take it for?" asked Aneta.

"I don't know," said Merry. "I could almost imagine that we were by the seaside, and that the sound was the roar of the breakers on the beach."

"It is the roar of human breakers," said Aneta. "One always hears that kind of sound even in the quietest parts of London. It is the great traffic in the thoroughfares not far away."

"It is delightful! wonderful!" said Merry. "Oh, I long to know all the girls! You will introduce us, won't you, Aneta?"

"Of course; and you must be very quick remembering names. Let me see. You two, and Molly and Isabel, and Maggie Howland, and I make six. There are twenty girls in the house altogether, so you have to make the acquaintance of fourteen others."

"I never can possibly remember their names," said Merry.

"You will have to try. That's the first thing expected of a schoolgirl—to know the names of her schoolfellows."

"Well, I will do my best."

"You had better do your best; it will be a good occupation for you during this first evening. Now, are you ready? And shall we go down? We have tea in the refectory at four o'clock. Mademoiselle Laplage presides over the tea-table this week."

"Oh, but does she talk English?"

"Of course not—French. How can you learn French if you don't talk it?"

"I shall never understand," said poor Merry.

"Well, I've no doubt she will let you off very easily during the first few days," said Aneta. "But afterwards she is just as particular as woman can be."

The girls went downstairs, where a group of other girls—most of them wearing pretty white dresses, for they were all still in full summer attire—met in the wide, pleasant hall. Aneta performed the ceremony of introduction.

"Henrietta and Mary Gibson, may I introduce my special friends and cousins, Cicely and Meredith—otherwise Merry—Cardew?"

Two tall, fair, lady-like girls responded to this introduction with a hearty shake of the hand and a hearty welcome to the new-comers.

"Here is Rosamond Dacre," continued Aneta, as a very dark, somewhat plain girl appeared in view.—"Rosamond, my friends and cousins, Cicely and Merry Cardew."

Rosamond shook hands, but stiffly and without any smile. The next minute a laughing, merry, handsome little girl, with dark-blue eyes, very dark curling eyelashes, and quantities of curling black hair, tumbled rather than walked into view.

"Ah Kathleen—Kitty, you're just as incorrigible as ever!" cried Aneta:—"Girls, this is our Irish romp, as we always call her. Her name is Kathleen O'Donnell.—Now then, Kathleen, you must be good, you know, and not too terribly Irish. I have the honor to present to you, Kathleen, my cousins Cicely and Merry Cardew."

Kathleen did more than smile. She laughed outright. "I am delighted you have come," she said. "How are you? Isn't school glorious? I do love it! I have come straight from Glengariff—the most beautiful part of the whole of Ireland. Do you know Ireland? Have you ever seen Bantry Bay? Oh, there is no country in all the world like it, and there is no scenery so magnificent."

"Come, Kitty, not quite so much chatter," said Aneta.—"Ah, there's the tea-gong."

The girls now followed Aneta into a pleasant room which looked out on to a small garden. The garden, compared to the great, sweeping lawns and lovely parterres of Meredith Manor, was insignificant. Nevertheless, with the French windows of the refectory wide open, and the beds full of hardy flowers—gay geraniums, late roses, innumerable asters, fuchsias, etc.—it appeared as a fresh surprise to the country girls.

"It isn't like London," thought Merry.

At tea she found herself, greatly to her relief, at Maggie's side. There was also another piece of good fortune—at least so it seemed to the Cardews, whose conversational French was still almost nil—Mademoiselle Laplage was unexpectedly absent, the good lady being forced to remain in her room with a sudden, overpowering headache, and pleasant, good-natured Lucy—otherwise Miss Johnson—took her place.

"Perfect freedom to-day, girls," said Miss Johnson.

"Ah, good Lucy! thank you, Lucy!" exclaimed Kathleen.

"That's right, Lucy! Hurrah for Lucy!" cried several other voices.

"No discipline at all to-day," continued Lucy. "School doesn't begin until to-morrow."

Cicely was seated near Aneta, with Kathleen O'Donnell at her other side. Just for a minute Aneta's eyes traveled across the table and fixed themselves on Maggie's face. Maggie found herself coloring, and a resentful feeling awoke in her heart. She could not dare to oppose Aneta; and yet—and yet—she was determined at any cost to keep the love of Merry Cardew for herself.

Meanwhile Merry, who was equally delighted to find herself by Maggie's side, began to talk to her in a low tone.

"You don't look very well, Mags," she said—"not nearly as robust as when I saw you last; and you never wrote to me after that first letter."

"I have a great deal I want to tell you," said Maggie in a low tone. "Lucy is quite right; there are no lessons of any sort this evening. Mrs. Ward always gives us the first evening to settle and to get perfectly at home in, so we shall be able to chatter to our heart's content. This is going to be a glorious night, and we can walk about in the garden."

"But won't there be a lot of other people in the garden?" asked Merry.

"Why, of course," said Maggie in a surprised tone. "I suppose we'll all be there."

"We can't talk any secrets, if that is what you mean," said Merry, "for the garden is so very small."

Maggie laughed. "That's because you are accustomed to Meredith Manor," she said. "Anyhow," she continued, dropping her voice, "I must talk to you. I have a great, great deal to say, and you'll have to listen."

"Of course I will listen, dear," said Merry.

Rosamond Dacre now joined in, and the conversation became general. Henrietta and Mary Gibson had a very agreeable way of describing things. Maggie felt herself reinstated in the life she loved; Merry, the girl she cared for best, was by her side, and she would not have had a single thorn in the flesh but for the presence of Aneta.

It has been said that in this school there were two girls who held considerable sway over their companions. One of them was Aneta Lysle, the other Maggie Howland. Aneta had, of course, far and away the greater number of girls under her spell, if such a word could describe her high and noble influence over them. But Maggie had her own friends, among whom were Rosamond Dacre, Kathleen O'Donnell, Matty and Clara Roache, and Janet Burns. All these girls were fairly nice, but not so high-bred and not so noble in tone as the girls who devoted themselves to Aneta. Kathleen was, indeed, altogether charming; she was the romp of the school and the darting of every one. But Rosamond Dacre was decidedly morose and sulky. She was clever, and on this account her mistresses liked her; but she was a truly difficult girl to deal with, being more or less shut up within herself, and disinclined to true friendship with any one. She liked Kathleen O'Donnell, however, and Kathleen adored Maggie. Rosamond was, therefore, considered to be on Maggie's side of the school. Matty and Clara Roache were quite ordinary, everyday sort of girls, neither very good-looking nor the reverse, neither specially clever nor specially stupid. Their greatest friend was Janet Burns, a handsome little girl with a very lofty brow, calm, clear gray eyes, and a passionate adoration for Maggie Howland. Matty and Clara would follow Janet to the world's end, and, as Janet adhered to Maggie, they were also on Maggie's side.

Maggie naturally expected to add to the numbers of her special adherents her own two friends, the Tristrams. She felt she could easily have won Merry also to join, the ranks of adorers; but then it suddenly occurred to her that her friendship for Merry should be even more subtle than the ordinary friendship that an ordinary girl who is queen at school gives to her fellows. She did not dare to defy Aneta. Merry must outwardly belong to Aneta, but if her heart was Maggie's what else mattered?

When tea was over several of the girls drifted into the garden, where they walked in twos, discussing their holidays, their old friends, and the time which was just coming. There was not a trace of unhappiness in any face. The whole atmosphere of the place seemed to breathe peace and goodwill.

Aneta and Cicely, with some of Aneta's own friends, two girls of the name of Armitage—Anne and Jessie—and a very graceful girl called Sylvia St. John, walked up and down talking quietly together for some little time.

Then Cicely looked eagerly round her. "I can't see Merry anywhere," she remarked.

"She is all right, dear, I am sure," said Aneta. But Aneta in her inmost heart did not think so. She was, however, far too prudent to say a word to make her cousin Cicely uneasy.

Meanwhile Maggie and Merry had found a cosy corner for themselves in one of the conservatories. They sat side by side in two little garden-chairs.

"Well, you've come!" said Maggie. "I have carried out my design. My heart's desire is satisfied."

"Oh, how sweet you are, Maggie!" said Merry. "I have missed you so much!" she added. "I have so often wished for you!"

"Do you really love me?" asked Maggie, looking at Merry in her queer, abrupt manner.

"You know I do," said Merry.

"Well," said Maggie, "there are a great many girls in the school who love me very dearly."

"It is easy to perceive that," said Merry. "Why, Maggie, at tea-time that handsome little Irish girl—Kathleen you call her—couldn't take her eyes off you."

