Witch Winnie's Mystery, or The Old Oak Cabinet: The Story of a King's Daughter

by Elizabeth W. Champney · English · Gutenberg #36313 · 460,906 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Witch Winnie's Mystery, or The Old Oak Cabinet: The Story of a King's Daughter

Author: Elizabeth W. Champney

Illustrator: James Wells Champney
Charles Dana Gibson

Release date: June 4, 2011 [eBook #36313]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36313

Credits: Produced by eagkw, Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITCH WINNIE'S MYSTERY, OR THE OLD OAK CABINET: THE STORY OF A KING'S DAUGHTER ***

Produced by eagkw, Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

WITCH WINNIE'S MYSTERY

[Illustration]

WITCH WINNIE'S MYSTERY

THE OLD OAK CABINET

_THE STORY OF A KING'S DAUGHTER_

ELIZABETH W. CHAMPNEY

AUTHOR OF "WITCH WINNIE," "VASSAR GIRLS ABROAD," ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY C. D. GIBSON AND
J. WELLS CHAMPNEY.

NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

_All rights reserved._

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER PAGE

INTRODUCTION, 7

I. THE FIRST ESCAPADE OF THE SEASON, 15

II. THE CABINET, 25

III. THE ROBBERY, 41

IV. TROUBLE IN THE AMEN CORNER, 61

V. L. MUDGE, DETECTIVE, 76

VI. HALLOWEEN TRICKS, 96

VII. A STATE OF "DREADFULNESS," 111

VIII. IN THE MESHES OF A GOLDEN NET, 138

IX. "POLO," 161

X. THE CATACOMB PARTY 183

XI. A FALSE SCENT, 210

XII. THE INTER-SCHOLASTIC GAMES, 229

XIII. POLO IS SHADOWED, 265

XIV. THE CLOUDS PART, 304

XV. THE OLD CABINET TELLS ITS STORY, 330

XVI. THE MYSTERY DISCLOSED, 354

INTRODUCTION.

For those who have not read the first volume of this series, "Witch
Winnie, the Story of a King's Daughter."

We four girls,

Adelaide Armstrong,
Milly Roseveldt,
Emma Jane Anton,
Nellie Smith,

had been chums at boarding school.

(Let it here be explained that although my name is Nellie, I am never
called anything but Tib by my friends.)

We occupied a little suite of apartments in the tower, consisting of a
small study parlor from which opened two double bedrooms and one single
one. Our family was called the Amen Corner, because our initials,
arranged as an acrostic, spelled the word Amen, and because we were a
set of little Pharisees, prigs, and "digs," not particularly admired by
the rest of the school, but exceedingly virtuous and preternaturally
perfect in our own estimation.

This was our status at the beginning of our first school year
together, and the change that came over us, owing to the introduction
into our circle of Witch Winnie, the greatest scape-grace in the most
mischief-making set of the school, the "Queen of the Hornets," has
already been told. A quieting, earnest influence acted upon Winnie, and
a natural, merry-hearted love of fun reacted on us, and we were all the
better for the companionship.

The greatest practical result outside the change in our own characters
was the formation, by the uniting of the "Amen Corner" and the
"Hornets," of a Ten of King's Daughters, who founded the Home of the
Elder Brother, for little children. This institution was adopted by our
parents, who formed themselves into a board of managers, but left much
of the working of the enterprise in our hands.[1] The Home prospered
during the first year of its existence in a truly wonderful manner. It
was undenominational and unendowed. No rich church or wealthy man stood
behind it. It was entirely dependent on the efforts of a few young
girls, and on the voluntary subscriptions of benevolent people. But it
grew day by day. Little ripples of influence widened out from our circle
to others. During the vacation our ten separated, and at each of their
homes they formed other tens, who worked for the same object. Every one
who visited the Home was interested in its plan of work, which was to
help the poor without pauperizing them; to aid struggling women whose
husbands had died, or were in hospitals or prisons, and who could have
no homes of their own, by providing them with a substitute for the baby
farming, so extensively carried on in the tenement districts, by
offering them, on the same low terms, a sweet and wholesome shelter
for their little ones. Some wondered why we charged these poor women
anything; why the _half_ charity was not made a free gift. But wiser
philanthropists saw the superior kindness of this demand. The women whom
we wished to aid were not beggars, but that worthy, struggling class
who, overburdened, but still desperately striving, must sink in the
conflict unless helped, but who still wished to do all in their power
for their children, and brought the small sum asked for their board
with a proud and happy self-respect.

[1] This Home is a truthful picture of one really founded by a
band of little girls--the Messiah Home, at 4 Rutherford Place,
Stuyvesant Square, New York, which is aided in its good work by
different circles of King's Daughters.

One of our own members, Emma Jane Anton, on graduating at Madame's,
became matron of the Home, assisted by dear Miss Prillwitz, formerly our
teacher of botany, from whose heart this beautiful thought had
blossomed.

The Home was just across the park from the school building and we
frequently visited it; but though we were all deeply interested in this
sweet charity, it did not interfere with our studies or with a great
deal of girlish, innocent fun. Since Winnie had become my room-mate we
had lost much of the prestige which was formerly the boast of the Amen
Corner, and after Emma Jane left the little single room, Madame, feeling
that our influence had done much for Winnie, sent another of the
"Hornets" into our midst.

We had accepted and adopted Winnie with all our hearts, for her many
lovable qualities, and above all for her genuine good fellowship and
affectionate nature, but Cynthia Vaughn was a very different character.
There was nothing but enjoyable fun in any of Winnie's tricks; Cynthia's
were mean and malicious. We never liked her, and she openly showed her
scorn of Winnie and of me, while she fawned in a hypocritical manner,
striving to ingratiate herself with aristocratic Adelaide and with
gentle Milly, who was the wealthiest girl at Madame's.

We were no longer the best behaved set in school, and an acrostic formed
from our initials could not now be made to spell anything; but the name
"Amen Corner" clung to the little apartment, and Madame still looked
upon us with favor. She knew that Adelaide and Milly, Winnie and I, were
all, beneath our mischief, true-hearted, earnest girls, and she
charitably hoped for great improvement in Cynthia.

There was one person who did not believe in us--Miss Noakes, our
corridor teacher. She believed that Winnie was filled with all iniquity
and that Adelaide was far too attractive to be allowed the confidence
which Madame reposed in her. It was Miss Noakes's great grievance
that she could never discover the least approach to a flirtation in
Adelaide's conduct. I believe that she fairly gloated with anticipated
triumph when Madame engaged a handsome young artist to take charge of
our art department, and that from this time she watched and peeped and
listened with an industry which would have done credit to a better
cause. She seemed to argue that as no lover of the beautiful could fail
to appreciate Adelaide's beauty, therefore our artist must admire
Adelaide, and in this deduction she was not far from the truth, but she
ought not to have taken it for granted that Adelaide must be equally
pleased with her admirer. How her espionage tracked us through several
innocent tricks and capers, and was finally foiled by our beloved
Winnie; how the great mystery of the robbery for a time brought doubt
and suspicion between four dear friends who would, and did, go through
fire and water for one another; and how, in spite of doubt and jealousy
and trouble, our love and devotion for one another: burned brightly
and steadily on to the end of the school year, and into the life
beyond--this little book will tell.

That the events which I am about to relate may be better understood, I
subjoin a plan of the "Amen Corner."

[Illustration: PLAN OF THE =AMEN CORNER=]

WITCH WINNIE'S MYSTERY.

CHAPTER I.

THE FIRST ESCAPADE OF THE SEASON.

[Illustration]

"Girls!" Winnie exclaimed excitedly as we entered our study parlor after
recitation, "I am wild with curiosity to know what they are doing in the
hospital. All the morning, while I have been trying to study, there has
been the greatest thumping and bumping going on in there. I wonder
whether they are chaining down an insane patient, or if the ghostly
nurses are having a war dance."

"Why didn't you look and see?" Cynthia Vaughn asked, pointing to the
transom over a locked door, which formerly opened from our parlor into
the hospital ward.

Madame had made abundant provision for sickness in the original
arrangement of the school building. A large sky-lighted room had been
set apart as an infirmary, and a little suite of rooms in the great
tower adjoining as the physician's quarters. But it was rare indeed
that any one was ill at Madame's, and when a pupil was taken sick, her
parents usually took her home at once. So the doctor, having nothing to
do but to hear the recitations in physiology, preferred not to reside in
the school building, and the pretty suite of rooms, consisting of a
parlor and three bedrooms, was assigned to us, and the hospital proper
was used as a trunk room. Winnie always maintained that ghosts of
medical students experimented there in the night watches on imaginary
cases of vivisection, that corpses were embalmed, and shrieks and howls
were to be heard, in the wee small hours, while phantom lights fumed
blue on the other side of the transom, and sickly odors of ether and
other drugs penetrated through the keyhole. We all laughed at Winnie's
phantasms, but there were none of us so brave as to care to visit that
room after nightfall. The trunks looked too much like coffins, and there
were dresses of Madame's sewed up in bags made of sheets, and suspended
from the roof, which had the uncanny look of corpses of people who had
hanged themselves.

It was broad daylight now, and we were not at all nervous, and Cynthia
remarked scornfully, "Winnie has told us so many of her bug-a-boo
stories that she has come to actually believe in them herself. She dare
not for her life look through that transom to see what occasions the
noise in the hospital."

"You dare me to do it?" Winnie asked, confronting Cynthia with flashing
eyes.

"Don't, Winnie," I pled. "We have no right to peep."

Winnie hesitated.

"I told you so," Cynthia said provokingly. "She dares not look. It is
only a lumber room. The noise was probably made by some cat chasing a
rat around."

"It would take a whole army of cats to make the noises I have heard,"
Winnie replied hotly, at the same time rolling Adelaide's great
Saratoga trunk in front of the door.

"There it goes again!" and as a loud hammering re-echoed through the
adjoining room, she sprang upon the trunk. The transom was still too
high for her to reach. "Quick, girls, something else," she exclaimed,
and Milly dragged the "Commissary Department" from its retirement under
my bed.

The "commissary" was a small, old-fashioned trunk, which had belonged
to my great-grandmother. It was covered with cow-skin, the hair only
partially worn off, and studded with brass-headed nails which formed the
initials of my ancestors. It was lined with newspapers bearing the date
1790, and was altogether a very quaint and curious relic. Its chief
interest to us, however, lay in the fact that it had come to us from
my home filled with all the good things that a farm can produce and a
mistakenly soft-hearted mother send. There were mince pies and pickles,
a great wedge of cheese, a box of honey, pounds of maple-sugar, tiny
sausages, a great fruitcake, jars of pickled peaches, ginger snaps,
walnuts and chestnuts, pop-corn and molasses candy, and what Milly
called the _interstixes_ were filled in with delicious doughnuts. It was
a treasure house of richness upon which we revelled in the night after
the gas was turned out and we all met in our nightgowns, and formed a
semicircle sitting on the floor around the register, while Winnie told
the most deliciously frightful ghost and robber stories.

Then, it was that the "commissary" yielded up its contraband stores and
we ate, and shivered, partly with cold and partly with delightful terror
inspired by the rehearsal of legends for which Winnie ransacked, during
the day, the pages of the detective Vidocq and Poe's prose tales.

Then if a mouse did but squeak in the deserted hospital ward, or the
shuffle of Miss Noakes's slippers was heard in the corridor outside, we
all scuttled incontinently to our beds, and Winnie snored loudly, while
Milly buried her head beneath the blankets. Miss Noakes occupied a large
room opposite the hospital. She was a disagreeable, prowling teacher and
we had nicknamed her _Snooks_.

The "commissary" being now carefully poised upon the curved top of
Adelaide's trunk, Winnie mounted upon it, and found that it was exactly
what was needed, as it brought her face just on a level with the
transom.

"O girls!" she exclaimed, "the trunks are all gone, and they are making
the room over into a studio. And that handsome man that sat at Madame's
table yesterday at dinner is in there hanging pictures. I wonder if he
is an artist and is going to teach us. My! he is looking this way,"
and Winnie crouched suddenly. The movement was a careless one, and
the commissary slid down the sloping cover of the trunk upon which it
rested, striking the door with its end like a battering-ram, and with
such force that the rusted lock yielded, and the commissary, with Winnie
seated upon it, swept forward, like a toboggan, far into the center of
the hospital.

It was strange that Winnie was not hurt, but she was not; and before the
astonished artist could quite comprehend what had happened, she had
picked herself up, scampered back into our room, and we had closed the
door behind her, and were fastening it to the best of our ability by
tying the knob to Adelaide's trunk by means of a piece of clothes-line
which had formerly served to cord the commissary.

At first we laughed long and merrily over the adventure, but by degrees
its serious aspects were appreciated.

In the first place, Milly suggested dolorously that the commissary had
fallen into the hands of the enemy, while Cynthia Vaughn drew attention
to the fact of the broken lock.

"However you girls will explain that to Madame is more than I know," she
remarked maliciously.

"_You_ girls!" Winnie repeated indignantly, "as if you were not as much
concerned in it as any of us."

"Indeed," Cynthia exclaimed scornfully, "if I remember rightly, it was
Milly who brought the commissary from its retirement, Tib who balanced
it so judiciously, and Winnie who dawned so unceremoniously on that
strange man in the other room. I had absolutely nothing to do with the
affair."

"You were the instigator of it all," I retorted hotly. "If you had not
dared Winnie to do it she would never have tried to look in."

"That is like you, Tib," Cynthia replied icily, "to get into a scrape
and then lay the blame on some one else."

"I take all the blame," Winnie exclaimed loftily. "If inquisition is
ever made into this affair, I and I alone am responsible," and then she
uttered a little shriek and scampered into her own bedroom, for some
one was knocking at the door, which we had just attempted to fasten.

"Who is there?" I asked, with as much boldness as I could muster; "and
what do you want?"

"I am Carrington Waite, the new Professor of Art, and I would like to
return property which has been most unexpectedly introduced into my
studio, unless it is possible that the articles to which I refer were
intended as a donation."

We all laughed at this sally, and made haste to unfasten the door,
whereupon Professor Waite handed in the commissary. He had a pleasant
face, and there was a merry twinkle in his eye as he said: "I tried to
bundle everything in, but the trunk collided with my box of colors, and
you may find rose madder in your jam, while the pickle jar actually
seemed to explode, and showered pickles all over the studio. I have no
doubt I shall find them along the cornice when I hang the pictures on
that side of the room. The doughnuts, too, flew in every direction. Some
rolled under the cabinets, and a mince pie applied itself like a plaster
to the back of my neck. A bottle of tomato catsup was emptied on one of
my canvases, and made a fine impressionistic study of a sunset. I am
afraid I stepped on the cheese, but I believe everything else is all
right."

He looked about him with interest, and asked, "Where is the heroine who
performed this astonishing acrobatic feat? I trust she was not hurt. It
must have been a thrilling experience. Is it a customary form of
exercise with you young ladies?"

We did not deign to reply to these questions, but I opened the
commissary and offered the artist some of our choicest dainties. He
accepted our largess, and retired with polite invitations for us to be
"neighborly" and "to call again."

"Not in just that way," I replied, and I entreated him, if possible, to
repair the broken lock. He examined it carefully.

"I am afraid," he said, "that it will require a locksmith to do it
thoroughly, but I can make it look all right, and you can screw a little
bolt on your side which will fasten the door securely."

We thanked him and he was about to close the door, when Adelaide,
who was the only one of our circle who had not had a part in the
escapade, entered the room hastily from the corridor. "O girls," she
exclaimed--but stopped suddenly as she caught sight of the open door
and the young artist. At first her face showed only blank surprise,
then, as she told herself that this must be a joke of Winnie's, who
was fond of masquerading in costume, she remarked with dignity.

"Really, this is quite too childish; where did you ever get that absurd
costume? You look too ridiculous for anything----"

Cynthia Vaughn shrieked with laughter.

The artist bowed, but colored to the roots of his hair and closed the
door, while Milly threw her arms around Adelaide, laughing hysterically,
Winnie appeared from behind her door also laughing, and I vainly
attempted to explain matters.

"What a mortifying situation," Adelaide remarked, when she finally
understood the case. "I must apologize for my rudeness, and I am sure I
would rather put my hand in boiling water than speak to that man."

"I am sure I only wish that I may never see him again," said Winnie.
"Nothing in this world could induce me to join the painting class, and
if there is one thing that I am profoundly grateful for, it is that I
have no talent for art."

CHAPTER II.

THE CABINET.

[Illustration]

Winnie's queer toboggan ride was innocent enough in itself but it
brought in its train many unforeseen circumstances, chief among which
was the affair of the old oak cabinet.

This cabinet stood in our study parlor, in the corner diagonally
opposite the door leading into the new studio, and was used as a
depository of the funds of all the occupants of the Amen Corner.

The cabinet was always left locked and there was but one key to it,
which was kept in the match-box, well covered with matches. Only we
five knew its hiding place, or the fact that the cabinet was used as
a bank. We had agreed that it was best to keep this a secret among
ourselves--and it was so kept until the day after the robbery, weeks
after Winnie's escapade. We intended to follow Professor Waite's advice
and buy a bolt for the door, but what was everybody's business was
nobody's business, and whenever we went shopping there were so many
errands that we forgot it, or some other girl, or one of the teachers
was with us, and it would have been embarrassing to explain why the
bolt was needed.

The door, as has been explained, opened outward from our parlor into the
studio. Professor Waite had placed a heavy carved chest against it on
his side, so that there was no danger of its flying open, and we had
uncorded the knob and rolled Adelaide's trunk back to her bedroom. No
one occupied the studio at night, and, though I spent several hours
there during the day, I always entered the room by its corridor door,
and we never thought when we locked our own corridor door at night how
easily any one so minded could push aside the chest and enter our
apartment from the studio.

That the contents of the old oak cabinet on the night of the robbery may
be understood, an explanation of the finances of the different occupants
of the Amen Corner is possibly now in order.

Adelaide's father and mother had gone West for the winter. Mr. Armstrong
was an able financier, and he wished to make Adelaide a thorough
business woman. She was eighteen years old and she might be a great
heiress some day, if his wealth continued to accumulate, and he wished
to accustom her to the management of money.

He had given her the year before a model tenement house, built after the
most approved principles, on the site of Richetts' Court, previously
occupied by one of the worst tenement houses in the city. The new
building contained accommodations for ten families; the sanitation was
perfect; there were no dark rooms, but bath rooms, fire escapes, and
provision for every necessity. A good janitor, Stephen Trimble, occupied
the lower apartment and looked after the order and comfort of the
building, and every month Adelaide, attended by one of the teachers,
went down and personally collected her rents, and listened to the
complaints and requests of her tenants. There were few of either, and as
a general rule the pay was prompt, for the rent was low, and Adelaide
did all she could to oblige her tenants, having a small drying room
built for the laundress, Mrs. McCarthy, who had contracted rheumatic
fever from hanging out her wash on the roof and so exposing herself to
the icy winds, when over-heated from the steaming tubs. Adelaide had no
stringent rules against pets. She caused kennels to be built in the
court for several pet dogs, and added some blossoming plants to Mrs.
Blumenthal's small conservatory in the sunny south window. Noticing that
the Morettis were fond of art, and had pasted cigarette pictures on
their walls and driven nails to suspend some gaudy prints of the virgin
and saints, she had a narrow moulding with picture hooks placed just
under the ceiling in every sitting-room. She patronized all their small
industries as far as it was in her power, and interested her friends in
them; having her boots made by the little shoemaker on the top floor,
who was really a good workman, but had been turned away from a prominent
firm, as they had cut down their list of employees. Her underclothing
was made by the little seamstress on the third floor back. She gave each
of her tenants a Thanksgiving dinner and a substantial present on
Christmas Day, and only allowed those to be evicted whose flagrant
misbehaviour showed that nothing could be done for them.

From the income of this building her father had insisted that Adelaide
must pay all her expenses. As Madame's boarding school was a fashionable
one, the margin left, after the payment of tuition, to be divided
between dress and charity, was not very large.

Mr. Armstrong knew that Adelaide's weakness was a love for beautiful
clothing; that she delighted in sumptuous velvets, in the sheen of
satin, and the shimmer of gauze. Her regal beauty would not have been
over-powered by a queen's toilette, but she adorned the simplest
costume, and set the fashion in hats for the school season.

Mr. Armstrong also knew that Adelaide was very tender of heart, and that
if left entirely to herself she would gladly have opened the doors of
her tenement house freely to unscrupulous and undeserving people; that
she would have easily credited every woeful story, and have remitted
rents when it would have been no real kindness to do so. He therefore
pitted these two weaknesses against each other. "We will see what comes
of it at the close of the year," he said. "She may become a grinding,
close-fisted proprietress, screwing the last possible dollar out of the
poor to lavish it on her own personal adornment, but I hope better
things of Adelaide than that. It would be more like her, I think, to go
to the opposite extreme--dress like an Ursuline nun and take nothing
from her tenants; but let us hope that she may be able to strike the
golden mean."

