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A World of Girls: The Story of a School

by L. T. Meade · English · Gutenberg #43147 · 453,570 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A World of Girls: The Story of a School

Author: L. T. Meade


        
Release date: July 8, 2013 [eBook #43147]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/43147

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WORLD OF GIRLS: THE STORY OF A SCHOOL ***

A World of Girls
By L.T. Meade
Published by The New York Book Company, New York.
This edition dated 1910.

A World of Girls, by L.T. Meade.

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________
A WORLD OF GIRLS, BY L.T. MEADE.

CHAPTER ONE.

"GOOD-BYE" TO THE OLD LIFE.

"Me want to see Hetty," said an imperious baby voice.

"No, no; not this morning, Miss Nan, dear."

"Me do want to see Hetty," was the quick, impatient reply.  And a sturdy
indignant little face looked up at Nurse, to watch the effect of the
last decisive words.

Finding no affirmative reply on Nurse's placid face, the small lips
closed firmly--two dimples came and went on two very round cheeks--the
mischievous brown eyes grew full of laughter, and the next moment the
little questioner had squeezed her way through a slightly open door, and
was toddling down the broad stone stairs and across a landing to Hetty's
room.  The room door was open, so the truant went in.  A bed with the
bedclothes all tossed about, a half worn-out slipper on the floor, a
very untidy dressing-table met her eyes, but no Hetty.

"Me want Hetty, me do," piped the treble voice, and then the little feet
commenced a careful and watchful pilgrimage, the lips still firmly shut,
the dimples coming and going, and the eyes throwing many upward glances
in the direction of Nurse and the nursery.

No pursuit as yet, and great, great hope of finding Hetty somewhere in
the down-stair regions.  Ah, now, how good! those dangerous stairs had
been descended, and the little voice calling in shrill tones for Hetty
rang out in the wide hall.

"Let her come to me," suddenly said an answering voice, and a girl of
about twelve, dressed in deep mourning, suddenly opened the door of a
small study and clasped the little one in her arms.

"So you have found me, my precious, my dearest!  Brave, plucky little
Nan, you have got away from Nurse and found me out!  Come into the
study, now, darling, and you shall have some breakfast."

"Me want a bicky, Hetty," said the baby voice; the round arms clasped
Hester's neck, but the brown eyes were already travelling eagerly over
the breakfast table in quest of spoil for those rosy little lips.

"Here are two biscuits, Nan.  Nan, look me in the face--here, sit steady
on my knee; you lose me, don't you Nan?"

"Course me do," said the child.

"And I'm going away from you, Nan, darling.  For months and months I
won't see anything of you.  My heart will be always with you, and I
shall think of you morning, noon, and night.  I love no one as I love
you, Nan.  You will think of me, and love me too; won't you, Nan?"

"Me will," said Nan; "me want more bicky, Hetty."

"Yes, yes," answered Hester; "put your arms tight round my neck, and you
shall have sugar, too.  Tighter than that, Nan, and you shall have two
lumps of sugar--oh, yes, you shall--I don't care if it makes you sick--
you shall have just what you want the last moment we are together."

Baby Nan was only too pleased to crumple up a crape frill and to smear a
black dress with sticky little fingers for the sake of the sugar which
Hetty plied her with.

"More, Hetty," she said; "me'll skeeze 'oo vedy tight for more."

On this scene Nurse unexpectedly entered.

"Well, I never! and so you found your way all downstairs by yourself,
you little toddle.  Now, Miss Hetty, I hope you haven't been giving the
precious lamb sugar; you know it never does suit the little dear.  Oh,
fie! baby; and what sticky hands!  Miss Hetty, she has crumpled all your
crape frills."

"What matter?" said Hester.  "I wanted a good hug, and I gave her three
or four lumps.  Babies won't squeeze you tight for nothing.  There, my
Nancy, go back to Nurse.  Nurse, take her away; I'll break down in a
minute if I see her looking at me with that little pout."

Nurse took the child into her arms.

"Good-bye, Miss Hester, dear.  Try to be a good girl at school.  Take my
word, missy--things won't be as dark as they seem."

"Good-bye, Nurse," said Hester hastily.  "Is that you, father? are you
calling me?"

She gathered up her muff and gloves, and ran out of the little study
where she had been making believe to eat breakfast.  A tall,
stern-looking man was in the hall, buttoning on an overcoat; a brougham
waited at the door.  The next moment Hester and her father were bowling
away in the direction of the nearest railway station.  Nan's little
chubby face had faded from view.  The old square grey house, sacred to
Hester because of Nan, had also disappeared; the avenue even was past,
and Hester closed her bright brown eyes.  She felt that she was being
pushed out into a cold world, and was no longer in the same snug nest
with Nan.  An intolerable pain was at her heart; she did not glance at
her father, who during their entire drive occupied himself over his
morning paper.  At last they reached the railway station, and just as
Sir John Thornton was handing his daughter into a comfortable
first-class carriage, marked "For Ladies only," and was presenting her
with her railway ticket and a copy of the last week's illustrated
newspaper, he spoke--

"The guard will take care of you, Hester.  I am giving him full
directions, and he will come to you at every station, and bring you tea
or any refreshment you may require.  This train takes you straight to
Sefton, and Mrs Willis will meet you, or send for you there.  Good-bye,
my love; try to be a good girl, and curb your wild spirits.  I hope to
see you very much improved when you come home at Midsummer.  Good-bye,
dear, good-bye.  Ah, you want to kiss me--well, just one kiss.  There--
oh, my dear! you know I have a great dislike to emotion in public."

Sir John Thornton said this because a pair of arms had been flung
suddenly round his neck, and two kisses imprinted passionately on his
sallow cheek.  A tear also rested on his cheek, but that he wiped away.

CHAPTER TWO.

TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.

The train moved rapidly on its way, and the girl in one corner of the
railway carriage cried silently behind her crape veil.  Her tears were
very subdued, but her heart felt sore, bruised, indignant; she hated the
idea of school-life before her, she hated the expected restraints and
the probable punishments; she fancied herself going from a free life
into a prison, and detested it accordingly.

Three months before, Hester Thornton had been one of the happiest,
brightest, and merriest of little girls in ---shire; but the mother who
was her guardian angel, who had kept the frank and spirited child in
check without appearing to do so, who had guided her by the magical
power of love and not in the least by that of fear, had met her death
suddenly by means of a carriage accident, and Hester and baby Nan were
left motherless.  Several little brothers and sisters had come between
Hester and Nan, but from various causes they had all died in their
infancy, and only the eldest and youngest of Sir John Thornton's family
remained.