"Oh, Kitty," said Maggie. "Yes, she is on my side."

"What do you mean by your side?"

"Well, of course I have told you—haven't I?—that there are two of us in this school who are more looked up to than the others. It seems very conceited for me to say that I happen to be one. Of course I am not a patch on Aneta; I know that perfectly well."

"Aneta is a darling," said Merry; "and she is my own cousin; but"—she dropped her voice—"Maggie, somehow, I can't help loving you best."

"Oh," said Maggie with a start, "is that true?"

"It is! it is!"

Maggie was silent for a minute. At the end of that time she said very gently, "You won't be hurt at something I want to tell you?"

"Hurt! No," said Merry; "why should I be?"

"Well, it is just this: Aneta is frightfully jealous of me."

"Oh! I don't believe it," said Merry indignantly. "It isn't in her nature to be jealous. It's very low-minded to be jealous."

"There is no school," said Maggie, "where jealousy does not abound. There is no life into which jealousy does not enter. The world itself is made up of jealous people. Aneta is jealous of me, and I—I am jealous of her."

"Oh, Maggie dear, you must not, and you ought not to be jealous of Aneta! She thinks so kindly, so sweetly of every one."

"She loves you," said Maggie. "You just go and tell her how much you care for me, that you love me better than you love her, and see how she will take it."

"But I wouldn't tell her that," said little Merry, "for it would hurt her."

"There!" said Maggie with a laugh; "and yet you pretend that you don't think her jealous."

"She will never be jealous of me, for I'll never give her cause—dear Aneta!" said Merry.

Maggie was again silent and thoughtful for a few minutes. "Listen to me, Merry," she said. "In this school the girls follow the queens. If I wanted to make Aneta Lysle really mad with jealousy I'd get you over to me; but—don't speak for a minute—I won't get you over to me. You shall stay at school and be on Aneta's side."

"I suppose—I suppose I ought," said Merry in a faint voice.

"You must—you must be on Aneta's side of the school, and so must Cicely; but you can, all the same, love me best."

"Can I?" said Merry, brightening up. "Then, if I can, I sha'n't mind a bit."

Maggie patted her hand very gently. "You can, Merry; and you can help me. You will always take my part, won't you?"

"Indeed—indeed I will! But it won't be necessary."

"It may be," said Maggie very earnestly. "Promise that, if the time comes, you will take my part."

"I promise, of course. What can be the matter with you, Maggie? You don't look a bit yourself."

Maggie did not at once reply. "I shall have a great deal to do this term," she said after a pause; "and my party in the school won't be so weak after all. There'll be Rosamond Dacre——"

"I didn't very much like Rosamond," said Merry, speaking in a low voice.

"Oh, she is excellent fun when you know her," said Maggie; "but as she won't be on your side, nor in your form, you are not likely to have much to do with her. Then Matty and Clara are first-rate, and they're mine too; and Kathleen O'Donnell is a perfect brick; and Janet Burns, she's as strong as they make 'em. Of course the Tristrams will belong to me. Let me see: Tristrams, two; Rosamond, three; Kathleen, four; Matty and Clara, six; Janet, seven. Ah, well, I am quite in the minority. Aneta carries off eleven girls as her share."

"Don't be sad about it, Maggie. Surely we might all be one in the school! Why should there be parties?" said Merry.

"Little you know, Merry, how impossible school-life would be without parties, and great friends, and medium friends, and favorites, and enemies. Why, Merry, school is a little world, and the world is made up of elements such as these."

"Tell me," said Merry after a pause, "what you did after you left us."

Maggie colored. "Oh, stayed for a time in that horrid Shepherd's Bush."

"In those fusty, musty lodgings?" said Merry.

"Yes, and they were fusty, musty."

"Oh dear! I am sorry for you. We had such a glorious time!"

"I know it, dear; but glorious times don't come to girls like me."

"Why, are you so very, very sad, Maggie? Oh, now I know—of course I know. I didn't like to write to you about it, for it seemed to me quite—you will forgive me, won't you?—quite dreadful that your mother should have married again. Is she married yet, Maggie?"

Maggie nodded.

"Oh, I can sympathize with you, dear Maggie! It must be so fearful to have a stepfather!"

"It is," said Maggie.

"Is he a nice man, Maggie? Or would you rather I didn't speak of him?"

"No; you may speak of him if you like. He is a rich man—he is very rich."

"I am glad of that at any rate," said Merry. "You will never be in fusty, musty lodgings any more."

"Oh no, never! My mother's husband—I cannot speak of him as my stepfather—will see to that."

"What is his name?"

Maggie hesitated. Not for the world would she have let any of her schoolfellows know the real position; but she could not very well conceal her stepfather's name.

"Martin," she said.

"Spelt with a 'y'? We know some awfully nice Martyns. They live about twenty miles away from Meredith Manor. I wonder if your Mr. Martyn is related to them."

"Oh, very likely," said Maggie.

"Then perhaps you will go to stay with them—your mother, and your—your mother's husband, and you too; and we'll all meet. They live at a place-called The Meadows. It isn't as old or as beautiful as our Manor, but it's a sweet place, and the girls are so nice you'll be sure to like them."

"Yes, I dare say I shall," said Maggie, who didn't care to contradict Merry's innocent ideas with regard to her mother's marriage.

"Well, I am glad," said Merry, "that your dear mother has married a rich gentleman. Has he a country place of his own?"

"Of course he has," said Maggie, who felt that she could at least utter these words with truth.

"And is it far, far from London, or quite in the country?"

"It is," said Maggie, "in—in the Norwood direction."

This remark made no impression whatever on Merry, who had not the least idea where the Norwood direction was. But by-and-by, when she parted from Maggie and joined her sister and Aneta, she said, "I have a piece of rather good news to tell about dear Maggie Howland. She won't be poor any more."

"That is a word we never discuss at school," said Aneta.

"Well, we needn't after to-night," said Merry with a slight touch of irritation in her manner. "But although I haven't the faintest idea what poverty means, I think poor Maggie knows a good deal about it. Well, she won't have anything to do with it in future, for her mother has just married again."

"Oh!" said Aneta, with a show of interest.

"Yes; and a very nice gentleman he must be. He is a cousin of the Martyns of The Meadows. You know how you liked them when we spent a day there during these holidays—didn't you, Aneta?"

"Yes," said Aneta, "most charming people. I felt quite sorry that the Martyn girls were too old for school. I wonder they didn't mention the fact of their cousin being about to marry Mrs. Howland; for you know we were talking of Maggie to them, or at least you were, Merry."

"Of course I was," said Merry in a determined voice. "I am very, very fond of Maggie Howland."

"Perhaps we had better go to bed now," said Aneta. "I may as well tell you, girls, that we have to get up at half-past six. Lucy comes to us and wakes us at that hour, and we are expected to be downstairs at seven. Lucy will tell you, too, girls, that it is expected of us all that we shall keep our rooms in perfect order. Now, shall we say good-night?"

The Cardews kissed their cousin and went to their own pleasant room.

As soon as they were there Merry said, "Cicely, I am glad about poor Maggie."

"And so am I," said Cicely.

"When we write home we must be sure to mention to mother about Mr. Martyn. I don't think dear Maggie knew anything about The Meadows; so perhaps, after all, he is a somewhat distant cousin; but it is such a comfort to know that he is rich and a gentleman."

"Yes," said Cicely. Then she added, "I don't think Aneta wants you to make too great a friend of Maggie Howland."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Merry, coloring slightly. "I am never going to give Maggie up, for I love her dearly."

"Of course," said Cicely, "it would be very mean to give her up; but you and I, as Aneta's cousins, must be on her side in the school. What I am afraid of is that Maggie will try to induce you to join her set."

"That shows how little you know her," said Merry, roused to the defensive. "She explained everything to me this afternoon, and said that I certainly must belong to Aneta."

"Did she? Well, I call that splendid," said Cicely.



CHAPTER XVI.

BO-PEEP.

When Aneta found herself alone that evening she stayed for a short time thinking very deeply. She felt a queer sense of responsibility with regard to the Cardews. If Maggie imagined that it was through her influence they had come to Aylmer House, Aneta was positive that they would never have entered the school but for her and her aunt, Lady Lysle. Besides, they were her very own cousins, and she loved them both dearly. She was not especially anxious about Cicely, who was a more ordinary and less enthusiastic girl than Merry; but about Merry she had some qualms. There was no doubt whatever that the girl was attracted by Maggie; and, in Aneta's opinion, Maggie Howland was in no sense of the word a proper companion for her.