It was a hard thing to do, and Adelaide went without a new winter cloak
until nearly Christmas time, waiting for the Morettis to pay up an
arrearage; and only consented to the turning out of a shiftless family
who occupied the best apartment, and were three months behind hand,
because the tuition for the first term at Madame's would be due in a
few days, and a respectable wood engraver offered to pay two months in
advance. It was hard, because she did not wish to spend all the money on
herself. She was as interested as any of us in the Home of the Elder
Brother, and longed to contribute more generously to it; but since these
poor people were her tenants, they were in some sense her own family,
and she felt that charity began at home. Often I know that Adelaide
denied herself as really, in not being more lenient, as her tenants did
to scrape together their monthly rental. She was a generous girl to her
friends, and before her father had made this arrangement she deluged
us all with her presents. Milly, who had unlimited credit at several
stores, kept up this pernicious custom of lavishly giving presents of
flowers and candies. It was hard for Winnie and me, who were in moderate
circumstances, not to return them, but doubly so for Adelaide--who
entreated her to desist, as we all did, but without avail. Milly was
incorrigible. "You don't seem to understand," Winnie said to her at
Christmas time, "that the receipt of a gift which one cannot return in
kind is a bitter pill to a sensitive nature."

"No," replied Milly, "I don't understand anything of the sort. Adelaide
always translates my Caesar for me. You help me with my algebra, and Tib
as good as writes my compositions. I couldn't return any of those favors
'_in kind_,' and they are pills that are not the least bit bitter to
me----"

"It's of no use, Adelaide," laughed Winnie, "we must let Milly have her
own way. It is such a pleasure to Milly to give that we will sacrifice
our own feelings and bear the infliction."

Mr. Armstrong had given Adelaide an old oak cabinet, beautifully carved
in the style of the Italian Renaissance of the fifteenth century, with
architectural columns, caryatides, scroll work, and arabesques. The
upper cupboard of this cabinet was used as a strong box to hold the
funds of our little circle. The interior was divided into pigeon holes
and shelves, and the door was provided with a curious key with a
delicate wrought-iron handle.

Adelaide had given each of us a compartment in this little safe, but
when its entire contents were counted there was rarely much money kept
here, for Adelaide had a bank account, and after collecting her rents
usually deposited them at the bank before returning to school, paying
all her debts by cheque. Milly, as before explained, had her running
accounts charged to her father,--a book at Arnold's, at the florist's,
the confectioner's, the dressmaker's, stationer's, etc.,--but her supply
of ready cash was never equal to demand, and though she could telephone
for a messenger and order a coupe at any time, she was always in debt to
the other girls, and I have frequently lent her postage stamps and paid
her car fare.

Mr. Roseveldt had a horror of entrusting funds to young girls with no
limitation of the way in which they were to be spent; he felt that in
looking over the shop-keeper's accounts he knew exactly how much Milly
expended, and for what the money went. But his plan was a mistaken one;
and the perfect freedom which Adelaide enjoyed was training her in a
sense of responsibility, while Milly was becoming unscrupulous as to
waste, where waste was encouraged, and frequently ordered a coupe when
the street car would have done just as well, or rang for a messenger to
save a postage stamp.

Winnie and I, the two poorer girls, were the ones who usually had money
in the safe. Winnie received a moderate allowance from her father
outside of her tuition, which he sent directly to Madame. As soon as
the cheque arrived, she cashed it and placed the new, crisp bills in
separate envelopes labelled, "Personal expenses," "Charity." She was
very generous, but she had a horror of debt, and she never expended the
funds in the latter envelope until she had received another remittance.
As Winnie abhorred sweets, and would rather any day have gone to the
dentist's than the dressmaker's, and as she had a supreme contempt for
display of any kind, the charity envelope was always full, and she had
usually a comfortable margin in personal expenditure to lend or bestow
on others. Winnie had always been generous, but this quality of
foresight had only come to her during the past year in her work as a
member of the finance committee of the Home of the Elder Brother.

My own case was different from that of the others. My father was a
Long Island farmer, and my allowance, though meagre as related to my
necessities, was liberal when compared with his own income. Miss
Sartoris, Madame's former drawing teacher, had boarded with us one
summer, during which I had sketched with her, and she had persuaded
father that I possessed a talent for art and had taken me back with
her to Madame's. So far I had easily led all the art students, and my
studies, although abounding in faults, presumptuous and immature, were
considered by the school as something quite remarkable. During the past
summer a young man of engaging address, and otherwise irreproachable
honesty, had stolen our beloved teacher, and Miss Sartoris, now Mrs.
Stillman, was known to Madame's no more. When the school reorganized
in the fall, Madame engaged me to take charge of the art department,
temporarily, until she could provide herself with a more competent
instructor. We had a small, crowded studio, with a poor light, but the
class was large. I did the best I could, but we sorely needed ampler
accommodations, and a head whose ability in his profession should be
unquestioned. Both were now provided. Carrington Waite was a young
artist fresh from the _Ecole des Beaux Arts_ at Paris, and he brought to
us the training traditions of the schools, and the latest European ideas
in art.

There were very few girls in the school sufficiently advanced to
understand his instruction, but they flocked into the studio and
listened with undisguised admiration to words that might as well have
been uttered in an unknown tongue. Poor little Milly gazed at him in a
rapt, adoring way, without ever comprehending what he said. The tears
came to her eyes and rolled swiftly down her cheeks when he told her
that it was manifestly absurd to draw a full face seen from the front
with its nose in profile, but she smiled a brave little quiver of a
smile while he reviled her work, and thanked him as though he had
uttered the most fulsome compliments.

Even Winnie had felt the wave of influence and joined the class in spite
of her assertion that she had no taste for art and never wished to see
Professor Waite again. Only Adelaide held firmly out and would none of
him. Winnie was not at all afraid of the Professor, and seemed to devote
herself especially to making his life miserable. When he informed her
that she must join the "preparatory antique" section and draw in
charcoal, she calmly explained that she "perfectly loathed" casts, and
she had purchased an outfit of oil paints and intended to devote herself
at once to color. Strange to say, Professor Waite humored her and gave
her some of his landscape studies to copy. She was never contented with
reproducing these faithfully, but always "improved" upon them, as she
audaciously expressed it.

It was a common thing for Professor Waite to remark, when he sat down
before Winnie's easel, "Well, this is about the worst atrocity you have
yet committed."

Winnie, standing behind him, would make eyes at the rest of the girls,
and remark penitently, "I am very sorry."

"You look sorry," Professor Waite replied, on one occasion.

"I don't see how you can tell how I look," Winnie answered, "when you
are sitting with your back to me."

I do not know whether Milly's denseness or Winnie's impudence was the
more irritating to Professor Waite. Winnie resented his severity to
Milly and was always more provoking whenever he had grieved her pet and
left her sobbing in a mire of charcoal and tears.

"You give me more trouble than a three-week's-old baby," Professor Waite
had remarked to poor Milly, and Winnie had retorted spitefully, "I wish
you had to take care of one--I guess you would find a difference."

Winnie's sauciness and Milly's dulness, combined with that of many of
his other pupils, drove the Professor to despair after a week's trial.
He told Madame, as I learned later, that he must give up the position,
as her pupils were all "too hopelessly elementary."

Madame was disappointed. Her art department had always been an
attractive feature, and since the name of Professor Carrington Waite,
late of the _Academie des Beaux Arts_, had appeared in her circulars,
many had joined the school purely for the sake of the studio
instruction. Madame explained this to the young artist.

He ran his fingers through his hair in despair. "Of what manner of use
is it for me to remain?" he asked. "There is only one pupil sufficiently
advanced to gain anything from my instruction, and that is Miss Smith.
The others made as much advance, perhaps more, under her teaching as
they have under mine."

A happy thought came to Madame. "If I engage Miss Smith as your
assistant, Professor Waite, perhaps she can translate your ideas into
terms which will be intelligible by the students of lower intelligence
or advancement, and possibly she can so enlighten some of them that they
can profit later by your personal teaching."

This plan struck Professor Waite as practicable. He now only visited the
studio for an hour each morning, during which time he criticised the
work which had been done under my supervision during the previous day.
The new arrangement was an excellent one for me, for I profited by all
his remarks, listening to them with the keenest attention, and thus
received thirty lessons during the hour instead of one. As I had
but three other studies, and these were in the senior class, it was
possible for me to give the necessary time by preparing all of my
lessons in the evening. It was unremitting, incessant work, but my
health was excellent, and art was my supreme delight. Moreover, Madame
had offered me a salary of three hundred dollars beyond my school
expenses, and it was perfect joy to be able to relieve father of this
burden. I had a high ambition to go abroad some day and study art in
Paris, and I wished to save as much as possible of my salary toward this
purpose. I had the lower compartment in the safe, and here I laid away
every dollar that I could spare, limiting myself in everything but my
subscription to the Home of the Elder Brother; but for this outlet I
would have grown niggardly and avaricious. The same charity which made
Winnie prudently retrench her propensity to lavish expenditure, and take
thought carefully for the morrow, kept me from utter selfishness and
penuriousness by keeping one channel of generous giving open and pulsing
freely toward others.

Cynthia Vaughn's affairs were kept closely to herself. We sometimes
fancied that she pretended to greater wealth and consequence than she
really possessed. Certainly, if the sums of which she frequently spoke
of receiving were at her disposal she was a veritable miser; for her
subscription to the Home was the smallest of any girl in the King's
Daughters' Ten; the presents which she ostentatiously bestowed upon
Adelaide and Milly were cheap though showy, as was her own clothing.

The treasures which she committed to the cabinet safe were carefully
locked in a small japanned tin box, the key of which she kept in her
pocket-book, and she was the only one of us whose belongings within the
safe were so protected. We had perfect confidence in one another, and
our funds lay open to the observation or handling of any one possessing
the pass key in the match box. It is needless to say that up to the
night of the robbery our security had been inviolate.

CHAPTER III.

THE ROBBERY.

[Illustration]

Adelaide led the school in more respects than in the style of hats, and
in the Amen Corner she reigned as absolute queen.

It may seem strange that this was so, for Winnie was the genius of our
coterie. She was perhaps too active and restless. She seemed born to be
a leader, but the leader of a revolt, while Adelaide had the calm
assurance of a princess who had no need to assert her rights, but to
whom allegiance came as a matter of course. Even Winnie was her loyal
subject and delighted in being her prime minister.

I have spoken of Winnie's fondness for reading and telling detective
stories. It really seemed as if in so doing she was preparing us for the
events which followed, and the time when every one of us felt that she
was a special detective charged with the mission of finding a clue to a
great and sorrowful mystery.

It all came about through the robbery.

On the eve of my birthday it so happened that there was an unusual
amount of money in the little safe. Adelaide had returned from
collecting her rents too late to deposit her funds in the bank. She
looked very much relieved as she slipped a roll of bills, amounting to
nearly one hundred dollars, into her pigeon-hole, and turning the key,
deposited it in the match safe.

Winnie had that morning cashed a check just received from her father,
and had brought back from the bank some crisp, new notes, with which she
filled her envelopes for the coming month. Cynthia had ostentatiously
and yet mysteriously dropped some silver dollars into her cash box, and
even Milly had laid aside an unwonted sum, for her father had called at
the school and contrary to his usual custom had given her five bright
ten-dollar gold pieces. Milly seemed very happy as she slipped them into
her snakeskin and tucked it into her own particular corner of the safe.

"Unlimited pocket money this month, eh! Milly?" I asked.

Milly laughed and shook her head.

"Don't know that I am obliged to account to you for everything," she
said, saucily, but the sting was taken out of the speech by the kiss
with which it was immediately followed, and I more than half suspected
that Milly intended one of those gold pieces as a birthday present for
me.

Late in the evening I counted over my own hoard. We were all in the
study parlor, with the exception of Winnie, and as I counted I looked up
and saw that Adelaide and Milly were regarding me with interest, though
their glances instantly fell to the books which they had apparently been
studying.

"How much have you, Tib?" Adelaide asked; "enough yet to buy the steamer
ticket for the ocean passage?"

"No," I replied, "only forty-seven dollars as yet, but I hope to make it
before the close of school."

"Of course you will," Milly replied reassuringly.

Cynthia laughed raspingly. "You have almost enough now, if you go in the
steerage," she sneered.

Adelaide suddenly threw a bit of drawn linen work belonging to Cynthia
over the money, which I had spread out in the chair before me.

"What are you doing with my embroidery?" Cynthia snapped. "Did you
mistake it for a dust rag?"

"Natural mistake," Milly giggled.

Adelaide lifted her finger warningly. "Hush!" she said, "I saw a face at
the transom; some one was looking in from the studio."

Milly turned pale and clutched my hand, and we all looked at the transom
with straining eyes. It was almost dark in the studio and for a few
moments we saw nothing but some one was moving about, for we heard
cautious steps, and a creaking sound just the other side of the door.
Presently a hat cautiously lifted itself into view through the transom.
It was a broad-brimmed, soft felt hat of the Rembrandt style, which
Professor Waite sometimes wore. It moved about silently from one side of
the transom to the other, descended, and appeared again.

"I never thought that Professor Waite would peep or listen," Cynthia
whispered.

"He would not," I replied aloud. "He must be at work there hanging
pictures or doing something else of the sort."

"Then he would make more noise," Cynthia suggested, as the hat continued
its stealthy movements.

"It may be some one else who has put on the Professor's hat as a
disguise," Milly gasped.

"That was the reason I covered up the money," Adelaide replied, in a low
voice. "You had better put it away, Tib."

I hastily bundled my money into the safe and locked the door, and we sat
for some moments quietly watching the transom, but the spectre did not
come again. Winnie entered a few moments later and seemed greatly
interested by our accounts of the incident.

"Do you suppose that it could have been one of that band of Italian
bravos who has climbed up on the fire-escape and who intends to murder
us?" she asked with an assumption of terror.

"Hush," I whispered, pulling her dress, and pointing to Milly whose eyes
were staring with fright.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Winnie; "can't you tell when I'm joking? It was
Professor Waite. Of course it was Professor Waite. He has been in love
with Adelaide ever since she complimented him on his appearance at their
first meeting. He is dying for a glimpse at her fair face, and as she
won't join his painting class he relieves his yearning heart by gazing
over the transom."

There was more joking, and Milly's fears were as quickly quieted as they
had been raised. Professor Waite had undoubtedly been at work in the
studio, I insisted, and I knocked on the door and called his name.

No answer, and I tried to open the door, but the chest held it firmly in
place. "Shall I look over the transom?" I asked.

"For pity's sake do not repeat Winnie's experience," Adelaide begged.

"Then I will look in by the corridor door," I said resolutely, and I
stepped down the hall and into the studio. The door was open, so was
Miss Noakes's door just opposite, and that watchful lady sat rocking and
reading beside her little centre table. She was not too much absorbed,
however, to give me a keen questioning glance--but she said nothing,
for as assistant teacher in art I had a perfect right to frequent the
studio.

The moon was shining in clearly through the great window, and every
object was distinctly visible, but there was no one in the room. I
opened the door leading to the turret staircase and listened; all was
silent, and I screwed up my courage and descended, finding the door at
the foot safely locked. The great Rembrandt hat lay on the chest in
front of our door, and the Professor's mahl-stick, or long support on
which he rested his arm when painting, leaned beside it. I could not see
any change in the disposition of the pictures on the wall, or other
indications of what the Professor had been doing, if indeed it was the
Professor, and I did not know of his ever before visiting the studio at
that hour. As I came out I noticed that Miss Noakes was still rocking
before her open door, her slits of eyes glancing sharply up.

"Have you seen any one go into the studio lately?" I asked.

"No one has passed through the corridor since the beginning of study
hour, with the exception of Miss Winifred De Witt."

"Then this door must have been open all the time, and you have seen no
one in the studio?"

"I have observed no one. Why do you ask?"

"We thought we saw the shadow of a man on the transom."

"Nonsense--it is silly to be frightened at nothing. It was probably
Professor Waite. If you young ladies would interest yourselves less in
the movements of that young man it would be much more becoming in you."

I turned away quickly, not relishing her tone, and looked at the
corridor window, which opened on the balcony of the fire escape. It was
securely fastened. I was puzzled, but did not wish to alarm Milly, and I
now reported only what seemed to me the favorable aspects of the case.

No one there, all quiet and in order; lower turret door opening on the
street, and the corridor window opening on the balcony, both locked,
showing that no one could have come up the stairs or the fire escape.
Miss Noakes, on guard, had seen no one enter the studio.

Of course it must have been Professor Waite.

"Of course," Winnie echoed. "Tib knows him too well to be mistaken even
when she only sees him through a glass darkly. But think what that
devotion must be, which leads a man to keep guard before his lady's door
at night," and Winnie shouldered an umbrella and paced back and forward,
singing in a deep bass voice, "Thy Sentinel am I."

Winnie was irresistible and we all laughed merrily at her pranks. But
for all that I locked the cabinet with unusual care that night and
Adelaide tried the door afterward to see that it was securely fastened.
While doing so, she noticed something which we had not hitherto
discovered--a little steel ornament like a nail head at the foot of one
of the columns. Touching this, a small shelf shot forward. It had
evidently been intended for a writing table, for it was ink-stained.
Adelaide pushed it easily back into its place and its edge formed one of
the three moldings which formed the base of the upper division of the
cabinet.

"That is a very convenient little arrangement," Adelaide said. "I wonder
that I have never noticed it before."

I soon fell asleep, and slept long and dreamlessly. I awoke at last with
an uneasy feeling of cold. It was quite dark, and putting out my hand I
found that Winnie's place at my side was vacant. I started up alarmed,
and called her name. There was a little pause, during which I stumbled
out of bed and groped vainly for a candle, which usually stood on a
stand at the head of the bed. Not finding it, I noticed a beam of light
streaming from beneath the closed door leading into the study-parlor,
and I remembered vividly that when I went to bed I had left that door
open, as I always did, for more perfect ventilation. I stood hesitating,
vaguely alarmed, when the door was opened from the parlor side and
Winnie stood before me holding a lighted candle--her face white as that
of a spirit.

"How you frightened me!" I exclaimed. "What is the matter?"

"Nothing, I merely went out to see whether the door into the corridor
was locked. I was lying awake, and I could not remember seeing any one
lock it."

She spoke mechanically, and her voice sounded strange and hollow.

"Why, you did it yourself!" I exclaimed.

"Did I? Strange I should forget."

"You found everything all right, didn't you?"

"The door was not only locked but bolted," Winnie replied; but her
manner was constrained, and her hand, which I happened to touch, was
cold as ice.

"Come right to bed," I exclaimed, "you have taken cold."

Winnie did not reply, but her teeth were chattering. She curled up in
bed and buried her face in her pillow. I was sleepy and soon dozed
off, but I was vaguely conscious in my slumbers that I had an uneasy
bedfellow; that Winnie tossed and tumbled and even groaned. When I awoke
she was sitting, dressed, on the window sill. It may have been the early
light but her face looked gray, and there was a drawn, set expression
about the mouth which I had never seen there before.

"What is the matter?" I asked again.

She replied, in that cold, unnatural voice, "Nothing."

Just then there was a hard knocking at my door. Milly shouted joyfully,
"Many happy returns of the day," and swooping down upon me buried
me with kisses. Adelaide followed, and in a more dignified manner
congratulated me on my birthday. "No flowers, Tib," Milly explained,
"because you set your face against that sort of thing, and I was
determined to let you have your own way on your birthday. Winnie, what
makes you sit over there like a sphinx, with your nose touched with
sunrise? Come here and help us give Tib her seventeen slaps and one to
grow on."

"Tib will find my present on the stand at the head of the bed," Winnie
replied, and turning, I discovered an envelope labelled, "For the
European tour." It contained a crisp new bill of twenty dollars.

Adelaide and Milly looked at each other significantly, and Milly
exclaimed:

"You dear, generous thing! Why didn't you tell us that you meant to do
anything so lovely? Adelaide and I would have helped."

Winnie did not reply to Milly, but answered my thanks with a close hug.

"Come," said Milly, "and put your money in the safe, and see how much
you have now toward the fund."

"Oh! That's easy to calculate," I replied, as I slipped on my clothing,
"twenty and forty-seven--sixty-seven dollars exactly."

Adelaide coughed significantly. "Tib seems to be very confident that two
and two makes four," she remarked. A suspicion that both Adelaide and
Milly intended to help me suggested itself to my mind, and I hastened my
dressing and unlocked the safe. As I did so Cynthia opened her door.
"Oh! it's you," she exclaimed; "whenever I hear any one at the safe I
always look to see who it is."

She did not retreat into her room, but stood in the door watching us
with a singular expression on her disagreeable face. Adelaide and Milly
were looking over my shoulder. Milly apparently vainly endeavoring to
conceal a little flutter of excitement. We were all there but Winnie,
who had not left her seat at the window, when I threw open the door of
the safe and disclosed--nothing!