Hester's father was stern, uncompromising.  He was a very just and
upright man, but he knew nothing of the ways of children, and when
Hester in her usual tom-boyish fashion climbed trees and tore her
dresses, and rode bare-backed on one or two of his most dangerous
horses, he not only tried a little sharp, and therefore useless,
correction, but determined to take immediate steps to have his wild and
rather unmanageable little daughter sent to a first-class school.
Hester was on her way there now, and very sore was her heart, and
indignant her impulses.  Father's "good-bye" seemed to her to be the
crowning touch to her unhappiness, and she made up her mind not to be
good, not to learn her lessons, not to come home at Midsummer crowned
with honours and reduced to an every-day and pattern little girl.  No,
she would be the same wild Hetty as of yore: and when father saw that
school could do nothing for her, that it could never make her into a
good and ordinary little girl, he would allow her to remain at home.  At
home there was, at least, Nan to love, and there was mother to remember.

Hetty was a child of the strongest feelings.  Since her mother's death
she had scarcely mentioned her name.  When her father alluded to his
wife, Hester ran out of the room: when the servants spoke of their late
mistress, Hester turned pale, stamped her feet, and told them to be
quiet.

"You are not worthy to speak of my mother," she electrified them all one
day by exclaiming.  "My mother is an angel now, and you--oh, you are not
fit to breathe her name!"

Only to one person would Hetty ever voluntarily say a word about the
beloved dead mother, and that was to little Nan.  Nan said her prayers,
as she expressed it, to Hetty now; and Hetty taught her a little phrase
to use instead of the familiar "God bless mother."  She taught the child
to say, "Thank God for making mother into a beautiful angel;" and when
Nan asked what an angel was, and how the cosy mother she remembered
could be turned into one, Hester was beguiled into a soft and tearful
talk, and she drew several lovely pictures of white-robed angels, until
the little child was satisfied and said--

"Me like that, Hetty--me'll be angel too, Hetty, same as mamma."

These talks with Nan, however, did not come very often, and of late they
had almost ceased, for Nan was only two and a half, and the strange sad
fact remained that in three months she had almost forgotten her mother.

Hester on her way to school this morning cried for some time, then she
sat silent, her crape veil still down, and her eyes watching furtively
her fellow-passengers.  They consisted of two rather fidgety old ladies,
who wrapped themselves in rugs, were very particular on the question of
hot bottles, and watched Hester in their turn with considerable
curiosity and interest.  Presently one of them offered the little girl a
sandwich, which she was too proud or too shy to accept, although by this
time she was feeling extremely hungry.

"You will, perhaps, prefer a cake, my dear?" said the good-natured
little old lady.  "My sister Agnes has got some delicious queen-cakes in
her basket--will you eat one?"

Hester murmured a feeble assent, and the queen-cake did her so much good
that she ventured to raise her crape veil and to look around her.

"Ah, that is much better," said the first little old lady.  "Come to
this side of the carriage, my love; we are just going to pass through a
lovely bit of country, and you will like to watch the view.  See; if you
place yourself here, my sister Agnes's basket will be just at your feet,
and you can help yourself to a queen-cake whenever you are so disposed."

"Thank you," responded Hester, in a much more cheerful tone, for it was
really quite impossible to keep up reserve with such a bright-looking
little old lady; "your queen-cakes are very nice, and I liked that one,
but one is quite enough, thank you.  It is Nan who is so particularly
fond of queen-cakes."

"And who is Nan, my dear?" asked the sister to whom the queen-cakes
specially belonged.

"She is my dear little baby sister," said Hester in a sorrowful tone.

"Ah, and it was about her you were crying just now," said the first
lady, laying her hand on Hester's arm.  "Never mind us, dear, we have
seen a great many tears--a great many.  They are the way of the world.
Women are born to them.  As Kingsley says--`women must weep.'  It was
quite natural that you should cry about your sweet little Nan, and I
wish we could send her some of these queen-cakes that you say she is so
fond of.  Are you going to be long away from her, love?"

"Oh, yes, for months and months," said Hester.  "I did not know," she
added, "that it was such a common thing to cry.  I never used to."

"Ah, you have had other trouble, poor child," glancing at her deep
mourning frock.

"Yes, it is since then I have cried so often.  Please, I would rather
not speak about it."

"Quite right, my love, quite right," said Miss Agnes in a much brisker
tone than her sister.  "We will turn the conversation now to something
inspiriting.  Jane is quite right, there are plenty of tears in the
world; but there is also a great deal of sunshine and heaps of laughter,
merry laughter--the laughter of youth, my child.  Now, I dare say,
though you have begun your journey so sadly, that you are really bound
on quite a pleasant little expedition.  For instance, you are going to
visit a kind aunt, or some one else who will give you a delightful
welcome."

"No," said Hester, "I am not.  I am going to a dreadful place, and the
thought of that, and parting from little Nan, are the reasons why I
cried.  I am going to prison--I am, indeed."

"Oh, my dear love!" exclaimed both the little old ladies in a breath.
Then Miss Agnes continued: "You have really taken Jane's breath away--
quite.  Yes, Jane, I see that you are in for an attack of palpitation.
Never mind her, dear, she palpitates very easily; but I think you must
be mistaken, my love, in mentioning such an appalling word as `prison.'
Yes, now I come to think of it, it is absolutely certain that you must
be mistaken; for if you were going to such a terrible place of
punishment you would be under the charge of a policeman.  You are given
to strong language, dear, like other young folk."

"Well, I call it prison," continued Hester, who was rather flattered by
all this bustle and Miss Jane's agitation; "it has a dreadful sound,
hasn't it?  I call it prison, but father says I am going to school--you
can't wonder that I am crying, can you?  Oh! what is the matter?"

For the two little old ladies jumped up at this juncture, and gave Hetty
a kiss apiece on her soft young lips.

"My darling," they both exclaimed.  "We are so relieved and delighted!
your strong language startled us, and school is anything but what you
imagine, dear.  Ah, Jane! can you ever forget our happy days at school?"

Miss Jane sighed and rolled up her eyes, and then the two commenced a
vigorous catechising of the little girl.  Really, Hester could not help
feeling almost sunshiny before that long journey came to an end, for she
and the Misses Bruce made some delightful discoveries.  The little old
ladies very quickly found out that they lived close to the school where
Hetty was to spend the next few months.  They knew Mrs Willis well--
they knew the delightful rambling, old-fashioned house where Hester was
to live--they even knew two or three of the scholars: and they said so
often to the little girl that she was going into a life of clover--
positive clover--that she began to smile, and even partly to believe
them.

"I am glad I shall be near you, at least," she said at last, with a
frank sweet smile, for she had greatly taken to her kind
fellow-travellers.

"Yes, my dear," exclaimed Miss Jane.  "We attend the same church, and I
shall look out for you on Sunday, and," she continued, glancing first at
her sister and then addressing Hester, "perhaps Mrs Willis will allow
you to visit us occasionally."