Aneta, as she sat calmly by her open window—for it was not necessary to hurry to bed to-night—thought much over the future which spread itself immediately in front of her and her companions. She was naturally a very reserved girl. She was born with that exclusiveness and reserve which a distinguished class bestows upon those who belong to it. But she had in her heart very wide sympathies; and, like many another girl in her position, she could be kind to the poor, philanthropic to the last degree to those in real distress, denying herself for the sake of those who wanted bread. Towards girls, however, who were only a trifle below her in the social scale she could be arbitrary, haughty, and strangely wanting in sympathy. Maggie Howland was exactly the sort of girl who repelled Aneta. Nevertheless, she was a member of the school; and not only was she a member of the school, but a very special member. Had she even been Janet Burns (who was so clever, and as far as learning was concerned carried all before her), or had she been as brilliant and witty as Kathleen O'Donnell, Aneta would not have troubled herself much over her. But Maggie was possessed of a curious sense of power which was hers by heritage, which her father had possessed before her, and which caused him—one of the least prepossessing and yet one of the most distinguished men of his day—to be worshipped wherever he went. This power was greater than beauty, greater than birth, greater than genius. Maggie had it, and used it to such effect that she and Aneta divided the school between them. Aneta was never quite certain whether some of her special friends would not leave her and go over to Maggie's side; but she felt that she did not greatly care about this, provided she could keep Merry and Cicely altogether to herself.

After thinking for a little time she sprang to her feet, and going to the electric bell, sounded it. After a short delay a servant appeared.

"Mary," said Aneta, "will you have the goodness to ask Miss Lucy if I may speak to her for a minute?"

"Yes, miss," replied Mary, closing the door behind her in her usual noiseless fashion.

In a very few minutes Miss Johnson entered Aneta's room.

"I was just thinking of going to bed, dear," said that good-natured young woman. "Can I do anything for you?"

"I only want to say something to you, Lucy."

"What is it, my love? I do not like to see that our dear Aneta looks worried, but your face almost wears that expression."

"Well," said Aneta, "it is just this: I am a trifle worried about a matter which I hope I may set right. It is against the rules for girls to leave their rooms after they have gone to them for the night, and it would never do for me to be the first to break a rule at Aylmer House. Nevertheless, I do want to break it. May I, Miss Lucy?"

"Well, Aneta, I do not think that there'll be the slightest difficulty, for we don't really begin school till to-morrow. What do you wish to do, dear?"

"I want to go and visit one of my schoolmates, and stay with her for a time."

"Of course you may go, Aneta. I give you permission; but don't remain too long, for we get up early to-morrow, as to-morrow school really begins."

"I won't remain a minute longer than I can help. Thank you, Lucy," said Aneta.

Miss Johnson kissed her pupil and left the room.

A minute later Aneta Lysle was running down the corridor in the direction of the bedroom occupied by Maggie Howland. It was some distance from her own room. She knocked at the door. She guessed somehow that Maggie would be still up.

Maggie said, "Come in," and Aneta entered.

Maggie was in a white dressing-gown, with her thick, handsome hair falling below her waist. Her hair was her strongest point, and she looked for the time being almost pretty.

"What do you want, Aneta?" she said.

"To speak to you, Maggie."

"But it's against the rules," said Maggie, drawling out her words a little, and giving Aneta a defiant glance.

"No," said Aneta. "I asked for permission to come and see you, and I have obtained it."

"Well, sit down, won't you?" said Maggie.

Aneta availed herself of the invitation, and took a chair.

Maggie remained standing.

"Won't you sit too, Maggie?" said Aneta.

"I don't particularly want to, but I will if you insist on it. To tell the truth, I am a little sleepy. You won't keep me long, will you?"

"That depends on yourself."

Maggie opened her narrow eyes. Then she contracted them and looked fixedly at her companion. "Have you come here to talk about Merry Cardew?"

"Yes, about her, and other matters."

"Don't you trust me at all, Aneta?"

Aneta looked full up at the girl. "No, Maggie," she said.

"Do you think when you say so that you speak kindly?"

"I am afraid I don't, but I can't help myself," said Aneta.

Maggie gave a faint yawn. She was, in reality, far too interested to be really sleepy. Suddenly she dropped into a sitting position on the floor. "You have me," she said, "in the hollow of your hand. Do you mean to crush me? What have I done that you should hate me so much?"

"I never said I hated you," said Aneta. "I don't hate you, but I am exceedingly anxious that you should not have any influence over my two young cousins who came here to-day."

"I thought we discussed that when you were staying at Meredith Manor," said Maggie. "You made me unhappy enough then, but I gave you my promise."

"I was sorry to make you unhappy, Maggie; and you did give me your promise; but I have come here to-day to know why you have broken it."

"Broken it!" said Maggie. "Broken it!"

"Don't you understand me?" said Aneta. "You and Merry were together the greater part of the evening, and even Cicely wondered where her sister was. Why did you do it?"

"Merry is my friend," said Maggie.

"I don't wish her to be your friend."

"I am afraid you can't help it," said Maggie. She looked a little insolent, and round her mouth there came a dogged expression. After a minute she said, "I did want to talk to Merry to-night; but, at the same time, I most undoubtedly did not forget my promise to you. I explained to Merry what I think she already knew: that there were two girls in the school who greatly influence their fellows; in short, that you and I are the two queens of the school. But I said that, compared to you, I had a comparatively small number of subjects. Merry was interested, and asked questions, and then I most particularly explained to her that, although I knew well she cared for me, and I cared for her, she was to be on your side in the school. If you don't believe me, you have but to ask Merry herself."

"I have no reason not to believe you, Maggie," said Aneta, "and I am relieved that you have spoken as you did to Merry. But now I want to say something else. I have thought of it a good deal during the holidays, and I am firmly convinced that this taking sides, or rather making parties, in a school is pernicious, especially in such a small school as ours. I am willing to give up my queendom, if you, on your part, will give yours up. I want us all to be in unity—every one of us—all striving for the good of the school and for the happiness and welfare each of the other. If you will agree to this I will myself speak to Mrs. Ward to-morrow."

"Mrs. Ward!" said Maggie. "What has she to do with it?"

"I want to consult with her, so that she may be the queen of the school—not one girl or two girls. She is so clever, so young, so resourceful, that she will more than make up to us for the little we lose in this matter. But, of course, there is no manner of use in my resigning my queendom if you won't resign yours."

"I will never do it," said Maggie—"never! Two queens in the school means little or nothing at all. All it does mean is that I have special friends whom I can influence, and whom I love to influence, and you have special friends whom you love to influence. Well, go on influencing them as hard as ever you can, and I will do the same with my friends. Your cousins will belong to you. I could, I believe, have won Merry Cardew to my side, but I am not going to do so."

"It would be very unwise of you," said Aneta in a low tone. "Very well, Maggie," she added after a pause, "if you won't give up being queen in the minds of a certain number of girls, I must, of course, continue my influence on the other side. It's a great pity, for we might all work together."

"We never could work together," said Maggie with passion. "It is but to talk to you, Aneta, to know how you despise and hate me."

"I neither despise nor hate you, Maggie."

"Well, I despise and hate you, so I suppose it comes to the same thing."

"I am very, very sorry, Maggie. Some day, perhaps, you will know me as I really am."

"I know you now as you really are—eaten up with pride of birth, and with no sympathy at all for girls a trifle poorer than yourself."

"You speak with cruelty, and I am sorry."

To Aneta's astonishment, Maggie's face underwent a queer change. It puckered up in an alarming manner, and the next moment the girl burst into tears.

The sight of Maggie's tears immediately changed Aneta Lysle's attitude. Those tears were genuine. Whether they were caused by anger or by sorrow she did not stop to discriminate. The next minute she was down on her knees by the other girl and had swept her young arms round Maggie's neck.

"Maggie, Maggie, what is it? Oh, if you would only understand me!"

"Don't!—don't touch me!" said Maggie. "I am a miserable girl!"

"And I have hurt you, poor Maggie!" said Aneta. "Oh, I am terribly sorry! Sit here now, and let me comfort you."

"Oh! I can't, Aneta. You don't understand me—not a bit."

"Better than you think, perhaps; and I am terribly sorry you are troubled. Oh, perhaps I know. I was told to-night that your mother had married again. You are unhappy about that?"

Maggie immediately dried her fast-falling tears. She felt that she was in danger. If Aneta found out, or if Mrs. Ward found out, who Maggie's stepfather was, she would certainly not be allowed to stay at Aylmer House. This was her dread of all dreads, and she had so managed matters with her mother that Mrs. Ward knew nothing at all of Mrs. Howland's change of name.