The space on the floor where I usually kept my money, where the night
before I had placed a long blue envelope containing forty-seven
dollars--was empty. The envelope and its contents gone.

Milly uttered a little shriek. Adelaide stepped forward and examined the
space, passing her hand far in, and feeling carefully in every corner.
Then she took out her own roll of bills from her little pigeon-hole. I
counted them with her, just fifty-dollars less than the sum which I saw
her place there. She handed me a five dollar bill, saying, "Tib, my
dear, my only disappointment is that I cannot give you as large a
birthday present as I had planned."

Milly threw her arms around me, "And I can't give you anything, you
darling old Tib. I am so sorry."

"How do you know you can't?" Cynthia asked. "You haven't looked to see
whether you have lost anything."

Milly flushed. "If Tib has lost her money, of course I have mine."

"Why, of course? The thief has obligingly left Adelaide a part of her
money; perhaps yours is all there."

Milly opened her purse. It was quite empty. She closed it with a snap.

"I don't see how you knew it," Cynthia remarked unpleasantly. "Now I am
really too curious to see whether I have been as unfortunate as the rest
of you." In spite of this profession of eagerness she had seemed to me
remarkably indifferent, and she unlocked her strong box with great
deliberation, manifesting no surprise or pleasure as she reported "three
dollars and fifty-three cents, precisely what I left there. This shows
the wisdom of my double-lock; the thief evidently had no key which would
fit my strong-box."

"Winnie," I called, "we have had a burglary; come right here and see
whether you have lost anything."

Winnie entered the room slowly, almost unwillingly, quite in contrast
with her usual impulsive action, and opened her envelopes before us. "No
one has touched my money," she said; "here is exactly what I placed in
the envelopes last night."

"Did you go to the safe in the night to get that twenty dollar bill
which you gave me this morning?" I asked.

Cynthia Vaughn turned and looked at Winnie eagerly.

"I kept it out last night," Winnie replied, "when I put the rest away.
You will remember that I sealed the envelopes then, and I find them now
unopened."

An expression of malice and triumph, such as I have never seen on the
face of any human being, rested on Cynthia's countenance.

"There is something very mysterious about this," she remarked, in an
eager way. "The thief has entirely spared Winnie and me, and has been
obliging enough to take only half of Adelaide's money. Tib and Milly
lose all of theirs, but Tib's was money for which she had no immediate
use. So that she will not feel its loss as much as Winnie or I would
have done, and Milly has no real need of money at all--I wonder whether
the thief was acquainted with our circumstances; if so he or she was
very considerate."

"I don't know what you mean about Tib's not feeling the loss," Winnie
began indignantly, her glance resting not on Cynthia but on Milly. "It
will be a cruel disappointment to her if she cannot go to Europe to
study, after all."

"Oh! that's not to be thought of," Milly replied, feeling herself
addressed. "Of course Tib will go. Something will turn up. The money
will be discovered. Perhaps the thief will return it."

A light flamed up in Winnie's face. It was the first pleasant look that
I had seen there this morning. "It must be so," she exclaimed eagerly,
but very gravely; "let us hope that the person who took that money was
actuated by dire necessity; that it was simply borrowed, and that it
will be returned."

"Nonsense," exclaimed Cynthia impatiently. "I have no such excuses to
make for a thief, and I am going right now to report the entire affair
to Madame, who will of course put it in the hands of the police----"

"The police!" Winnie cried, in a tone of dismay. "Oh! no, no!"

"Wait," said Adelaide commandingly; "that is not the way we do things in
the Amen Corner. This is something in which we are all interested, and
the majority shall rule. Now Winnie, will you please tell us why the
police should not take this matter in charge? My explanation is that
some thief entered this room last night through the studio door.
Probably it was the very individual who was watching us last night
through the transom."

"Oh! Not Professor Waite," Milly exclaimed, and Winnie started as though
about to speak, but restrained the impulse.

"No, not Professor Waite, certainly," Adelaide continued, "but some one
disguised in his hat. This thief waited until we were all asleep, and
then began to help himself to the contents of our safe, but was probably
interrupted or frightened by some sound, after securing Milly's and
Tib's money, and hurried away without taking as much as he wished. That
is the simplest, most likely solution, and it seems to me that the
police are the proper authorities to take the affair in hand."

She paused for several moments. We all chattered together as fast and as
loudly as we could. Then Adelaide rapped on the table with a nutcracker
and said:

"I shall now put the question. Those in favor of reporting this matter
at once to Madame, please say 'Ay;' those opposed, the contrary
sign--but first, any remarks?"

Winnie hesitated. "I do not agree with you that it is a matter in which
we are all equally interested," she said slowly. "Tib is the principal
loser. Tib should decide what she wishes to do. Adelaide's theory looks
plausible, but it may be wrong. Some member of this school may have
entered through that door, and taken the money. Whatever is handed over
to the police, goes into the papers. We do not want to bring on the
school scandal and disgrace, which would follow the publishing of the
fact that one of its pupils is a thief."

"Winnie seems to be very certain that the thief is a pupil," Cynthia
remarked sneeringly. "If so, we can trust that Madame will ferret her
out without outside assistance."

"My chief reason, however," continued Winnie, "for waiting a day or two
before reporting this thing, is the hope that conscience will lead the
unhappy person who has committed the crime to make restitution. Tib, you
certainly look at the matter as I do. You are not vindictive; give the
wrong-doer a chance."

"Certainly," I said.

"The question," called Cynthia. "Adelaide, put the question."

"Those in favor of reporting at once to Madame?" said Adelaide.

"Aye," from Cynthia, loud enough for two.

"Aye," more faintly, from Milly.

"Those opposed?"

"No," from Winnie and from me.

"A tie," announced Adelaide. "Then the chair gives the casting vote. I
am in favor of reporting to Madame, and I think we had better make the
report in a body. There is just time to see her before breakfast."

"I do not see the necessity of our going _en masse_," Winnie objected.
"Tib, of course, as the individual who has suffered most, and who
discovered the loss; Cynthia, who seems to enjoy telling unpleasant
things; and Adelaide, who is strictly just, and the oldest and most
dignified member of the Amen Corner. But I do not see why you should
drag Milly along; the child has had enough excitement already. Let her
lie down and rest her little head until the breakfast bell rings. As for
me, I'm not going until I'm sent for. Not even a burglary shall make me
miss my morning constitutional," and Winnie quickly equipped herself for
a walk in the grounds.

"Milly shall do as she pleases," Adelaide said; "there is really no
necessity, as you say, for her to go with us."

"I think I would rather go," Milly said hesitatingly.

An expression of keen disappointment swept across Winnie's face.

"Come, Winnie," I said, "you had better be with us; it looks better."

"What do you mean?" she asked hotly.

"Only that the Amen Corner always yields to the wish of the majority,
and we are in the habit of standing by one another, even when we do not
quite agree."

"Winnie need not trouble herself," Cynthia remarked; "we can get on very
well without her. Of course she knows no more about the affair than the
rest of us."

The words were innocent enough, but there was something very sarcastic
in the way in which they were uttered.

"Evidently you would rather I would not go," Winnie said, as though
thinking aloud. "I am sorry to be disobliging, but if that is the case I
believe I will."

CHAPTER IV.

TROUBLE IN THE AMEN CORNER.

Doubt,
A soul-mist through whose rifts familiar stars
Beholding, we misname.
--_Jean Ingelow_

[Illustration]

Milly had been unhappy for days.

And now a great trouble fell upon all of us. It was as though a dense
fog of doubt and suspicion had drifted in upon the Amen Corner,
separating dear friends, so that we could not recognize each other's
faces through its dense folds, and our voices sounded false and far away
as we called and groped for one another.

Our interview with Madame was very brief. I simply stated the fact of
the disappearance of the money, which the other girls corroborated.

Cynthia began to enlarge on the statement, but Madame stopped her.

"I have not time now to investigate this unhappy affair," she said.
"Indeed, it is something which will probably require the assistance of a
detective. Do not look so alarmed," she added to Milly; "I happen to be
acquainted with a gentleman--in fact, he is my lawyer--who has all the
qualifications of a very clever detective. I will write, asking him to
call, and to take charge of the case. He will keep it all very quiet. I
am glad that you have come to me first of all, and I particularly
request that you mention the fact of the robbery to no one."

With this she dismissed us, and we went to breakfast a little late,
feeling very important in the possession of a mystery. Winnie was the
only one whom this mystery did not seem to elate. Cynthia, who sat
beside me at table, was overflowing with glee.

"It is better than the most exciting story which Winnie ever told us,"
she whispered to me. "Won't it be fun to follow the unravelling of the
crime. Of course the detective will be led off by false clues, and all
that sort of thing, and the real thief will suffer all the torture of
alternate fear of detection and hope of escape; but the toils will
close gradually about the doomed individual. I shall not disclose my
suspicions till toward the last. Oh! what fun it will be to watch the
development of the drama. I should think, Tib, that you would write it
up."

"Your suspicions?" I repeated. "Do you really suspect any one?"

"Why, yes; don't you?"

"No indeed!"

"Then all I've got to say is that you are a lamb. You think every one as
innocent as yourself. Because you have the innocence of a lamb, you have
a corresponding muttony intelligence."

I was very indignant, but I did not show it. "Whom do you suspect?" I
asked.

"That's telling," she replied, "and I said that I would not tell at this
stage of the game."

Later in the day, as I left the studio to return to our study-parlor, I
met Winnie coming out. She had on her hat and cloak and carried my own.
"Come and walk with me," she said, "I feel all mugged up, and I need
a good tramp. Milly is in there trying to take a nap. Adelaide and
Cynthia are at recitation, and if you will come with me the poor child
can get a little rest."

As we marched around the school building together, I told her of my
conversation with Cynthia. Winnie started.

"I don't believe she really knows anything more than we do," I said.
"Cynthia loves to be important and aggravating. If she really knew
anything she couldn't keep it in."

"Find out whom she suspects," Winnie replied. "Cynthia is a real snake
in the grass, and can do a lot of mischief by fastening the crime on an
innocent person. I do not mean that she would do this wilfully, unless
she had a strong motive for revenge, but she is unscrupulous as to the
results of her actions, and loves to imagine evil and set forth facts in
their most damaging light. Find out, by all means, whether she really
knows anything likely to implicate any one."

"Cynthia is a hard orange to squeeze," I replied. "If she thinks I want
to know, she will delight in tantalizing me."

Winnie was silent for a moment. "Find out whether Cynthia slept soundly
all night, or whether she heard or saw any one in the parlor. She might
have heard me, you know, when I went out to look at the door."

"Sure enough," I replied. "If that is all I will get it out of her right
away."

We returned to our rooms. There was no one in the parlor. Winnie looked
into the bedrooms. Only Milly sleeping peacefully, and Winnie stepped to
the match box, took the key, and opened the safe. I do not know what she
expected to find, but she looked disappointed.

"Did you think the thief would help himself again in broad daylight?" I
asked.

"No," Winnie replied shortly.

At that instant Cynthia entered, flushed, and as it seemed to me
triumphant. "Mr. Mudge wants to see you, Winnie, in Madame's private
library," she announced importantly.

"Who is Mr. Mudge?" Winnie asked.

"He is Madame's lawyer. The keenest, shrewdest man you ever saw, with
little gimletty eyes that bore the truth right out of you; and such a
cross-questioner! If you have a secret, he knows it the minute he looks
at you, and makes you tell it, in spite of yourself, the first time that
you open your mouth. You need not try to keep your suspicions to
yourself, they will be out before you can say Jack Robinson."

Winnie gave a little sigh. "And you say he wants to see me?" she asked,
rising with a palpable effort.

"Yes, he wants to question us each separately, to see if our testimony
agrees, I suppose. He asked Madame, as I went in, if she had kept us
apart since the robbery to guard against any--collision--I think that
was the word!"

"Collusion," I corrected.

"No matter; he meant that we might have hatched up a story between us,
but Madame assured him that we were all honorable girls and incapable of
such a thing."

"Of course," he replied, "unless they happen to know or suspect the
culprit, and wish to shield her. In such cases, I have known the most
religious young persons to lie like a jockey."

Winnie left the room, throwing me a look of piteous appeal as she did
so, which I understood to beg me to find out all I could from Cynthia. I
rocked silently for a few moments, to disclaim all eagerness, and then
said casually: "I don't believe you would ever lie to save a friend."
This in a propitiating tone, adding to myself, "you would be much more
likely to tell a lie to get one into trouble."

Cynthia could not hear the thought, and she stretched herself
luxuriously on the divan.

"No," she replied, "I don't make any pretense of being good; but I
wouldn't do that. Whenever the Hornets got into scrapes, I always told.
Madame could depend on me for that. It is sneaky not to be willing to
take the consequences. Besides, you get off a great deal easier if you
own up; and others will be sure to throw the blame on you if you are not
smart enough to get ahead of them."

How I despised her. "I wonder if she thinks she is in danger of being
called in question for this crime," I thought, "and has made haste to
accuse some one else."

"You said you meant to keep your testimony until the end, so I suppose
you did not tell Mr. Mudge your suspicions," I remarked.

"Didn't I just say that I did tell him?"

"Well, as they are only suspicions I presume he paid no attention to
them. Lawyers generally tell witnesses to confine their testimony to
facts."

"But I had facts, suspicious facts; not ideas of my own, but important
circumstantial evidence."

"_In_deed!" I purposely threw as much incredulity as I could into the
way in which I uttered the word.

Cynthia sprang from the lounge, her eyes flashing with anger. "Yes,
_indeed_; very awkward facts for your precious friend Winnie to explain
away."

"Winnie!" I exclaimed, and then laughed outright.

Cynthia was furious. "What do you say to this Tib Smith? I saw Winnie,
with my own eyes, come into this room in her nightgown, with a lighted
candle in her hand, carefully close all the doors, and----"

"Pooh! that's nothing," I replied cheerfully. "I was awake; I saw her,
too. She merely crossed the room to see whether the corridor-door was
locked."

"Yes, and after that?"

"Came back to bed again."

"There you are telling a fib to save your friend. She did not go back
immediately. I was awakened by her softly closing my door, I got up and
peeked through the keyhole, and I saw her open the safe and rummage
around in it for quite a while, undoubtedly possessing herself of the
money. Then she locked it and hurried back to her room looking as
frightened as the criminal she was."

"It is not so! It is a wicked, cruel falsehood!" Milly cried, springing
into the room. I had forgotten her presence in the bedroom and Cynthia
of course did not know of it.

Cynthia was taken aback for a moment. "I will tell you why I know it was
so," she said at length. "After Winnie went back to the room, and before
any one else could have entered the parlor, I examined the safe and the
money was gone."

"That proves nothing," I said; "it was probably taken before Winnie
opened the safe."

"Then she knew of the robbery in the morning before the rest of you, and
never told."

"You knew and never told either," said Milly.

"I was waiting for the proper time," replied Cynthia. "If Winnie did not
take that money then she suspects who did. If she does not tell Mr.
Mudge her suspicions, she is trying to shield the guilty person, and
the--the shielder is as bad as the thief."

"There is no proverb that says so," I replied; "beside, you have proved
nothing. If all that you say is true--and I don't mind telling you,
Cynthia Vaughn, that I am not entirely sure of that--if what you say
_is_ true, you are as deep in the mud as Winnie is in the mire."

"You think Winnie a saint!" Cynthia sneered. "You don't half know her.
Before she came to room in the Amen Corner, and we were both in the
Hornets Nest up under the eaves, she was the Queen Hornet of all. There
was nothing which she would not dare to do, from letting down bouquets
in her scrap-basket to the cadet band when they serenaded us, to bribing
the janitor to let her slip out at night and buy goodies at the corner
grocery for our spreads. She was a regular case, and her pet name all
over the school was:

'The malicious, seditious, insubordinate,
Disreputable, sceptical Queen of the Hornets.'"

"We know all that," I replied, "but there are some things which Winnie
_could_ not do. She could not tell a lie, and she could not steal."

"I don't know about that," Cynthia continued coldly. "She comes from an
uncertain sort of Bohemian ancestry. You know her mother was an actress
and her father a playwright."

Cynthia told this with great triumph, evidently thinking that we had
never heard it.

"Madame told us," I replied, "that Mrs. De Witt was a very lovely
woman, who only acted in her husband's plays; that she made it her life
purpose to realize and explain her husband's ideals: and that he wrote
the part of the heroine especially to suit her, so that their creations
were among the most charming that have ever been presented on the
stage. They were devoted to one another, and when she died his heart
was broken. He does not write plays any more, but articles for
encyclopaedias, which is an extremely respectable profession."

"And you dared prejudice this Mr. Mudge against our own precious
Winnie," Milly continued. "You are just the meanest girl, Cynthia
Vaughn, that ever lived! But you never can make any one believe anything
against her. If, as Tib says, it lies between you two, we all know who
is the more likely to have done it."

Cynthia turned green. "Do you dare to accuse me?" she hissed.

"No, Milly; don't do that," I cried warningly, and the overwrought girl
burst into a flood of tears and threw herself into my arms. "We accuse
no one," I said to Cynthia. "I trust that you have been equally cautious
with Mr. Mudge."

"What I may have said or may not have said is no business of yours,"
Cynthia replied. "You have both of you insulted me beyond endurance, and
from this time forth I shall never speak to any of you. I except
Adelaide," she added, after a moment's consideration. "Adelaide is the
only member of the Amen Corner who has treated me like a lady."

"I think it would be pleasanter for you and for us if you would ask
Madame to let you room somewhere else," Milly suggested.

"I shall not go simply because you wish it," Cynthia replied. "I shall
stay to watch developments."

"And, meantime, I believe you said we were to be deprived of the
pleasure of any conversation with you," I remarked, rather flippantly.

Cynthia turned her back upon me and from that time kept her word,
maintaining a sullen silence with every one but Adelaide.

The bell rang for luncheon. The forenoon had seemed very long, and the
afternoon was simply interminable. Milly left the room with me. Cynthia
did not stir.

"Do you think she took it?" Milly asked, nodding back at the parlor.

"No," I replied, "she is altogether too gay. She evidently enjoys the
investigation. If she were the culprit she would be constrained,
nervous, averse to having the affair examined." I stopped suddenly,
realizing how exactly this description fitted Winnie.

"Adelaide believes," Milly said slowly, "that it was some sneak thief
from outside the house. Have you looked about in the studio for any
suspicious circumstances?"

I replied that I would do so after dinner, and then, as we passed into
the dining-room together, the subject was dropped.

Winnie came to the table late and passed me a note, which I read beneath
my napkin.

"Mr. Mudge wants to question you next. You are to meet him in Madame's
parlor immediately after luncheon. Hurry and finish, so that I can have
a minute with you before you see him."

I bolted my dinner, and Winnie sat silently staring before her, eating
nothing. We left the dining-room five minutes before the conclusion of
the meal, bowing as we passed Madame's table, as was our custom when we
wished to be excused before the others. Madame's attention was absorbed
by the teacher with whom she was conversing, and we passed out
unhindered.

"What did you find out from Cynthia?" Winnie asked, as we walked toward
the Amen Corner. "Does she suspect any one?"

"Yes," I replied. "She is perfectly absurd. It is just as you said; she
insists on fastening the crime on a perfectly innocent person."

Winnie drew in her breath. "One of us, I presume?"

"Yes, Winnie dear. But," I hastened to add, for she grew suddenly deadly
pale, "she can do no harm; her suspicions are too manifestly impossible."

"I don't know," Winnie chattered; "the reputation of many an innocent
person has been blasted by mere circumstantial evidence. What does
Cynthia know? What has she told?"

"That she saw you go to the safe in the night."

"Me? Then I am the one whom she suspects, and not--you are sure she saw
no one else?" Winnie laughed a long, joyous laugh. "I can stand it,
Tib," she said, "I can stand it. It's too good a joke."

"Of course," I said, "no one can prove anything against you. But did you
go to the safe? I didn't see you do so."

Winnie's face clouded. "Yes, I looked in to see if everything was
right. Mr. Mudge asked me if I had opened the safe during the night.
He said that some one of us had been seen to do it, but he led me
to suppose that he suspected some one else. I knew that he had his
information from Cynthia, and I was afraid she had seen some one else.
I mean--" and here Winnie corrected herself with some confusion--"I was
afraid that she might have taken me for some other person, and I was
very glad to acknowledge that I was the one who had opened the safe. I
don't think that Mr. Mudge believes that I am the culprit, for he smiled
at me in a very friendly way."

"How could he believe such a thing?" I asked. "It is perfectly
nonsensical."

"But if he does not suspect me, his suspicions will probably fasten on
some one else. On you, for instance, or Adelaide,--and I would rather be
the scapegoat than have any annoyance come to the rest of you."

We had reached the Amen Corner, and had just opened the study-parlor
door. Winnie gave a little cry of surprise. The door into the studio was
open and a strange man stood looking at the broken lock.

