CHAPTER XXI.

THE LADY FROM BUCKINGHAMSHIRE.

Mrs. Steward was a great contrast to Mrs. Lewis. Mrs. Steward was a tall, thin, rather refined-looking woman. Mrs. Lewis was fat and dumpy, decidedly untidy in appearance, with a melancholy air and a habit of constantly indulging in low weeping. Mrs. Steward looked as if she had never wept in her life; she sat upright as a dart, her movements were quick, her manners independent; she had a vivacious eye, a somewhat short nose, thin lips, and a very decided manner.

Mrs. Steward and Mrs. Lewis had a long conversation in the untidy, ugly little parlor, while they waited for Elma to return from school. Maggie had been going in and out, glancing with some apprehension at the lady, and then whisking back to her kitchen to sigh profoundly and mourn for the violets which were no longer in her possession.

"I should like something to eat," said Mrs. Steward to her sister. "I thought I would come to you for lunch, Caroline. Have you got anything in the house—a lamb chop or even cold lamb and salad will do quite nicely."

"My dear Charlotte," said Mrs. Lewis, laying her fat, tremulous hand upon her sister's firm but thin arm, "do you think it likely that we often have lamb chops or even cold lamb and salad for lunch? It is true that since the Australian meat came in we can now and then indulge in a very small joint of lamb for Sundays, but certainly on no other day. Ah, Charlotte, you little know the poverty to which your poor sister is subjected."

"I know all about it," said Mrs. Stewart, shaking herself angrily, "and my plain answer to you is this—as you sow you must reap. What else did you expect when you married that fool of a man, James Lewis?"

Mrs. Lewis made a great endeavor to rise from the sofa, she made a further effort to look dignified; but all she could really accomplish was to burst into a fresh wail of low weeping and to murmur under her breath, "Charlotte, you are cruel to me, you are cruel."

"I don't mean to be, my dear; but really, Caroline, you do annoy me. Have you no spunk at all in your composition? Are you still fretting your heart out for that good-for-nothing man?"

"Well, you see, I love him," said the poor wife. "The parting from my dear husband was a terrible trial. I think of him at all hours both day and night. I often have an uncontrollable desire to join him in Australia."

"Pray yield to it," said Mrs. Steward in the calmest of voices, "and when you go, take that great lout of a Caroline with you. She is as like you in appearance as one pea is like another. I am ashamed of you. Now, let us turn to a more congenial topic. Little Elma, I am glad to say, is made of very different stuff."

"Oh, Elma is a good girl," said Mrs. Lewis. At that moment Maggie came into the room.

"Have you ordered your servant to prepare any lunch for me?" said Mrs. Steward.

"Well, really—" Mrs. Lewis looked imploringly and with a vacant eye at Maggie.

"There's the remains of the salt beef, mum," said that small worthy, dropping a bob of a courtesy as she spoke.

"I couldn't touch it," said Mrs. Steward with a shudder. "Have you got a fresh egg in the house?"

"Oh, my dear, nothing of the kind—a fresh egg! Fresh eggs are worth their weight in gold. We have a stale egg, if you don't mind that."

Mrs. Steward indulged in another shudder even more violent than the last.

"My good girl," she said then, "pray get me a cup of tea and some thin toast, and be quick about it. See that the tea is really strong and the cream fresh."

"Cream!" murmured Mrs. Lewis; but Maggie had withdrawn.

"Well, now, that is comfortably settled," said Mrs. Steward, "and I can tell you what really brought me to town—I have come about Elma."

"Indeed, and what about her?"

"I mean to take her from you."

"To take Elma away from me, my own dear child?"

"Oh, now, come, Caroline, don't sicken me with your false sentiment. It is a precious good thing for Elma that she has got an aunt ready and willing to help her. I have just arranged to send her to a first-class German school. Her English, I should say, was fair, and she will be taken as pupil-teacher; she will thus have the advantage of learning German. I heard of this through a great friend of mine, Fraeulein Van Brunt. She is going to Germany herself next week, and will take Elma, if you can spare her."

"If I can spare her? But it will break my heart—such a sensible girl as she is," said poor Mrs. Lewis.

"Come, come, Carrie, no more nonsense; when I explain all the advantages you will see for yourself how all-important it is that Elma should go. The school is in the Harz Mountains, a splendid place; magnificent air, and all the rest. If Elma stays there for two years, I will then have her home, and send her to Girton as I promised. I will further arrange that she spends her holidays with me, as I think really—" here Mrs. Steward glanced round the shabby room—"I think that the less she remains with her own family for the present the better."

"I see what you mean. I am beneath my own child."

"Beneath her. Well, it is a painful thing to say; but, as you put it so frankly, I must reply in the affirmative," replied Mrs. Steward. "Ah, who is this now?"

The door was flung open, and Carrie, very red about the face, and with her parcel under her arm, entered the room. Her intention was to ask her mother to accompany her to the pawnshop. It had not been the first nor the second nor the third time that the unfortunate lady had been obliged to pawn her things. Carrie thought that her parent could make a better bargain than she could herself, and she hoped that she would have been in time to transact this little business before the arrival of her aunt. She now gave a start of dismay, and, dropping the parcel, sank down on the nearest chair. As she did so Kitty's watch and chain tumbled out of the front of her dress, where she had very insecurely fastened them. The watch was a lovely one, with an enameled back studded with pearls, and the chain was made of eighteen-carat gold. Owing to a warning glance from Carrie, Mrs. Lewis refrained from saying a word; but Mrs. Steward had no idea of keeping her emotions to herself.

"You, I presume, are Carrie," she said, looking at her niece. "Come here, Carrie, and speak to your aunt."

Carrie advanced as if she were treading on buttered eggs. She held out one dimpled hand gingerly.

"How do you do, my dear? Allow me to congratulate you on the acquisition of that very lovely little watch and that splendid chain. Now, I am devoured with curiosity to know who has given them to you. Surely not your mother? Surely, Caroline, with all your faults, you have not——"

"Oh, dear me, no," said Mrs. Lewis.

Carrie indulged in a loud laugh.

"Bless us, aunt," she cried, "do you suppose mother can afford to give me these? No, I—" She grew red and turned away.

Mrs. Lewis fidgeted on her seat, and appeared thoroughly uncomfortable.

"I do not wish to pry into your secrets, Caroline," said Mrs. Steward, favoring the untidy and vulgar-looking girl with a glance full of reprehension. "You are at liberty to wear handsome watches and chains made of the best gold if your mother cares to see you with things so unsuitable to your class and appearance. Your doings in life are no affair of mine. But now, as you happen to be my niece, will you have the kindness to go immediately into the kitchen and tell Maggie, or whatever the name of your servant is, to hurry with that tea and toast."

Carrie was only too glad to dart from the room. She picked up her parcel, and resorted to the kitchen.

"Oh, Miss Carrie, I do wish you would help me," said Maggie, who was flying distractedly about. "There's the kitchen fire all but out, and the lady ordered toast as crisp as you please. I don't believe we can do it for her. Wouldn't she be content with thin bread and butter curled in rolls?"

"Oh, of course she would, and must," said Carrie. "She is in no end of a temper, and for my part I don't wish to humor her. Yes, of course, Maggie. I'll cut the bread and butter and make it into rolls, and you see to the tea."

"Thank you, miss, I'm sure I'm much obliged, and perhaps, miss, you wouldn't mind taking it into the dining-room, for her eyes do fasten on to you that fierce that I get all of a tremble, and as likely as not I'll drop the tray."

Carrie laughed, and being at heart good-natured in her own way, helped Maggie with some vigor to prepare the tea.

At last a meal, which could not be remarked for its abundance, was forthcoming, and was brought into the dining-room.

"I ordered toast," said Mrs. Steward in an angry voice.

"I am sorry, Aunt Charlotte," said Carrie; "but the fire happened to be out in the kitchen. You see," she added, somewhat spitefully, "we are obliged to economize with coals, and we don't keep a fire up in the middle of the day."

"Well, I am really so famished that I am content with anything," said the good lady. "Pour me out a cup of tea at once, my dear, and just put the bread and butter where I can reach it."

Carrie did so, winking at her mother as she arranged the tray. The next moment Mrs. Lewis went out into the passage. Carrie followed her, closing the door behind their guest.

"Mother, I want you to come with me to the Sign of the Three Balls."

"What in the world for, Carrie?"

"I have got to pawn some things, some beautiful things, and I am to get ten per cent, on the commission. I shall turn over a nice little bit of money, and you can have your favorite supper. You will come, won't you, mother? And I'll give you half a crown into the bargain."

"Oh, dear, dear," said Mrs. Lewis, "I wish she had not come! She never helps me in any way. All she does is to scold me and make me more depressed than I am already. And she blames me so for marrying your poor father, Carrie; as if I could help that now. And what do you think she is going to do? She says she is going to take Elma from us."

"And a good thing, too," said Carrie.

"Carrie, what an unnatural girl you are! Do you mean to say you would be glad to part from your sister?"

"I would, because I am fond of her, and she has got into the most awful scrape at school. Don't you put any spoke in her wheel, mother, for goodness' sake!"

At that moment the latchkey was heard in the lock, and Elma herself appeared on the scene.

"Oh, good gracious! Elma," cried Carrie, darting up to her sister, and beginning to whisper vigorously into her ear.

"What?" said Elma, with a start of dismay. "So soon?"