"Yes, my mother is married again," said Maggie. "She is a rich woman now; but the fact is, I dearly loved my own father, and—it hurt me very much to see another put into his place."

"Of course it did," said Aneta, with deep sympathy; "it would have driven me nearly wild. Does Mrs. Ward know that your mother is married again, Maggie?"

"Well, I haven't told her; and, please, Aneta, will you promise me not to do so?"

"But is there any occasion to keep it a secret, dear?"

"I would so much rather she did not know. She received me here as Maggie Howland. I am Maggie Howland still; my mother having changed her name makes no difference, except, indeed, that she is very well off, whereas she was poor."

"Well, that of course is a comfort to you," said Aneta. "Perhaps by-and-by you will learn to be glad that your mother has secured the care of a good husband. I am told that she has married one of those very nice Martyns who live in Warwickshire. Is that true?"

Maggie nodded. She hated herself after she had given that inclination of her head; but she had done it now, and must abide by it. To own Martin the grocer as a stepfather was beyond her power.

Aneta did not think it specially necessary to worry about Maggie's mother and her new husband. She said that the whole thing was Maggie's own affair; and, after trying to comfort the girl for a little longer, she kissed Maggie, and went to her own room. When there, she went at once to bed and fell fast asleep.

But Maggie sat for a long time by her open window. "What an awful and ridiculous position I have put myself in!" she thought. "The Martyns of The Meadows and Bo-peep of Laburnum Villa to be connected! I could almost scream with laughter if I were not also inclined to scream with terror. What an awful idea to get into people's heads, and now I have, confirmed it! Of course I shall be found out, and things will be worse than ever."

Before Maggie went to bed she sat down and wrote a brief note to her mother. She addressed it when written to Mrs. Martyn (spelt with a "y"), Laburnum Villa, Clapham. Maggie had seen Laburnum Villa, and regarded it as one of the most poky suburban residences she had ever had the pleasure of entering. The whole house was odiously cheap and common, and in her heart poor Maggie preferred Tildy and Mrs. Ross, and the fusty, musty lodgings at Shepherd's Bush.

Her note to her mother was very brief:

"I am back at school, and quite happy. Tell Mr. Martin, if he should happen to write to me, to spell his name with a 'y,' and please spell your name with a 'y.' Please tell Mr. Martin that I will explain the reason of this when we meet. He is so good to me, I don't know how to thank him enough."

Maggie managed the next day to post this letter unknown to her fellows, and in course of time a remarkable post-card arrived for her. It was dated from Laburnum Villa, Clapham, and was written in a sprawly but business-like hand:

"No 'y's' for me, thank you.—Bo-peep."

Very fortunately, Maggie received her card when none of her schoolfellows were present; but it was certainly the reverse of reassuring.



CHAPTER XVII.

THE LEISURE HOURS.

School-life began in real earnest, and school-life at Aylmer House was so stimulating, so earnest, so invigorating, that all that was best in each girl was brought to the fore. There was an admirable time-table, which allowed the girls periods for play as well as the most suitable hours for work. In addition, each day there were what were called the "leisure hours." These were from five to seven o'clock each evening. The leisure hours began immediately after tea, and lasted until the period when the girls went to their rooms to dress for dinner. During these two hours they were allowed to do precisely what they pleased.

Mrs. Ward was most particular that no teacher should interfere with her girls during the leisure hours. From the very first she had insisted on this period of rest and absolute relaxation from all work. Work was strictly forbidden in the school from five to seven, and it was during that period that the queens of the school generally exercised their power. Aneta then usually found herself surrounded by her satellites in one corner of the girls' own special sitting-room, and Maggie was in a similar position at the farther end. Aneta's satellites were always quiet, sober, and well-behaved; Maggie's, it is sad to relate, were a trifle rowdy. There is something else also painful to relate—namely, that Merry Cardew cast longing eyes from time to time in the direction of that portion of the room where Maggie and her friends clustered.

The girls had been about a fortnight at school, and work was in full swing, when Kathleen, springing from her seat, said abruptly, "Queen, I want to propose something."

"Well, what is it?" asked Maggie, who was lying back against a pile of cushions and supplying herself daintily from a box of chocolates which her adorers had purchased for her.

"I want us all," said Kathleen, "to give a party to the other queen and her subjects; and I want it to be about the very jolliest entertainment that can be found. We must, of course, ask Mrs. Ward's leave; but she is certain to give it."

"I don't know that she is," said Maggie.

"Oh, she is—certain sure," said Kathleen. "May I go and ask her now?"

"Do you dare?" said Rosamond Dacre, looking at Kitty's radiant face with some astonishment.

"Dare!" cried Irish Kitty. "I don't know the meaning of anything that I don't dare. I am off. I'll bring you word in a few minutes, girls." She rushed out of the room.

Janet Burns looked after her, slightly raising her brows. Rosamond Dacre and the two Roaches began to sound her praises. "She is sweet, isn't she?"

"Yes," said Clara; "and I do so love her pretty Irish brogue."

"Mother tells me," said Janet, who was Scotch, "that Irish characters are not much good—they're not reliable, I mean."

"Oh, what a shame!" said Matty Roache.

"I don't think we need discuss characters," said Maggie. "I don't know a great deal about the Irish, but I do know that Kitty is a darling."

"Yes, so she is—one of the sweetest girls in the whole school," said Molly Tristram, who was quite as excited as Kathleen herself with regard to the party scheme.

Meantime Kitty found herself tapping at Mrs. Ward's private door. Mrs. Ward said, "Come in," and the pretty girl, with her great dark-blue eyes and wild-rose complexion, entered abruptly.

"Well, Kathleen?" said Mrs. Ward in her pleasant tone.

"Oh, please, Mrs. Ward, I've come with such a lovely scheme."

"And you want me to help you?"

"Oh yes, please, do say you will before I let you into the secret!"

"I can't do that, dear; you must just tell me what is in your mind, and be satisfied with my decision. The only thing that I can assure you beforehand is that if it is a workable scheme, and likely to give you great pleasure, I will do my best to entertain it."

"Then we're certain to have it—certain," said Kathleen.

"It was I who thought of it. You will forgive me if I speak out just as plainly as possible?"

"Of course, Kathleen dear."

"Well, you know you are the head-mistress."

"That is scarcely news to me, my child."

"And people, as a rule," continued Kathleen, "respect their head-mistress."

"Dear me," said Mrs. Ward with a smile, "have you come here, Kathleen, to say that you don't respect me?"

"Respect you!" said Kathleen. "We do a jolly lot more than that. We adore you! We love you! You're—you're a sort of—of mother to us."

"That is what I want to be," said Mrs. Ward with fervor, and she took the girl's hand and smoothed it gently.

"I often want to hug you, and that's a fact," said Kathleen.

"You may kiss me now if you like, Kitty."

"Oh, Mrs. Ward!" Kitty bent down and bestowed a reverent kiss on that sweet face.

"I have permitted you to kiss me, Kitty," said Mrs. Ward, "in order to show you that I sympathize with you, as I do with all my dear girls. But now, what is the matter?"

"Well, the fact is this. We want, during the 'leisure hours' to give a party."

"Is that all? Do you all want to give a party?"

"Our side wants to give a party, and we want to invite the other side to it."

"But what do you mean by 'our side' and 'the other side'?"

"Oh, Mrs. Ward! you know—of course you know—that Aneta and Maggie divide the school."

"I know," said Mrs. Ward after a pause, "that Aneta has considerable influence, and that Maggie also has influence."

"Those two girls divide the school," said Kathleen, "the rest of us follow them. As a matter of fact, we only follow our leaders in the leisure hours; but as they come every day a good deal can be done in that time, can't it?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Ward, and her tone was not exactly cheerful. "On which side are you, Kitty?"

"Oh, dear Mrs. Ward, of course, on Maggie's! Do you think that a girl like me, with all my spirit and that irresistible sort of fun always bubbling up in me, could stand the stuck-ups?"

"Kitty, you have no right to speak of any girls in the school by such an offensive term."

"I am sorry," said Kitty. "I ought not to have said it to you. But they are stuck-ups; they really are."

"And what do you call yourself?"

"Oh, the live-and-let-live—that's our title. But it's only quite among ourselves, and perhaps I ought not to have said it."

"I will never repeat what you have told me in confidence, dear. But now for your request?"