CHAPTER V.

L. MUDGE, DETECTIVE.

"The look o' the thing, the chance of mistake,
All were against me. That I knew the first;
But knowing also what my duty was, I did it."

[Illustration]

"Why, Mr. Mudge!" Winnie exclaimed, recovering herself, "excuse me for
crying out, but really I did not expect to see you here."

"I presume not," the gentleman replied dryly. "Under other circumstances
such intrusion would be unwarrantable, but I presume you understand
that in a case like this we must question not only human witnesses but
the place itself, and often our most valuable testimony is of a
circumstantial character. This broken lock, for instance, would seem to
prove that the thief entered through the studio."

"Oh! that," I cried, "proves nothing; it has been broken this long
while--since the very beginning of the term."

Winnie clasped my hand tightly, and I understood that she did not wish
her escapade with the sliding trunk explained.

"Are you sure of that?" Mr. Mudge asked, looking slightly disappointed.
"Even if the lock was not broken on the night of the robbery, the fact
still remains that an entrance was practicable here at that time."

"Why, of course!" I exclaimed. "It must have been the man who looked in
at the transom."

"What man?" asked Mr. Mudge; and I told the story of the appearance the
night before. Winnie came forward impulsively, as though she wished to
interrupt me, then seemed to change her mind and walked to the window,
standing with her back to us.

"And why is it," asked Mr. Mudge, "that neither Miss Cynthia nor Miss
Winnie have mentioned this very suspicious circumstance?"

"I was not in the room when it happened, I did not see the man," Winnie
replied, without turning her head.

"This thief may have made an earlier attempt which was foiled," Mr.
Mudge continued. "It seems to me a little careless that you did not
report the fact of the broken lock when you first discovered it, and
have the fastening mended."

Winnie's eyes shone with suppressed amusement. "You think, then, Mr.
Mudge, that some one from the outside committed the burglary? I am very
glad that you have renounced the idea that any member of this school
could have been guilty of such a thing."

"My dear young lady," replied Mr. Mudge, "I never indulge in
preconceived ideas, but I give every possibility a hearing. I have
nearly completed my examination of the _locale_, but must ask one
trifling favor. Will you kindly lend me all your keys?"

"You don't mean to say that you are going through all our things?" I
exclaimed, aghast at the thought that the secret of the commissary must
now be disclosed.

"A mere matter of form," he murmured, extending his hand with persuasive
authority. Winnie delivered her one key promptly, saying, "I will go and
tell the other girls."

"Quite unnecessary," Mr. Mudge replied. "I have a pass key which opened
Miss Adelaide's capacious trunk. I have shaken out all her furbelows
and tried to fold them again as well as I could, but I fear that the
gowns with trains were a little too difficult for me. Miss Milly's
bureau drawers were in a wild state of mix: ribbons, laces, gloves,
hair crimpers, dried-up cake, perfumery, jewelry, chewing-gum, love
letters (innocent ones from other young ladies), a manicure set, a
bonnet pulled to pieces, a box of Huyler's, fancy work, dressmaker's
and other bills (which I have taken the liberty to borrow for a day
or two), dancing slippers and German favors, a tin box containing
marshmallows and a bottle of French dressing, menthol pencil, pepsum
lozenges for indigestion, box of salted almonds, bangles, sachet,
photograph of Harvard foot-ball team, notes to lectures on evidences of
Christianity, silver bonbonniere containing candied violets, programmes
of symphony rehearsals, caramels and embroidery silks gummed together,
a handsome book of etchings converted into a herbarium or pressing
book for botany class, and strapped together by buckling elastic
garters around it; fine Geneva watch, out of order; match box containing
specimens of live beetles, which I fear I released; pair of embroidered
silk stockings, in need of mending; a diary, disappointing since it
contains but two entries; packet of letters from home, tied with corset
lacing (these I have borrowed), packet of ditto from a certain
'Devotedly yours, Stacey, F. S.' tied with blue ribbon--these are of no
interest to me and I will not violate their secrets; badge of the Kings'
Daughters, button of West Point cadet, a fan bearing some autographs, a
mouldy lemon, a dream book, etc., etc. The more I tried to examine her
affairs the more confused I became, and I finally dumped them all out on
the floor and then shoveled them back again. I don't believe she will
ever suspect that they have been touched."

I laughed, but Winnie looked uneasy. "I think, sir," she said, "that it
is hardly honorable to carry away Milly's private letters."

"Any objection to having me read yours?" he asked sharply.

"None at all," Winnie replied, at the same time handing him her little
writing desk, "but with Milly the case is different. I do not think Mr.
Roseveldt will like it."

"Mr. Roseveldt will understand the necessity of the case," Mr. Mudge
replied.

"Have you looked through Cynthia's things?" I asked.

"Yes, first of all. Everything in admirable order. She sets you other
young ladies an example in point of neatness. And now, Miss Smith, I
will thank you to give me the key to that small, old-fashioned trunk
under your bed. It is the only one which my pass key will not fit; the
lock has gone out of date."

"Any one but a detective could have opened it without a key," I replied,
somewhat snappishly, "if they had had the penetration to discover that
the hinges are broken. You simply swing the lid around this way."

"Dear, dear, and so we keep a restaurant, do we? I believe I now
understand the slight trepidation which you manifested on being
requested to deliver up your keys. Reassure yourself. I am retained to
unravel but one mystery; any others which may tumble into my possession
during the search will be as safe as though buried in the grave. I
believe this is all, as far as the rooms are concerned. If Miss Smith
will accompany me now to the library, I will take her personal
deposition."

Mr. Mudge was in the main kind. He did not alarm me in the least, and
asked but few questions.

"Have you reason to suspect any one?"

"No."

"Very good. Did you see any one in the parlor the night of the robbery?"

"Yes, Winnie."

"But you did not suspect her when you discovered that the money was
gone?"

"No, Winnie was honest and open as the day; it was impossible that she
could take it."

"Hum, your parlor-mate, Miss Vaughn, does not share your opinion of your
friend. Do you know of any reason for the coolness which apparently
exists between them?"

"Yes, Winnie has frankly given Cynthia her opinion of certain
underhanded performances of hers."

"Such as----"

"I am not a tale-bearer."

"In this examination, Miss Smith, you will please answer all questions
put to you--and abstain from flippancy. Believe me, I ask nothing from
idle curiosity; nothing which does not have its bearings on this case."

"Cynthia is continually doing things that exasperate Winnie. She put her
muff between the sheets at the foot of Milly's bed. When Milly slipped
her foot down and felt the fur she thought that it was a rat or some
wild animal, and she nearly shrieked herself into convulsions. Cynthia
laughed till she almost cried, but Winnie was raging with indignation,
and gave her such a scoring that Cynthia has never forgiven her."

"Is that the only source of unpleasantness between them?"

"No; such affairs are always coming up," and I related the trick of the
costumes, which has been told in the preceding volume. "And lately," I
added, "Cynthia has been very obsequious to Milly, and they have been
quite intimate. Winnie has not approved of the friendship. She told
Milly that she did not believe Cynthia was sincere, but did not succeed
in separating them. Cynthia surmised that Winnie was not pleased, and
taunted her with being jealous, and Winnie let them proudly alone, until
something happened at Milly's dressmaker, when she interfered again,
declaring that Cynthia was going too far, and that Milly needed some one
to protect her."

"What happened at the dressmaker's?"

"I don't know exactly. Milly went to the dressmaker's rooms last week to
have a dress fitted, and Winnie was with her. She came back very much
displeased, and had a long talk with Cynthia in her bedroom. As she came
out we heard her say, 'Downright dishonorable; as bad as stealing;' and
Cynthia called after her: 'I'll pay you for this; we shall see who is a
thief, Miss Winifred De Witt.'"

"Hum!" said Mr. Mudge. "The importance of these little tiffs between
girls must not be exaggerated. They have probably made it all up by this
time."

"Indeed they have not," I replied.

"Can you give me the address of Miss Milly's dressmaker? On second
thought, it is of no consequence. I have it on this bill: 'To Madame
Celeste, Fifth Avenue: For tailor-made costume in dark green cloth,
trimmed with sable, sixty-seven dollars.'"

"But that was Cynthia's dress," I said.

"It is charged here to Miss Milly Roseveldt."

"Oh!" I exclaimed, a light beginning to break in.

"And you never suspected what it was that occurred at the dressmaker's
which displeased Miss Winnie?"

"Never, until this moment. Milly has cried a great deal, but she would
not tell her trouble, even to Adelaide."

"Very well. I will step across to Madame Celeste. No; on reflection I
will speak to Miss Milly first. Will you kindly ask her to come to me?"

"Then this is all you wish to ask me?"

"Thank you, yes. No, one question more. Can you tell me the exact time
at which Miss Winnie visited the parlor last night? The young lady
herself was very exact on that point."

"That is natural!" I replied, "for the great clock at the end of the
corridor was striking twelve as she came back to the bedroom. I thought
it never would stop."

"That tallies also with Miss Cynthia's testimony. She states that she
saw Miss Winnie go to the safe a few minutes before twelve; that she,
Miss Cynthia, lay still until the clock struck the quarter, and then
examined the safe, finding your money gone.

"Inference (since Miss Winnie apparently noticed nothing out of the way
when she looked in): if neither of these young ladies took it, the
robbery must have been committed during that fifteen minutes."

"That seems hardly possible," I said, "since Cynthia, Winnie, and I were
all awake during that time."

"It is possible, though not probable. Cynthia's bedroom door, opening
into the parlor, was closed. Are you quite certain that you did not fall
asleep before the quarter struck. Did you hear it?"

"No, I am not at all certain."

"Very good. Then if the thief were standing in the studio waiting for
his opportunity, he might have slipped in during that time. Is there any
way in which we can ascertain whether any one was in the studio between
twelve and a quarter past?"

"I know of no way," I replied. "There was no one in the studio at ten
o'clock when I looked in."

"Very good; the known quantities are being gathered in, the unknown ones
defined; the problem becomes simpler. I think we will be able to solve
it soon. Meantime, if any new developments appear, be so good as to
report them to me." He rose and bowed stiffly in token of dismissal. I
hurried to our rooms and found Adelaide and Winnie.

"Where is Milly?" I cried; "Mr. Mudge wants to see her next."

"Milly has gone to Madame Celeste's," Adelaide answered. "She wanted to
pay a bill."

"But she had no business to leave the house until she had given her
testimony," I exclaimed. "I wonder why Madame gave her permission."

"I don't think Milly asked it," Adelaide replied; "and I fancy Milly was
not at all anxious to have this interview with the detective and merely
caught at Madame Celeste as a way of escape. She is not often in such a
twitter of promptness in settling her accounts; besides, now I think of
it, all her money was taken. How could she pay Celeste?"

Winnie looked up from the table on which her elbows were resting, her
head grasped firmly between her hands as though it ached. She took no
part in the conversation until I remarked:

"Well, if Milly thinks to escape Mr. Mudge by running away to Madame
Celeste's she is badly taken in, for he is going right over there."

"What?" Winnie almost shrieked. "Does he suspect that she has anything
to do with this miserable business?"

"Madame Celeste? No, but he wants to find why Cynthia had her dress
charged to Milly's account."

"O Tib, Tib, why did you ever mention that?" Winnie groaned; "you don't
know what mischief you have made."

"How did you know it, anyway?" Adelaide asked. "This is the first I have
heard of the matter."

"I did not know it," I replied. "Mr. Mudge was looking over the papers
he took from Milly's drawer and he came across this bill for Cynthia's
dark green cloth dress, charged up against Milly, and I--I just happened
to say that was Cynthia's dress----"

"If you could only have just happened to hold your tongue," Winnie
exclaimed, springing from her seat and pacing the floor. "Adelaide,"
she added, "won't you go to Mr. Mudge and keep him busy hearing your
testimony until Milly has time to get away from Madame Celeste's. That
woman is a match for a lawyer even, but if he happens to meet Milly
there she will be frightened into anything. I knew there would be
trouble when Mr. Mudge took that bill."

"Of course I will go, if you would like to have me do so," Adelaide
replied, rising, "but really, Winnie, I can't say that I at all
comprehend the situation."

Winnie gave each of us a look of despair. "I didn't intend you should,"
she said, "but since ignorance bungles in this way I will explain. Milly
has very weakly been getting things for Cynthia and allowing them to be
charged on her bills. I have remonstrated with her and she has promised
to do so no more. I told her how wicked it would be to send these
accounts in to her father as her own, and she has not done that. She has
kept them separate, intending to settle them whenever Cynthia paid up."

"I don't see why Cynthia could not have taken her debts on her own
shoulders instead of entangling Milly," Adelaide remarked.

"Simply because Cynthia has no credit. Madame Celeste would not trust
her for a penny, while she would let Milly run up any amount. Well,
either Cynthia has paid or Milly has obtained the money in some other
way. One thing is certain, she has it and she has gone down to pay
Madame Celeste; anxious, as you may well imagine, to get her feet out of
the quicksand and not by any mischance to have that bill sent home to
her father. Now, don't you see that if Mr. Mudge ascertains that Milly
has a secret of this kind, that the next thing he will do will be to
suspect that Milly stole the money in order to extricate herself from
this trouble."

"Impossible," Adelaide exclaimed. "Milly has only to tell where the
money came from."

"And I have asked her and she will not tell. It is all right, she
assures me, but she can not or will not tell how."

"Silly goose! I will get it out of her," said Adelaide. "And meantime
there is no need whatever that she should be even suspected. She did not
do it--and suspicion might as well start out from the first on the right
track. I will go at once to Mr. Mudge, and enlighten his benighted
mind."

"What is your theory, Adelaide?" I cried, but not before the door had
closed behind her.

"Don't stop her," Winnie pleaded. "Time is precious; Mr. Mudge may have
tired waiting for Milly and have gone. No matter what her theory is, so
long as it takes suspicion from Milly. I had great hopes that Cynthia
would succeed in making him think I had done it."

"He did have you in his mind at one time," I said. "He said, 'If neither
Miss Winnie nor Miss Cynthia took it, the robbery must have been
committed during the fifteen minutes between their visits to the
safe!'"

"He said that?" Winnie inquired, with interest.

"Yes, and Winnie, the thing is plain to me--I believe Cynthia took that
money." Winnie shook her head.

"Now just listen to my reasoning. Milly has been insisting that Cynthia
shall pay up. We know that Cynthia has received no money lately. She
stole it and gave it to Milly, and made her promise not to tell who gave
it to her. It's as plain as the nose on my face. And then," I continued
triumphantly, warming to my conclusion, "she artfully throws the
suspicions of the robbery on you, as a revenge for the straightforward
talk you gave her. Haven't I ferretted it all out well? Isn't it the
most likely way in the world that it could have happened? Are you not
perfectly convinced?"

"It is the most likely story," Winnie replied, "and so very feasible
does it seem that even I am almost convinced, although I know positively
that it did not happen that way, even Cynthia must not be unjustly
suspected."

"How do you know it?"

"Because Cynthia told the truth when she said that the money was stolen
when she looked into the safe. It was gone when I looked in."

"Winifred! But you told Mr. Mudge that it was there."

"I told Mr. Mudge that I found _my_ money just as I left it. It was not
touched at all, you know; but yours, Milly's, and a part of Adelaide's,
all that was stolen, was already taken."

"But Mr. Mudge did not understand you so."

"That is his own fault."

"Did you want him to misunderstand the situation?"

"Apparently, Tib; but don't ask so many questions. Let him proceed on
the assumption that the robbery was committed in that fifteen minutes.
If any innocent person is apparently implicated, I will confess.
Meantime, you are shocked to find that I am delaying the course of
justice in order to keep suspicion from myself."

"A thousand times no; you could never act a lie unless it was to shield
some one else. Was it to shield Milly, and how?"

"Tib, it breaks my heart--I can't tell you--I love her so--I love her--"

A great fear came over me; Milly had taken the money and Winnie knew it.
But Milly had lost all her money, and yet that was a very transparent
subterfuge. What more natural than that the thief would pretend to be
an innocent sufferer and steal from herself? And Milly knew before she
looked that there was nothing in her purse. I asked relentlessly, "Was
Milly at the safe during the night at some time earlier than you and
Cynthia?"

"Milly will not admit that she was," Winnie replied, her manner
hardening as she realized that she had not quite disclosed her secret,
and her determination to guard it returning with redoubled force.

"Then why do you suspect it?"

"I do not suspect it."

The fixed despair in her eyes added the words, "I know it," as plainly
as if she had spoken them.

"Did you see Milly take the money?" I insisted. "Was that what wakened
you? And is that the reason why you wish it to appear that the safe was
intact at the time you examined it?"

Winnie covered her face with her hands and did not reply. I felt that
I had divined the truth. A solemn silence fell upon us both for a few
minutes, then Winnie straightened herself with the old resolute look in
her face.

"Tib," she said, "I have told you nothing. You know nothing from your
own personal observation. Whatever you may _think_ is purely guess-work,
and you have no right to imagine evil against Milly. She is the sweetest
and dearest girl in our set. She is innocent and unsuspicious, and so
kind-hearted that she is easily led. She has gone wrong in some things,
terribly wrong; but she is the youngest of us all and it is Cynthia's
fault, and I believe she is trying desperately to get straight again. As
for this terrible thing, you must not suspect her of it. It is your
duty, on the contrary, to try to turn the attention of Mr. Mudge in some
other direction."

As she spoke, Cynthia opened the door and Winnie relapsed into silence.
I felt a strange, dizzy sensation, as if the foundations were being
removed. The more I tried to puzzle out the affair the more bewildered
I became. There was Cynthia, who believed that Winnie was the culprit,
or at all events was striving to make Mr. Mudge believe so; and when I
weighed the evidence the case was strongly against her. Here again was
Winnie, who seemed to believe that it was Milly, and I knew that the
evidence which could shake her faith in Milly must be overwhelming. I
had made it seem entirely clear to myself that Cynthia had done it, and
in a blind, unreasoning way, although Winnie's testimony had showed
that this could not possibly be, the suspicion, once started, grew and
strengthened. I watched her as she sat working out algebra problems with
a disagreeable smile on her face--and I said to myself over and over
again, "You did it, and the truth will come out at last."

CHAPTER VI.

HALLOWEEN TRICKS AND WHAT CAME OF THEM.

[Illustration]

Evening was falling when Adelaide returned from her interview with Mr.
Mudge.

"Has not Milly returned yet?" she asked, as she entered the door.

"No," replied Winnie. "Has Mr. Mudge gone to interview Celeste?"

"No, he is off on another scent. He has gone to interview Professor
Waite."

"What does Professor Waite know about the matter?" I asked in surprise.

"Nothing. It only shows the imbecility of these detectives who insist on
pursuing every impossible as well as every possible clew."

"Tell us all about it," I entreated. "I should like to know how it was
possible to drag Professor Waite into the business."

"Why, through the transom, of course," Adelaide replied, and we all
laughed at the absurd suggestion. "The first question that Mr. Mudge
asked was, 'Have you any theory or suspicions in regard to this affair,
Miss Armstrong?' I answered that I had determined from the first that it
was the act of some sneak-thief, who had watched us, through the
transom, put the money into the safe."

Again Winnie made an involuntary movement as though about to speak, but
restrained herself, and Adelaide continued:

"I told him about the face at the transom in the Rembrandt hat, and he
asked me if it was Professor Waite. I told him that I thought not. The
head looked smaller and the hat came lower down over the eyes and at the
back than it would have done on the professor. Besides, the professor
has that little pointed Paris beard, and this face had a smooth chin. I
saw it plainly for a moment in profile. Mr. Mudge did not seem to be
satisfied and made me admit that I might have been mistaken. Professor
Waite's beard is such a very immature affair. Then he asked me how an
outsider could have introduced himself into the studio without coming in
at the front door, which is guarded by the janitor, and coming up the
grand staircase past Madame's room and twenty other rooms, all occupied,
and likely to have their doors open in the evening. I told him that
there were two other ways: the fire escape----"

"Both the corridor window and our own were locked on the inside," I
interrupted.