"I'll come to-morrow, if you like," said Hester.

"Well, dear, well--that must be as Mrs Willis thinks best.  Ah, here we
are at Sefton at last.  We shall look out for you in church on Sunday,
my love."

CHAPTER THREE.

AT LAVENDER HOUSE.

Hester's journey had really proved wonderfully agreeable.  She had taken
a great fancy to the little old ladies who had fussed over her and made
themselves pleasant in her behalf.  She felt herself something like a
heroine as she poured out a little, just a little, of her troubles into
their sympathising ears; and their cheerful remarks with regard to
school and school-life had caused her to see clearly that there might be
another and a brighter side to the gloomy picture she had drawn with
regard to her future.

But during the drive of two and a half miles from Sefton to Lavender
House, Hester once more began to feel anxious and troubled.  The Misses
Bruce had gone off with some other passengers in a little omnibus to
their small villa in the town, but Lavender House was some distance off,
and the little omnibus never went so far.

An old-fashioned carriage, which the ladies told Hester belonged to Mrs
Willis, had been sent to meet her, and a man whom the Misses Bruce
addressed as "Thomas" helped to place her trunk and a small portmanteau
on the roof of the vehicle.  The little girl had to take her drive
alone, and the rather ancient horse which drew the old carriage climbed
up and down the steep roads in a most leisurely fashion.  It was a cold
winter's day, and by the time Thomas had executed some commissions in
Sefton, and had reached the gates of the avenue which led to Lavender
House, it was very nearly dark.  Hester trembled at the darkness, and
when the gates were shut behind them by a rosy-faced urchin of ten, she
once more began to feel the cruel and desolate idea that she was going
to prison.

They drove slowly down a long and winding avenue, and, although Hester
could not see, she knew they must be passing under trees, for several
times their branches made a noise against the roof of the carriage.  At
last they came to a standstill.  The old servant scrambled slowly down
from his seat on the box, and, opening the carriage-door, held out his
hand to help the little stranger to alight.

"Come now, missy," he said in cheering tones, "come out, and you'll be
warm and snug in a minute.  Dear, dear!  I expect you're nearly froze
up, poor little miss, and it _is_ a most bitter cold night."

He rang a bell which hung by the entrance of a deep porch, and the next
moment the wide hall door was flung open by a neat maid-servant, and
Hester stepped within.

"She's come," exclaimed several voices in different keys, and proceeding
apparently from different quarters.  Hester looked around her in a
half-startled way, but she could see no one, except the maid, who smiled
at her and said--

"Welcome to Lavender House, miss.  If you'll step into the porter's room
for one moment, there is a good fire there, and I'll acquaint Miss
Danesbury that you have arrived."

The little room in question was at the right-hand side of a very wide
and cheerful hall, which was decorated in pale tints of green, and had a
handsome encaustic-tiled floor.  A blazing fire and two lamps made the
hall look cheerful, but Hester was very glad to take refuge from the
unknown voices in the porter's small room.  She found herself quite
trembling with shyness, and cold, and an indescribable longing to get
back to Nan; and as she waited for Miss Danesbury and wondered fearfully
who or what Miss Danesbury was, she scarcely derived any comfort from
the blazing fire near which she stood.

"Rather tall for her age, but I fear, I greatly fear, a little sulky,"
said a voice behind her; and when she turned round in an agony of
trepidation and terror, she suddenly found herself face to face with a
tall, kind-looking, middle-aged lad and also with a bright gipsy-looking
girl.

"Annie Forest, how very naughty of you to hide behind the door!  You are
guilty of disobedience in coming into the room without leave.  I must
report you, my dear; yes, I really must.  You lose two good conduct
marks for this, and will probably have thirty lines in addition to your
usual quantity of French poetry."

"But she won't tell on me, she won't, dear old Danesbury," said the
girl; "she couldn't be so hard-hearted, the precious love, particularly
as curiosity happens to be one of her own special little virtues!  Take
a kiss, Danesbury, and now, a you love me you'll be merciful!"  The girl
flitted away, and Miss Danesbury turned to Hester, whose face had
changed from red to pale during this little scene.

"What a horrid, vulgar, low-bred girl!" she exclaimed with passion, for
in all the experiences of her short life Hester had never even imagined
that personal remarks could be made of any one in their very presence.
"I hope she'll get a lot of punishment--I hope you are not going to
forgive her," she continued, for her anger had for the time quite
overcome her shyness.

"Oh, my dear, my dear! we should all be forgiving," exclaimed Miss
Danesbury in her gentle voice.  "Welcome to Lavender House, love; I am
sorry I was not in the hall to receive you.  Had I been, this little
_rencontre_ would not have occurred.  Annie Forest meant no harm,
however--she's a wild little sprite, but affectionate.  You and she will
be the best friends possible by-and-by.  Now, let me take you to your
room; the gong for tea will sound in exactly five minutes, and I am sure
you will be glad of something to eat."

Miss Danesbury then led Hester across the hall and up some broad, low,
thickly-carpeted stairs.  When they had ascended two flights, and were
standing on a handsome landing, she paused.

"Do you see this baize door, dear?" she said.  "This is the entrance to
the school part of the house.  This part that we are now in belongs
exclusively to Mrs Willis, and the girls are never allowed to come here
without leave.  All the school-life is lived at the other side of this
baize door, and a very happy life I assure you it is for those little
girls who make up their minds to be brave and good.  Now kiss me, my
dear, and let me bid you welcome once again to Lavender House."

"Are you our principal teacher, then?" asked Hester.

"I? oh dear, no, my love.  I teach the younger children English, and I
look after the interests and comforts of all.  I am a very useful sort
of person, I believe, and I have a motherly heart, dear, and it is a way
with little girls to come to me when they are in trouble.  Now, my love,
we must not chatter any longer.  Take my hand, and let us get to your
room as fast as possible."

Miss Danesbury pushed open the baize door, and instantly Hester found
herself in a different region.  Mrs Willis's part of the house gave the
impression of warmth, luxuriance, and even elegance of arrangement.  At
the other side of the door were long, narrow corridors, with snow-white,
but carpetless floors, and rather cold, distempered walls.  Miss
Danesbury, holding the new pupil's hand, led her down two corridors, and
past a great number of shut doors, behind which Hester could near
suppressed laughter and eager, chattering voices.  At last, however,
they stopped at a door which had the number "32" written over it.

"This is your bedroom, dear," said the English teacher, "and to-night
you will not be sorry to have it alone.  Mrs Willis received a telegram
from Susan Drummond, your room-mate, this afternoon, and she will not
arrive until to-morrow."