"Well, we of Maggie's set want to invite the Aneta set to a sort of general party. We should like it to be on the half-holiday, if possible. We want to give them a right royal entertainment in order to knock some of their stuck-upness out of them. We wish for your leave in the matter."

"You must describe your entertainment a little more fully."

"I can't; for we haven't really and truly planned it all out yet. But I tell you what we'll do. If you give us leave to have the party, we will ask Queen Aneta and her satellites if possible this very evening, and then we'll submit our programme to you. Now, may we do this, or may we not?"

"Who sent you to me, Kathleen?"

"I came of my own very self, but of course the others approved. We have no intention of doing shabby things in the dark, as they do in some schools. That would be unfair to you."

Mrs. Ward thought a little longer. "I will give you the required permission," she said, "on one condition."

"Oh, Mrs. Ward, darling! what is that?"

"You can have your party on Saturday week, and I will give you from early in the afternoon until bedtime to enjoy it."

"Oh, Mrs. Ward, you are too angelic!"

"Stop a minute. You may not care for it so much when I have finished what I have got to say."

"What is it, dear Mrs. Ward?"

"It is this: that you ask me too as one of your guests."

"Oh! oh!" said Kathleen. Her expressive face changed from red to white and then to red again. Her eyes brimmed over with laughter, and then as suddenly filled with tears. "But would you—would you like it?"

"Yes, and I don't want to destroy your pleasure; but I presume you will have a sort of supper or an entertainment which will include refreshments. Let me assist you with the expense of your supper, and may I be present at it as one of your guests? I will promise to leave soon after supper, and not to appear until supper. How will that do?"

"Oh, it would be just, heavenly! It will give such distinction. I know the girls will love it."

"I think I can make myself pleasant to you all," said Mrs. Ward, "and I should like to be there."

"But as to paying anything, Mrs. Ward, you will come as our guest, and you know we have most of us plenty of money. Please, please, let us do the entertaining."

"Very well, dear, I will not press that point. I hope I have made you happy, Kathleen."

"Oh! you have—very, very happy indeed. And Saturday week is to be the day?"

"Yes, Kathleen."

Kathleen bent down, took one of Mrs. Ward's hands, and kissed it. Then she skipped out of the room and flew back to her companions. They were waiting for her in a state of suppressed eagerness.

"Well, Kathleen—Kitty—Kit, what's the news?" asked Maggie.

Room was made for Kathleen in the center of the group.

"We have won! We may do it!" she said, speaking in a low tone. "Oh, she's—she's like no one else! I don't know how you will take it, girls; but if you're not just delighted you ought, to be. Why, what do you think? She wants to come herself."

"Mrs. Ward!" said Maggie in amazement.

"Yes, just to supper. She says she will come—she wishes to come—that we're to invite her; in fact, she makes it a sine qua non. She will go away again after supper, and we're to have the whole glorious day, next Saturday week, from two in the afternoon until bedtime. Oh, sha'n't we have fun!"

"Yes, of course," said Maggie. "It's much better even than I thought. I will write the letters of invitation immediately."

"But why should you write a whole lot of letters?" said Kathleen. "You are one queen. Write to the other queen and mention that Mrs. Ward is coming."

There was nothing like the present time for making arrangements; and Maggie wrote on a sheet of headed note-paper provided for her by her satellites the following words:

"Queen Maggie presents her compliments to Queen Aneta, and begs for the pleasure of her company with all her subjects on Saturday the 15th of October, to an entertainment from three to nine o'clock. She hopes that the whole school will be present, and writes in the names of her own subjects as well as of herself.

"P.S.—Mrs. Ward has most kindly promised to attend."

This letter was subjected to the approval of the group of girls who surrounded Maggie. It was then addressed to "Queen Aneta," and Kathleen crossed the room with it and dropped it, there and then, into Aneta Lysle's lap.

It caused very deep amazement in the hearts of all the girls who belonged to Aneta's party, and it is highly probable that they might have refused to accept the invitation but for that magical postscript, "Mrs. Ward has most kindly promised to attend." But there was no withstanding that patent fact, as Mrs. Ward knew very well when she made the proposal to Kathleen.

After a lapse of about twenty minutes, Cicely Cardew crossed the room and laid the answer to Maggie's note in her lap:

"Queen Aneta and her subjects have much pleasure in accepting Queen Maggie's invitation for the 15th inst."

"Hip, hip, hurrah!" cried Kathleen. "The thing's arranged, and we'll have about the jolliest flare-up and the most enticing time that girls ever had at any school." She sprang from her seat, and began tossing a book which had lain in her lap into the air, catching it again. In short, the subjects of the two queens broke up on the spot and chatted gaily together, and Maggie and her subjects could not be induced to say one word of what was to take place on the 15th of October.

"It is wonderful," thought Aneta to herself. "Why does Mrs. Ward come? But, of course, as she comes we must all come."



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE TREASURE.

Maggie had by no means forgotten her promise to the Tristram girls to give them a bracelet apiece. It was easy to do this, for they were her very special friends in the school. The fact is that Molly and Belle had a somewhat peculiar position at Aylmer House, for they were not only Maggie's special friends, but also the undoubted friends and allies of Cicely, Merry, and also of Aneta. But they were such good-humored, good-natured, pleasant sort of girls—so lively, so jolly—that they could take up a position with ease which would oppress and distress other people.

When Maggie presented them with their bracelets they were in wild raptures, accepting them gleefully, and on occasions when ornaments were permitted to be worn—which, as a matter of fact, was only in the leisure hours—they invariably had them on their arms.

But other girls noticed them, and one and all admired them immensely.

"Oh, I have others," said Maggie in a careless tone; "many more. My dear father was a great traveler, and these are some of the treasures he brought from the East."

Maggie had by no means forgotten to bring her two boxes of jewellery to Aylmer House. These lay at the bottom of her little trunk, which was, it is true, stowed away in the box-room. But as the girls were at liberty to go there for anything they especially required, she was not troubled on this account.

There came a day, shortly after the great party was arranged, when the rain poured incessantly, and some of the girls were a little restless. Molly and Isabel were wearing their queer Oriental bracelets. Kathleen suddenly caught sight of them, and demanded in an eager tone that Maggie should exhibit her treasures. Maggie, only too pleased to have anything to do which glorified herself, immediately complied. She ran to find Miss Lucy in order to obtain the key of the box-room.

"What do you want it for, dear?" said Miss Johnson in her pleasant voice.

"I have two boxes in the bottom of one of my trunks, Miss Lucy; they are full of curiosities which my father collected from time to time. The girls want to see them. Do you mind my showing them?"

"Of course not, Maggie; but if they are of any value you had better give them to Mrs. Ward to take care of for you."

"Oh, well," said Maggie, "I don't know really whether they are of value or not." She got rather red as she spoke.

"I should like to see them myself," said Miss Johnson. "I know a little bit about gems and curios."

"Certainly, Miss Lucy; do come," said Maggie. "We're in our sitting-room, and I shall be only too delighted to show them to you."

Maggie fetched down her two precious boxes, and soon she was surrounded, not only by her own special satellites, but by every girl in the school. They were all loud in their expressions of rapture at the unique and lovely things which she exhibited to them.

Kathleen, as usual, was quick in suggestion. "Would not Mrs. Ward love to see them?" she said.

"I am sure she would," remarked Miss Johnson.—"I hadn't the least idea, Maggie, that you had such treasures in those old tin boxes. They must be carefully put away in the safe for you. My dear girl, they're worth a great deal of money."

"Oh, I don't suppose they are," said Maggie, trying to speak carelessly, although she by no means wished to part with her treasures.

"I tell you what," said Kathleen. "Can't we make an exhibition of them on the day?"

"Yes, why not?" said Molly and Isabel. "That would be quite lovely."

"Oh yes, do!—do, Maggie darling!" said Merry Cardew.

Maggie at once agreed; and Miss Johnson said, "Now, if you will put them all back in their boxes I will take them and lock them into the safe myself. I shouldn't have an easy moment if I thought such valuable things were in one of your school-trunks."

"Oh!" said Maggie, looking up with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, "please—please let me keep them until after our party. Then we will consult Mrs. Ward, and she will tell me what to do."

"If you must keep them, then, Maggie," said Miss Johnson, "you had better have them in your own bedroom. They would be at least safe there. Put them into your locked drawer, dear; I think it will hold both these boxes."

"Thank you very much," said Maggie. She put the ten bracelets into their tin box, and the necklets and other curios into the other, locked each, and took them upstairs. "It would never, never do," she said to herself, "for me to lose control of these precious things. I am almost sorry now that I allowed the girls to tempt me to show them."