"He said he found it so--and agreed with me that the turret staircase
was the more likely entrance. I explained that the spiral staircase in
the turret was built especially for the use of the physician when this
part of the building was the infirmary, and that in order to quarantine
it from the rest of the school, there were no entrances to the turret
on any of the other floors--that it led directly from the studio to the
street, and that no one used it but Professor Waite, who kept the key of
the outer door; that he might have negligently left this door unlocked,
and in that case a tramp could easily have slipped in, and as there was
no communication with any other room he would have found himself, on
reaching the end of the staircase, in the studio and in front of our
door. Mr. Mudge then questioned me as to Professor Waite's habits. Did
he usually spend his evenings in the studio, and were we in the habit of
visiting back and forward in a friendly manner through the door with
the broken lock? This made me very indignant. Such a thing, I assured
Mr. Mudge, would be contrary to the rules of the school, and to the
instincts of any self-respecting girl. The door had never been opened
since the lock was first broken, and even Tib, whose duties required her
to be in the studio during half of the day, always entered it by the
corridor door. As to Professor Waite, he did not board in the house. I
believed he belonged to several artist clubs--the Salmagundi, the Kit
Kat, and others--and that he probably spent his evenings there, or in
society, or at his boarding house around the corner; at all events, he
never painted in the studio in the evening, for I had heard Tib say that
the lighting was not sufficient for night work. There was a rumor, too,
that Professor Waite was very popular in society; but that Tib could
inform Mr. Mudge much more explicitly than I on all matters relative to
the professor's habits, as I had never interested myself in him, and
what he did or did not do was of no manner of consequence to me. This
seemed to amuse Mr. Mudge very much, but he replied politely enough
that he had never for an instant imagined that a young artist, like the
professor, could be anything else than an object of supreme indifference
to any right-minded young lady, and then he proceeded to question me
more closely than ever. Though Professor Waite did not usually spend his
evenings in the studio, did he not occasionally drop in on his way home?
Had we ever heard him ascending or descending the turret stairs at about
midnight, for instance. I was obliged to confess that I knew of one
instance when he had visited the studio at that hour, for I had met
him on the staircase; that he was returning from an evening spent in
sketching at the life-class of the Kit Kat Club, and he had run up to
the studio to leave his drawings and materials before returning to his
room at the boarding house. That it was very possible that he did this
frequently. Then, of course, he asked me how it happened that I was
going down that staircase at such an unseemly hour on the occasion when
I met Professor Waite, and I had to confess all that maddening Halloween
business."

We all shouted, for this was a particularly painful subject with
Adelaide. It was the one practical joke which we had ever had the heart
to play on our queen.

Such grave consequences attended this Halloween trick that it is
possibly worth while for me to turn aside from the direct record of the
robbery and devote a chapter or two to a confession of one of our most
serious scrapes.

It had been suggested by Cynthia and approved and carried out by Winnie
before the days of the breaking off of their friendship. Cynthia had a
way of suggesting plots for less cautious people to carry out, whereby
they burned their fingers like the cat in the fable of the chestnuts.

The Amen Corner had conducted itself with praiseworthy propriety
after the opening escapade of the season--that of the roller-coaster
trunk--for the space of a few weeks. But when Halloween came we all
felt the need of what Winnie called an explosion. We had been too
preternaturally goody-goody, and the escape valve must be opened. We
decided to celebrate the eve of "antics and of fooleries" befittingly,
and we arranged to bob for apples, to snatch raisins from burning
alcohol, thereby ascertaining the number of our future lovers.

We tied our garters around our feet
And crossed our stockings under our head;
We turned our shoes toward the street
And dreamed of the ones we were going to wed.

We poured molten lead into water, striving to ascertain the occupation
of our future husbands from the forms which it took. Adelaide's emblem
was something like a letter A, and we all declared that it was a perfect
easel and quite wonderful; but when we threw apple peelings over our
heads, Milly's broke into two sections, remotely resembling a scrawling
C and a W. Milly herself was the first to recognize the letters and to
blushingly declare that of course it was too absurd, it could not mean
Carrington Waite.

Adelaide's younger brother Jim was attending the cadet school in the
city. He admired Milly exceedingly, as did many of the cadets who had
met her at a fair given at Madame's, the previous year, for the benefit
of the Home of the Elder Brother. Stacey Fitz Simmons, drum major of the
cadet band, and the best dodger and runner of the school foot-ball team,
was also her devoted admirer. The button which Mr. Mudge had discovered
in Milly's bureau drawer was not from a West Point uniform but from
Stacey's; and the foot-ball team was not the Harvard--but the Cadet
Eleven. We all tried to find emblems in the molten lead, or initials in
the apple parings, suggesting the cadets, but Milly would none of them.

There was a Mr. Van Silver, much favored by Milly's family, a caller at
their cottage at Narragansett Pier, whom Adelaide had met while visiting
Milly the previous summer. He was principally remarkable for owning a
coach and four-in-hand, and as he had on one occasion invited Adelaide
to a seat on the box, it was a little fiction of Milly's that Mr. Van
Silver was her humble slave. But we were all innocent in the ways of
flirtations and, with the exception of Milly, heart whole and fancy
free, and it was really a difficult thing to conjure up imaginary
lovers--for the occasion.

The _piece de resistance_ of the evening was the trick played upon
Adelaide. We planned on our programme that just as the clock struck the
hour of midnight we would all try the experiment of walking downstairs
backward with a lighted candle in one hand and a looking-glass in the
other. Of course it would never do for the procession to file down the
grand staircase in front of Madame's rooms, but the spiral staircase,
secluded in the turret, offered peculiar advantages for the scheme. It
communicated with no other floor, only Professor Waite had the key to
the door at the foot, and he was never in the studio at night. So the
girls believed, until I informed them that he always came in for a few
moments on Wednesday nights to leave his sketches made at the Kit
Kat--and Halloween that year happened to fall upon a Wednesday.

"So much the better," said Cynthia. "We will make Adelaide head the
procession, and she will see Professor Waite's face in her mirror. It
will be too good a joke for anything, for she can't bear the sight of
him since she made that unfortunate speech when she saw him standing in
the open door and thought it was Winnie _en masquerade_."

"I am afraid it will be twitting on facts," I said; "for I more than
half suspect that Professor Waite admires Adelaide as much as she
detests him. He has asked me more than once why she does not join the
drawing class--and even suggested that I should induce her to pose for
the portrait class. He said her profile was purely classical, and that
she took naturally the most superb poses of any girl that he had ever
met."

"So much the better," Cynthia declared. "It will be the best joke of
the season. What time does he usually arrive?"

"He said, in telling one of the class, that he always leaves the Kit Kat
at half past eleven, and reaches the street door of the turret on the
stroke of twelve."

"Delightful!" exclaimed Winnie. "Fortune favors our plans. What fun it
will be!"

It was thought best not to admit Milly into our confidence, for fear
that she could not keep the secret. All went well. We played our tricks
and Winnie told ghost stories, but it seemed as if midnight would never
come. At one time we fancied we heard a noise in the turret and we
looked at each other apprehensively. Had anything happened to bring
Professor Waite back earlier than usual, and would our plans miscarry,
after all? At ten minutes before twelve we organized the procession.
Milly was timid and persisted in being in the middle. To our disgust
Adelaide refused to lead. "Winnie proposes it; let Winnie go first,"
she said resolutely.

"All right," Winnie assented, after a thoughtful pause. "I will if
Adelaide will come next."

Cynthia and I looked at her inquiringly. We did not quite see how this
would answer.

"Tib, let's go and see if Snooks is in bed and the coast is clear,"
Winnie suggested. "It's a pity that we can't get into the studio through
this door, but that chest is too heavy for us to push aside."

Winnie and I reconnoitered, and as we opened the door into the turret
she told me her plan.

"I will lead rapidly and when I get to the bottom will scud into that
little closet under the stairs where they keep the lawn mower, so that
Adelaide will be virtually at the head. We must start right away, so as
to give me a chance to get into my haven of refuge before Professor
Waite arrives."

We all tiptoed into the studio and lighted our candles there, after
we had closed the corridor door. We had had quite a time collecting
mirrors. Adelaide and Milly possessed handsome silver-backed
hand-glasses. Winnie carried a pretty toilet mirror with three folding
leaves. I had a work box with looking-glass inside the lid, and Cynthia
had unscrewed the large mirror from her bureau. We were all giggling
and shivering when Winnie, our marshal, gave the signal for the start
in the following order: Winnie, Adelaide, Milly, myself, and Cynthia
bringing up the rear.

The steps winding around the central pillar were narrower at one end
than the other and it was rather difficult to tread them backward. The
fall wind blew through the slits of unglazed windows and extinguished my
candle. Winnie, in her haste to get to the bottom, fell, extinguished
hers also, and hurt herself quite severely, but she had determination
enough to pick herself up again and limp on. Suddenly there came a
strong draught of air and there was a halt in our march. Milly whispered
that she could hear voices, then Adelaide, who was a little way in
advance, shrieked and came running up the stairs. We were all huddled
together in a jam. Cynthia was shouting with laughter, Milly crying with
fright, Adelaide choking and incoherent with indignation.

"Hurry, hurry!" she cried, pushing us back; "he is coming; he is just
behind me."

We were only a few steps from the studio and we all bundled in--but in
the confusion Milly had dropped her candle, and the light Mother Hubbard
wrapper was all in a blaze.

Cynthia rushed wildly out of the room. I have no recollection of what I
did, but Adelaide fought the flames with her hands; but she would never
have conquered them, and our darling might have died a cruel death in
torturing flames, if Professor Waite had not dashed into the room,
wrapped her in a Persian rug, and extinguished the fire. Strange to say,
she was entirely unhurt. Only her beautiful blond hair was singed, and
that was afterward attributed by her friends to an injudicious use of
the curling irons. Adelaide's hands were badly burned and Professor
Waite bathed them in oil, while an older, serious looking man, who had
followed Professor Waite, whom we only noticed at this stage of the
proceedings, wrapped them in his white silk muffler. Then Cynthia
appeared at the door with a white face and a small water pitcher, and we
were able for the first time to laugh in a hysterical way. Fortunately,
no one had heard us, and we slipped back to the Amen Corner.

Milly was awe-stricken by the peril through which she had passed, but
there was a strange, happy look upon her face which I did not understand
until, as I tucked her away in bed, she pulled me down to her and
whispered in my ear:

"He held me in his arms, Tib; for one heavenly minute he held me close,
close in his arms. I felt the hot breath of the flames, but I did not
care. I was willing to die, I was so happy----"

"My poor little girl," I said, as I kissed her, "you must not let
yourself care for Professor Waite, for he does not----"

"I know," she replied, "he loves Adelaide; he can't help it any more
than I can help----"

"Hush," I said, "this is all foolishness; put it right out of your
little head. You are only sixteen; you are not old enough to care for
any one. You will laugh at this by and by."

She shook her head solemnly. "I shall always remember, Tib--that for one
heavenly minute he held me tight--so." And she embraced her pillow with
all her small might, nestling her hot cheek against it in a way which
would have been absurd if it had not been so unspeakably pathetic.

Adelaide strode into the room at this juncture with the air of a tragedy
queen.

"Thank Heaven, you are safe, Milly dear!" she said, pausing beside the
bed, but her look was not one of pious thanksgiving. Her voice had a
sharp sound, and a crimson spot flamed on her dark cheeks. "He dared
to hold my hands in his," she murmured, "and, worse still, to call me
'noble girl,' and his 'poor child'; and he will think that I went down
those stairs on purpose to see his face in my mirror. Oh, how I hate
him, how I hate him!"

CHAPTER VII.

A STATE OF "DREADFULNESS."

[Illustration]

Miss Noakes had not heard us, but our troubles were not over.

It was not until I had helped Adelaide to retire (for her poor hands
were too badly burned to put up her own hair), and had gone away into my
own room that I realized that Winnie was not with us and that she had
been left behind in the stampede up the turret stairs. I crept around
through the corridor into the darkened studio. Professor Waite and his
friend had gone, why had not Winnie returned? I opened the door leading
to the turret and called her name softly. I was answered by a groan. I
hastened to light a candle and stole down the winding stair. Half way
down I found Winnie sitting on the steps, a bundle of misery.

"I came up once," she exclaimed, "but Professor Waite was in the studio
and I had to go back to the closet and wait until he left the house."

"It must have been very chilly and unpleasant with nothing but a
watering can and a lawn mower to sit on," I remarked; "but why didn't
you come all the way up this time. You surely don't intend to spend the
night where you are."

"I don't know," Winnie replied, with another groan; "I've sprained my
ankle or something, and I can't bear my weight on it. It was all that I
could do to drag myself up and back again, and then as far as this. Ow!
how it hurts! No, I just cannot take another step."

"Dear! dear!" I exclaimed; "what a night this has been! With Milly's
narrow escape from death, and Adelaide's burned hands, and your sprained
ankle, we have had enough Halloween for one year."

"What do you mean?" Winnie asked, in her absorption taking several
little hops up the stairs. "Milly's escape? What has happened? Ow! wow!
You'll have to get a derrick, Tib, and hoist me up. I cannot budge an
inch."

"Lean on me," I said, "and listen while I tell you all about it"; and I
rehearsed the thrilling story of Professor Waite's rescue.

"I can smell the smoke still. Snooks will think the house is on fire,"
Winnie declared, snuffing vigorously as we reached the studio. "You had
better open the windows a bit and air off. And there are some burned
scraps of Milly's wrapper on the floor; let's pick them all up. Ow!
don't let go of me. This is really what Milly calls a state of
dreadfulness--no other word will describe it. How can I ever stand it
until morning?"

I helped her to her bed and bound up her ankle with Pond's Extract; but
it had swollen so much and was so painful that when morning came Winnie
consented to have the school physician called. He kindly asked no
questions, and treated Adelaide's hands, only remarking, "I see you have
been celebrating Halloween."

"He thinks I burned them in snatching the raisins out of the lighted
alcohol," Adelaide said; "or perhaps in putting out some clothing which
was set on fire in that way."

Even Madame was considerate and did not inquire closely into the details
of the trouble.

"I hope you have learned from this," she said, "that it is a dangerous
thing to play with fire."

Halloween was a disagreeable subject after this to all of us, but
especially to Winnie. "Don't mention it," she would say. "I shall never
play another trick in all my mortal days. I feel as mean and demoralized
as a lunch-basket on its way home from a picnic."

The state of dreadfulness deepened as time went on. Winnie kept her room
for days, and it was necessary to feed Adelaide at table, and dress and
undress her; but their hurts troubled me less than the heart bruise
received by my poor Milly. I kept her secret and she was brave, and no
one else suspected it. Professor Waite was very impatient with her,
treating her work contemptuously, and disregarding her personally
altogether. He never alluded to the accident, treating it, as Winnie
said, as of no more consequence than if he had extinguished a bale of
cotton that had happened to take fire.

"That man is utterly incapable of sentiment," Winnie remarked
wrathfully. "Now how natural it would be to make a romance out of
such a rescue, but Professor Waite's heart is as stony as that of the
Apollo Belvedere."

Milly smiled piteously and shook her head, while she looked
significantly from me toward Adelaide, as much as to say: "We know
better; he is not so stony-hearted as he seems."

Having my attention directed to the matter, I kept my eyes open for
little indications of the state of Professor Waite's sentiments, and
presently found that they were not lacking. The studio was not occupied
by classes until after ten o'clock in the morning, and Professor Waite
came every day very early, and painted there alone until the first wave
of pupils swept in and filled the room with an encampment of easels.
He explained to me that he was preparing a picture for the Academy
exhibition, the morning light was good, and as his studio in the city
was shared with another young artist, he preferred to come here where he
could work quietly and undisturbed for a few hours each morning. He
always bolted the corridor door to secure complete seclusion, and we
had often to wait a few moments until he admitted us. He did not show us
the painting, but it was evident that he was deeply interested in it,
for he was frequently distraught, and apparently vexed at being obliged
to turn his attention to our offences against art, just as he was worked
up to a fine phrensy of production. At such times he would run his
fingers through his hair, and stare at the work which the first
unfortunate pupil presented with a repugnance which was often more
clearly than politely expressed. Sometimes his ill humour vented itself
on the model. We were in the habit of taking turns and, dressed in some
picturesque costume, of posing for the class for a week at a time. After
the Halloween experience it happened to be Milly's turn. We had costumed
her as an Italian contadina, and thought that she looked very prettily.
But Professor Waite was not satisfied.

"Why have you chosen a blonde for such a character?" he asked me
impatiently. "That little snub nose and milk-and-water complexion have
nothing Italian in their make up. If you could induce that superb
creature, Miss Armstrong, to wear the costume, you would see the
difference."

Milly had heard the remark though he did not intend she should do so,
and her eyes suffused with tears as usual. "I will ask Adelaide," she
said meekly, "but I don't believe she will be willing to pose for the
class."

"Never mind the class," Professor Waite replied eagerly. "If Miss
Armstrong will honor me by giving me personally a few sittings each
morning for my Academy picture I shall be more gratified than I can
express."

Milly, more than happy to attempt to do the professor a favor, besought
Adelaide, who was obdurate and even indignant.

"The very idea!" she exclaimed. "I never heard of such assurance. _I_
figure in his picture at a public exhibition, indeed."

"Why, I am sure it's a great honor," Milly replied, bridling feebly;
"and I won't have you treat him in such a _desultory_ manner."

We all laughed, for Milly, as usual when excited, had mixed her
words--insulting and derogatory clamoring at the same time in her small
mind for utterance.

"I think it would be perfectly scrum to be in an Academy picture,"
Winnie exclaimed. "I wish he would ask me."

Perfectly "scrum," or "scrumptious," was Winnie's superlative; while
Adelaide, to express a similar delight, would have quoted the
Anglicism, "Quite too far more than most awfully delicious."

"I wonder what his Academy picture is, anyway," Winnie went on, "and why
he never shows it to us. I mean to ask him to let me see it; I am sure I
might help him with some suggestions."

"Well you _are_ unassuming," I exclaimed, never dreaming that Winnie,
with all her audacity, would dare to criticise a picture by our
professor. What was my astonishment, therefore, on awakening the next
morning, to find that Winnie was already dressed.

"I am going into the studio," she remarked coolly, "to take a look at
Professor Waite's picture before he arrives."

"O Winnie!" I begged, "don't; you've no business to do such a thing."
Winnie made a little face, courtesied, and flounced out of the room. She
returned presently, all aglow with excitement.

"He was already there at work," she exclaimed, "painting, as the French
say, like an _enrage_. He had forgotten to bolt the door and I slipped
right in. His back was toward me, and he did not notice me at first, so
I had one good solid look. And what do you suppose it is, Tib? Why,
Adelaide, holding a candle and glancing over her shoulder as he must
have seen her going down the stairs. The Rembrandtesque effect of
artificial light and deep shadow is stunning. He has rigged up his
lay-figure on the landing in the dark turret, and had a lighted candle
wedged into her woodeny fingers, so that he gets the lighting on the
face and drapery, while he has daylight on his canvas.

"Of course he has had to do the face from imagination or memory, but it
was perfect. I screamed right out: 'Don't touch that again or you'll
spoil it!' He turned the canvas back forward quicker than a wink, and
looked at me as if he would like to eat me, but I didn't care, and I
begged him not to disturb himself or interrupt his work on my account;
that I had only dropped in in a friendly way to give him a little
helpful criticism. With that he put on his eye-glasses and remarked;
'Well, you _are_ about the coolest young lady that it has ever been
my privilege to meet,' but he had to come right down from that nifty
position, for I said, 'If my opinions are of no use, perhaps Madame's
will be more helpful; shall I ask her to come up and take a look at the
picture?' That made him wince. He turned all sorts of colors, chewed
his mustache, and hadn't a word to say. I felt sort of sorry for him and
I assured him that I had no intention of telling, at least not if he was
nice; and I reminded him that he owed the subject to me in the first
place, for if I had not suggested the trick he would never have seen
Adelaide in that particular lighting. With that he changed his tune and
said that he was very grateful for my kind intention, and that if I
would kindly lend him a photograph of Adelaide he would be still more
grateful. But I told him that I did not think that it was fair to
exhibit a portrait of Adelaide, and he admitted that it was not, and
said that he had decided not to send the picture to the exhibition, but
merely to keep it himself."

Adelaide happened to knock at our door at this juncture, and Winnie told
her what she had discovered.

"This is past endurance," Adelaide exclaimed angrily; "you must come
with me, Tib, and insist on Professor Waite's showing me this picture.
If the face is recognizable as my portrait I shall destroy it then and
there."

"Don't, Adelaide," I begged. "Professor Waite is a gentleman; he has
already told Winnie that he does not intend to exhibit the picture----"

"But I do not choose that he shall possess it," she cried; "if you
will not go with me I shall go alone," and she hurried to the studio
door. It was locked, and Professor Waite did not choose to reply to
her oft-repeated knocks. He evidently considered Winnie's visit
all-sufficient for one morning. Adelaide came back in a towering
passion. "If my poor hands would only let me write," she exclaimed, "I
would give him such a piece of my mind. Winnie, be my amanuensis.
Write what I dictate."

Winnie sat down good-humoredly and dashed off in her large scrawling
script, which filled a page with these lines, the following indignant
protest:

PROFESSOR WAITE:

I regret that I consider the liberty you have taken in painting
my portrait for the Academy Exhibition, without my knowledge or
consent, a dishonorable act of which no gentleman would be guilty,
and I demand that you destroy it instantly.

ADELAIDE ARMSTRONG.