However bare and even cold the corridors looked, the bedroom into which
Hester was ushered by no means corresponded with this appearance.  It
was a small, but daintily-furnished little room.  The floor was carpeted
with green felt, the one window was hung with pretty draperies, and two
little, narrow, white beds were arranged gracefully with French
canopies.  All the furniture in the room was of a minute description,
but good of its kind.  Beside each bed stood a mahogany chest of
drawers.  At two corresponding corners were marble washhand-stands, and
even two pretty, toilet tables stood side by side in the recess of the
window.  But the sight that perhaps pleased Hester most was a small
bright fire which burnt in the grate.

"Now, dear, this is your room.  As you have arrived first you can choose
your own bed and your own chest of drawers.  Ah, that is right, Ellen
has unfastened your portmanteau; she will unpack your trunk to-night,
and take it to the box-room.  Now, dear, smooth your hair and wash your
hands.  The gong will sound instantly.  I will come for you when it
does."

CHAPTER FOUR.

LITTLE DRAWING-ROOMS AND LITTLE TIFFS.

Miss Danesbury, true to her word, came to fetch Hester down to tea.
They went down some broad carpetless stairs, along a wide stone hall,
and then paused for an instant at a half-open door from which a stream
of eager voices issued.

"I will introduce you to your school-fellows, and I hope your future
friends," said Miss Danesbury.  "After tea you will come with me to see
Mrs Willis--she is never in the school-room at tea-time.  Mdlle.
Perier or Miss Good usually superintends.  Now, my dear, come along--
why, surely you are not frightened?"

"Oh, please, may I sit near you?" asked Hester.

"No, my love; I take care of the little ones, and they are at a table by
themselves.  Now, come in at once--the moment you dread will soon be
over, and it is nothing, my love--really nothing."

Nothing! never, as long as Hester lived, did she forget the supreme
agony of terror and shyness which came over her as she entered that
long, low, brightly-lighted room.  The forty pairs of curious eyes which
were raised inquisitively to her face became as torturing as forty
burning suns.  She felt an almost uncontrollable desire to run away and
hide--she wondered if she could possibly keep from screaming aloud.  In
the end she found herself, she scarcely knew how, seated beside a
gentle, sweet-mannered girl, and munching bread and butter which tasted
drier than sawdust, and occasionally trying to sip something very hot
and scalding which she vaguely understood went by the name of tea.  The
buzzing voices all chattering eagerly in French, and the occasional
sharp, high-pitched reprimands coming in peremptory tones from the thin
lips of Mdlle.  Perier, sounded far off and distant--her head was dizzy,
her eyes swam--the tired and shy child endured tortures.

In after-days, in long after-years when the memory of Lavender House was
to come back to Hetty Thornton as one of the sweetest, brightest
episodes in her existence--in the days when she was to know almost every
blade of grass in the gardens, and to be familiar with each corner of
the old house, with each face which now appeared so strange, she might
wonder at her feelings to-night, but never even then could she forget
them.

She sat at the table in a dream, trying to eat the tasteless bread and
butter.  Suddenly and swiftly the thick and somewhat stale piece of
bread on her plate was exchanged for a thin, fresh, and delicately-cut
slice.

"Eat that," whispered a voice--"I know the other is horrid.  It's a
shame of Perier to give such stuff to a stranger."

"Mdlle.  Cecile, you are transgressing: you are talking English," came
in a torrent of rapid French from the head of the table.  "You lose a
conduct mark, ma'amselle."

The young girl who sat next Hester inclined her head gently and
submissively, and Hester, venturing to glance at her, saw that a
delicate pink had spread itself over her pale face.  She was a plain
girl; but even Hester, in this first moment of terror, could scarcely
have been afraid of her, so benign was her expression, so sweet the
glance from her soft, full brown eyes.  Hester now further observed that
the thin bread and butter had been removed from Cecil's own plate.  She
began to wonder why this girl was indulged with better food than the
rest of her comrades.

Hester was beginning to feel a little less shy, and was taking one or
two furtive glances at her companions, when she suddenly felt herself
turning crimson, and all her agony of shyness and dislike to her
school-life returning.  She encountered the full, bright, quizzical gaze
of the girl who had made personal remarks about her in the porter's
room.  The merry black eyes of this gipsy maiden fairly twinkled with
suppressed fun when they met hers, and the bright head even nodded
audaciously across the table to her.

Not for worlds would Hester return this friendly greeting--she still
held to her opinion that Miss Forest was one of the most ill-bred people
she had ever met, and, in addition to feeling a considerable amount of
fear of her, she quite made up her mind that she would never be on
friendly terms with so underbred a girl.

At this moment grace was repeated in sonorous tones by a stern-looking
person who sat at the foot of the long table, and whom Hester had not
before noticed.  Instantly the girls rose from their seats, and began to
file in orderly procession out of the tea-room.  Hester looked round in
terror for the friendly Miss Danesbury, but she could not catch sight of
her anywhere.  At this moment, however, her companion of the tea-table
touched her arm.

"We may speak English now for half an hour," she said, "and most of us
are going to the play-room.  We generally tell stories round the fire
upon these dark winter's nights.  Would you like to come with me
to-night?  Shall we be chums for this evening?"

"I don't know what `chums' are," said Hester; "but," she added, with the
dawning of a faint smile on her poor, sad little face, "I shall be very
glad to go with you."

"Come then," said Cecil Temple, and she pulled Hester's hand within her
arm, and walked with her across the wide stone hall, and into the
largest room Hester had ever seen.

Never, anywhere, could there have been a more delightful play-room than
this.  It was so large that two great fires which burned at either end
were not at all too much to emit even tolerable warmth.  The room was
bright with three or four lamps which were suspended from the ceiling,
the floor was covered with matting, and the walls were divided into
curious partitions, which gave the room a peculiar but very cosy effect.
These partitions consisted of large panels, and were divided by slender
rails the one from the other.

"This is my cosy corner," said Cecil, "and you shall sit with me in it
to-night.  You see," she added, "each of us girls has her own partition,
and we can do exactly what we like in it.  We can put our own
photographs, our own drawings, our own treasures on our panels.  Under
each division is our own little work-table, and, in fact, our own
individual treasures lie round us in the enclosure of this dear little
rail.  The centre of the room is common property, and you see what a
great space there is round each fire-place where we can chatter and
talk, and be on common ground.  The fire-place at the end of the room
near the door is reserved especially for the little ones, but we elder
girls sit at the top.  Of course you will belong to us.  How old are
you?"

"Twelve," said Hester.

"Oh, well, you are so tall that you cannot possibly be put with the
little ones, so you must come in with us."

"And shall I have a railed-in division and a panel of my own?" asked
Hester.  "It sounds a very nice arrangement.  I hope my department will
be close to yours, Miss?"