After a few minutes she came downstairs. Her stepfather's allowance of pocket-money was certainly not ample, and she knew that at the party which was to be so specially distinguished she must give, if she wished to keep up her prestige in the school, a lion's share towards the expenses. There was a quaint little brooch in one of her boxes containing one large ruby and set with diamonds which she intended to sell in order to provide herself with funds. But what use would any of her treasures be if they were consigned to the safe at Aylmer House?

After a great deal of consultation, it was resolved that the girls were to meet in their own special sitting-room at four o'clock, where tea and light refreshments were to be provided by Queen Maggie and her subjects. Afterwards they were to play games, have recitations, and amuse themselves in different ways until five o'clock; when a curtain which would be put across a portion of the room would be raised, and tableaux vivants, in which Maggie, Kathleen, and both the Tristram girls, who were all adaptable for this purpose, were to take special parts. The tableaux were under the management of Janet Burns, who was exceedingly clever, and had studied the scenes—which she took from different episodes in Scott's novels—with great care. The rehearsing for the tableaux was a little difficult, but this was done each evening after tea, when Maggie and her subjects had the sitting-room to themselves.

Immediately after the tableaux there would be that wonderful supper, at which Mrs. Ward was to be the principal guest, and then the happy evening would end with all sorts of dances and frolics.

Now, all these things would cost money, and it was arranged, after brief consultation, that each girl was to subscribe in an equal ratio towards the proposed entertainment. Janet, who had a head for figures as well as a taste for tableaux vivants, suggested that, to do the entertainment properly, they would have to expend something like fifteen shillings each. This was immediately agreed upon, and even the Tristrams did not feel embarrassed by the amount which was decided upon, for Mr. Tristram was wise in his generation, and would not send his girls to an expensive school if he could not give them a sufficient supply of pocket-money to make them feel independent. The only person who was short of funds on this occasion was Maggie, for her stepfather had arranged that she was to receive her allowance at the end of the term, not at the beginning. He had given her a few shillings to go to school with; but these she had already spent on chocolates, which were considered essential during the leisure hours. It is true that Mrs. Ward would have advanced a little money to Maggie, but Maggie could not bear to ask her. She had a great dislike to the subject of money being mentioned in Mrs. Ward's presence. She was afraid beyond everything else that the fact of her being received at such a select school for forty pounds a year might reach the ears of her fellow-pupils. What more easy than to sell that charming little Oriental brooch, which was one of the treasures in one of those tin boxes? But Maggie could not manage this in Miss Lucy's presence, and it was quite against the rules at Aylmer House for any girl to go shopping or even to leave the house unaccompanied.

On one or two previous occasions Maggie had, however, managed to evade this rule without being found out, and she thought she could do so now. She planned the whole thing rather cleverly. She had a room to herself; which of course made it easier for her, and there were always the leisure hours. She made up her mind to feign headache or some slight indisposition, to go downstairs by the back way, and sell her brooch on a certain afternoon during the leisure hours. She must do it quickly, for the girls had proposed to put the necessary money for the entertainment into a bag on a certain Tuesday. Maggie must, therefore, go out on Monday in order to sell her brooch. Her absence from the little party in the girls' sitting-room was explained by Molly Tristram, who said that Maggie was upstairs lying down. No one troubled to make any comment with regard to this. Any girl might have a headache, and Mrs. Ward did not wish her girls to be catechised as to how they spent their leisure hours. Besides, Janet Burns was occupying all their attention with the tableaux vivants, Queen Aneta's girls most good-naturedly leaving them the sitting-room to themselves for this purpose.

Maggie, in her distant bedroom, felt the quiet in the house. She had been lying down; now she rose noiselessly. This was the time when the servants had their tea, when Mrs. Ward was busy writing letters or resting in her own sitting-room, when Lucy Johnson and the other governesses were either reposing in their bedrooms, or were out, or were reading. There was, of course, the chance that Maggie might meet some one; but, having calculated all possibilities, she thought that she could most likely get out unobserved.

During her expeditions with Miss Lucy Johnson she had noticed a jeweller's shop not far away, and resolved to go to him with her precious brooch. It was a very respectable shop, and she was certain he would give her fair value. She could be back again before she was missed, and, in fact, could join her companions in the girls' sitting-room long before the leisure hours had expired. The days were now getting very short, but this fact was in Maggie's favor rather than otherwise.

She ran downstairs unnoticed by any one, opened a side-door which was used as a tradesmen's entrance, and got into the street. Then, putting wings to her feet, she quickly turned the corner, left the square where Aylmer House was situated, and reached the jeweller's shop. She entered. There were a few people standing by the counter; and the jeweller, a certain Mr. Pearce, was attending to them. Maggie felt impatient. She awaited her turn as best she could. How she disliked those showy-looking people who were purchasing goods of some value, whereas she only wanted to sell! She could scarcely restrain her great impatience, and was relieved when another shopman came forward.

He asked her what he could do for her. She immediately showed him the quaint little brooch set with rubies and diamonds.

"I want to sell this," said Maggie, speaking abruptly and the color flaming into her cheeks. "What will you give me for it?"

"Oh my!" suddenly exclaimed one of the ladies who was purchasing jewels in Pearce's shop, "what a lovely curio! Wherever now did you get it from?"

Maggie turned and said in a low tone, "It belongs to me. It was left to me by my father."

The man who was attending to Maggie took up the brooch and examined it carefully. He took it into another room, where he subjected it to various tests. He then came back to Maggie.

"I will give you five pounds for this, miss, if you can satisfy me that you have come rightly by it."

"Oh my!" said the American lady, drawing near, and her eyes glistening.

"What is your address, miss?"

Maggie by no means wished to give her address. "I haven't, stolen that brooch," she said. "It belongs to me; I have a right to sell it."

"Of course, miss, I shall never trouble you in any way, but I really must have your address. In purchasing secondhand from young ladies like yourself it is essential that everything should be above-board and quite correct."

"Well," said Maggie in a hurried voice, "take the brooch and give me the money. I must get back as quickly as I can. I am one of Mrs. Ward's pupils at Aylmer House."

The man looked at Maggie with all respect. "And your own name?"

"Howland," said Maggie. "Miss Howland."

The man entered name and address in his book, and then handed Maggie five sovereigns. She was hurrying from the shop, when the customer who had been standing near all the time, and listening with great attention, followed her.

"I say, young lady," she exclaimed, "I am from New York, and I like your quaint old English things. That man cheated you, I take it. If you had offered me that brooch I'd have given you fifteen pounds for it, not five. If you have any more curios to sell, my address is Miss H. Annie Lapham, Langham Hotel. I am straight from the States, and would like to take a collection of beautiful things home with me."

"Thank you," said Maggie in a hurried voice.

She ran back to Aylmer House as quickly as she could. As soon as she was quite out of sight the lady re-entered the shop.

"Say," she remarked to the shopman, "I witnessed that little transaction between you and Miss Howland. I want to buy that brooch for ten pounds."

"I am sorry, madam," said the man, "but it is not for sale just at present."

"That means," said Miss Lapham, coloring crimson, "that you have cheated the young lady. You ought to have given her four times as much for the brooch."

The man shrugged his shoulders.

Miss Lapham grew redder than ever, "I happen to know Miss Howland's address," she said. Then she went away without giving' him time to add a word.

When she had left the shop the younger Mr. Pearce turned to his brother, took the little brooch from the drawer into which he had carelessly thrown it, and gave it to the elder Mr. Pearce to examine. "There's a find here," he said; "only, somehow, I feel a bit uncomfortable. How did one of the young ladies from Aylmer House come by a treasure of this sort?"

The other man examined the brooch carefully. "It's worth a good bit," he said. "What did you give her for it?"

"Five pounds; but somehow I think that I ought not to have taken it for that sum."

"It is worth at least two hundred," said the elder Mr. Pearce. "Where did you say she lived?"

"She is one of the young ladies at Aylmer House—Miss Howland."

"What! from Mrs. Ward's school?"

"Yes."

"You had better give me that brooch, Alfred," said his brother. "We'll have to consider what is to be done. We can't rob the young lady of it. We had best consult Mrs. Ward."

"Oh, as to that," said the younger Pearce, "that sounds almost as shabby as giving the schoolgirl too little money."

"Well, lock it up for the present," said the elder Pearce; "but I am an honest tradesman, and I can't see even a schoolgirl robbed."