She was excited and she spoke loudly. When she finished, there was dead
silence in the little parlor. We all felt that Adelaide had put it a
little too strongly. That silence was broken by a half-suppressed
sneeze on the balcony outside the window. A sneeze which we all
recognized as belonging to Miss Noakes. Had she been listening? Had
she heard? Winnie balanced the ink bottle over the letter ready to
obliterate its contents by an "accident" if Miss Noakes suddenly
knocked. No one appeared, and going to the window a moment afterward, I
saw Miss Noakes walking between her window and ours, and taking in great
sniffs of the keen morning air with much apparent enjoyment.

The bell rang for breakfast and Adelaide and I walked along together,
pausing to slip the note under the studio door. It would not go quite
through, a little end protruding, but that did not strike us as of any
consequence. I had descended one flight of stairs when I found that I
had forgotten my geometry and I hastened back to get it. I met Winnie
before I turned into the corridor. "Hurry," she exclaimed, "Snooks is
just leaving her door; she will mark you for tardiness." I flew along at
the top of my speed, but on reaching our corridor I saw a sight which
suddenly arrested my footsteps. Miss Noakes stood before the studio
door, carefully adjusting her eye-glasses and looking at the note;
presently she stooped, picked it up, and read the address. She
hesitated a moment, seemed half inclined to replace it, turned it over
as though she wished to open it, then glancing down the hall and spying
me, she placed it in the great leather bag which hung at her side. She
closed the bag with a savage click and glared at me as I turned and
fled, for I had not the courage to meet her.

I reported the calamity at breakfast table in an awe-stricken whisper to
Milly, who turned a trifle pale.

"I am afraid it will get Professor Waite into trouble," she said,
"Adelaide is still very angry with him, but I am sure she does not want
to make him lose his position in the school."

"It may make her lose her own position," Cynthia Vaughn suggested.
"Writing notes to young men is against the rules. It's an expellable
offence. But then," she added, "this wasn't exactly a love letter."

"I should think not," I exclaimed.

"It's all the worse," Milly groaned, as she scalded her throat with hot
coffee.

"Adelaide can say she didn't write it, you know," Cynthia suggested
cheerfully. "Winnie wrote it; and she didn't poke it under the door
either--Tib did that."

"Do you suppose, Cynthia Vaughn, that Adelaide would do such a mean
thing as not to take the consequences of her own actions?" Milly asked
indignantly. Then she clasped my hand, for Miss Noakes stood at Madame's
table, and had opened her black bag and was handing Madame the note. We
could see even at that distance that the seal was unbroken, but this
gave us scant comfort; it was only putting off the evil day.

"Winnie might steal that note for us," Cynthia suggested, "before Madame
has a chance to read it."

"Why are you always thinking up scrapes for Winnie to get into?" Milly
asked.

Winnie pricked her ears, at the other side of the table. "What about
Winnie?" she asked.

"Nothing," Milly replied shortly; but as we went up to the studio a
little before ten o'clock, I explained the situation. To my surprise
Winnie's eyes danced with merriment. "Snooks listened," she exclaimed,
"she heard Adelaide, I knew she did, and now we know how she finds out
things that happen in the Amen Corner; often and often I have thought
that I heard her, and have opened the door quickly only to find the
corridor empty. Of course she is smart enough to know that she would
get caught if she listened at the door; she would never in the world
have time enough to scuttle down to her own room before we would see
her. But the balcony! Strange we never thought of that. I'll lay a trap
for her--no, I need not; she has trapped herself; this affair is proof
enough that she peeks and listens."

"But I don't see how this helps us," I exclaimed. "This is the worst
scrape of the season. Don't you see it is? Such glee on your part is
positively idiotic. We may all be expelled and Professor Waite too."

"Fret not your dear little sympathetic, apprehensive gizzard. Don't say
one word, except to answer questions. Don't volunteer any confessions,
or let Adelaide do so. Remember, the prisoner is not obliged to
criminate himself, the burden of proof lies with Snooks, and she will
find it a pretty heavy burden."

"Not with that note!" I replied.

"That note! Ha! ha! But I won't tell you. It's too good a joke."

"And Professor Waite's picture of Adelaide?"

"The picture, I had forgotten that," and Winnie became grave at once.
"He must take it right away," she added. "I will tell him to."

"You talk as if you could make him do anything," I said.

"Anything I choose to try," Winnie replied confidently. We were at the
studio door a little ahead of time, and Professor Waite threw it open at
our knock, and welcomed us in with his palette still on his thumb. "Come
and see my picture," he said, with a smile.

"Poor man!" I thought, "he would not look so happy if he knew how angry
Adelaide is, and what a mine is waiting to be exploded beneath him."

He led us to the easel and displayed the canvas triumphantly.

It was an effective, striking picture, but it did not in the least
resemble Adelaide.

Winnie uttered an exclamation of disgust. "There now, you've spoiled it.
I knew you would. It was just perfect, and you've ruined it. I'm sure I
never want to look at that thing again. I told you not to touch it. Why
couldn't you let it alone?" and a half dozen other wails of the same
order.

Professor Waite did not attempt to put a stop to her somewhat
impertinent remarks. He was plainly annoyed, however, and when she had
emptied the vials of her indignation, he replied: "I thought you would
approve of the change, Miss DeWitt. It was a remark of yours this
morning which made me realize that I had no right to paint Miss
Armstrong's portrait without her permission; that probably she would be
unwilling that I should possess it; and as I would gladly sacrifice any
ambition or pleasure of my own for the sake of not offending her, I
have, as you see, painted in an entirely new face."

"You are quite right, Professor," I exclaimed warmly; "and Adelaide will
be grateful for your consideration."

At this juncture the girls trooped in and took their places at their
easels, and Professor Waite laid the picture in the great chest in front
of our door. The correction of work went on as usual until the latter
part of the hour, when an ominous knock was heard at the door, and
Madame, accompanied by Miss Noakes, sailed majestically into the room.
Professor Waite bowed deeply and expressed himself as highly honored.
Madame lifted her lorgnette and surveyed the class. Milly was posing in
her despised Italian costume. Madame smiled kindly at her, and then
passed about from easel to easel examining the girls' work. "I do not
know whether it is exactly the thing for the young ladies to allow
themselves to be painted in this way," she said, "though to be sure the
studies are hardly recognizable as likenesses."

"The young ladies have all asked the permission of their parents to sit
for each other," Professor Waite explained.

"For each other," Madame repeated doubtfully; "but do you never make
sketches of them also, Professor? A parent might well object to having
his daughter's portrait exhibited in a public place, sold to a stranger,
or even shown among studies of professional models in your studio."

"I have made no studies from life from any of the young ladies,"
Professor Waite replied promptly.

Miss Noakes drew a long breath and seemed to bristle with anticipated
triumph.

"I am glad that you can assure me of this," Madame replied in her
softest, most purring accents. Then she glanced around the room again
and asked, "Are all of the art students present? I do not see Miss
Armstrong."

"Miss Armstrong has not honoured me by joining the class," Professor
Waite replied stiffly.

"But she at least sits for the others, does she not? She is such a
strikingly picturesque girl, I should think you would ask her."

"We have asked her," Milly replied, "but she is just as obstinate as she
can be. I wish, Madame, you would make her."

Madame shook her little wiry curls. "This is a matter which must be left
entirely to individual preference, my dear. It would be very wrong,
indeed, for any of you to make a portrait of Miss Armstrong without her
consent. I have known young amateur photographers to lay themselves open
to an action at law by taking photographs of people without their
knowledge. Our personality is a very sacred thing, and whoever possesses
himself of that without warrant commits a dishonorable action."

Milly looked as if she were about to faint, while Professor Waite, who
felt the intention of Madame's remarks, and his own thoughtlessness, bit
his mustache nervously. Winnie was tittering in an unseemly manner
behind her easel, but, thankful as I was that the professor had changed
the portrait, I still felt the gravity of the occasion.

Madame's manner changed. "Miss Vaughn," she said to Cynthia, "will you
ask Miss Armstrong to step to the studio for a moment." Then turning to
our teacher, she added, "I have a very painful duty to perform, my
dear Professor, and you must pardon me if my questions seem to you
unwarranted. Will you tell me whether, for any reason whatever, you have
carried on a written correspondence with Miss Armstrong or with any
other member of this school?"

"I have not, Madame."

"Have never either written to her or received letters from her?"

"Never, Madame. Who has charged me with such a clandestine and
dishonourable act?"

Madame did not reply, for Adelaide entered the room. She was very
stately and pale. Cynthia had not had far to go, and Adelaide had come
instantly.

"Why have you sent for me?" she asked resolutely.

"Merely to ask you one or two simple questions," Madame replied. "But
first, Professor, may we be permitted to see the picture which you are
preparing for the Academy exhibition?"

Adelaide leaned forward eagerly. Professor Waite was about to be
punished for his presumption and yet she was not so glad as she fancied
that she would be. Her anger had faded out and she almost pitied him.
A hot blush swept up to his forehead as he felt her gaze, and silently
placed the painting upon the easel. Madame examined it critically
through her lorgnette; it was evidently not what she had expected to
see.

Milly, who had not known of the change, could hardly believe her eyes,
and seemed to fancy that a miracle had been performed to save her dear
professor. Miss Noakes stood at the canvas with a look of disappointed
malignity on her unattractive features.

"Is this the only picture which you intend to exhibit?" Madame asked,
after a moment, during which she had assured herself that the face on
the canvas was utterly unlike any of her pupils.

"It is the only one that I have had time to paint this season,"
Professor Waite replied. "The face bore at one time a resemblance to
Miss Armstrong's, but I purposely destroyed that resemblance and shall
send it in as you see it."

Madame seemed somewhat relieved, but she turned toward Adelaide, who
had seated herself and was staring at the picture, her heart filled with
a vague regret that she had written so unkind a letter.

"Young ladies," said Madame solemnly, "you have heard the questions
which I have asked Professor Waite. Certain accusations have been made
which have greatly troubled me. It has been suspected that a clandestine
flirtation and correspondence has for some time been carried on between
your professor and one of the members of this school. Hitherto I have
paid no attention to these reports, as they rested only on suspicion,
but this morning startling evidence has been produced, and before
bringing it forward I call upon any young lady who has been guilty of
such an indiscretion to anticipate the discovery of her fault by a full
confession." No one responded. The accusation was so much more serious
than the truth, that Adelaide did not imagine that she was the suspected
culprit. Dead silence, in the midst of which Madame produced the fateful
letter. Adelaide started and Madame asked in awful tones:

"Will any young lady present acknowledge that she has written this
letter?"

Winnie and Adelaide each rose promptly.

Madame frowned. "Have we two claimants?" she asked.

"I am responsible for the contents of that note," said Adelaide.

"But I wrote it," added Winnie, "and I demand that it be read aloud."

It seemed to me that Winnie was absolutely insane, and even Adelaide
seemed to feel that there was no necessity of rushing so recklessly on
the spears of the enemy.

Professor Waite looked completely mystified, and Madame said very
seriously:

"You will see, Professor, that this note is directed to you, and that
it has not been opened. I could not take that liberty; but Miss Noakes
discovered it being sent in a very irregular manner, which justified her
in confiscating it. There are other suspicious matters connected with
it, which I trust its contents will fully explain."

I felt that the crucial moment had arrived. Miss Noakes was absolutely
radiant, and sat rubbing her hands with ghoulish glee. Madame looked
troubled but judicial. The professor was a favourite of hers, but Miss
Noakes had brought too weighty an accusation to be glossed over.

A silence like that before a thunder-clap reigned. Winnie covered her
face with her handkerchief and shook--could it be with suppressed
laughter? If so, it seemed to me that she must be going insane.

Professor Waite opened the letter and glanced over its contents. "This
note is from Miss Winifred De Witt," he said to Madame, "and since
I have her permission, I will read it aloud." And to our utter
astonishment, Professor Waite read--not the indignant letter which
Adelaide had dictated, but the following:

PROFESSOR WAITE.

_Dear Sir_: May I have your permission to place my easel on the
balcony in front of the corridor window and make a study of a
sunrise effect as seen across the roofs? The view is so very
beautiful that Miss Noakes spends much of her time there absorbed
in its enjoyment.

Very respectfully yours,
WINIFRED DE WITT.

Professor Waite politely handed this effusion to Madame. Miss Noakes
snatched it from her hand and glared at it with the look of a foiled
assassin. Madame bit her lips with annoyance and scowled at Miss
Noakes. She was evidently angry with her for having caused her to
arraign Professor Waite on insufficient testimony and creating a scene
derogatory to her own dignity. She quickly recovered her
self-possession, however, and remarked loftily:

"Miss De Witt, when you have any future communications to make with your
professor, pray do so in a more fitting manner. Placing notes under
doors is really unworthy of any young lady in my school."

"So is listening at windows," Cynthia whispered to Winnie. Madame turned
to Professor Waite and expressed herself as much pleased that this very
serious accusation had been proved to be founded on an entire mistake.
She had herself felt perfect confidence in the integrity of Professor
Waite and the propriety of her pupils throughout the entire affair, and
had only investigated it to give the slander its proper refutation: and
her stiff silk dress rustled with dignity out of the studio.

As for Miss Noakes, she simply disappeared, "evaporated," as Milly
expressed it. The door had hardly closed upon Madame before our
long-repressed feelings found vent in laughter. Winnie congratulated
Professor Waite on the part of the school that he had been found
innocent of so heinous a crime. The girls swarmed up to shake hands with
him. Those who could not grasp his hand shook the skirts of his coat.
Exuberant confusion reigned. Milly was dissolved in happy tears, and
even Adelaide smiled when Professor Waite expressed his regret that Miss
Noakes had connected their names in so disagreeable a manner.

It was not until the occupants of the Amen Corner had gathered in their
study parlor that Adelaide said:

"But I really do not understand what became of my note; the one I
dictated to Winnie and tucked under the door."

"Winnie, how did you manage to steal it?" Cynthia asked.

"I didn't take it from Snooks," Winnie replied. "It struck me that
Adelaide had expressed herself rather strongly, and that she would
regret it after she had cooled down, and if she didn't, she ought to. So
while you were investigating the eavesdropping I destroyed that note,
wrote one of my own and sealed it up in its place."

"And I've really put this note of yours under the door?" Adelaide asked.

"Yes, my dear, and that is why I have not shared Tib's anxiety since we
knew that it had been confiscated. Don't you think that dig about
Snooks enjoying the scenery of the back yard was rather good?" and
Winnie chuckled with enjoyment of her own impertinence. "You should have
seen her face when Professor Waite read that. Nebuchadnezzar's when he
ordered Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego to the burning, fiery furnace
must have been amiable in comparison. She would have seen me boiled in
oil with pleasure. I haven't enjoyed anything so much for ages."

CHAPTER VIII.

IN THE MESHES OF A GOLDEN NET.

[Illustration]

Of course Adelaide did not feel it necessary to tell Mr. Mudge all the
consequences of our Halloween party, but only the facts of our having
used the turret staircase on that memorable night.

"And now," she said, with a laugh, "Mr. Mudge has gone racing off to
investigate Professor Waite. I seem doomed to get that poor man into
trouble. Though of course he never could be suspected of this robbery."

Milly had entered while Adelaide was speaking, and she uttered a little
cry of dismay. "Professor Waite suspected! that could never be!"

"Circumstances are against him," Winnie replied. "Mr. Mudge believes
that the robbery was committed between twelve o'clock and a quarter
past. Now, if Professor Waite was in the studio at that time----"

"He was earlier than usual," Milly replied. "I heard him come up the
staircase. You know the head of our bed is right against the turret
wall. Someway, I always hear his step on the stair, and then he usually
whistles an air from one of the operas. Last night he whistled the
Wedding March in 'Lohengrin.'"

"Then you were lying awake, too, last night," Winnie remarked. "Did you
hear me moving about in this room?"

"Yes," Milly replied hesitatingly.

"Why didn't you say so before?"

"There didn't seem to be any necessity of telling of it," Milly replied.

"You thought it might throw suspicion on me?"

"Oh, no," Milly disclaimed. "No one could suspect you, Winnie, or
Professor Waite, either; the ideas are equally absurd."

"Unless it is proved that the robbery was committed before Professor
Waite came up the stairs, it may not seem at all absurd to Mr. Mudge,"
Winnie continued mercilessly. "Tib and I saw him examining the door into
the studio, and he seemed possessed with the idea that the burglar
entered the room from the studio. I know, too, that Mr. Mudge examined
Professor Waite's tool chest in the studio, and that he found the broken
lock in it, with a screw-driver and other tools, showing that Professor
Waite had been tinkering with the door, trying unsuccessfully to mend
the lock, as we all know."

"You know this! How did you find it out?" Adelaide asked, and Winnie
replied:

"Professor Waite wanted to use his screw-driver and went to his tool
chest after it during the painting lesson to-day. It was gone; so was
the lock to the door. He hunted everywhere, and told me that he was
afraid that Miss Noakes had been in his studio and had discovered the
broken lock, and that we would be called in question for that old
scrape. I felt sure from the first that it was Mr. Mudge, but I did not
mention him, for Madame told us to say nothing about the robbery outside
of our own circle."

"I would do anything to keep Professor Waite out of trouble," Milly
said. "I am the only one who knows that he was in the studio, and I
will not tell."

"Nothing will help Professor Waite so much as the entire truth," Winnie
replied. "Of course he is not the one who took the money. If the person
really responsible can be discovered, or will confess, the Professor and
all other innocent persons will be cleared from suspicion."

"Of course," Milly replied, looking at Winnie in a puzzled way. "And I
am sure," she added hopefully, "that Mr. Mudge will find the guilty
individual soon, if he is as keen as you all seem to think him. I really
dread meeting him, and I am glad he has gone away for to-day. There goes
the supper bell. What a long day this has been!"

After supper Milly woke to a consciousness that she had not prepared
one of her lessons for the next day. She sat puckering her pretty
forehead into ugly wrinkles, and repeating helplessly, "'Populi
Romani!' I am sure I've had that before." Then she began a wild attempt
at translation, with manifold running comments. "'Because Ariovistus,
King of the Germans, had sat down on their boundaries--' Now, was there
anything ever so absurd as that? Why did old Ariovistus want to sit
down on their boundaries?"

"Perhaps the word doesn't mean boundaries here," Adelaide suggested, and
Milly turned patiently to her lexicon--"If _finibus_ comes from
_finitimus_ it may mean neighbors--and then Ariovistus sat down on his
neighbors; well I must say that was cool----"

Milly worked on for a little while in silence, and then exclaimed, "I'm
getting into the sensibility of it now--how's this? 'These things having
been known, Caesar confirmed the mind of all Gaul with words.' He was
always very generous of his words. We have a review to-morrow, and the
ridiculosity of the whole thing comes out. Now just listen to this:
'Wherefore it pleased him to send legates to Ariovistus, who should ask
him to appoint some place in the middle of the others for a colloquy. To
these legates he responded if it was too much trouble for him to come to
himself, himself would come to him and he--Caesar--would then find out
who ought to do the coming. Besides, he would admire to see all Gaul in
a row, and it was no business of Caesar's or his old Populo Romano.' I
rather like his pluck but I'm afraid my translation is rather free.
Then here is a place that I am not quite sure about; 'The Helvetians,
the Tulingians, and the Lotobigians, and all the other igians, in their
boundaries or something, whence they had something else--he commanded
to--thingummy; and because all their fruits were--were--frost bitten, I
guess, and at home nothing was which could tolerate hunger--he commanded
the other ninkums that they should make for them copious corn--' I
perfectly hate Caesar. He was always boasting of his own benefits and
clemency to one tribe in making another support it, and then 'pacifying'
the other tribes by slaying a few thousand of their soldiers, and I just
don't see the use of our muddling our heads with what that stupid,
cruel, conceited old bandit did, anyhow. But if I don't know this lesson
I shall not be able to pass in examination, and you will all graduate
and leave me behind for ages and ages----"

Ordinarily Winnie could not have resisted such an appeal as this. I have
known her to patiently translate all of Milly's lessons for her, and
then as patiently explain them to her over and over again, until some
faint idea of their meaning had penetrated her befogged little brain.
And having spent the evening thus, go unprepared to her geometry, and
stoically receive a cipher as her class mark, and see Cynthia carry off
the honors of the day. But to-night Winnie did not seem to see the
forget-me-not eyes turned appealingly to her. She appeared to be
completely absorbed in her Cicero. I endured Milly's frowns as long as I
could, and finally pushed aside my own studies, and said, "Come into my
bedroom where we will not disturb the other girls, and I will straighten
it out for you."

Milly was delighted. She threw her arms around my neck and thrust some
cream peppermints into my pocket.

We were in the midst of Caesar's negotiations with Ariovistus, and had
nearly finished the paragraph, when Milly suddenly looked up.

"Tib," she said, "do you know whatever became of Madame Celeste's last
bill? I thought I put it in my bureau drawer, but I must have left it
around somewhere. Have you seen it? I can't find it."

"Then you could not pay it this afternoon?" I asked evasively.

"Oh, yes! she made out another bill and receipted it for me, but I want
to be sure that the first one is destroyed."