"Temple is my name," said Cecil, "but you need not call me that.  I am
Cecil to all my friends, and you are my friend this evening, for you are
my chum, you know.  Oh, you were asking me about our departments--you
won't have any at first, for you have got to earn it, but I will invite
you to mine pretty often.  Come now, let us go inside.  Is not it just
like the darlingest little drawing-room?  I am so sorry that I have only
one easy chair, but you shall have it to-night, and I will sit on this
three-legged stool.  I am saving up my money to buy another armchair,
and Annie has promised to upholster it for me."

"Is Annie one of the maids?"

"Oh, dear, no!--she's dear old Annie Forest, the liveliest girl in the
school.  Poor darling, she's seldom out of hot water; but we all love
her, we can't help it.  Poor Annie, she hardly ever has the luxury of a
department to herself, so she is useful all round.  She's the most
amusing and good-natured dear pet in Christendom."

"I don't like her at all," said Hester; "I did not know you were talking
of her--she is a most rude, uncouth girl."  Cecil Temple, who had been
arranging a small dark green table-cloth with daffodils worked
artistically in each corner on her little table, stood up as the
newcomer uttered these words, and regarded her fixedly.

"It is a pity to draw hasty conclusions," she said.  "There is no girl
more loved in the school than Annie Forest.  Even the teachers, although
they are always punishing her, cannot help having a soft corner in their
hearts for her.  What can she possibly have done to offend you?--but
oh!--hush--don't speak--she is coming into the room."

As Cecil finished her rather eager defence of her friend, and prevented
the indignant words which were bubbling to Hester's lips, a gay voice
was heard singing a comic song in the passage--the play-room door was
flung open with a bang, and Miss Forest entered the room with a small
girl seated on each of her shoulders.

"Hold on, Janny love; keep your arms well round me, Mabel.  Now then,
here we go--twice up the room and down again.  No more, as I'm alive.
I've got to attend to other matters than you."

She placed the little girls on the floor amid peals of laughter, and
shouts from several little ones to give them a ride too.  The children
began to cling to her skirts and to drag her in all directions, and she
finally escaped from them with one dexterous bound which placed her in
that portion of the play-room where the little ones knew they were not
allowed to enter.

Until her arrival the different girls scattered about the large room had
been more or less orderly, chattering and laughing together, it is true,
but in a quiet manner.  Now the whole place appeared suddenly in an
uproar.

"Annie, come here--Annie, darling, give me your opinion about this--
Annie, my precious, naughty creature, come and tell me about your last
scrape."

Annie Forest blew several kisses to her adorers, but did not attach
herself to any of them.

"The Temple requires me," she said, in her sauciest tones; "my beloved
friends, the Temple as usual is vouchsafing its sacred shelter to the
stranger."

In an instant Annie was kneeling inside the inclosure of Miss Temple's
rail and laughing immoderately.

"You dear stranger!" she exclaimed, turning round and gazing full into
Hester's shy face, "I do declare I have been punished for the intense
ardour with which I longed to embrace you.  Has she told you, Cecil
darling, what I did in her behalf?  How I ventured beyond the sacred
precincts of the baize door and hid inside the porter's room?  Poor
dear, she jumped when she heard my friendly voice, and as I spoke Miss
Danesbury caught me in the very act.  Poor old dear, she cried when she
complained of me, but duty is Danesbury's motto; she would go to the
stake for it, and I respect her immensely.  I have got my twenty lines
of that horrible French poetry, to learn--the very thought almost
strangles me, and I foresee plainly that I shall do something terribly
naughty within the next few hours; I must, my love--I really must.  I
have just come here to shake hands with Miss Thornton, and then I must
away to my penance.  Ah, how little I shall learn, and how hard I shall
think!  Welcome to Lavender House, Miss Thornton; look upon me as your
devoted ally, and if you have a spark of pity in your breast, feel for
the girl whom you got into a scrape the very moment you entered these
sacred walls."

"I don't understand you," said Hester, who would not hold out her hand,
and who was standing up in a very stiff, shy, and angular position.  "I
think you were very rude to startle me, and make personal remarks the
very moment I came into the house."

"Oh, dear!--I only said you were tall, and looked rather sulky, love--
you did, you know, really."

"It was very rude of you," repeated Hester, turning crimson, and trying
to keep back her tears.

"Well, my dear, I meant no harm; shake hands, now, and let us make
friends."

But Hester felt either too shy or too miserable to yield to this
request--she half turned her back, and leaned against Miss Temple's
panel.

"Never mind her," whispered gentle Cecil Temple; but Annie Forest's
bright face had darkened ominously--the school favourite was not
accustomed to having her advances flung back in her face.  She left the
room singing a defiant, naughty song, and several of the girls who had
overheard this scene whispered one to the other--

"She can't be at all nice--she would not even shake hands with Annie.
Fancy her turning against our Annie in that way!"

CHAPTER FIVE.

THE HEAD-MISTRESS.

Annie Forest had scarcely left the room before Miss Danesbury appeared
with a message for Hester, who was to come with her directly to see Mrs
Willis.  The poor shy girl felt only too glad to leave behind her the
cruel, staring, and now by no means approving eyes of her school-mates.
She had overheard several of their whispers, and felt rather alarmed at
her own act.  But Hester, shy as she was, could be very tenacious of an
idea.  She had taken a dislike to Annie Forest, and she was quite
determined to be true to what she considered her convictions--namely,
that Annie was underbred and common, and not at all the kind of girl
whom her mother would have cared for her to know.  The little girl
followed Miss Danesbury in silence.  They crossed the stone hall
together, and now passing through another baize door, found themselves
once more in the handsome entrance-hall.  They walked across this hall
to a door carefully protected from all draughts by rich plush curtains,
and Miss Danesbury, turning the handle, and going a step or two into the
room, said in her gentle voice--

"I have brought Hester Thornton to see you, Mrs Willis, according to
your wish."

Miss Danesbury then withdrew, and Hester ventured to raise her eyes and
to look timidly at the head-mistress.

A tall woman, with a beautiful face and silvery white hair, came
instantly to meet her, laid her two hands on the girl's shoulders, and
then, raising her shy little face, imprinted a kiss on her forehead.

"Your mother was one of my earliest pupils, Hester," she said, "and you
are--no--" after a pause, "you are not very like her.  You are her
child, however, my dear, and as such you have a warm welcome from me.
Now, come and sit by the fire, and let us talk."

Hester did not feel nearly so constrained with this graceful and
gracious lady as she had done with her school-mates.  The atmosphere of
the room recalled her beloved mother's boudoir at home.  The rich,
dove-coloured satin dress, the cap made of Mechlin lace which softened
and shaded Mrs Willis's silvery hair, appeared homelike to the little
girl, who had grown up accustomed to all the luxuries of wealth.  Above
all, the head-mistress's mention of her mother drew her heart toward the
beautiful face, and attracted her toward the rich, full tones of a voice
which could be powerful and commanding at will.  Mrs Willis,
notwithstanding her white hair, had a youthful face, and Hester made the
comment which came first to her lips--

"I did not think you were old enough to have taught my mother."