"She was up to some little lark," said the younger man, "and evidently did not know the value of the brooch. Why, I think she'd have taken a pound for it. But what she did know the value of was her precious time; she was very much annoyed at being kept waiting and at being asked for her address. It is plain she got out without leave; and although the brooch may belong to her—I am sure I hope it does—she has broken a rule, you mark my words. Those schoolgirls are always up to larks. Well, I'd never have thought it of one of Mrs. Ward's girls."

"It is a pity you didn't consult me, Alfred," said his brother. "The best thing to do now is to put the brooch carefully away. We'll consider what is best to be done with it; but as to giving the young lady only five pounds for what we can sell any day at Christie's for a couple of hundred, that is not to be thought of."



CHAPTER XIX.

THE LETTER.

Maggie got out and came back again without any apparent adventure. She had five pounds in her pocket, and thought herself rich beyond the dreams of avarice. What a delightful fairy-gift had been handed down to her by her dear dead father! She did not miss the brooch in the least, but she valued the small sum she had obtained for it exceedingly.

But while Maggie thought herself so secure, and while the pleasant jingle of the sovereigns as she touched them with her little hand comforted her inexpressibly, things quite against Maggie Howland's supposed interests were transpiring in another part of the school.

It was a strange fact that on this special afternoon both the queens should be prostrated with headache. It is true that Queen Maggie's headache was only a fiction, but poor Queen Aneta's was real enough. She was lying down in her pretty bedroom, hoping that quiet might still the throbbing of her temples, when the door was very softly opened, and Merry Cardew brought in a letter and laid it by her side.

"May I bring you some tea upstairs, Aneta?" she said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Oh no, darling," said Aneta. "I can't eat or drink; but if I stay very still I shall be better by-and-by. Leave me now, dear; all I want is perfect quiet."

"I am so sorry for you, Aneta," said Merry.

"What are you doing downstairs?" said Aneta as the girl turned away.

"Well, Maggie has a headache too."

"Oh!" said Aneta.

"So we are without our queens," continued Merry; "but Maggie's girls have taken possession of our sitting-room, and we are all in the schoolroom. We're having great fun and are very happy, so don't worry about us at all, Aneta."

"I won't," said Aneta, closing her eyes, while a feeling of drowsy relief stole over her.

Her anxiety with regard to Maggie was really making her ill. Her sense of responsibility with reference to the Cardew girls seemed to oppress her usually calm spirit. She could not conceal the fact from herself that Merry loved Maggie, most passionately. The knowledge, therefore, that Maggie was not downstairs gave her such a sense of comfort that she dropped into a doze, and when she awoke a short time afterwards her headache was gone.

Yes, her headache had departed, but there lay by her pillow what is a great treasure to all schoolgirls—an unopened letter. She looked at the handwriting, and saw that it was from her aunt, Lady Lysle. Aneta was very fond of Lady Lysle; and, sitting up against her pillows, she tore open the letter and began to read. She was surprised to see that it was dated from Meredith Manor.

"MY DEAR ANETA"—it ran—"I have been staying with the dear Cardews for the last week. We have been having a very pleasant time; although, of course, the house is vastly different without Cicely and Merry. But the dear Cardews are so sensible that they never would regret anything that was for the real benefit of their children.

"Your letter assuring me that the children were happy at school gave me great delight, and when I told the Cardews they were equally pleased. Altogether, this school-venture seems likely to turn out most satisfactory, and the dear children will be properly equipped for the brilliant life which lies before them.

"But now I have a curious piece of information for you. You told me about Miss Howland and her mother's second marriage to one of the Martyns of The Meadows. Well, dear, we went there yesterday, and I happened incidentally to speak on the subject; and, whatever may be the position of Miss Howland's stepfather, he certainly is no relation to our dear friends the Martyns. They have no uncles or cousins in England at all. All their people come from Australia, and they assured me that such a marriage as I have described has, in the first place, never reached their ears, and, in the next, is impossible, for they have no marriageable relations in the country. I mention this to show that your friend has made a mistake. At the same time, it is strange of her to say that her mother, has married into such a well-known and distinguished family. I can add no more now.—Yours, with love, and in haste,

LUCIA LYSLE."

Aneta thought over this letter for some time. Her face was very grave as she tried to put two and two together. She rose from her bed, dressed herself with her usual immaculate neatness, and came down to supper, which took place each evening at half-past seven.

All the girls were present, and each and all were in the best of good-humor. Maggie was radiant. Why not? She had performed a difficult task discreetly, and she had five lovely golden sovereigns in her drawer upstairs. She could put the required money into the bag for the school-treat, and she would have plenty over to buy chocolates and little things that she might require for herself. She did not in the least miss that one small brooch which her father had left her; but she thought with a feeling of intense satisfaction of her treasures. She need no longer be a penniless girl. She had but at rare intervals to visit Pearce the jeweler, and her pocket would be well lined. She had no romantic feeling with regard to those beautiful things which her father had collected on his travels. She had been so poor all her life that money to her represented power. She even thought of getting a couple of new dresses made by a fashionable dressmaker. She resolved to consult Lucy on the subject. She was never quite as well dressed as the other girls, although very plain clothes were the order of the hour at school.

Immediately after supper those girls who required to look over their lessons went into the schoolroom and spent a quiet time there; but the others, as a rule, joined Mrs. Ward in the drawing-room. There those who could play were requested to do so, and those who could sing did likewise. Mrs. Ward was very fond of needlework. She could do rare and wonderful embroideries, and knew some of the tapestry stitches which were in vogue hundreds of years ago. The girls who cared to be taught those things she was only too glad to instruct; but she never pressed any one into her working-party. This was always an hour of relaxation for those girls who had all their lessons ready for the following day.

Maggie, who was exceedingly clever and learned with the utmost ease, was generally a member of the drawing-room coterie. She wore a white dress on this evening, with a somewhat crude pink sash round her waist. She hated the crudity of the color, and it occurred to her that she could get some soft and becoming sashes out of part of the money which Pearce had given her for the brooch.

By-and-by she found herself near Aneta. Aneta was working a center-piece which she meant to present to Lady Lysle at Christmas. Maggie was no good whatever at needlework, and seldom joined the band of needlewomen. But Aneta now motioned the girl to come and sit by her side. Maggie did so. Aneta looked full in her face.

"Is your headache better, Maggie?" she asked.

Maggie had to reflect for a time, she had so absolutely forgotten that she had pretended to have a headache that afternoon! Then she said, with a slight flush and a suspicious narrowing of her eyes, "Oh yes; thank you, I am quite all right again." Maggie had not heard of Aneta's headache. She, therefore, did not ask about it.

"I pity people who have headaches," said Aneta. "I suffer from them very badly myself. Nothing cures me but perfect rest. I was lying down all the afternoon. Merry came to see me, and told me that you were also prostrated with headache. I was sorry for you."

"Oh, thank you so much!" said Maggie. "Mine is quite gone; is yours?"

"Yes, thank you."

Aneta sat quiet and very still. When her face was in repose she never moved her body. There was an absolute sense of rest about her which was refreshing to those who really knew her well. But Maggie hated it. She wanted to leave her; she wanted to go and talk to Merry, who was playing a solitary game of patience in a distant part of the drawing-room; she wanted to do anything rather than remain by Aneta's side.

Then Aneta looked up. "I had a letter this afternoon from my aunt, Lady Lysle."

"Oh!" said Maggie. She could not quite understand why her heart beat so fast, but she had undoubtedly a premonition of some sort of trouble ahead.

"Aunt Lucia is staying with the Cardews," continued Aneta.

"Is she?" said Maggie. "Oh, that sweet and beautiful place!" she continued.

"Yes," said Aneta, "Meredith Manor will always be lovely. There is no season of the year when it is not, in my opinion, more charming than any other place I know."

"Is your aunt going to stay there long?" asked Maggie, who felt that she need not say anything further with regard to the delights of Meredith Manor just now.

"I cannot tell you," replied Aneta. "She mentioned something rather curious. It is connected with you."

"With poor little me?" said Maggie.

"With you," said Aneta. "You remember telling me that your stepfather is one of the Martyns of The Meadows?"

Maggie's face grew crimson, then turned pale.

"Well," said Aneta, bringing out her words with great calmness, "it turns out to be a mistake. Your stepfather is no relation whatever to our friends the Martyns. Aunt Lucia and Mrs. Cardew went to call on them the other day, and asked the question. You made a mistake in announcing your stepfather as being a connection of our friends."

"Did I? Perhaps so," said Maggie. "I thought he was, that's all."