"I thought all your money was taken; where did you get enough to pay
this bill?"

"Oh! that is a secret," she replied, with a pleased little flutter of
importance. "It's no manner of consequence how I came by it. I've paid
the bill--that's the essential thing--and I've got out of that dreadful
quicksand. Oh, Tib, I have been so unhappy, and Cynthia has been so
mean! I did not think it possible that any one could be so horrid."

"Tell me all about it, dear," I said, caressing the curly blond head
which nestled on my knee.

"I believe I will. I feel like telling somebody, and Winnie is so queer
lately--she freezes me. She has disapproved of me and scolded me ever
since she found out about Cynthia's dress, and I can't bear to be
disapproved of. It isn't one bit nice. Adelaide is perfectly splendid;
she likes me and pets me, but perhaps she wouldn't if she knew
everything; but you are just my dear old Tib. You would always like me,
wouldn't you, even if I were real wicked?"

"Yes indeed, Milly," I replied; "and so would Winnie; you don't half
realize her love for you."

"Then she has a very queer way of showing it. She makes me feel as if I
had committed some dreadful sin, and she was urging me to confess. She
is just about as pleasant a companion as that Florentine monk--what's
his name? who kept nagging Lorenzo de Medici--even when the poor man was
just as busy as he could be a-dying."

"Savonarola acted as he thought was kindest and best for his poor guilty
friend. Sometimes the surgeon who probes our wound is the truest
friend--But you are going to tell me about your trouble--I've noticed
how red your little nose has been of late."

"It was partly Celeste's fault, too," Milly said. "Cynthia's and
Celeste's and mine. Of course the fault was mostly mine. You see it all
started with the minuet--with which Professor Fafalata closed his
dancing class just before the Christmas holidays. He wished us to be
costumed in the Florentine style of the early part of the sixteenth
century. I was talking it over with Celeste, and she said I ought to
have the front of my petticoat covered with some jewelled net which she
had just imported from Paris. It was very expensive, but very beautiful,
and showy in the evening. The net was made of gold thread set with
imitation amethysts and rubies, an arabesque design, copied from some
mediaeval embroidery, and just the thing for me, since I was to represent
a young princess of the house of Medici. I thought that I would write
mother, who was in Florida then, and ask her to lend me one of her party
dresses, and that it would be just the thing to put over it; and while I
was admiring it and before I had really ordered it, or realized what she
was doing, Celeste had cut me off a yard of it, and had charged it to my
account--fifteen dollars. I brought it here, you remember, only to find
that Madame had interested Professor Waite in the minuet, and that he
had promised to lend the girls some beautiful costumes of the period
which he had brought back from Paris. There was that lovely heliotrope
velvet edged with ermine for Adelaide, and a faded pink brocade sprigged
with primroses for me.

"So of course there wasn't the slightest need for my golden net. I
carried it to Celeste to see if she would take it back. She said that
she would like to oblige me, but as it was cut she couldn't quite do
that, but she would try to dispose of it for me. And she did sell it a
few days later for ten dollars. I thought that was better than to lose
the entire sum. She handed me the money, saying that it would put her
to some trouble to change her accounts, and I had better let the bill go
in just as she had made it out, and I could hand mother the ten dollars
and explain matters. I really intended to do so, but I was nearly
bankrupt that month. My pocket money just seemed to walk away. I had
invited Adelaide to see the play of the 'Harvard Hasty Pudding,' and of
course I had to have Miss Noakes chaperone us, and I hadn't money enough
left to buy the tickets."

"Why didn't you tell her so?" I asked.

"Oh! I couldn't back out after I had asked her; and I owed her a little
treat of some kind, for she invited me to see the cadet drill at her
brother's school.

"Well, after I had broken the ten dollar bill to get the tickets, the
first thing I knew it was all gone. I knew mother wouldn't mind, and
that I could tell her any time after she came home, but it never seemed
necessary to mention it in my letters and I never did."

"Oh, Milly!"

"Horrid of me, wasn't it? But I had worse temptations. My pocket money
is so very skimpy compared with what the other girls have, and with
what I have, too, in the way of credit for certain things, that I am
often really embarrassed and have to turn and twist and borrow and pinch
to make it stretch out. When you girls clubbed together and paid for
Polo's sisters at the Home, I wanted awfully to help, but I couldn't.
You see father lets me subscribe so much annually to the Home and he
sends in a check every year for me, and thinks that ought to be enough.
But I don't feel as though I was giving it at all, for it does not even
pass through my hands. I don't deny myself to give it, as Adelaide does
for her charities, and I haven't a penny for any special case of
distress or sudden emergency which I may happen to hear of.

"Do you know, Tib, that Satan actually suggested to me how easily I
might have extra pocket money by ordering things from Celeste, and
letting her sell them again in just the same way that she managed with
the golden net? I knew that she would be glad enough to do it, for I
found out afterward that Rosario Ricos bought that net of Celeste and
paid her full price for it! So you see she kept back five dollars on the
second sale, besides making a good commission on the first."

"But you didn't do it, Milly dear; you surely did not obtain your
charity money in any such dishonest way as that?"

"No, Tib. I didn't do it for charity. I some way felt that God would not
accept such a gift from me; but there came a time when I had a worse
temptation still. You know all last term papa used to ride with me every
Saturday afternoon either at the riding academy or in the Park. Well,
something is the matter with his liver; it hurts him to trot, and he has
had to give it up, and Wiggins took me out. But I hate riding with a
groom, and so one day when papa called I told him I didn't care for any
more riding this winter. This happened the week you went home to help
tend your mother when she was sick, and that is the reason you never
heard of it. I was taking father up to the studio when I said it, to
show him Professor Waite's Academy picture, and papa was so vexed with
me about my not wanting to ride that he didn't half notice the pictures.

"He took to Professor Waite, though, right away; and just as he was
leaving asked him if he rode. 'When I am so fortunate as to have the
opportunity,' Professor Waite replied.

"'Very good,' said papa. 'Then possibly you will oblige me by
accompanying my daughter and one of her friends on an occasional ride
in the park.' He explained that he had a good saddle horse, which
needed exercise, which he would be glad to have him use; and that,
what was more important, I needed exercise too, and was so perverse
that I did not want to take it alone. 'And now,' said he, 'the cruel
parent proposes, Milly, to pay for another horse for one of your other
girl friends. I suppose you will choose Adelaide, and if Professor
Waite will act as your escort occasionally, I think you can manage to
extract some pleasure from the exercise.'

"Of course I was perfectly delighted, and hugged papa, and called him a
dear old thing. Professor Waite, who had looked awfully bored and had
even begun to mumble something about being too busy, began to take an
interest in the matter as soon as Adelaide's name was mentioned, and
papa had an interview with Madame and got her permission to let us ride
every Saturday morning. Adelaide was down at her tenement, and it was
left that I was to tell her when she returned, and I thought everything
was settled. But when Adelaide came in she was looking troubled over
some of her tenants' tribulations and she only half listened to me.

"'I would like above all things to ride again,' she said 'as I used to
on the plains when I lived out West; but there is no use talking about
it, Milly dear, I can't do it. I have no riding habit, and I cannot
afford to have one made. Thank you just as much, but don't say another
word about it.'

"You can imagine how disappointed I was. I knew very well that neither
Madame nor mamma would let me ride alone with Professor Waite, even if
papa would permit it; and I knew, too, that the Professor would lose
every bit of interest in the plan if Adelaide did not go. I was not
thoroughly selfish, Tib. I wanted Adelaide to have a good time too, and
I wanted Professor Waite to be happy. I told myself that if he loved
Adelaide, I would do all I could to help him, and perhaps some day he
would remember that it was through me that he had won her, and like me
a little for it, and never suspect that I--that I----"

Her voice broke and she buried her head on my shoulder. "Dear Milly," I
said, caressing and soothing her as best I could. "Of course you were
not selfish. Well, and what happened next?"

"I couldn't give up the plan, Tib, and I thought that if all that kept
Adelaide from joining in it was the lack of a habit, that could be
easily arranged. I would make her a present of it. I was sure that
father would give me twenty-five dollars for my next birthday present,
and I thought it would do no harm to spend it in advance. So I asked
Celeste how much cloth it would take, and I had it sent her from
Arnold's, a beautiful fine dark-green broadcloth. And then I told
Adelaide what I had done and that she must go around to Celeste's with
me and be fitted. Do you believe it, she would not? She said that it
would be wrong for her to accept such a present from me; and besides,
nothing would induce her to ride with Professor Waite, for she couldn't
endure him. That put an end to the ride in the Park. Cynthia would have
taken Adelaide's place, but when I told Professor Waite that Adelaide
would not go, he looked so angry that I saw he wanted to get out of the
arrangement, and I suggested that perhaps we had better give up the
plan. He said, very well, just as I pleased, and looked so relieved that
I almost cried then and there. Papa was so provoked when I told him of
it that I did not dare say a word about the riding-habit, especially as
he had just handed me my little Swiss watch as my birthday present. So I
pretended to be pleased with it, and there was that dreadful cloth for
the riding-habit on my hands, and I didn't know what to do. Mamma was
still in Florida, and papa said that she was not very strong and must
not be worried--I must only write cheerful letters to her. I didn't feel
very cheerful, I assure you. Then Cynthia told me one day that she had
twenty dollars with which she wanted to purchase a winter suit and she
would like my advice about it. I was in debt just twenty dollars for the
cloth for the habit, and I told her about it and begged her to take it
off my hands. She went with me to Celeste's and liked it very much. The
only trouble was that her mother had intended the twenty dollars to pay
for both material and making, and of course she ought to get something
not nearly so nice.

"She said at last that if I would get Celeste to wait for her pay she
would take the dress and pay her later. I thought only of paying for the
material at Arnold's, for I had expected to have the money by that time,
and had asked them to make a separate bill out, and not put it on my
book that goes every month to papa. So we arranged it. Cynthia gave me
her twenty dollars and I settled for the cloth, and Celeste made the
dress for her, and furnished the trimmings. But how she did run them up!
She had a band of real sable around the hem of the skirt and trimmed the
jacket with it too; and made her that cute little toque with heads and
tails on it, and when the bill came in it was sixty dollars. Cynthia was
frightened. 'I never can pay it in the world,' she said. 'I think your
dressmaker is frightfully extortionate; and I had no idea it would be so
much.' I felt sorry for her and I felt, too, that I was to blame for
getting her into the predicament; so I said we would divide the expense,
and she should only pay half. But she grumbled at that, and said that I
had inveigled her into the trouble, and that she had a dressmaker on
125th Street who would have made the suit for ten dollars. When I
reminded her of the fur, she said she did not believe it was real sable,
and she didn't want it any way.

"I offered to take it to Gunther's and see if I could get something for
it, if she would rip it off, but she said she would do no such thing;
the dress would be a fright without it. It was all a miserable mess, and
I was so unhappy. It would have been some consolation if Cynthia had
been grateful, but she blamed me for everything, and I think that,
considering all I have done for her, she treated me very shabbily when
she said that Adelaide was the only lady in the Amen Corner, and she did
not care to speak to any of us again."

"That was like Cynthia, and I am sure that the loss of her friendship
can only be a benefit to you. But, Milly, you must bravely shoulder the
greater part of the blame yourself. Your first wrong step was in getting
the golden net without permission, then in letting Celeste pay you for
it and yet having it charged to your father. Then, again, in getting
the cloth for Adelaide's habit without consulting your father you
deliberately did wrong; and in bargaining with Cynthia, instead of going
straight to your father and confessing your fault, you waded still more
deeply in----"

"I know it; but there you are scolding me just like Winnie, and it
doesn't make the trouble a bit easier to bear to be told that I deserve
it all, and am a miserable little sinner. You needn't imagine that I did
not realize what a wretch I was; only I didn't seem to see the way out.
Everything I did to extricate myself got me deeper into the quicksand. I
saved every way, all that I could; one month I laid by two dollars and
thirty-seven cents, but the next I slipped back three and a quarter, and
Cynthia handed me a five dollar bill one day, and told me that was every
cent that she could pay, and I must let her off from the rest. And to
crown it all, Winnie found out about it, and nearly drove me wild. Oh,
Tib, I have been in such trouble, what with this dreadful bill that I
didn't dare tell papa about, and Professor Waite, and all my lessons so
hard, and my marks getting worse than ever, and Winnie turning on me. It
just seemed as if I would die, and I almost wished I could. I thought
seriously about killing myself only the night before last. I think if I
could have found any poison that would not have hurt I would have taken
it."

"Don't talk so, Milly; it is wicked. You would have done nothing of the
sort."

"But I would. I went into the chemical laboratory and looked at the
green and blue stuff in the test tubes, but I couldn't quite screw my
courage up to do more than taste just a little bit of one kind that
looked more deadly than the rest. It was horrid, and took the skin off
of the tip of my tongue. I ate a quarter of a pound of assorted mints
before I could get the taste out of my mouth. If I could have found some
laudanum, or something that would not have tasted so bad, or would have
killed me by putting me to sleep, I would have taken it that night, for
I was miserable enough to do anything, however unscrupulous and
reckless. If I hadn't been so very desperate perhaps I would never have
dared to do what I did do; the thing which really broke the meshes of
the golden net which seemed to have me in its toils. I didn't mean to
tell any one, but I was just driven to it, and I know you will keep my
secret--besides I have told you so much that you might as well know all.
Tib, I----"

"Milly, it is time we were all in bed." It was Winnie who spoke. She
stood in the doorway, cold and commanding, and Milly cowered before her.
She did not offer to kiss her, but shrank, frightened, away to her room.

"Oh, Winnie," I said, "why did you come in just then? Milly was just
about to confess to me what she did to get the money with which she has
just paid Celeste."

"You have no business to coax her secret from her," Winnie replied
angrily. "Whatever it is, you have no right to know it unless she has
wronged you. I am afraid our dear Milly is in deep waters. But whatever
she may have done lies between her own conscience and God, and I believe
that He will show her how to make restitution and keep, in the future,
strictly to the right. Oh, my poor, precious Milly! I wish I could
suffer all the consequences of your wrong doing for you, but I can't.
Every sin brings suffering, and it is the suffering that purifies. I
can't save you that experience, but I will shield you from open shame if
I can. I forbid you, Tib, to pry into Milly's affairs any further, to
question her, or allow her to confide in you, or even suspect her. Only
pray for her, and love her; that is all you can do."

"It is you who suspect her," I exclaimed hotly, "and unjustly, Winnie.
Milly has been extravagant and thoughtless; worse than that, she has
been underhanded and deceitful in regard to expenditures, but she did
not take the money from the cabinet; of that I am positive."

"Have I ever charged her with anything so dreadful?" Winnie asked. "Have
I not tried in every way to keep that suspicion from every one? Give me
credit for that, at least."

"In words, Winnie; but in your secret thought you have wronged her. I
know that you love her with a sort of a fierce, maternal love which
makes you want her to be perfect, and which fears the worst and tortures
yourself with imaginary impossibilities. I tell you that Milly has
learned a very thorough lesson in regard to deception; she will never
offend in that way again; and as to this affair of the cabinet, I would
as soon suspect you as her."

"Suspect me, then," Winnie cried. "I wish you would. I hoped that
Cynthia was going to lead suspicion my way, but it seems she can't do
it. I have too good a reputation." And Winnie laughed cynically. "Well,
the time may come when you may not think so well of me. Meantime, I
thank you with all my heart for believing in Milly."

CHAPTER IX.

"POLO."

[Illustration]

It must not be inferred that our life that winter was all intense and
tragical; if it had been so we could not have endured it. There were
patches of clear sky, and the sunlight of generous acts glinted through
the storm. We had all merry hearts and good digestions, and these bore
us up under our troubles with the buoyancy which is so mercifully
granted to youth and inexperience. Then, too, our thoughts were not
entirely taken up with ourselves and our own affairs. For a few days
after this we saw nothing of Mr. Mudge, and our attention was partly
diverted to another matter.

One day, earlier in the school year, Mrs. Booth, of the Salvation Army,
had addressed Madame's school on the need of work among the poor of New
York. One little parable which she gave made a great impression upon us.
I cannot repeat Mrs. Booth's eloquent language, but will give the main
points of the story.

"As a young girl," said Mrs. Booth, "I was very selfish and
hard-hearted. I did not care for the suffering and anguish of others.
It was not that I was naturally cruel, but I did not think of them at
all. I thought and cared only for myself, of parties and dresses, and of
having a good time--and this Dead Sea of selfishness was numbing every
generous impulse within me. My heart was growing to resemble a certain
spring which my mother took me to see when a little child. I remember
the walk through the wood beside a little brook which babbled over the
stones, and how the light of the sky shone down into its clear amber
waters, and the trees and the clouds were reflected in its quiet pools;
how long mosses fringed its stones, and water plants made a little
forest under its ripples; and how its depths were all alive with tiny
fish and happy living creatures seeking their food and sporting among
the cresses. But we came presently to a spring quite apart and very
different from the brook. The water was deep, and quiet, and clear, but
when I looked into it I was struck by a death-like influence, weird and
sinister. There were no minnows darting through the depths like silver
needles, or craw-fish burrowing in the banks, or water beetles skimming
the surface like oarsmen rowing their light wherries. There was no life
to be seen anywhere. The very stones had a strange, unnatural look; they
were white as marble; no mosses covered them, no water-lilies or algae
grew through the deadly water. The very leaves which had fallen into the
pool were white and heavy, as though carved in marble. The grasses which
grew downward and dipped into the spring were marble grasses, more like
clumsy branching coral than the delicate bending sprays above the waves.
It was a petrifying spring, and everything dipped in its waters was
presently coated with a fine, stony sediment and practically turned
to stone.

"So the deadly, petrifying spring of selfishness will turn the heart to
stone, and while having the form of life it will be cold and hard and
dead."

This was Mrs. Booth's little parable, and while none of our hearts had
been dipped in this petrifying spring, it woke us to new desires to do
more for the suffering poor.

Something happened a little after this talk, and several weeks previous
to the robbery, which gave a direction to our impulses. Milly and I were
returning from a shopping excursion one very cold and rainy Saturday,
when we were approached by a poor girl who was selling pencils on a
corner. "They are always useful," I said; "suppose we take some."

"I should perfectly love to," Milly replied, "but I haven't a cent."

The girl had noticed our hesitation and came to us. "Please buy some,
young ladies," she said; "I haven't had a thing to eat to-day."

"Then come right along with me," said Milly. "Mother lets me lunch at
Sherry's, whenever I am out shopping."

The girl followed us but stopped beneath the awning of the handsome
entrance. "That's too fine a place for me, Miss," she said. "Only swells
go there. It costs the eyes out of your head just for a clean plate and
napkin in there. How much do you s'pose now, a lunch would cost in that
there palace?"

"Not more than a dollar," Milly replied cheerfully.

"Glory!" exclaimed the girl, "if you mean to lay out as much as that on
me, why ten cents will get me all I want to eat at a bakery on Third
Avenue, and I'll take the balance home to the children."

"That is just where the awkwardness of papa's way of doing comes in,"
Milly said to me. "You see," she explained to the girl, "I've spent all
my money to-day, but I can have a lunch charged here."

Still the girl hesitated. "I'm not fit," she said, looking at her
dripping, ragged clothes. We were sheltered from view by the awning, and
in an instant Milly had taken off her handsome London-made mackintosh
and had thrown it around the girl. "There, that covers you all up," she
said, "and your hat isn't so very bad."

It was a tarpaulin, and, though a little frayed at the edges, its glazed
surface had shed the rain and it was not conspicuously shabby.

We passed into the ladies' restaurant and seated ourselves at one of
the little tables. Milly took up a menu and looked it over critically.
"Now I am going to order a very sensible, plain luncheon," she
announced. "No frills, but something hot and nourishing. We will begin
with soup. Papa would approve of that. He is always provoked when I cut
the soup. Green turtle? Yes, waiter, three plates of green turtle soup."

"Please excuse me," I interrupted. "I do not care for anything."

"No? Well, two plates. I usually loathe turtle soup, but I'm determined
to be sensible and have a solid lunch. Some way, I don't know why, I'm
not very hungry this afternoon."

"Perhaps the ice-cream soda we had at Huyler's has taken away your
appetite," I suggested.

The soup was brought and Milly sipped a little daintily, as she
afterward said merely to keep her guest company. The guest devoured it
ravenously; she had evidently never tasted anything so delicious; but
perhaps plain beef-stew would have seemed as good, for her feast was
seasoned with that most appetizing of sauces--hunger.

"What will you have next?" Milly asked politely, as the waiter removed
their plates.

"Whatever you take, Miss," the girl replied. "I ain't particular. I
guess anything here's good enough for me."

"I declare I don't feel as if I could worry down another morsel," Milly
answered. "There is nothing so surfeiting as green turtle. It makes me
almost sick to think of crabs or birds, or even shrimp salad. Let's skip
all that, and take the desert. Waiter, bring us two ices. Which flavor
do you prefer?" she asked of the pencil vender, and again the bewildered
girl left the choice to her hostess.