"I am sixty, dear, and I have kept this school for thirty years.  Your
mother was not the only pupil who sent her children to be taught by me
when the time came.  Now, you can sit on this stool by the fire and tell
me about your home.  Your mother--ah, poor child, you would rather not
talk about her just yet.  Helen's daughter must have strong feelings--
ah, yes; I see, I see.  Another time, darling, when you know me better.
Now tell me about your little sister, and your father.  You do not know,
perhaps, that I am Nan's godmother?"

After this the head-mistress and the new pupil had a long conversation.
Hester forgot her shyness; her whole heart had gone out instantly to
this beautiful woman who had known, and loved, and taught her mother.

"I will try to be good at school," she said at last; "but, oh, please,
Mrs Willis, it does not seem to me to-night as if school-life could be
happy."

"It has its trials, Hester; but the brave and the noble girls often find
this time of discipline one of the best in their lives--good at the
time, very good to look back on by-and-by.  You will find a miniature
world around you; you will be surrounded by temptations; and you will
have rare chances of proving whether your character can be strong and
great and true.  I think, as a rule, my girls are happy, and as a rule
they turn out well.  The great motto of life here, Hester, is
earnestness.  We are earnest in our work, we are earnest in our play.  A
half-hearted girl has no chance at Lavender House.  In play-time, laugh
with the merriest, my child: in school-hours, study with the most
studious.  Do you understand me?"

"I try to, a little," said Hester, "but it seems all very strange just
now."

"No doubt it does, and at first you will have to encounter many
perplexities and to fight many battles.  Never mind, if you have the
right spirit within you, you will come out on the winning side.  Now,
tell me, have you made any acquaintances as yet among the girls?"

"Yes--Cecil Temple has been kind to me."

"Cecil is one of my dearest pupils; cultivate her friendship, Hester--
she is honourable, she is sympathising.  I am not afraid to say that
Cecil has a great heart."

"There is another girl," continued Hester, "who has spoken to me.  I
need not make her my friend, need I?"

"Who is she, dear?"

"Miss Forest--I don't like her."

"What! our school favourite.  You will change your mind, I expect--but
that is the gong for prayers.  You shall come with me to chapel,
to-night, and I will introduce you to Mr Everard."

CHAPTER SIX.

"I AM UNHAPPY."

Between forty and fifty young girls assembled night and morning for
prayers in the pretty chapel which adjoined Lavender House.  This chapel
had been reconstructed from the ruins of an ancient priory, on the site
of which the house was built.  The walls, and even the beautiful eastern
window, belonged to a far-off date.  The roof had been carefully reared
in accordance with the style of the east window, and the whole effect
was beautiful and impressive.  Mrs Willis was particularly fond of her
own chapel.  Here she hoped the girls' best lessons might be learned,
and here she had even once or twice brought a refractory pupil, and
tried what a gentle word or two spoken in these old and sacred walls
might effect.  Here, on wet Sundays the girls assembled for service; and
here, every evening at nine o'clock, came the vicar of the large parish
to which Lavender House belonged, to conduct evening prayers.  He was an
old man, and a great friend of Mrs Willis's, and he often told her that
he considered these young girls some of the most important members of
his flock.

Here Hester knelt to-night.  It is to be doubted whether in her
confusion, and in the strange loneliness which even Mrs Willis had
scarcely removed, she prayed much.  It is certain she did not join in
the evening hymn, which, with the aid of an organ and some sweet
girl-voices, was beautifully and almost pathetically rendered.  After
evening prayers had come to an end, Mrs Willis took Hester's hand and
led her up to the old, white-headed vicar.

"This is my new pupil, Mr Everard, or rather I should say, our new
pupil.  Her education depends as much on you as on me."

The vicar held out his hands, and took Hester's within them, and then
drew her forward to the light.

"This little face does not seem quite strange to me," he said.  "Have I
ever seen you before, my dear?"

"No, sir," replied Hester.

"You have seen her mother," said Mrs Willis--"Do you remember your
favourite pupil, Helen Anstey, of long ago?"

"Ah! indeed--indeed!  I shall never forget Helen.  And are you her
child, little one?"

But Hester's face had grown white.  The solemn service in the chapel,
joined to all the excitement and anxieties of the day, had strung up her
sensitive nerves to a pitch higher than she could endure.  Suddenly, as
the vicar spoke to her, and Mrs Willis looked kindly down at her new
pupil, the chapel seemed to reel round, the pupils one by one
disappeared, and the tired girl only saved herself from fainting by a
sudden burst of tears.

"Oh, I am unhappy," she sobbed, "without my mother!  Please, please,
don't talk to me about my mother."

She could scarcely take in the gentle words which her two friends said
to her, and she hardly noticed when Mrs Willis did such a wonderful
thing as to stoop down and kiss a second time the lips of a new pupil.

Finally she found herself consigned to Miss Danesbury's care, who
hurried her off to her room, and helped her to undress and tucked her
into her little bed.

"Now, love, you shall have some hot gruel.  No, not a word.  You ate
little or no tea, to-night--I watched you from my distant table.  Half
your loneliness is caused by want of food--I know it, my love; I am a
very practical person.  Now, eat your gruel, and then shut your eyes and
go to sleep."

"You are very kind to me," said Hester, "and so is Mrs Willis, and so
is Mr Everard, and I like Cecil Temple--but, oh.  I wish Annie Forest
was not in the school!"

"Hush, my dear, I implore of you.  You pain me by these words.  I am
quite confident that Annie will be your best friend yet."

Hester's lips said nothing, but her eyes answered "Never" as plainly as
eyes could speak.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

A DAY AT SCHOOL.

If Hester Thornton went to sleep that night under a sort of dreamy, hazy
impression that school was a place without a great deal of order, with
many kind and sympathising faces, and with some not so agreeable; if she
went to sleep under the impression that she had dropped into a sort of
medley, that she had found herself in a vast new world where certain
personages exercised undoubtedly a strong moral influence, but where on
the whole a number of other people did pretty much what they pleased--
she awoke in the morning to find her preconceived ideas scattered to the
four winds.

There was nothing of apparent liberty about the Lavender House
arrangements in the early morning hours.  In the first, place, it seemed
quite the middle of the night when Hester was awakened by a loud gong,
which clanged through the house and caused her to sit up in bed in a
considerable state of fright and perplexity.  A moment or two later a
neatly-dressed maid-servant came into the room with a can of hot water;
she lit a pair of candles on the mantelpiece, and, with the remark that
the second gong would sound in half an hour, and that all the young
ladies would be expected to assemble in the chapel at seven o'clock
precisely, she left the room.

Hester pulled her pretty little gold watch from under her pillow, and
saw with a sigh that it was now half-past six.