"You thought wrong," said Aneta. "I felt I would mention it to you. He may be just as well connected," she added quietly; "but he is not related to the Martyns of The Meadows."

"You speak in a very disagreeable tone," said Maggie.

"I don't mean to," replied Aneta; "but I thought I would tell you in order that you should not spread the report any further."

"I am sure I don't want to. My stepfather has just as good connections as any one else."

"No doubt," said Aneta gently; "only, he is not related to our special friends. You might let Merry and Cicely know."

"Why?" asked Maggie in a dogged voice.

"You can please yourself. I shall tell them if you don't."

"Why do you hate me so much, Aneta?" said Maggie then.

"I hate subterfuge and untruth," said Aneta. "I don't hate you. If you would be straight and open and above-board you would find me your best friend."

"Thank you so much!" said Maggie in a sneering tone. "When I require you for my best friend it will be time enough for you to offer me that enviable position." Then she added, speaking in a low tone of intense dislike, "Is it likely that any girl would wish to make a best friend of another girl who accused her of subterfuge and want of truthfulness?"

The delicate pink rose in Aneta's cheeks. She raised her eyes and looked full up at Maggie. Her clear, calm eyes seemed like mirrors. Maggie felt that she could not meet them.

It was just at that moment that Cicely Cardew, in a state of suppressed excitement, came into the room.

"Maggie," she said, coming straight up to Maggie Howland, "there's a very large parcel addressed to you in the hall. It has been paid for; we are all dying with curiosity to know what it is."

Maggie rose abruptly.

"I will go and look at it myself," she said. "A large parcel addressed to me! Who can have sent me anything?"

"It looks like a huge dress-box," said Cicely. "We're all curious about it."

Before any girl could leave the drawing-room it was necessary that she should ask Mrs. Ward's permission. So Maggie now went up to that good lady and asked if she might go and look at her parcel.

"A parcel for you, dear?" said Mrs. Ward. "And you want to see its contents? But bring it in here; we shall all be delighted to look at it—sha'n't we, girls?"

Maggie went away, wondering a good deal. Cicely accompanied her. Miss Johnson also appeared on the scene.

"Why, Maggie," she said, "what can you have got? Such a huge box, and all covered over with brown paper! I don't suppose Mrs. Ward would really like that box to be brought into the drawing-room. I'll just go and ask her."

One of Mrs. Ward's peculiarities, and perhaps one of the reasons why she was such a favorite and led her girls with such gentle, silken cords, was her power of entering into their pleasures. She used to confess with a smile that she was like a child herself over an unopened parcel; and when Miss Johnson appeared with the information that the box was large and cumbersome, Mrs. Ward still gave directions that it was to be brought into the drawing-room.

"You can put some of the brown paper on the floor, if you like, Lucy," she said, "and Maggie can show us its contents."

Now, one glance at the parcel told Maggie Howland who had sent it. She recognized her stepfather's writing. That bold commercial hand was painfully visible on the label. She would have given worlds not to have anything selected for her by Martin exhibited in the drawing-room at Aylmer House. But to refuse to show the contents of the box would but raise strong suspicion against her. She therefore, although very unwillingly, followed Miss Johnson into the drawing-room. The box was laid on the floor. The lid was removed, some tissue-paper was next extricated, and beneath lay a wardrobe such as poor Maggie even in her wildest dreams had never imagined. There was a letter lying on the top which she clutched and put into her pocket. This letter was in her stepfather's writing. She could not read it before the others. Aneta and all the girls of her set, also Kathleen O'Donnell, Rosamond Dacre, Matty and Clara Roache, Janet Barns, the Tristrams, the Cardews, all clustered round the box.

"Oh, what fun!" said Kathleen. "A box of dresses for you! You lucky Queen Maggie! How I wish some one would send me some clothes!"

"Take them out, dear, and let us look at them," said Mrs. Ward.

The first dress to be removed was a magenta cachemire. It was made with a short skirt trimmed with little frills of the same. The bodice had sleeves to the elbows, and long, coarse cream-colored lace sleeves below. The front of the dress was also much bedizened by the same coarse cream lace.

Maggie felt her face nearly purple with rage. "Oh, why must all these things be looked at here?" she said; and there was a piteous note in her voice.

"I don't see the necessity, dear," said Mrs. Ward kindly.

"But, oh! please, please," said Kathleen, "we must see the others. Here's a sage-green dress trimmed with bands of black silk: that will be quite useful in the winter, won't it, Mags?"

She tried to speak kindly, for the sage-green dress was as little to her taste as the impossible magenta. Under the two dresses were ribbons of different shades and hues, some strong, coarse stockings, some square-toed shoes, and finally, below everything else, an evening-dress made of voile, and deep blue in tone.

"Some of the things will he very useful," said Miss Johnson. "I will put them all back again now."

"But whom have they come from?" said Mrs. Ward. "I saw you take a note and put it into your pocket, Maggie."

"Yes, these are a present from my stepfather," said Maggie.

"Miss Johnson, you will take them upstairs, won't you?" said Mrs. Ward.—"It is kind of your stepfather to think of you, Maggie."

Maggie looked up and met Aneta's glance. Was Aneta thinking of the Martyns of The Meadows? The color rushed all over Maggie's face. She clenched her hands. "I hate the horrid, horrid things!" she said. "I won't wear one of them."

"Oh, come, dear," said Mrs. Ward kindly; "your stepfather means very well indeed by you. He has doubtless had very little to do with dressing a lady before.—We can slightly alter those dresses, can we not, Miss Johnson?"

Miss Johnson had now placed all the hideous garments back in the box. She said with a smile, "The sage-green dress can be made quite useful; but I rather despair of the magenta."

"Well," said Mrs. Ward, "it was meant kindly. Perhaps, Maggie, if you gave me your stepfather's address I might write to him and tell him the sort of things that I like my girls to wear."

Maggie turned crimson. That would indeed be the final straw. She murmured something which Mrs. Ward did not choose to hear. To her great relief, the hour for bed had arrived, and all the girls went to their rooms.

Miss Johnson came down again after she had deposited the hideous dresses in Maggie's wardrobe. "I quite pity poor little Maggie," she said. "What frightful taste! There is really nothing in the whole of that box that she can possibly wear."

"I must write to Mr. Martyn," said Mrs. Ward. "Didn't somebody tell me that he was a country gentleman—a relation of the Martyns of The Meadows? Such particularly nice people!"

"I know nothing about that," said Miss Johnson. "I only know that the contents of the box are simply atrocious."

"Well," said Mrs. Ward, "we won't say anything to annoy Maggie to-night; I could see that the poor dear child was greatly mortified. I only regret that I had the box opened here; but you know it is one of our customs to share all our pleasures. Poor little Maggie! The thing was most unlucky."

Up in her room, Maggie had locked her door. She would unlock it again, but she must read that frightful letter without any chance of being disturbed. She opened it, tore it from its envelope, and read the contents:

"DEAR POPSY,—I came across a cheap lot of frocks the other day at a bankrupt's sale, and thought at once of Little-sing and her daughter Popsy-wopsy. I am sending the dresses off to you without saying a word to Little-sing. You will be well off now for some time, and won't require the five pounds from me for dress at Christmas. Hope you're enjoying your fine young ladies and fine life. Neither Little-sing nor me miss you a bit; but, all the same, your room will be ready for you at Christmas. Take care of those good clothes, for I can't often spend as much on you.

"Good-bye for the present.—Your affectionate father,

"BO-PEEP.

"P.S.—I have a good mind to call on that fine-lady schoolmistress of yours, Mrs. Ward. There's no saying but that Little-sing and me may come along some afternoon when you least expect us."

Maggie crushed the letter in her hand. Fresh terrors seemed to surround her. Dreadful as the impossible clothes were, they were nothing to what the appearance on the scene would be of the impossible stepfather and her poor mother. Oh, why had she concealed the position of the man whom her mother had married? Already Aneta had detected her little act of deception with regard to the Martyns of The Meadows. But that, Maggie felt, could be got over. It was easy for a girl to make a mistake in a matter of that kind, and surely there were other Martyns in the country high-born and respectable and all that was desirable. But James Martin who kept a grocer's shop at Shepherd's Bush—James Martin, with "grocer" written all over him!—rich, it is true; but, oh, so vulgarly rich! Were he to appear and announce his relationship to her at the school, she felt that, as far as she was concerned, the end of the world would have arrived. What was she to do? There was not a minute to be lost. In one way or another she had seen a good deal of Bo-peep during the last half of those dreadful summer holidays, and she knew that he was, as he expressed it, as good as his word.