"Strawberry, mousse, and chocolate are too cloying," Milly remarked
meditatively. "Bring us lemon water ice and pistache. Don't you just
dote on pistache?"

"I never ate any, Miss."

"Then I shall have the pleasure of introducing you to something new.
You'll be sure to like it."

The girl did like it. She ate every morsel. Possibly something more
solid would have proved as satisfying, but Milly was pleased with her
evident appreciation.

"Why don't you eat the macaroons? Don't you like them? Would you rather
have kisses?"

"If you please Miss, might I take them home to the children?"

"Yes, I suppose so. It isn't exactly good form to put things in your
pocket, but they will be charged for just the same, even if we leave
them, so take them, quick, now that the waiter is not looking."

Although the waiter was not watching us, some one else was. A
faultlessly dressed gentleman approached at this juncture and greeted
Milly in an impressive manner.

"Why, Mr. Van Silver!" she exclaimed, a little fluttered by the
unexpected meeting. "I haven't seen you since last summer at
Narragansett Pier."

"And whose fault is that?" Mr. Van Silver asked plaintively. "If young
ladies will shut themselves up in convents, and never send their adoring
friends any invitation to a four o'clock tea or a reception or even a
school examination or a prayer meeting, where they might catch a glimpse
of them, it is the poor adorer's misfortune, and not his fault, if he is
forgotten. Won't you introduce me to your friends?"

"Certainly. Tib, this is Mr. Van Silver. Mr. Van Silver, allow me to
present you to Tib--I mean to Miss Smith. I can't introduce you to the
other young lady, because I don't know her name."

We had all risen and the last remark was made _sotto voce_. As we left
the building Mr. Van Silver sheltered Milly with his umbrella and the
waif followed with me. "Come with us to Madame's," I had said, "and
perhaps we can do something for you."

As we walked on together Milly and Mr. Van Silver carried on a lively
conversation, part of which I overheard, and the remainder Milly
reported afterward. She first told him of how we had met our new
acquaintance, and he seemed much interested.

"And so you have just given her a very solid and sensible lunch,
consisting of green turtle soup and ice cream." He laughed a low,
gurgling laugh and appeared infinitely amused.

"And macaroons," Milly added; "she has at least five macaroons in her
pocket for the children."

"Oh! yes, a macaroon a piece for the children. I wonder if I couldn't
contribute a cigarette for each of them," and he gurgled again in a
purring, pleasant way.

"You are making fun of me," Milly pouted, in an aggrieved way.

"Not at all. I think it was just like you, Miss Milly, to do such a
lovely thing. You are one of the most kind-hearted girls I know,--to
beggars, I mean,--but the young men tell a different story. There's poor
Stacey Fitz Simmons. I saw him the other day and he was complaining
bitterly of your hard-heartedness. He said you hardly spoke to him at
Professor Fafalata's costume dance."

"How unfair! he was my partner in the minuet. What more could he ask?"

"There's nothing mean about Stacey. He probably wanted you to dance all
the other dances with him. I told him that he was a lucky young dog to
be invited at all. Why did you leave me out?"

"I didn't think that a grown-up gentleman, in society, would care for
a little dance at a boarding-school, where he would only meet
bread-and-butter school girls."

"Oh! I'm too old, am I? Well, I must say you are complimentary. And it's
a fault that doesn't decrease as time passes. Well, I shall tell Stacey
that there's hope for him. You only care for very young men. Why did you
send back the tickets which he sent you for the Inter-scholastic Games!
You nearly broke his heart. He has been training for the past six
months simply and solely in the hope that you will see him win the mile
run."

"But I will see him. I wrote him that Adelaide's brother, Jim, had
already sent her tickets, which we should use, and as he might like to
bestow his elsewhere, I returned them."

"'Bestow them elsewhere?' Not he. Stacey is constant as the pole. He's
as loyal as he is thoroughbred. He was telling me about the serenade
that the cadet band gave your school last year. Some girl let down a
scrap basket from her window full of buttonhole bouquets. He wore one
pinned to the breast of his uniform for a week because he thought you
had a hand in it; and you never saw a fellow so cut up as he was when he
heard last summer that you had nothing to do with it, and even slept
sweetly through the entire serenade."

"Stacey is too silly for anything. It is perfectly ridiculous for a
little boy like him to talk that way."

"Little boy--let me see, just how old is Stacey, anyway! About
seventeen. Six months your senior, is he not? At what age should you say
that one might fall quite seriously and sensibly in love?"

"Oh! not till one is twenty at least," Milly answered quickly; but she
blushed furiously while she spoke.

"Sensible girl! But to return to the subject of the Inter-scholastic
Games. I am glad that you and your friend Miss Adelaide are going. They
are to take place out at the Berkeley Oval, you know. I have no doubt
that the roads will be settled and we shall have fine weather by that
time. May I have the pleasure of driving you out on my coach?"

"Certainly. That is, I must coax papa to write a note to Madame, asking
her to let us go."

"I will call at the bank and see your papa about it to-morrow, and
meantime do beam upon poor Stacey. And, by the way, here is something
which you may as well add to the macaroons for those poor children," and
he pressed a dollar bill into Milly's hand. Some one passed us rapidly
at that instant and gave the young man so questioning a glance that he
raised his hat, asking Milly a moment later if she knew the lady.

"Why, that is Miss Noakes!" Milly exclaimed, in dismay. "You must not go
a step further with us, Mr. Van Silver, or we will be reported for
'conduct.'"

"Far be it from me to gratify the evidently malicious desire of that
estimable person to report you young ladies. Good-by until the games,"
and with another bow he was gone.

As we approached the school building we saw Professor Waite leaving by
the turret door, and I asked him to allow us to enter by it, at the same
time requesting him to buy some of our new friend's pencils. He looked
at the girl closely, and as Milly led the way with her I explained how
we had found her.

"She is a picturesque creature," Professor Waite remarked. "I could make
her useful as a model. The girls pose so badly and dislike to do it so
much, it might be well to try this waif. Tell her to come on Monday, and
if the class like her well enough to club together and pay a small
amount for her services, we will engage her to sit for us."

He scribbled a line on one of his visiting cards for her to show
Cerberus, as we called our dignified janitor, who was very particular
about whom he admitted to the building; and I hastily followed our
_protege_ to the Amen Corner, where I found Adelaide talking with her
while Milly ransacked her wardrobe for cast-off clothing, finding only a
Tam O'Shanter, a parasol, and some soiled gloves.

"Can't you find her a pair of rubbers?" Adelaide asked. "The girl's feet
are soaked."

"Do you keep your own rubbers?" the waif asked. "That was my father's
business."

"What do you mean?" inquired Adelaide.

"My father was a rubber--a massage man for the Earl of Cairngorm."

"Oh!" said Adelaide, a light beginning to dawn upon her mind. "I meant
rubber overshoes, not a bath woman."

"We call those galoshes," said the girl, as Milly produced a pair which
were not mates. "I'm sure you've given me a fine setting out, young
ladies. I'll do as much for you if I ever has the chance. Who knowses?
Maybe some day I'll be a swell and you poor. Then you just call on me,
and don't you forget it." With which cheerful suggestion she left us,
grateful and happy. I took her down to the main entrance, and, showing
the card to Cerberus, explained that she had been engaged by Professor
Waite, and was to be allowed to enter every morning. He granted a
grudging consent, not at all approving of her appearance without the
waterproof, and I flew back to the Amen Corner to join in the general
conference. She had told Adelaide that her name was Pauline Terwilliger.
Her father had been English, her mother Swiss. They had knocked about
the world as foot-balls of fortune, but had lived longest in London,
where her father had died. Her brother had come to New York some years
previous, and her mother had brought the family over on his insistence.
But this brother had failed to meet them, as he had promised to do, on
their landing at Castle Garden. Their mother had lost his address, and
they were stranded in a strange city. They had advertised in the papers,
and had left their own address at the Barge Office, but her brother had
never appeared. They had taken a room in a tenement house, and the
mother had obtained some work, scrubbing offices and cleaning windows.
But she had taken cold and was now in a hospital, and Polo was trying to
support the two younger children.

"They are living in one of the worst tenement houses in Mulberry Bend,"
said Adelaide. "I would like to give them a room in my house, but it is
full; and cheap as the rent is, they could never pay it."

"The younger children ought to go to the Home," I suggested.

"The Home is full," Winnie replied. "I called there to-day. Emma Jane
says it just breaks her heart to look at the list of applications
waiting for a vacancy. Our dear Princess[2] has in mind a little
old-fashioned house which fronts on a side street, whose yard backs
against ours. She would like to have it rented as an annex. She says the
Home ought to have a nursery for very little babies. You know it does
not now take children under two years of age, on account of the expense
of nurses; but this would be such a charming place for them, and we
could call it the 'Manger,' and have it connected with the main building
with a long glass piazza. The scheme is a perfect one. All it needs
is money to carry it out. Unfortunately, that is lacking. I have
corresponded with all our out-of-town circles of King's Daughters. They
are doing all they can, and have pledged enough, with our other
subscriptions, to carry the Home through the coming year on its old
basis; but there isn't a cent to spare for a 'manger.'"

[2] "The Princess" was a quaint little foreigner, who gave the
girls botany lessons, and who originated the idea of the Home,
whose founding is related in the initial volume of this series.

"Would all of the new house be taken up by the nursery?" Adelaide asked.

"No; the Princess proposed that the upper story, which consists of four
little bedrooms, should be used as 'guest chambers' for emergency cases,
convalescent children returned from hospitals, and children who, on
account of peculiar distress,--like Polo's sisters,--it seemed best to
receive for a short time entirely free. The Princess thought that we
might like to club together and pay for one such room, and then we could
designate at any time the persons we would like to have occupy it. There
is always a list of applicants, which would be submitted to us to choose
from, in case we had no candidates of our own to suggest. The occupants
of such a room would then be as truly our guests as if we entertained
them in our own home. It would come in very nicely now in Polo's case."

Milly gave a deep sigh. "I wish I could help you, girls, but you know
just how I am situated."

Adelaide knitted her brows. "We must get up some sort of an
entertainment. It makes me tired to think of it, but there's no other
way."

"And in the mean time, Emma Jane must find room for those children some
way," said Winnie. "I will call a meeting of the Hornets in our corner
to-night, and we will pledge ourselves to raise money enough for one
guest chamber for these children, and until it is arranged for, Emma
Jane must make up beds for them on the school desks, or we can buy a
_retrousse_ bedstead for the parlor."

"_Retrousse_ bedstead! What's that?" Milly asked, in a puzzled way.

"Don't be dense, Milly; it's vulgar to speak of a turn-up nose, you
know; and I don't know why we should insult a parlor organ bedstead in
the same way. If we can't afford that sort of thing, they might turn the
dining tables upside down; they would make better cribs than the
children have now, I'll venture to say."

"You will tuck them up, I suppose, with napkins and table-cloths,"
Cynthia sneered. But Winnie paid no attention to the interruption.

"They will not mind a little crowding, and the thing will march right
along if we only plunge into it. They must not stay another night in
that old tenement. Polo said there was a rag-picker under them, and a
woman who had delirium tremens in the next room. I am going down
to-morrow afternoon to take them to the Home."

A meeting of our own particular circle of King's Daughters, which was
made up of ourselves and the "Hornets," took place that evening in the
Hornets' Nest. The Hornets were a coterie of mischievous girls rooming
in a little family like the Amen Corner, but in the attic story under
the very eaves. They took up the idea of the guest chamber with great
enthusiasm, but they were nearly as impecunious as ourselves. Suddenly
Little Breeze--our pet name for Tina Gale--exclaimed, "I have a notion!
We will invite the school to a 'Catacomb Party, and the underground
Feast of the Ghouls.'"

"How very scareful that sounds!" said Trude Middleton. "What is it,
anyway?"

"Oh! it's a mystery, a blood-curdling mystery. It will cost everybody
fifty cents, but it will be worth it. I want Witch Winnie to be on the
committee of arrangements with me, and you must all give us full
authority to do just as we please; and it is to be a surprise, and you
must ask no questions."

"We trust you. Where's it to be? In the sewers, or the cathedral
crypts?"

But Little Breeze refused to waft the least zephyr of information our
way, and there was nothing for it but to wait.

As we were returning rather noisily from the Hornets' Nest, we passed
Miss Noakes's open door, and she rang her little bell in a peremptory
manner. This meant that we were to report ourselves immediately to her,
and we did so.

"Young ladies," said Miss Noakes in her most disagreeable manner,
"before reporting you to Madame, I would like to give you an opportunity
of explaining a very irregular performance. As I was returning from a
meeting of the Young Women's Christian Association this afternoon, I saw
three occupants of your corner taking a promenade with a gentleman. This
is, as you know, an infringement of school rules, and I would like to
inquire whether the young man has any authorization from your parents
for such attention."

"Only two of us were concerned in this matter," I replied. "We met Mr.
Van Silver quite by chance, and he very politely offered Milly the
protection of his umbrella for a part of the way home, as she had none.
He is an old friend of her family and thoroughly approved of by Mr.
Roseveldt."

"How often have I told you young ladies never to go out, on the
pleasantest day, without an umbrella or waterproof, since a storm may
come up at any minute?"

"I did take my waterproof," Milly replied.

"Then you had no occasion to accept the gentleman's umbrella," Miss
Noakes said sternly.

"But I gave it to Polo," Milly stammered, quite fluttered.

"Polo! Who is Polo? and how can you tell me, Miss Smith, that Miss
Roseveldt and you were the only ones implicated in this disgraceful
affair, when I saw three of you enter the turret door?"

"The third girl was Polo, the new model whom Professor Waite has engaged
to pose for the portrait class."

"A professional model? Worse and worse! and how comes it that you were
walking with such a questionable character?"

I related the entire story as simply as possible; but it was evident
that Miss Noakes did not approve.

"A most extraordinary performance," she commented. "I feel it my duty to
report it to Madame."

"You may spare yourself that trouble, Miss Noakes," Adelaide replied.
"Tib, Winnie, and I are going to tell Madame all about it at her
next office hour. We want to ask her permission to get up a little
entertainment in behalf of Polo's little brother and sisters."

"And I shall suggest to Madame," Miss Noakes added, "the advisability of
inquiring into the character and antecedents of this girl, before she
allows her to become an accredited dependent of her establishment, or
authorizes the bestowal of charity upon her family. Artists' models are
often disreputable people with whom your parents would not be willing
that you should associate, and I advise you not to become too intimate
with a perfect stranger."

We had come through the ordeal on the whole quite triumphantly, but Polo
had excited Miss Noakes's enmity. She could never be won to regard her
as anything but a vagabond, and always spoke of her as 'that model girl'
in a tone that belied the literal signification of the words; and later,
when by dint of spying and listening Miss Noakes learned that a robbery
had been committed in the Amen Corner, her dislike and suspicion of poor
Polo led to very painful consequences. The relation of which, however,
belongs to a later chapter.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER X.

THE CATACOMB PARTY.

[Illustration]

Polo came on Monday and posed to the satisfaction of Professor Waite and
of the class. Winnie was successful in entering the two children at the
Home, and Adelaide had a happy thought for Polo herself, who was too old
to be received there. One of the smallest apartments in her tenement had
been taken by Miss Billings and Miss Cohens, two seamstresses, honest,
industrious old maids, who had lived and worked together since they were
girls. Adelaide called them the two turtle doves, the odd combination of
their name suggesting the nickname, and their fondness for each other
bearing it out. They were a cheerful pair, and their rooms were bright
with flowers and canaries. One morning Miss Billings woke to find her
friend dead at her side, having passed from life in sleep so peacefully
that she neither woke nor disturbed the faithful friend close beside
her.

The poor old lady was very lonely and was glad to take Polo in. The
young girl brightened her life, and her own influence on the nearly
friendless waif was excellent. In the intervals of posing Miss Billings
taught Polo how to cut and fit dresses. Polo helped her with her sewing,
and Miss Billings promised to take her into partnership by and by. Polo
was very happy and grateful, and the girls all liked her immensely. She
was a character in her way, an irresistible mimic. She would take off
Miss Noakes to the life, while she had a talent which I have never seen
equalled for making the most ludicrous and horrible faces. She was
almost pretty, and with Miss Billings's help, made over the odds and
ends of clothing bestowed upon her very nicely. Her one trinket was a
string of coral beads and a little cross which her brother had sent her
before she left England. She never gave up her faith in this brother.
"Albert Edward'll turn up some day rich," she said. She flouted the
idea that he might be dead. "He ain't the dying kind," she said, when
Cynthia suggested the possibility. "None of our family ain't, except
father. Why, I've been through enough to kill a cat, and I haven't died
yet."

She was especially devoted to Milly, to whom she felt, with reason, that
she owed all her good fortune. Professor Waite found her remarkably
serviceable as a model, from her versatility and ability to adapt
herself to any character, giving a great variety of types for us to
copy. When she wore the Italian costume, one would have thought her an
Italian, and a complete change came over her when she donned the German
cap and wooden shoes. "May be that's because I've lived amongst all
sorts of foreigners so much," she said, "and Albert Edward always said
I'd make an actress equal to the best. He said I had talent. I do pity
them as hasn't. I wouldn't be one of the common herd for anything."

Polo was certainly uncommon. Her use of the English language had an
individuality of its own. She hated Miss Noakes and said she had no
business to be "tryannic" (meaning tyrannical). She spoke of native
Americans as abor-jines (a distortion of aborigines), and intermingled
these little variations of her own with cockney phrases which were new
to our untravelled ears.

She found difficulty in understanding our words and expressions, and
once when Professor Waite told her to set up a screen she astonished us
all by uttering a most blood-curdling yell, under the impression that he
had commanded her to set up a _scream_.

She disliked Cerberus, and to save her from his scornful scrutiny and
contemptuous remarks, Professor Waite had a duplicate key made to the
turret door, by which Polo entered each morning and mounted directly to
the studio.

She was very diverting, but much as we liked her we could not forget
that we had assumed a grave responsibility in taking the support of her
little sisters upon our hands, and we now began to actively agitate the
plans for the Catacomb Party, which was to raise funds for the Annex
with its "Manger and Guest Chambers."

One event of interest to us occurred before the evening of the Catacomb
Party. This was the Annual Drill of the Cadet School. All of the Amen
Corner and the Hornets had invitations. We occupied front seats in the
east balcony of the great armory, vigilantly chaperoned by Miss Noakes.
Her best intentions could not prevent the young cadets from paying their
respects to us during the intervals of the drill.

The young men looked handsomely in their gala uniforms of white trousers
and gloves, blue coats, and caps set off with plenty of frogging and
brass buttons. They performed their evolutions with a precision which
would have done credit to a regiment of regulars--and received the
praise of General Howard, who reviewed them.

Out of all the battalion there were two boys in whom we were chiefly
interested: Adelaide's younger brother Jim, color sergeant of the
baby company, and Milly's friend Stacey Fitz Simmons, the handsome
drum-major.

Winnie insisted that Malcolm Douglas must have been thinking of the
practising of this cadet drum corps when he wrote:

"And all of the people for blocks around,
Boom-tidera-da-boom!
Kept time at their tasks to the martial sound,
Boom-tidera-da-boom!
While children to windows and stoops would fly,
Expecting to see a procession pass by,
And they couldn't make out why it never drew nigh,
With its boom-tidera-da--boom-a-diddle-dee;
Boom-tidera-da-boom!

It would seem such vigor must soon abate;
Boom-tidera-da-boom!
But they still keep at it, early and late;
Boom-tidera-da-boom!
So if it should be that a war breaks out,
They'll all be ready, I have no doubt,
To help in putting the foe to rout,
With their boom-tidera-da-boom--
_Boom-tidera-da-boom--_
Boom-tidera-da--boom-a-diddle-dee,
Boom-Boom-_Boom_!"

Stacey was seventeen, tall for his age, with a little feathery mustache
outlining his finely cut upper lip. He was elegant in appearance and
manners, and we all admired and liked him with the exception of
perverse, wilful Milly. Jim was thirteen and small for his years. The
life of privation which he had led during a period when he had been
lost, the account of which has been given in the previous volume, had
stunted his growth, and given him an appearance of delicacy. But Jim was
wiry, and possessed great endurance, and his drilling that evening was
noticeable for its accuracy and spirit. Adelaide and Jim were deeply
attached to one another. They wrote each other long letters every week,
remarkable for their perfect confidence. As Jim's letters give an
insight not only into his life at the cadet school, but also into the
relations which subsisted between several of the cadets and members of
our own school, as well as into a _contretemps_ which introduced great
consternation into the Catacomb Party, I will choose two from Adelaide's
packet and insert them before describing the mystic entertainment of the
Council of Ten.

LETTER NO. 1.

DEAR SISTER:

I like the barracks better than I d

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