"What odious hours they keep in this horrid place!" she said to herself.
"Well, well, I always did know that school would be unendurable."

She waited for five minutes before she got up, and then she dressed
herself languidly, and, if the truth must be told, in a very untidy
fashion.  She managed to be dressed by the time the second gong sounded,
but she had only one moment to give to her private prayers.  She
reflected, however, that this did not greatly matter as she was going
down to prayers immediately in the chapel.

The service in the chapel the night before had impressed her more deeply
than she cared to own, and she followed her companions downstairs with a
certain feeling of pleasure at the thought of again seeing Mr Everard
and Mrs Willis.  She wondered if they would take much notice of her
this morning, and she thought it just possible that Mr Everard, who had
looked at her so compassionately the night before, might be induced, for
the sake of his old friendship with her mother, to take her home with
him to spend the day.  She thought she would rather like to spend a day
with Mr Everard, and she fancied he was the sort of person who would
influence her and help her to be good.  Hester fancied that if some very
interesting and quite out of the common person took her in hand, she
might be formed into something extremely noble--noble enough even to
forgive Annie Forest.

The girls all filed into the chapel, which was lighted as brightly and
cheerily as the night before; but Hester found herself placed on a bench
far down in the building.  She was no longer in the place of honour by
Mrs Willis's side.  She was one of a number, and no one looked
particularly at her or noticed her in any way.  A shy young curate read
the morning prayers; Mr Everard was not present, and Mrs Willis, who
was, walked out of the chapel when prayers were over without even
glancing in Hester's direction.  This was bad enough for the poor little
dreamer of dreams, but worse was to follow.

Mrs Willis did not speak to Hester, but she did stop for an instant
beside Annie Forest.  Hester saw her lay her white hand on the young
girl's shoulder and whisper for an instant in her ear.  Annie's lovely
gipsy face flushed a vivid crimson.

"For your sake, darling," she whispered back; but Hester caught the
words, and was consumed by a fierce jealousy.

The girls went into the school-room, where Mdlle.  Perier gave a French
lesson to the upper class.  Hester belonged to no class at present, and
could look around her, and have plenty of time to reflect on her own
miseries, and particularly on what she now considered the favouritism
shown by Mrs Willis.

"Mr Everard at least will read through that girl," she said to herself;
"he could not possibly endure any one so loud.  Yes, I am sure that my
only friend at home, Cecilia Day, would call Annie very loud.  I wonder
Mrs Willis can endure her.  Mrs Willis seems so ladylike herself,
but--Oh, I beg your pardon, what's the matter?"

A very sharp voice had addressed itself to the idle Hester.

"But, mademoiselle, you are doing nothing!  This cannot for a moment be
permitted.  Pardonnez-moi, you know not the French?  Here is a little
easy lesson.  Study it, mademoiselle, and don't let your eyes wander a
moment from the page."

Hester favoured Mdlle.  Perier with a look of lofty contempt, but she
received the well-thumbed lesson-book in absolute silence.

At eight o'clock came breakfast, which was nicely served, and was very
good and abundant.  Hester was thoroughly hungry this morning, and did
not feel so shy as the night before.  She found herself seated between
two strange girls, who talked to her a little and would have made
themselves friendly had she at all encouraged them to do so.  After
breakfast came half an hour's recreation, when, the weather being very
bad, the girls again assembled in the cosy play-room.  Hester looked
round eagerly for Cecil Temple, who greeted her with a kind smile, but
did not ask her into her inclosure.  Annie Forest was not present, and
Hester breathed a sigh of relief at her absence.  The half-hour devoted
to recreation proved rather dull to the newcomer.  Hester could not
understand her present world.  To the girl who had been brought up
practically as an only child in the warm shelter of a home, the ways and
doings of school-girl life were an absolute enigma.

Hester had no idea of unbending or of making herself agreeable.  The
girls voted her to one another stiff and tiresome, and quickly left her
to her own devices.  She looked longingly at Cecil Temple; but Cecil,
who could never be knowingly unkind to any one, was seizing the precious
moments to write a letter to her father, and Hester presently wandered
down the room and tried to take an interest in the little ones.  From
twelve to fifteen quite little children were in the school, and Hester
wondered with a sort of vague half-pain if she might see any child among
the group the least like Nan.

"They will like to have me with them," she said to herself.  "Poor
little dots, they always like big girls to notice them, and didn't they
make a fuss about Miss Forest last night!  Well, Nan is fond enough of
me, and little children find out so quickly what one is really like."

Hester walked boldly into the group.  The little dots were all as busy
as bees, were not the least lonely, or the least shy, and very plainly
gave the intruder to understand that they would prefer her room to her
company.  Hester was not proud with little children--she loved them
dearly.  Some of the smaller ones in question were beautiful little
creatures, and her heart warmed to them for Nan's sake.  She could not
stoop to conciliate the older girls, but she could make an effort with
the babies.  She knelt on the floor and took up a headless doll.

"I know a little girl who had a doll like that," she said.

Here she paused and several pairs of eyes were fixed on her.

"Poor dolly's b'oke," said the owner of the headless one in a tone of
deep commiseration.

"You _are_ such a breaker, you know, Annie," said Annie's little
five-year-old sister.

"Please tell us about the little girl what had the doll wifout the
head," she proceeded, glancing at Hester.

"Oh, it was taken to a hospital, and got back its head," said Hester
quite cheerfully; "it became quite well again, and was a more beautiful
doll than ever."

This announcement caused intense wonder and was certainly carrying the
interest of all the little ones.  Hester was deciding that the child who
possessed the headless doll _had_ a look of Nan about her dark brown
eyes, when suddenly there was a diversion--the play-room door was opened
noisily, banged-to with a very loud report, and a gay voice sang out--

"The fairy queen has just paid me a visit.  Who wants sweeties from the
fairy queen?"

Instantly all the little feet had scrambled to the perpendicular, each
pair of hands was clapped noisily, each little throat shouted a joyful--

"Here comes Annie!"

Annie Forest was surrounded, and Hester knelt alone on the hearth-rug.

She felt herself colouring painfully--she did not fail to observe that
two laughing eyes had fixed themselves with a momentary triumph on her
face; then, snatching up a book, which happened to lie close, she seated
herself with her back to all the girls, and her head bent over the page.
It is quite doubtful whether she saw any of the words, but she was at
least determined not to cry.

The half-hour so wearisome to poor Hester came to an end, and the girls,
conducted by Miss Danesbury, filed into the school-room and took their
places in the different classes.

Work had now begun in serious earnest.  The school-room presented an
animated and busy scene.  The young faces with their varying expressions
betokened on the whole the preponderance of an earnest spirit.
Discipline, not too severe, reigned triumphant.