"Yes, yes; she's been here for nearly an hour. She is devouring rolled bread and butter and tea in the dining-room at present. She asked for toast——"

"Yes," interrupted Mrs. Lewis, who now came up and began also to whisper; "yes, and fresh eggs, and cream, and lamb chops, and cold lamb and salad. I never heard of anything so unreasonable. My poor head is in an awful whirl. But she has come about you, Elma. She wants to take you away with her."

"She wants to take me away with her?" exclaimed Elma, starting, and her pale face flushing.

"And you had better go, Elma, and be quick about it," said Carrie, giving her a warning glance.

"I don't know what all this means," said Elma, her heart beating uncomfortably fast; "but I had better go in and see Aunt Charlotte."

"Yes, my love, yes; and while you are talking to her I—What do you say, Carrie—you and I might go out upon that little matter of business, might we not?"

"To be sure, mother; an excellent thought. If you stay here I'll run upstairs and fetch your bonnet, veil, and mantle in a twinkling. Go in to Aunt Charlotte, Elma; do, for goodness sake, make yourself of use. More depends on it than you think. If she hears us whispering and mattering in the hall she'll be out upon us."

Elma instinctively put up her two hands to smooth back her hair, she straightened her already perfectly neat little jacket, and, drawing herself up to her full petite height, entered the little dining-room.

Elma was a perfect contrast to her untidy mother and her frowzy sister. However poorly dressed, she was always the pink of neatness. She was full of agitation now and nervous fear, but not a trace of these emotions could be visible in her manner and appearance. She went up to her Aunt Charlotte, who for her part held out both her arms and, drawing the girl down, printed a kiss upon her cheek.

"I am really glad to see you, Elma," exclaimed Mrs. Steward. "Sit near me, my dear; it is a pity you were not in when I arrived. It was the least you might have done for your aunt, Elma. You had my letter this morning. Oh, my poor child, I have gone through a dreadful hour! These vulgar relations of yours grow worse and worse."

"My mother and sister?" murmured Elma.

"Yes; it is a terrible affliction for you. But, my dear, I am going to relieve you from the strain. I, your aunt, am coming to the rescue. There, Elma, pour me out another cup of tea, and I will tell you everything."

Elma raised the teapot, she filled her aunt's cup with fresh tea, added a little milk, and brought it to her side.

"Thank you, my dear. Now, Elma, you may consider yourself a made girl."

"Made?" echoed Elma, turning her white face to Mrs. Steward.

"Yes, made. What would you say to going abroad?"

Elma's eyes brightened.

"Do you mean on the Continent?"

"Yes, I do, my dear child. To no less a place than the Harz Mountains. I have heard of a most charming school, fifty times better than Middleton School; and you are to go there, my dear Elma, at my expense. You will go as pupil-teacher, and you thus acquire perfect German. Think what that will mean for you! I propose to leave you in Germany for two years, and at the end of that time you will return and go to Girton, I being responsible for all your expenses. My dear, your fortune is made. I have further arranged with your poor unfortunate mother that you spend the holidays with me, as it is not to be expected that you can associate any longer with such a person, nor with that frowzy young woman who calls herself your sister."

Elma did not speak. This news which would have delighted her at another and less harassing moment, was now fraught with perplexity and alarm. At the same time she thought she saw in it a possible means of escape. Suppose Aunt Charlotte took her away at once, before Kitty had time to tell what she knew, before Middleton School had time to ring with the news of her dishonor. Oh, if so, she might indeed be saved!

"Am I to go immediately?" she asked, choking down a strangled sob in her throat, "or am I to stay at Middleton School till the end of the term?"

"Well, dear, that is the awkward part, for of course you are working very hard for a prize, are you not?"

"I am working for a small scholarship," answered Elma. "If I succeed in my examination I shall obtain a scholarship in English Literature worth ten pounds a year for three years. That would be a very large sum to me, Aunt Charlotte."

"A large sum to you! I should think it would be a large sum to anybody," said Mrs. Steward in a severe tone. "Ten pounds is quite a fortune for any young girl. Pray don't begin to speak of money in that disparaging sort of way, Elma; it ill suits your circumstances, my love. But now, dear, I am sorry to disappoint you—I have heard of an admirable escort; a certain Fraeulein Van Brunt is going to the Harz Mountains next Monday; it will therefore be necessary for me to take you back to Buckinghamshire to-night, Elma."

"Oh, Aunt Charlotte, I am glad!" burst from Elma's lips.

"Glad to leave your mother and sister?" said Mrs, Steward, looking severely at the young girl. "After all, they are the last people you ought to associate with; but still natural ties, my dear Elma."

"Oh, I am sorry to leave them, I am sorry to go; I am both glad and sorry," gasped poor Elma. "I have been worried, and am glad to get out of everything."

"Worried! I suppose with that dreadful sister and your poor, muddled mother. Her unfortunate habit of weeping has reduced the little brain she possessed to a state of pap. Of course I know she is not well off; but all she absolutely could offer me in this house was a stale egg, and not even toast. Oh, I scorn to complain, but—I know this is not your wish, Elma. Your ideas were always very different, my dear child."

Elma did not say anything; she was fidgeting with her hand, making a slight noise with the teaspoon which she was tapping against a saucer. The noise was irritating to Mrs. Steward's easily-affected nerves.

"That calm of manner which I trust you will acquire after you have had the advantages which I am giving you will soon show you how very unpleasant those little tattoos and small noises are, Elma," remarked the good lady, taking the teaspoon severely out of her niece's hand. "Yes, my dear, you are to come with me to-night; that is, of course—"

"What do you mean by 'of course,' Aunt Charlotte?"

"After I have seen your head-mistress, Miss Sherrard."

"Do you want to see Miss Sherrard?" asked Elma, a note of alarm in her voice.

"Certainly; and I am going immediately to the school. You will not be admitted into the admirable school in Germany without a testimonial from your present teacher; and I am going to Miss Sherrard in order to secure one. It will, of course be merely a matter of form my asking for it, for your conduct has always been admirable—admirable in the extreme. Miss Sherrard has written to me about you from time to time, and always spoke of you with affection and admiration. She said your abilities were good; your moral character without a flaw. I will just step across to the school now, Elma; and, if you like, you can accompany me."

Elma hesitated. She did not yet know what had taken place; but when she had last seen Kitty there was a flash in her eyes the reverse of assuring. She could only hope against hope that nothing had yet taken place; that Kitty had still kept her miserable secret. If Miss Sherrard knew nothing she would of course give her an excellent character; and she herself would leave Middleton School that afternoon and forever. Then indeed she might snap her fingers at Kitty and her distress. She would be saved just at the very moment when she thought her ruin most imminent.



CHAPTER XXII

STUNNED AND COLD.

"Come, Elma, what are you looking so thoughtful about?" asked Mrs. Steward in an impatient voice.

"Nothing, Aunt Charlotte," replied Elma, rising to her feet. "I am ready to go," she added. She sighed as she spoke.

"You must give up that unpleasant habit, my dear child. Nothing irritates me more than hearing people sigh. It always seems as if they were discontented and ungrateful to Providence. Now, what have you, for instance, to sigh about? A singularly fortunate girl, a girl who possesses an aunt who is willing to take a mother's duties upon her shoulders. If it were that wretched, vulgar Carrie now, or even my poor sister herself; but you, Elma, don't let me think that you are ungrateful to me or I wash my hands of you on the spot."

"Oh, I am nothing of the kind indeed, Aunt Charlotte," replied Elma. "I always have felt that you—you were more than good to me."

"Well, my dear that's as it should be. I honor your feelings. I often say to myself and to your uncle-in-law—remember he is not your real uncle, Elma, but your uncle-in-law, my dear husband, the rector of St. Bartholomew's—'John,' I say, 'if Elma doesn't show gratitude for all I am doing for her I shall once and for all give up the human race. I shall never again expect right feeling from any one." But of course you are grateful, Elma; you will be the comfort of my old age. You will be as my own child to me. I—I sometimes think, my dear, that when your education is finished and you are turned into a refined, highly-cultivated, highly-trained woman, I will keep you with me. You shall be my companion, my housekeeper, the one who is to read aloud to me, to sit with me in the long evenings when my sight begins to fail. My eyes do ache at times, my dear, I have thought of all that. You will be my adopted child; not that I can leave you anything in my will, but I would provide a home for you while I am left in this tabernacle of the flesh. What do you say, Elma, eh?"

"It is too soon to say anything at present," answered Elma, to whom this prospect was the reverse of charming. To live as her aunt's unsalaried companion could not be attractive to her; but she wisely concluded that sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof, and she had yet to be educated and brought to that calm of spirit and strain of intellect which would satisfy Aunt Charlotte.

"Come now at once," said the good lady, who suddenly from being in a very cross temper became in the best of humor. "We have just nice time to go across to the school, and then after we have seen Miss Sherrard to return here for you to pack your things. What do you say, Elma, to our both staying in London to-night? It would be a pleasant treat for you, and there may be a few little things necessary to add to your wardrobe, which I shall have much pleasure in providing you with. Elma, you are in rare luck. When I think of all I am doing for you I feel that you have indeed much to be thankful for."

"Yes, Aunt Charlotte," echoed Elma, but her voice sounded faint, and she brought out her words with an effort.

Leaning on her niece's arm, Mrs. Steward now pursued her way to Middleton School. Alas! her journey there quickly dissipated her lately acquired good-humor. She had not gone one hundred yards before she complained of the dust of the roads, she had not gone two before her anger was great at the length of the way, and when she found that it was necessary to mount uphill her complaints became loud grievances—in short, by the time she really arrived at the school she was in as bad a temper as Elma had ever seen her in.

"What it is to have a great girl like you hanging on to one, dependent on one!" she cried. "It was most inconsiderate of Caroline to marry as she did, and she now even complains when I blame her for it. She is an extraordinary person. If she had remained single she might have been living comfortably with me at St. Bartholomew's rectory, and you and Carrie would never have been in the world plaguing your relatives."

"Well, you see we are in the world," said poor Elma, who felt that she must just show the faintest spark of spirit. "We did not ask to be born," she added, "so I don't see that we are to be blamed."

Mrs. Steward favored her with a sharp glance.

"Elma," she said, "if you indulge in pertness I shall wash my hands of you. Now, here we are. Have the goodness to ring the bell."

The great school door was opened presently by a neat-looking maid-servant, and Mrs. Steward inquired in a tart voice if Miss Sherrard was in."

"She is, ma'am," replied the girl; "but she is particularly engaged at this moment. Oh, is that you, Miss Lewis?" she continued. "Miss Sherrard is just sending for you, miss; but I don't think the messenger has gone yet. I'll run and stop him. Will you walk inside, ma'am!"

"A messenger for me!" murmured Elma. She felt terribly uncomfortable; her face grew whiter than ever.

"Will you have the goodness to tell your mistress that I wish to speak to her at once," said Mrs. Steward; "that I am in a hurry, and cannot be kept waiting? Pray mention my name, Mrs. Steward, from St. Bartholomew's Rectory, Buckinghamshire."

The girl promised to do so, and withdrew. She soon returned to say that Miss Sherrard would be pleased to see both Mrs. Steward and Miss Lewis in her private room.

"I wish to see Miss Sherrard alone," said Mrs. Steward. "Remain where you are, Elma." Mrs. Steward sailed out of the room, and poor Elma sank down on the nearest chair.

"If Miss Sherrard has sent for me she must know something," thought the wretched girl. "Oh! how am I to live through it? She will tell Aunt Charlotte and then all my prospects are over."

Meanwhile Mrs. Steward sailed down the passage with a dignity and majesty of demeanor which impressed Miss Sherrard's neat handmaid considerably. The next instant she was ushered into the school-mistress' presence.

Miss Sherrard looked troubled; she came forward to meet Mrs. Steward very gravely, and, motioning with her hand to a chair, asked her to seat herself. Mrs. Steward stared for a moment at the head-mistress, and the head-mistress stared back at her. At last Mrs. Steward said glibly:

"I am sorry to take up any of your valuable time, Miss Sherrard; but I think I can explain my errand in a few words. I am about to remove my niece, Elma Lewis, from the school."

"Indeed, I am heartily glad to hear it," answered Miss Sherrard, visible relief both in her tone and face.

"What an extraordinary remark for you to make! But I will pass it by, for I am in a considerable hurry. I have heard of an admirable school in Germany to which I intend to send my niece. Not that I have the least objection to your mode of teaching, Miss Sherrard, nor to this very celebrated school; but of course when it comes to foreign languages you cannot compare England to the Continent."

"Certainly not," answered Miss Sherrard, who was now staring at the other lady in some wonder.

"It is my intention to remove Elma to-night," continued Mrs. Steward; "for although it is not quite the end of term, yet the Harz Mountains are some distance away, and it would not be possible for a young girl who has at present no knowledge of the German language to go so far without an escort. Miss Sherrard, you will be glad to hear that an escort has been found, a suitable escort, and Elma will leave England next week. Under these circumstance I propose to take her back to my husband's rectory in Buckinghamshire to-morrow morning, and she will leave the school now."

"Indeed! I repeat that this is a most fortunate coincidence. I am glad to hear it," said Miss Sherrard.

"Your remarks seem to me the reverse of flattering; but I have no time to ask you to explain them. What I have really come about is this: It is necessary for Elma to have a certificate from her present mistress in order to be admitted into the very first-class school in Germany where I propose to place her. Will you kindly give me a testimonial in my niece's favor, Miss Sherrard? Just say anything you can to the credit of her character and general attainments. From your many letters to me I judge that you have a very high opinion of the dear girl; and I trust, now that I am doing so much, in starting this young girl in life, that I shall not go unrewarded. The care of the young is a sad trial, Miss Sherrard and I doubt not that the looking after Elma will worry me considerably; but I am not one to shirk my duties, and I am willing to take all this responsibility, and for the future to regard that young girl as if she were indeed my own child. But I must have the testimonial, so will you kindly write it at once."

Miss Sherrard had been sitting with her hands clasped in her lap while Mrs. Steward was speaking. Once she had lowered her eyes; but during the greater part of the time they were fixed upon the good lady's face. A look of consternation, almost akin to despair, flitted now over the teacher's expressive countenance.

When at last Mrs. Steward ceased to speak, Miss Sherrard still remained for nearly half a minute quite silent.

"You will perhaps oblige me by writing the testimonial?" said Mrs. Steward in a very haughty voice. Then she added, perceiving that something was wrong, and finding it impossible to guess what, "I dare say you are annoyed at Elma leaving the school so unexpectedly—"

"No, no; nothing of the kind," said Miss Sherrard. "I have told you twice, Mrs. Steward, that I am glad, very glad of this."

"Your words surprise me; but of course you will write—my time is precious, I have not a moment to lose."

Miss Sherrard now stood up.

"I cannot give Elma Lewis a testimonial with regard to conduct." The words came out quietly, firmly, distinctly.

Mrs. Steward sprang to her feet.

"You cannot give my niece a testimonial with regard to conduct?" she gasped. "Do you know what you are saying what you are doing, Miss Sherrard?"

"Perfectly well, Mrs. Steward."

"In your letters to me you have invariably spoken of Elma's conduct as excellent. Miss Sherrard, you surely forget yourself—you cannot be well; you must be mistaking Elma for one of your other pupils? She has always been an exemplary girl. You cannot give her a testimonial with regard to conduct? Am I to believe the testimony of my own ears?"

"I am deeply sorry; I have seldom been more grieved about anything. I am told that Elma has accompanied you here—if you will permit me, I will send for her, and explain how matters really stand in your presence."

"Oh, this is intolerable," said Mrs. Steward, clasping and unclasping her hands in her agitation. "The wicked girl, what has she done? Pray send for her at once, Miss Sherrard; if she has done anything really disgraceful I wash my hands of her. If you, her mistress, cannot give her a certificate, do you suppose that my husband and I will take her up?"

"It is impossible for me to say, madam. In this emergency to really help Elma would be a Christian act. She may have been tempted beyond her strength, but you will be better able to decide when you know the circumstances."

As Miss Sherrard spoke she rang the bell. "When the servant appeared, she desired her to bring Elma immediately into her presence. A moment later the young girl entered the room. She gave a wild and frightened glance first at her aunt, then at Miss Sherrard, then stepping forward, fell on her knees.

"Has Kitty told you?" she gasped.

"Yes, Elma. Get up; you cannot kneel to me."

"Rise this minute you wicked girl!" said Mrs. Steward.

Elma staggered to her feet.

"It is all up, then," she murmured.

"I know everything, Elma," said Miss Sherrard. "The knowledge has come to me as a painful surprise. Your aunt has just asked me to give you a testimonial with regard to character. I am bitterly pained to say that I must refuse to do so."

"But what does it all mean," cried Mrs. Steward, "and why am I to be kept in the dark any longer? Elma, stop twirling your thumbs; stand back. Now, Miss Sherrard, I have paid the school fees for Elma Lewis for the last four years, so I presume I am entitled to know all about her. Tell me what has occurred. Of what she is accused?"

Miss Sherrard then briefly related the story which had been told to her by Kitty.

It was exactly the sort of tale which would affect a woman of Mrs. Steward's caliber disagreeably. She listened with a horror-stricken face. When the school-mistress had finished, she said abruptly:

"What do you propose to do now?"

"It will be necessary for me to explain the whole circumstances of Elma's wrong-doing to the entire school to-morrow," said Miss Sherrard. "This is necessary for the sake of Kitty Malone."

"At what hour do you propose to make this very pleasant exhibition of my niece?"

"After prayers to-morrow morning—I sent for you, Elma," continued Miss Sherrard, "to tell you, as I thought you ought to be prepared."

"Thank you," answered Elma, her head bowed on her breast. She felt stunned and cold. The dreadful blow had fallen; but the acute misery which was immediately to follow was not at present awakened within her.

"Come, Elma," said Mrs. Steward. She turned to leave the room. Just as she reached the door she looked back at Miss Sherrard.

"After you have exposed Elma, and ruined her character for life, you will doubtless expel her?" she said.

"I hope not—I think not."

"In any case she leaves the school, for I pay no more fees. Come Elma."



CHAPTER XXIII.

STARS AND MOON, AND GOD BEHIND.

During the long walk home to Constantine Road the elder and the younger lady maintained an absolute silence. As soon as they got to the house Mrs. Steward turned to Elma for the first time and spoke.

"Find out immediately if your mother is in. If she is tell her I wish to see her. Go; don't stare at me."

Elma went without a word. Her mother was in, and so was Carrie.

"Mother," said Elma, "Aunt Charlotte wants to see you."

"Why, my dear Elma, what is the matter? How queer you look!"

"Don't mind about me, mother, pray; the expression of my face is not worth considering. Aunt Charlotte is waiting for you in the dining-room."

Mrs. Lewis gave a profound sigh.

"How very unreasonable of Charlotte!" she said; "she will doubtless be expecting more tea and cream and fresh eggs, and other impossibilities."

"Oh, go mother, and stop talking," said Elma.

Mrs. Lewis dragged herself up from the sofa on which she was reclining.

"I really don't know what the world is coming to," she said. "Even my own children are turning out quite disagreeable to me. Dear! dear! what it is to be a mother! How little those who are fortunate in not possessing children understand the burden!"

She went, downstairs slowly, and Elma turned to Carrie.

Carrie was standing with her back to her; she was making up something in tissue-paper.

"Well, Elma," she said, looking up at her sister, "what is up?"

"Everything is up," said Elma.

"What do you mean?"

"Everything is up and everything is over. What are you doing with that paper, Carrie?"

"I am folding up the money I have just got for Kitty Malone?"

"The money you have got for Kitty Malone! Has—has Sam Raynes returned the sovereigns?"

"Bless you, poor Sam can't do impossibilities. No; this money has nothing whatever to do with Sam. I am folding it up, and giving her a little account with it. We got exactly eleven pounds eleven shillings for the clothes and the watch and chain. She can redeem them all within a month if she likes. Here is the pawnbroker's receipt; tell her to keep it until she does. She can redeem them whenever she cares to pay back eleven pounds eleven shillings with interest. My commission at ten per cent, is one pound three shillings and tenpence—that leaves a balance of ten pounds seven shilling and twopence; it will doubtless get her nicely out of her difficulty. She ought to be thankful to me to her dying day. Look here, Elma, if you are worried about things—and I can guess what is the matter pretty well; for I happen to know that Kitty Malone made a clean breast of your secret not long ago—you will be glad to get out of the house. Here, take this money to her, and be off, can't you?"

Elma still did not speak. That cold, stunned feeling was pressing round her heart. She did not much care whether she was in the house or not. Just at that moment, however, a loud slam of the front door caused both the girls to run to the window. Mrs. Steward had sailed down the steps. Mrs. Steward with her long train streaming behind her, was walking up Constantine Road. The next instant Mrs. Lewis burst into the room.

"Well, Elma," she cried, "this is a pretty state of things. Your aunt has told me everything. What a miserable woman I am!"

"Please, don't scold me," said Elma. "I have had enough scolding during the last hour to last me my life. Say what you like to me to-morrow."

"But your aunt says she washes her hands of you. How are you to be educated? How are you to live? How are you to support yourself?"

"I don't know. I don't think it much matters."

"Don't talk in that silly way, Elma; of course it matters. She says too that you are to be publicly exposed at Middleton School to-morrow, and your conduct—I must say I could not make out what she was talking about; I don't see that you did anything very wrong—but your conduct is to be proclaimed to the school, and that you are to be, if not expelled, something like it. Elma, this is enough to take all my senses away!"

"Never mind, now, mother; we can talk it all over presently," said Elma. "Give me the money, Carrie, and let me go."

Carrie handed her sister the little parcel without a word. Elma walked slowly out of the room.

A moment later she found herself on the dusty road. She reached the top of the ugly street, and then paused to look around her. To her right lay the peaceful valley in which Middleton School was situated. A little further away was the open country, beautiful, verdant, full of summer splendor. Gwin Harley's house could be seen in the distance.

"If only Gwin had been my friend this morning, all these terrible things need not have happened," thought Elma. "I have nothing to thank Gwin for; I have nothing to thank Kitty for. I am a miserable, forlorn, forsaken girl. There is nothing before me but the most wretched life. Shall I go to see Kitty? Does Kitty deserve anything at my hands? I have got ten pounds seven shillings and twopence in my pocket. Why should I not go right away with the money? I don't think Kitty would prosecute me; and if she did would it matter? I am so hopeless that I don't think anything much worse could happen to me. I know I could not stand being publicly exposed to-morrow at the school. I cannot have those hundreds of eyes fixed on me; I, who have always been looked up to, respected, who belonged to the Tug-of-war Society. I cannot, cannot bear it. Why should Kitty have this money? She has treated me badly. She promised not to tell. She had no right to break her word. I cannot see her at present; no, I cannot."

Elma walked down the road. She longed beyond words to get into a fresh place, to be where there was no chance of meeting a Middleton girl. She walked faster and faster. Presently she found herself at the little station; she had not an idea where to go nor what to do. She had no luggage with her. It would look queer her going away without even a handbag. It would look very much as if she were running away. All the girls belonging to Middleton School had to wear a badge on their hats, and Elma would therefore be known. She would be recognized as one of the pupils. Nevertheless she thought she would risk it, for the longing to go away got stronger and stronger.

The railway station happened to be rather empty at this time. She looked around her hastily, saw no one that she knew about, and went into the booking-office. She hastily made up her mind to take a ticket for a large seaport town a few miles distant. She asked for a third-class single ticket to Saltbury, inquired when the next train came up, and a few moments later found herself on the right platform waiting for it. It came in within a quarter of an hour, and Elma took her seat in a third-class compartment. She was relieved to find that she was in the company of a good-natured-looking, middle-aged woman who was just returning to her own home from doing some marketing at Middleton. She did not take any notice of Elma, who crouched up in the opposite corner, and sat looking out at the country. The woman left the carriage at the next station, and Elma continued her journey for the rest of the way alone. She got to Saltbury within an hour, and stepped out on to the platform. She had been at Saltbury before with her mother and Carrie. They had once spent a never-to-be-forgotten week there when Mrs. Lewis had a ten-pound note in her pocket which she resolved to devote to a treat at the seaside. Elma wondered if she might venture to go to the little cottage in the suburbs of Saltbury where she had spent this week. After reflection, however, she thought that it would not be wise to venture, for if she were missed it would be very easy to trace her to Saltbury, and then this cottage would be the first to seek for her in. Accordingly she went into the more thronged and populous part of the town. The expensive season had not yet begun, and she presently went into a neat little house with "Apartments" written on a card in the window. She asked for a bed for the night. The landlady, a ruddy-faced young woman, immediately said she could accommodate her, and took Elma upstairs to the top of the house to show her a neat little bedroom.

"You can have this for half a crown a night, miss," she said. "Are you likely to make a long stay?"

"I don't know," answered Elma; "I can't be sure. I want the room for one night, and then I'll let you know."

"Very well, miss, that's quite satisfactory, and I can get in anything you like in the way of food. If you happened to wish for a sitting-room, miss—"

"Oh, no, a bedroom will be enough," answered Elma. "I do not care to go to the expense of a sitting-room."

"You left your luggage I suppose, miss, at the railway station?"

Elma colored and then turned pale.

"No," she said; "I have not brought any luggage with me."

The woman stared, opening her eyes very wide, now giving Elma a full and particular attention which she had not hitherto vouchsafed to her. She said nothing further, and Elma went downstairs.

"I'll go down to the beach for a little," she said. "You might have some tea ready for me when I come back. I am very tired, and should like some tea and toast."

"And a hegg, miss, or anything of that sort?"

"No, thank you; just tea and toast, please. Nothing more."

The woman stared after her as she went down the street. Elma got as far as the beach; she then sat down on a bench and gazed out at the waves. The tide was coming in. The beach at Saltbury was celebrated, and children were playing about, amusing themselves gathering shells, making sand-castles, and otherwise disporting themselves after the manner of their kind. A little boy was wading far out. Elma watched him with lack-luster eyes. She wondered vaguely how long he would be allowed to wade, and how deep he might go. He got as far as his knees, and then turned back. As he was going back he fell, wetting himself and crying out lustily.

Elma continued to gaze at him with eyes which scarcely saw.

"He thinks he is hurt," she said to herself, "that he has had a terrible misfortune. How little he knows what real pain means, and what real misfortune is! Here am I with money in my pocket which does not belong to me, having run away from home, disgraced for life, miserable for life. Oh! what shall I do?"

It had been a very hot day, but the evening was chilly, and Elma shivered as she went back to her lodgings in South Street. She had brought away no wraps with her, and her thin cotton dress was not sufficient to keep out the chill of the sea breezes. She thought she would be glad to get under shelter, to go to bed, to wrap herself up and cover her face and court sleep. When she got to the door, however, the young landlady, who was evidently waiting for her, came out on to the steps.

"If you please, miss," she said, "I am really very sorry, but my husband thinks——"

"What?" said Elma.

"That as you have no luggage, miss (you know it ain't customary for us to take in ladies without luggage)——"

"Then you mean—" said Elma, turning very white and pale.

"Yes, miss, I'm ever so sorry."

"You can't give me the room even for one night?"

"We can't really, miss."

"But I can pay in advance," said Elma eagerly.

"I'm ever so sorry, miss; but another lady came just as you left, and she had a box and a handbag, and everything proper, and as she wanted the room very badly and as we had her before, we have let it to her, miss. I am sure I am very sorry not to oblige; but I dare say—There are a great many other apartments down this road, miss."

"Thank you," said Elma; "it does not matter at all."

She spoke with a voice of ice; pride, a remnant of pride, came to her aid. She would not let the woman see how distressed she was.

"Good-evening, miss," said the young landlady. "I'm real sorry not to oblige."

"Oh, it doesn't matter," said Elma; "I dare say I can manage."

She walked down South Street, knowing that the landlady was watching her as she disappeared. She soon came to a corner where four roads met. Where should she go? What could she do? Where was she to have shelter for the night?

It occurred to her that after all there was nothing now left to her but to return to Middleton. She hurried up to the railway station, and asked when the next train would start. A porter, who was standing just inside the station informed her that the last train for Middleton had left five minutes ago.

"The next will be at seven to-morrow morning," he said.

"Thank you," answered Elma. She would not allow any of the dismay on her face to appear.

"After all, it is too absurd that I can't have shelter," she said to herself, "when I have over ten pounds in my pocket. What can the landlady have meant? Surely, if I pay my way that is all that is necessary."

But, all the same, she did not like to go and inquire at any other lodging. She could not stand meeting once again the stony stare of a landlady when she explained that she had no luggage, none at all. It occurred to her that she might go into a shop and buy some night-gear and a small handbag, but she rejected the idea almost as quickly as it came to her.

"It would only waste the money," she said to herself, "and where is the use? I suppose I can manage to spend the night somewhere. Thank goodness, it is a fine summer's night; I might do worse than spend it in the open air."

She wandered away, and presently passing a small restaurant, went in and ordered a cup of tea for herself, and some bread and butter. She drank the tea, but found that to eat choked her. The outlook before her was more miserable moment by moment. She was driven to such despair that it seemed of very little consequence to her whether she succeeded in getting away from Middleton School, from the censorious eyes of the whole of her world, or not. Everything was up with her. She kept repeating that moodily, drearily under her breath. Everything was up; she had not a friend in the wide, wide world.

Having finished her meager meal, she went out again into South Street. She was horrified when she saw the name at one end of the street. She did not want to pass by that neat little house which contained that snug little bedroom where she had hoped to cover her eyes from the light, and court sleep, in order to get rid of her misery for a few hours.

She had now reached the neighborhood of the shore. The tide was nearly full in; the great, broad expanse of beach was covered. The children had all gone home to supper and to bed. The stars were coming out in the sky; a full moon was riding in majesty across the heavens. It seemed to Elma, fine as the night was, that the sea moaned in an unreasonable and very dreadful manner. She had to press her hands to her ears to shut away the sound of that moaning sea. She determined to go inland. There was plenty of time, plenty. She could get back to the station by seven in the morning, wait for the first train which returned to Middleton, and reach the school after all in time for her exposure.

She turned her steps now countrywise, and after walking for a mile or two found that she was too weary to go any further. She crept inside a narrow opening in a hedge, and got into a field. Here she was absolutely alone; not a human being was in sight. As far as she could tell there was not a living creature near. She felt the grass; it was heavy with dew. She had always heard that it was very dangerous to sit down on grass soaked with dew, but danger now was of no moment to her.

"It would be rather nice to be ill; it would be rather nice to die." She had nothing left to live for. Her whole life had been a mistake. She had tried hard to get away from her own set, the set in which she was born. She had made a mess of it; she had failed. Her own set—the narrow-minded, the vulgar, the low—were the only ones who could claim her, who could touch her, who could have anything in common with her. How terribly shocked Miss Sherrard had been at what she had done. How disgusted, how coldly, terribly cruel Aunt Charlotte had been; but her mother had thought very little about it, and Carrie would love her just as much after her disgraceful conduct as she had done before.

"I belong to them, and they belong to me," thought poor Elma. "My ambitions were wrong; I shall sink now, and become a second Carrie. No, I shall never marry a Sam Raynes, but I shall become a sour old maid. Perhaps I shall do charring some day, there is no saying. I did wrong to try to raise myself. I——"

She never saw where her fault lay. She was not really repentant for her wrong-doing. The consequences were terrible, but the sin did not trouble her.

After a time, terribly exhausted and weary, she lay down just as she was on the soaking wet grass and fell asleep. She had been chilled and tired before she slept; but when in the very middle of the night she awoke she had never known anything like the bitter cold which she experienced. She could not at first remember where she was; but all too soon memory with a flash returned to her. She remembered all the events of yesterday. She knew that she was a runaway, that she had stolen money in her pocket. She might be arrested and put in prison; there was no saying what awful fate lay before her. In the dead of night lying there she became really frightened; she almost felt as if she could scream aloud in her terror. How empty the world seemed, how hollow! She wished the stars overhead would not blink at her; she wished the moon would go behind a cloud; she felt as if God Himself was looking at her through the face of the moon, and she did not like it. She covered her face with her cold and trembling hands, and tried to shut away what she felt might be the face of God Himself.

"I have been a very wicked girl," she moaned, and now, for the first time, she thought not so much of the consequences as of the sin. Tears rained from her eyes; she sat up and covered her face.

"God help me! Please, God, don't be too angry, with me; I am the most miserable girl in the world," she faltered.

After that frightened cry or prayer she felt more comfortable; and now, staggering to her feet, she saw, standing about ten yards away, and looking at her fixedly out of its large and luminous eyes, a brown cow. There were several more cows in the field, and this one had come up, and was gazing inquiringly at her. The motherly creature could not imagine what desolate and queer young thing this was, up and awake in the middle of the night. Such creatures as Elma, in the cow's experience, were not to be seen at these inclement hours. It lashed its long tail slowly from side to side, and kept gazing at her; and Elma looked at it, and her nervous terrors grew worse. The cow had horns; suppose it came near, and tried to horn her. She was not a country girl, and did not understand country creatures. A bitter cry of abject terror rose from her lips. She darted past the animal, rushed out by the way she had come into the field, and found herself once more on the highroad.

The cow, its curiosity very faintly tickled by the appearance of Elma on the scene, placidly resumed its feeding, and the terrified girl ran as if she had wings to her feet up the highroad.

In after days she was never able to tell how she spent the remainder of that night; but the longest hours only herald in the dawn, and at last the sun arose and the worst of her fears were over. The sun warmed her, and took away the dreadful feeling of chill which she was experiencing. She wandered about, sitting down now and then, too feeble, too tired, too utterly depressed to have room even for active fears, and at last the time came when she might again present herself at the station.



CHAPTER XXIV.

SUNSHINE AGAIN.

When Carrie left her, Kitty Malone was buoyed up with a certain degree of hope. Carrie had spoken with confidence; she had assured her that her clothes were worth money. Never before, much as she prized pretty things, had they seemed so valuable in poor Kitty's eyes. If Carrie would really keep her word it would be possible for Kitty to send Laurie the money which he wanted that evening. Could she do this her worst anxieties would be laid to rest, and she felt that it would be even possible for her to try to be good once more. As things were at present, she cared nothing at all about being either good or bad. Every thought of her mind was fixed upon Laurie; if he were saved she would be good; if not—if he indeed, the darling of her heart, went to the dogs—nothing mattered.

Kitty was too restless and miserable to go down to the rest of the family. She walked up and down, up and down her bedroom, watching and longing for Carrie. Now and then she would rush to the window, putting out her head and shoulders and half her body, to watch if by any chance Carrie might be coming up the street. That red-faced, fat, uninteresting-looking young woman now represented all Kitty's hopes.

When darkness set in, however, when the hours first struck nine and then ten, poor Kitty gradually saw the last star in her firmament expire. "Without doubt Carrie had failed to pawn the things.

"And I thought them so good," whispered Kitty to herself. "Aunt Bridget would be sure to choose nice and expensive things. Perhaps they were too good for the people who come to the pawnbroker for their clothes. That must be the reason; but I wonder Carrie did not come back to tell me."

Presently Alice bustled into the room, and, opening the door of the large wardrobe which the girls shared between them, began to make active search for a neat little jacket which she wanted to put on. She was going out for the evening, and wished to wear it when she was returning home. Search as she would, however, she could not find it, and presently turned to ask Kitty if she had seen it.

"Dear me, no," answered Kitty, starting and blushing. "Is it not in the wardrobe?"

"No," replied Alice. "And I remember I hung it on this peg. Where can it possibly have disappeared to? Don't you know anything about it, Kitty? By the way, how wonderfully empty the wardrobe looks! Have you been putting your clothes back into your boxes?"

Kitty, who had been standing in the middle of the room looking the very picture of despair, now burst into a hearty peal of laughter.

"What are you laughing about?" asked Alice.

"I am awfully afraid it has happened," she cried.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, that your jacket has gone to the pawn."

"Kitty!" cried Alice, looking at the Irish girl in some alarm, "have you gone mad?"

"No, Alice; but I am dreadfully afraid all the same that it has happened; indeed, there can be no doubt of it."

Kitty laughed again. She often cried when she laughed and now the tears ran down her cheeks.

"Well, this is too funny!" she gasped between her paroxysms of mirth.

"I don't think it funny at all. I think you must have taken leave of your senses. Kitty, please, explain yourself."

"I will try to, Alice. Oh, don't frown at me so horribly, or I shall go off into fits of laughter again. This is the simple truth. I wanted money very, very badly. I could not get it, and Carrie Lewis—"

"Carrie Lewis? Who is she?" asked Alice.

"Oh, don't be so ridiculous, Alice. Of course you know who Carrie Lewis is. She is Elma's sister. She came here to-day."

"How very interesting! What a nice set of people you seem to be getting to know! I wasn't aware that you were acquainted with any of the Lewises except Elma."

"Well, I am acquainted with Carrie now, and I rather like her. She is great fun, much more fun than you are. She is vulgar, of course; but really that does not matter. She called to see me, and as I happened to want money she suggested pawning some of my things for me. I conclude she took your jacket by mistake with the rest."

Alice was so stunned absolutely by this news that no words would come to her. She stared at Kitty, her face growing whiter and more wooden-looking each moment. Then, without vouchsafing a syllable of reply, she left the room, banging the door behind her.

"There, I have given her a good settler," thought Kitty; and for a moment the feeling that Alice was as uncomfortable as she was herself gave her a certain sense of satisfaction.

The last post brought a letter from Laurie. It was brief, and was written in frantic hurry and despair.

"My dear Kitty," wrote the boy, "what has come to you? I am looking for a letter by every post, but none arrives. I shall not be able to give Wheel-about the money I promised him on Saturday, and I know he will not keep my secret any longer. When father hears it, all is up. If I don't receive that money by Saturday morning I shall run away to sea.—LAURIE."

The letter fluttered from poor Kitty's fingers to the floor. She felt stunned; there was a cold weight now at her heart, which made it almost impossible for her to move or even think. If Laurie did not get the money by Saturday morning he would run away to sea. This was Thursday evening. There was still time, just time, to save him. Oh, if only Carrie would come! How dreadful, how terrible of her to fail Kitty at such a moment as this! Laurie was just the sort of boy to do what he said. The longing to go to sea had been one of the innermost cravings of his heart for many years. If he did so, the squire would never forgive him. His career would be ruined. Bad and awful as an English school in Kitty's opinion would be, the fate which he now had mapped out for himself would be much worse. The cruel, cruel sea might even drown him. Kitty might never behold her Laurie again. He was the joy of her heart and the light of her eyes. She uttered a piercing cry, and fell down half-fainting by her bedside. She lay so for the greater part of an hour, then struggling to her feet got into bed without undressing, and pulled the bedclothes well over her head.

When Alice came in very late that evening she thought that Kitty was asleep, and did not disturb her; but all during the long hours of that miserable night poor Kitty lay awake, her heart beating loud, terrible visions passing before her eyes. Toward morning she fell into a troubled sleep, to awake again quite early. Her head ached badly, her pulses beat too quickly; she could not stand her hot bed any longer. Springing up, she went into the bathroom, turned on the cold water, and refreshed herself with a bath. She felt really desperate and quite impervious to all ideas of discipline. She made up her mind to go to the Lewises, knock up Carrie, and demand an account of the property which she had confided to her on the previous day. Even still there was just—just time to save Laurie, for if she could catch the early post he would receive his money on Saturday morning.

Kitty found herself at Constantino Road between seven and eight o'clock. The blinds of Carrie's bedroom window were still down, for the Lewises were not early risers. Maggie however, was up, and when Kitty rang the bell she opened the door for her.

"Miss Malone!" she cried.

"I want to see Miss Carrie at once," cried Kitty. "Is she up, Maggie?"

"Not she, miss. She's sound asleep and in bed. But I'll run up and tell her that you are here. Please come into the dining-room, Miss Malone."

Maggie threw open the door of this by-no-means luxurious apartment, and then ran upstairs to inform Carrie of Kitty's unexpected arrival.

"Now, what can be up?" thought Carrie. "Surely she is satisfied. I did very well for her."

She dressed herself hastily, and in five minutes was standing by Kitty's side.

"What is it?" she asked. "Are you not pleased? Elma took you the money, did she not? She must have stayed with one of the Middleton School girls for the night, for she never returned home; but she took you the money. I thought I did very well by you. Were you not satisfied?"

"She took me the money?" cried Kitty, turning pale. "No; that she did not. I never had any money. What do you mean, Carrie?"

"What I say," answered Carrie. "Oh, do sit down, Kitty; you look quite ghastly. I gave Elma ten pounds seven shillings and twopence to give you I got eleven guineas for your things, including the watch and chain. After I deducted my ten per cent., the balance for you was ten pounds seven and twopence. I thought you would be delighted. Did she not take you the money early yesterday evening?"

"No. I have never seen her."

"But she left here quite early on purpose. She said she was going straight to your house. I sent you plenty of money, did I not?"

"How much did you say?" asked Kitty, putting her hand up to her forehead in a distracted way.

"Ten pounds seven and twopence. You only really wanted eight pounds, did you not?"

"I had a little money of my own, and eight pounds would have done," said Kitty in a low voice; "but——"

Here she sprang forward and gripped Carrie by the arm. "What does it mean, Carrie—what does it mean? Elma never came near me; I never, never saw her last night."

"You never saw her? Elma never went to you?"

"No, never. Do you think I would tell an untruth? I never saw her, not since early school yesterday. Oh, Carrie, tell me what it means?"

"I cannot. I must say it looks very queer," said Carrie. She frowned, turned her back partly upon Kitty, and supporting her fat chin on one of her dimpled hands, began to think deeply. The more she thought the less she liked the aspect of affairs.

"Carrie, what does it mean?" cried Kitty, reiterating her words in a kind of frenzy of agitation.

"Oh, stop talking to me for a minute, Kitty! I must think this out."

Carrie walked to the window, pulled up the blinds, threw the sash up, and allowed the fresh morning air to blow upon her hot face. After a time she turned round and faced Kitty.

"You may well look pale," she said. "I confess I am as bewildered as you are yourself. Of course Elma may have been taken ill—she had a dreadful shock yesterday."

"How?"

"You are silly to talk like that. Don't you know?"

"You mean because I told about her?"

"Well, it turned out very badly, as badly as possible. You did tell, and when you did so you ruined her. If you had only kept that precious story to yourself, even for twenty-four hours, little Elma would have been made—made for life; but you ruined her."

"Oh do please tell me what you mean! My head is going round in a whirl; I can scarcely follow you."

"You can pull yourself together if you like. This is what happened. I told you, did I not, yesterday, that Aunt Charlotte pays Elma's fees at Middleton School?"

"I think so, but I don't quite remember."

"That is so like you. I always said you were selfish."

"Think what you like, Carrie; but please tell me everything."

"Oh, I'm quite willing. This is the story. Aunt Charlotte came here yesterday. She had heard of a splendid school in Germany, where Elma was to be sent as pupil-teacher. She wanted Elma to leave Middleton School at once, as she had found an escort to take her to Germany; but before Elma could be admitted into this new school it was necessary for her to have a certificate from Miss Sherrard. Now you see daylight, don't you? My aunt, Mrs. Steward, went to see Miss Sherrard, taking Elma with her. Elma did not know that you had put a match to the mine, and of course Aunt Charlotte knew nothing about it. When Miss Sherrard was asked to give Elma a certificate for conduct, she refused point-blank. Of course the mine exploded. Elma was called in, and all your nice, miserable story told to Aunt Charlotte. Elma is to be publicly exposed at Middleton School to-day; and Aunt Charlotte has washed her hands of her forever. There! that's what you have done. We have much to thank you for, have we not?"

Kitty's face had grown whiter and whiter.

"You blame me very much for what I am not to be blamed for," she said after a pause.

"That's what you think. You're an Irish girl, and you think nothing of a promise. You promised Elma you would not tell. You lent her the money, and you promised you would not tell about it. You broke your promise, and you have ruined her for life. There! that's what has happened. I wish you joy of the nice state your conscience must be in."

"You are very bitter to me, Carrie; but you cannot quite see my side of the question. I would not have told about Elma if Elma had been in the least true to me, but she was not, not a bit. All the same, I am terribly, terribly sorry for her. I would not have got her into this scrape if I had known."

"Ay, you had no thought, you see. You just blurted out everything."

"I am very miserable," said poor Kitty. She clasped her trembling hands together, and tears slowly welled into her beautiful dark-blue eyes. Carrie watched her with anxiety.

"There, now I like you," she said, after a pause "You look awfully pretty with those tears in your eyes, and——"

"Pretty, do I?" said Kitty. For a moment a pleased smile flitted across her face, but then it faded; the present anxiety was too intense for her to give much thought to her personal appearance.

"Where can Elma be?" she said.

"Ah, that's the dreadful part. I don't know. She went out of the house with your money. She evidently never took it to you. I am sure I cannot think what has happened to her."

"And my money is gone?" said Kitty.

"So it seems—that is, unless we can find Elma. It is all very dreadful, very horrible. I suppose the plain English of the matter is this"—here Carrie gulped something down in her throat—"that she—she stole your money and has run away with it."

"Carrie, you cannot think so!"

"It is what I have to think," answered Carrie. "It is a mighty unpalatable truth, I can tell you. I suppose, now, your next step will be to prosecute her to send the police after her, and have her locked up. Then you will ruin me too, for Sam Raynes—not that he is overparticular, nor that he cares twopence about refinement, or anything of that sort—would not care to marry a girl whose—whose sister was put in prison. That's your next step isn't it, Kitty Malone?"

"I won't stop to listen to you," said Kitty; "you are too terrible."

She ran to the door, opened it, and the next moment found herself in the street. She walked fast, ugly words repeating themselves in her ears. Carrie had been very blunt, and had given the petted, half-spoiled girl some home truths to think about. Had she really been unkind in telling about Elma? Oh, what was right and what was wrong? What was the matter? Could she ever, ever, in the whole course of her existence, have a light heart again? She walked up the street, little caring what she was doing or where she was going. At the next corner she came plump upon Elma herself, who was coming slowly, very slowly in the direction of Constantine Road. When she saw her, poor Kitty gave a sudden shout.

"Oh, Elma!" she said, "how glad I am—how glad I am!"

"What do you mean?" said Elma. Her voice was faint.

"I thought I might never see you again. I thought—I don't know what I thought—but you have come back."

"I ran away, and I have come back again," said Elma. "You can punish me if you like, Kitty; things can never be much worse than they are." Here she staggered, and would have fallen had not Kitty held her up.

"How dreadfully bad you look! But oh, the relief of seeing you again!" said Kitty. "Where have you been? What have you done?"

"I scarcely know what I have done, or where I have been. I have a noise in my head, a queer noise. My head aches so badly it seems as if it would never leave off again. I am going to school, and they are going to expose me. It was all because you told, Kitty. And here is nearly all your money." Elm a put her hand into her pocket. "I must tell you everything, Kitty; for nothing really matters now. I meant to take that money. I meant to steal it all, but when it came to the point I found I could not. Here is most of it back. I spent three shillings on my fare to Saltbury and back, and sixpence on tea last night. That leaves ten pounds three and eightpence. Here, count it, won't you, Kitty? Take it in your hand. Here are the ten sovereigns, and the three shillings, and the sixpence and twopence. Have you got them all right? I must owe you the balance, but I'll pay you soon—soon."

Elma's voice sounded weaker and weaker. Kitty clasped the money; her small fingers closed over it, her eyes grew bright, a flaming color rose into each of her cheeks, and it was as if new life was put into her.

"How bad you look!" she cried; "but oh, how happy I am to have this money! Never mind for a moment what you meant to do; I have it now, and I forgive you with my whole heart. Let us go straight to the nearest post office. I must get a postal order lor eight pounds immediately. Come, Elma, come."

"But what do you mean? Why should I go with you?"

"Because you must—because I am not going to part with you—not yet. Come, come at once. Oh, how dead tired you look! You are not to go back to that dreadful little house of yours—not yet. Here is a nice-looking restaurant. You just go straight in, and I'll go on to the post office and send off the postal order to the dear old boy. He is saved now, and I am saved; nothing—nothing else matters. Dear Elma, of course I forgive you; pray don't look so miserable. I felt fit to die five minutes ago, but now I am as well and jolly as possible. Here, Elma, come into the restaurant and wait."

Kitty had clutched hold of Elma's arm, and now she dragged her into a large, bright-looking restaurant, which they were just passing. The next moment Elma found herself seated by a small marble table. Kitty was ordering tea or something, Elma could not quite make out what, nor did she care. Everything was dreamy and unreal to her.

"I'll be back in a minute, Elma," cried Kitty. Her flashing eyes smiled as they glanced at Elma. Elma tried to smile back, but could not. The next moment Kitty was out of the place. She was back again in less than a quarter of an hour.

"I have done it," she cried, "and my heart is as light as a feather. I have sent off the postal order to Laurie; he will be saved now. Oh, it is so comforting; and we have a little over two pounds for ourselves."

"For ourselves—what do you mean?" said Elma.

"Why, of course, we'll divide it and have a jolly time. Aren't you going to have your breakfast? I'm as hungry as a hawk."

As Kitty spoke she poured out a cup of tea, added milk to it, and pushed it toward Elma. Elma drank it off, and when she had done so the confused feeling in her head got a little better. Kitty then began to speak in a low, excited whisper.

"Let us do something," she said. "Let us do something quite mad and wild and jolly. We have got out of our scrape."

"You have; but I am in it up to my neck," said poor Elma. "Oh Kitty, I am a miserable, wretched girl!"

"Never mind, you are going to be a jolly girl now, the jolliest girl in the world. Do you think because I am happy again that I am going to leave you to all this misery, particularly after that nice blunt, determined Carrie of yours telling me that it was my fault, and that I would repent it to my dying day? Look here, Elma, did you say that you wanted to go back to Middleton School this morning?"

"I have to. I am to be exposed, you know."

"Not a bit of it. Neither you nor I will go to that hateful school; let us run away."

"Run away? But I have run away and come back again."

"Let us do it over again."

"Kitty, what do you mean?"

"What I say. I have heaps of money; let us get back to Saltbury and enjoy ourselves, Elma. Why can't we take the next train? No one will prevent us; no one will guess where we are. We will have a nice time, a really nice time. Say 'Yes,' Elma, won't you?"

"But would you really go with me?"

"Why not? I am the wild Irish girl, and you are the naughty English girl; let us go off together."

"Well, it does sound tempting," said Elma, her eyes sparkling. "Kitty, it is wonderful of you not to give me up."

"Oh, I am not the sort of girl to give up a friend when she is in trouble. You have made it right for me, and the sun is shining again, and I am as happy as the day is long. Elma, you must come."

"It does sound tempting—I wish my head did not ache so badly."

"It will be better when you get to the seaside."

"Perhaps so, and then I need not go to Middleton School."

"You need never go there again. Oh, don't waste any more time over breakfast. We can eat when we get to Saltbury. I want to get off before Alice and Carrie or any of them begin to miss us. Let us go to the railway station; it is not far off."

Kitty's eager and impetuous words earned the day, and in a quarter of an hour's time the girls found themselves speeding away to Saltbury.

"We have indeed burned our boats now," said Kitty, with a laugh; "we have both run away. Now they have something really to scold us about; but never mind. I never felt, more jolly in my life."



CHAPTER XXV.

KITTY "GO-BRAGH" (FOREVER).

But Kitty's happiness was very short-lived, for long before they got to Saltbury Elma was really so ill that she could not hold up her head. Kitty had never seen such severe illness before. She was not easily frightened; she had plenty of pluck when a real emergency arose, and she now determined to do her best for her companion.

"It is all the worry and the misery she has undergone," thought Kitty to herself; "but now that my mind is at rest she will see what a good friend I can be to her." When they got to Saltbury she immediately ordered a cab, and desired the man to drive her to the nearest hotel.

"Oh, Kitty!" gasped poor Elma, "they won't take us in, because we have no luggage, you know."

"I'll manage it," said Kitty; "no luggage—what does that matter?"

She followed Elma into the cab, and a few moments later the girls found themselves at the door of a neat little inn facing the sea. Kitty jumped out and went straight to the bar.

"I want a nice, quiet bedroom," she said, "with two beds in it."

"Certainly, miss," said the woman, glancing into Kitty's bright face.

"It must be a very quiet room," continued Kitty, "for my companion is ill; she has a bad headache, and we must send for a doctor immediately."

"Yes, miss. I'll send the porter out to bring in your luggage."

"That's the annoying part," said Kitty; "we have no luggage."

The woman looked dubious, and turned to glance at a man who approached.

"Two young ladies want a room," she said in a low voice. "One of them is ill, and—they have no luggage."

"Then in that case, miss, I am very sorry——" began the man.

But Kitty interrupted him.

"Don't say those words," she began. "I know exactly what you are going to say, but please don't. We have no luggage, for we—we have run away from school. There now, I have confided in you. Here's father's card. He will be responsible for us. Please show us to your very best room immediately."

As Kitty spoke she took a card out of her sealskin purse and handed it to the woman.

"Dennis Malone, Castle Malone, County Donegal," was inscribed on the small piece of pasteboard. It evidently had a good effect, but a still greater effect was produced by the sparkling and lovely eyes of the handsome girl who spoke in a tone of quiet assurance.

"Father will be so grateful to you for taking us in," she continued. "It would be terrible, you know, if you allowed us to wander about the streets. I am going to telegraph to him now, and he will arrive here, I have no doubt, within the next twenty-four hours. I have not much money with me," added Kitty frankly, "but father will bring plenty—plenty when he arrives."

Again the man and woman whispered together, and now approving and interesting glances turned in Kitty's direction. The woman presently said:

"Very well, miss, we'll do our best for you. Will you follow me, miss?"

She took Kitty and Elma upstairs and showed them into the best room in the house. In a very short time poor Elma found herself in bed, with Kitty bending over her, kissing her now and then, and whispering kind words in her ears.

"I have managed beautifully with the people of the hotel," whispered Kitty. "And now, darling, you'll be made so comfortable. I am going to make up to you for—for what Carrie said I did."

"But you did nothing; it was I who was bad, very bad," cried Elma.

"Oh, don't begin to get remorseful now, while you are ill. Wait, at least until you are better. I have ordered some fruit and jelly and ice, and I have asked the landlady—isn't she a dear—to send for the doctor."

"It seems like a dream," said Elma. "Is it possible that everything has changed so completely, and you—you, Kitty Malone—you to whom I have acted so badly, are good to me?"

"Yes, yes, I mean to be good to you; but don't begin to fret about your sins until you are better. Leave unpleasant things alone. Go to sleep, Elma; go to sleep."

Kitty went out of the room and stood and reflected for a few moments on the landing.

"Here's a state of things," Kitty said to herself; "but on the whole I rather like it. I knew I should be good in emergencies; I felt that it was in me. I am afraid poor Elma is going to be downright ill. I suppose I did wrong to run away—perhaps I did; but I am so relieved about Laurie that nothing else seems to matter now. I will telegraph immediately to the dear old dad and ask him to come right away here at once. When I see him and know that Laurie is really saved, I'll just tell him everything. Oh, yes, that is the only—only thing to do."

Kitty went straight to the nearest post office, and in an incredibly short space of time the following message was being carried across the wires to Castle Malone:

"AT THE SIGN OF THE RED DOE, SALTBURY.—You will be surprised, father; but I have run away from school. I will tell you everything when I see you. I am here with a sick girl who has also run away. We have very little money; and I, your Kitty, want you dreadfully. Come to me as quickly as you can.

"KITTY MALONE."

"Bless him," said the girl to herself. "He may be angry for a minute, but this message will bring him on the wings of the wind. Now that it has gone off I wonder ought I to let them know at Middleton?"

Kitty reflected earnestly over this problem. She quickly, however, made up her mind to keep her secret to herself.

"A little suspense will be rather good for Alice than otherwise," she thought; "and although Mr and Mrs. Denvers may be anxious about me, they can but telegraph to father; and as he will know my address already it won't put him into a taking. Miss Sherrard too can bear it; and as to Carrie, I am really sorry for poor old Carrie, and I should not much mind having her here; but I think until father comes I will look after Elma my lone self, as they say in Ireland."

Having made up her mind, Kitty went back to the hotel and asked the landlady, with whom she was now great friends, to send for the best doctor in the neighborhood.

Dr. Marchand arrived in the course of the morning, and pronounced Elma to be ill, but not alarmingly so.

"Your young friend is suffering from considerable shock," he said, "and has evidently also taken a severe cold; but with care and nursing she will in all probability soon get relief—that is, if the strain from which she is suffering is taken off her mind."

"Oh, I think I can manage that," answered Kitty, nodding to the doctor in a very bright and frank way. Her dark-blue eyes were shining like stars; the color in her cheeks, the set of her beautiful head on her lovely neck, the very arrangement of her clothes fairly bewitched that good man. He had seldom seen such sparkling eyes nor such a beautiful dimpled mouth. Kitty's manner completely won Dr. Marchand over to her side, as it had already done the good people at the hotel.

After getting innumerable directions from the doctor, she went downstairs to consult with her land lady.

"Now, Mrs. Stacey," she said, "I must buy lots of things, and I wonder if you can help me. I have telegraphed to father to come here; but until he does I have only this much;" here she opened her purse and tumbled the contents on to the landlady's palm.

Mrs. Stacey started back in some astonishment. Really this was a very fascinating young lady; but she had never met anybody quite so—so out of the common.

"You can reckon it up if you like," said Kitty; "you will see that it does not come to two pounds. Now, do you know of a shop that would trust me—give me credit, I mean—for some things?"

"What sort of things, miss?"

"Oh, clothes, and a couple of trunks. You see, we are not respectable without trunks, are we?"

"Oh, yes, Miss Malone, you are."

"But do you know of such a shop? Please think very hard, Mrs. Stacey."

"Williamson's round the corner will oblige you to any extent, miss, if you mention my name."

"Then I'll go there immediately. Thank you; how very nice you are!" said Kitty.

"Of course I ought not to be nice to you, miss, for it ain't right—no, that it ain't—to encourage runaways."

"When you know our story you will be quite glad you encouraged us," laughed Kitty.

"Then perhaps you'll confide in me, miss."

Kitty colored and thought for a moment.

"I think father must know it first," she said. "And now I must rush away to get the things that poor Elma requires."

During the course of that day it could scarcely be said that Kitty Malone was without luggage; for two new trunks presently made their appearance, full to the brim with all sorts of dainty clothing both for Elma and herself.

"Elma," she cried, dancing into the sick-room, "I have got two of the most charming hats you ever laid eyes on. Mine is sweetly becoming to me, and I am sure yours will suit you equally well; they are both big white leghorns, with great bunches of black feathers in front. Won't they look sweet with our new muslin dresses? Mine is pink, but I thought blue would suit you best. I expect dad to-morrow evening at the latest; and I am going to meet him at the station in my new hat and dress. There will be no doubt about his forgiving me when he sees me in them."

Just then there was a tap at the door, and Kitty, rushing to open it, found a telegram awaiting her. She tore it open and read the following words:

"Starting from Dublin by the night-boat, with you to-morrow.—DENNIS MALONE."

"There, didn't I say he was a darling—the best, best darling in the world?" cried the excited girl. "Oh, won't he have a caed mille afaltha; won't he? Elma, I am almost beside myself."

"I don't know what you are talking about," said Elma. "What do you mean by those queer words?"

"Caed mille afaltha? Oh, they are the Irish for a hundred thousand welcomes. We put them over our arches and everything when people are coming home. Oh, they don't speak a half nor a quarter of what our hearts are full of. Oh father, father, the joy—the joy your poor little Kitty feels at the thought of seeing your darling face again!"

That night again Kitty lay awake, although Elma slept. Strange thoughts, strange and new, were coursing through the young girl's brain. Everything had been a failure, and yet she felt bright and happy and like her old self once more.

"It is the thought of seeing father," she said to herself. "I was never fit for England. England and its ways will never suit me, never, never; but when I see father I shall be all right. Oh, to think that he is really coming, and that Laurie is saved! I must, of course, tell father everything; but he won't be angry with Laurie when I tell him the story in my own way."

Accordingly early the next morning Kitty dressed herself in the fascinating leghorn hat and slipped on the pink muslin dress, and, with a bunch of roses at her belt, sallied forth to the railway station. She soon found the right platform, and paced up and down in a fever of impatience waiting for the train. As she was doing so, flaunting her pretty little person in a somewhat aggressive way and causing some prim-looking ladies to gaze at her with anything but approval, a hand was laid on her arm, and turning she saw, to her amazement, the extremely indignant faces of Miss Sherrard and Miss Worrick.

"Well, Kitty, after this!" said Miss Sherrard,

"Oh, please don't scold me just now!" said Kitty, with a little gasp; "wait until he comes."

"Until who comes?"

"Father. I am expecting him by this train."

"I am relieved at that," said Miss Sherrard. "I shall have a painful tale to tell him."

"So you may, Miss Sherrard. You may tell him everything; but please let me tell him my story first. You must, you shall; I insist."

The girl's eyes were flashing; she was trembling all over. Just when her happiness seemed to be at its height, for Miss Sherrard and Miss Worrick to appear!

"Oh, and there's the train!" she cried. "He will be here in a minute; let me see him first. Oh, the train, is stopping, and there he is; I see him at the very end; there he is with his white hair and—let me go, let me go!"

She rushed from Miss Sherrard's retaining arm and flew up the platform, and a moment later the owner of the pink dress and leghorn hat was being clasped tightly, tightly to the breast of the magnificent-looking old gentleman, almost a king in his way, who had suddenly stepped on to the platform.

"Father, you'll protect me—they have come, they have followed me. You will let me tell you my story first? Father! father! oh, feel how my heart is beating!"

"Why, Kitty, asthore; Kitty, Kitty, my own. What is it, Kit? I say, Kit, what is wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing now that you have come; but let me tell you my story first."

"Your story first—why, of course, Kit."

"They are there; speak to them; tell them you will see them afterward. We are staying at the Sign of the Red Doe; tell them that you will see me first and then you will see them."

"Introduce me to them, Kitty, and calm yourself. Come, Kitty, come."

"Yes, father, yes; it is all right."

Kitty's terrible excitement subsided; leaning on her father's arm, she approached the platform where Miss Sherrard and Miss Worrick, both looking rather confused, were standing.

"This is my father, Miss Sherrard," said Kitty, introducing Dennis Malone, who took off his hat with a grand sweep.

"I am relieved to see you," began Miss Sherrard.

"Pardon me one moment, madam," said Malone; "but Kitty here would like to tell me her story first. You are her school-mistress, the lady with whom I have had the pleasure of corresponding?"

"I am, and I have a very, very painful tale to tell you."

"You shall tell me your story afterward."

Here the owner of Castle Malone caught sight of Miss Worrick, and gave her a bow even more deferential than he had bestowed upon the head-mistress.

"I am sorry to put you off even for a few moments, ladies," he said; "but you see this little girl, she—she must come first. However badly she has behaved, she—she is my only girl, you understand, and I—I must hear her story first. Will you meet us both within an hour at the Sign of the Red Doe? Then everything can be explained."

"I wonder if that dreadful girl is to go unpunished in the end," said Miss Worrick to Miss Sherrard, as they both slowly went to the nearest hotel to wait until the time arranged to meet Kitty and her father at the Sign of the Red Doe."

"It seems like it," said Miss Sherrard. "But what a splendid old man! Perhaps after all it may be the best thing for Kitty Malone not to punish her, Miss Worrick."

"Oh, Miss Sherrard! I cannot approve of your very lax opinions. Surely punishment for such terrible wrong-doing—"

"Yes, she behaved badly, but not so badly as Elma, I think we must wait to hear the whole story explained; at present we are more or less in the dark."

"And now, Kit, what is it?" said the squire, when he and his daughter were ensconced in the little sitting-room at the Sign of the Red Doe.

"Do you mind if I give you one of my real big hugs first?" said Kitty.

"To be sure not, alanna—oh, acushla macree! it is like flowers in May to see you again."

"There! I am better now," said Kitty, after she had bestowed one of her most violent hugs upon her father. "Let me sit on your knee and I will tell you everything."

At the best it was a sad story, a story full of wrong-doing, full of impulse, full of passion; and although Kitty tried hard to make Elma's part of it as light as possible, the squire's eyes blazed and a thundering note came into his voice as he listened.

"That's a bad girl, Kitty," he cried; "and you ought to have nothing to do with her."

"But that's exactly it, father—that's what I am coming to. If you won't let me have anything to do with Elma, why—why, you must punish me terribly. I want you to let me—to let me make Elma my real friend."

"That sort of girl your friend? Not if I know it," said the squire.

"But, please, father, do let me plead for her. I have done her injury, and she—she has never had advantages like the rest of us."

Then Kitty began to coax, and few, very few people could coax like this Irish girl. Not only with her voice, but with her eyes, with a smile here and a frown there, she set herself to bring old Squire Malone to her way of thinking. And as always from the time she was a tiny child she had been able to twist this old lion round her little finger, so she twisted him now.

"You have got to do it, father," she said at last. "You have got to forgive Laurie, and you have got to forgive Elma, and——"

"Bless the boy, it was just like his recklessness, Why didn't he come and tell me? He wasn't afraid of his old father, was he?"

"Well, father, you know you are very fierce when you like."

"Tut! tut! Kitty, don't you begin to scold."

"No; I won't—not if you yield to me. Full and free forgiveness for the whole three of us; for your Kit——"

THE END