Hester was not yet appointed to any place among these busy workers, but
while she stood wondering, a little confused, and half intending to drop
into an empty seat which happened to be close, Miss Danesbury came up to
her.

"Follow me, Miss Thornton," she said, and she conducted the young girl
up the whole length of the great school-room, and pushed aside some
baize curtains which concealed a second smaller room, where Mrs Willis
sat before a desk.

The head-mistress was no longer dressed in soft pearl-grey and Mechlin
lace.  She wore a black silk dress, and her white cap seemed to Hester
to add a severe tone to her features.  She neither shook hands with the
new pupil nor kissed her, but said instantly in a bright though
authoritative tone--

"I must now find out as quickly as possible what you know, Hester, in
order to place you in the most suitable class."  Hester was a clever
girl, and passed through the ordeal of a rather stiff examination with
considerable ability.  Mrs Willis pronounced her English and general
information quite up to the usual standard for girls of her age--her
French was deficient, but she showed some talent for German.

"On the whole I am pleased with your general intelligence, and I think
you have good capacities, Hester," she said in conclusion.  "I shall ask
Miss Good, our very accomplished English teacher, to place you in the
third-class.  You will have to work very hard, however, at your French,
to maintain your place there.  But Mdlle.  Perier is kind and
painstaking, and it rests with yourself to quickly acquire a
conversational acquaintance with the language.  You are aware that,
except during recreation, you are never allowed to speak in any other
tongue.  Now, go back to the school-room, my dear."

As Mrs Willis spoke she laid her finger on a little silver gong which
stood by her side.

"One moment, please," said Hester, colouring crimson, "I want to ask you
a question, please."

"Is it about your lessons?"

"No--oh, no; it is--"

"Then pardon me, my dear," uttered the governess, "I sit in my room
every evening from eight to half-past, and I am then at liberty to see a
pupil on any subject which is not trifling.  Nothing but lessons are
spoken of in lesson hours, Hester.  Ah, here comes Miss Good.  Miss
Good, I should wish you to place Hester Thornton in the third-class.
Her English is up to the average.  I will see Mdlle.  Perier about her
at twelve o'clock."

Hester followed the English teacher into the great school-room, took her
place in the third-class, at the desk which was pointed out to her, was
given a pile of new books, and was asked to attend to the history lesson
which was then going on.

Notwithstanding her confusion, a certain sense of soreness, and some
indignation at what she considered Mrs Willis's altered manner, she
acquitted herself with considerable spirit, and was pleased to see that
her class companions regarded her with some respect.

An English literature lecture followed the history, and here again
Hester acquitted herself with _eclat_.  The subject to-day was "Julius
Caesar," and Hester had read Shakespeare's play over many times with her
mother.

But when the hour came for foreign languages, her brief triumph ceased.
Lower and lower did she fall in her school-fellows' estimation, as she
stumbled through her truly English-French.  Mdlle.  Perier, who was a
very fiery little woman, almost screamed at her--the girls coloured and
nearly tittered.  Hester hoped to recover her lost laurels in German,
but by this time her head ached, and she did very little better in the
German which she loved than in the French which she detested.  At twelve
o'clock she was relieved to find that school was over for the present,
and she heard the English teacher's voice desiring the girls to go
quickly to their rooms, and to assemble in five minutes' time in the
great stone hall, equipped for their walk.

The walk lasted for a little over an hour, and was a very dreary penance
to poor Hester, as she was neither allowed to run, race, nor talk a word
of English.  She sighed heavily once or twice, and several of the girls
who looked at her curiously agreed with Annie Forest that she was
decidedly sulky.  The walk was followed by dinner; then came half an
hour of recreation in the delightful play-room, and eager chattering in
the English tongue.

At three o'clock the school assembled once more; but now the studies
were of a less severe character, and Hester spent one of her first happy
half-hours over a drawing lesson.  She had a great love for drawing, and
felt some pride in the really beautiful copy which she was making of the
stump of an old gnarled oak-tree.  Her dismay, however, was
proportionately great when the drawing-master drew his pencil right
across her copy.

"I particularly requested you not to sketch in any of the shadows, Miss
Thornton.  Did you not hear me say that my lesson to-day was in outline?
I gave you a shaded piece to copy in outline--did you not understand?"

"This is my first day at school," whispered back poor Hester, speaking
in English in her distress.  Whereupon the master smiled, and even
forgot to report her for her transgression of the French tongue.

Hester spent the rest of that afternoon over her music lesson.  The
music-master was an irascible little German, but Hester played with some
taste, and was therefore not too severely rapped over the knuckles.

Then came tea and another half-hour of recreation, which was followed by
two silent hours in the school-room, each girl bent busily over her
books in preparation for the next day's work.  Hester studied hard, for
she had made up her mind to be the intellectual prodigy of the school.
Even on this first day, miserable as it was, she had won a few plaudits
for her quickness and powers of observation.  How much better could she
work when she had really fallen into the tone of the school, and
understood the lessons which she was now so carefully preparing!  During
her busy day she had failed to notice one thing: namely, the absence of
Annie Forest.  Annie had not been in the school-room, had not been in
the play-room; but now, as the clock struck eight, she entered the
school-room with a listless expression, and took her place in the same
class with Hester.  Her eyes were heavy, as if she had been crying, and
when a companion touched her, and gave her a sympathising glance, she
shook her head with a sorrowful gesture, but did not speak.  Glasses of
milk and slices of bread and butler were now handed round to the girls,
and Miss Danesbury asked if any one would like to see Mrs Willis before
prayers.  Hester half sprang to her feet, but then sat down again.  Mrs
Willis had annoyed her by refusing to break her rules and answer her
question during lesson hours.  No, the silly child resolved that she
would not trouble Mrs Willis now.

"No one to-night, then?" said Miss Danesbury, who had noticed Hester's
movement.

Suddenly Annie Forest sprang to her feet.

"I'm going, Miss Danesbury," she said.  "You need not show me the way; I
can find it alone."

With her short, curly hair falling about her face, she ran out of the
room.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

"YOU HAVE WOKEN ME TOO SOON."

When Hester reached her bedroom after prayers on that second evening,
she was dismayed to find that she no longer could consider the pretty
little bedroom her own.  It had not only an occupant, but an occupant
who had left untidy traces of her presence on the floor, for a stocking
lay in one direction and a muddy boot sprawled in another.  The newcomer
had herself got into bed, where she lay with a quantity of red hair
tossed about on the pillow, and a heavy freckled face turned upward,
with the eyes shut and the mouth slightly open.

As Hester entered the room, from these parted lips came unmistakable and
loud snores.  She stood still dismayed.

"How terrible!" she said to herself--"oh, what a girl! and I cannot
sleep in the room with any one who snores--I really cannot!"

She stood perfectly still, with her hands clasped before her, and her
eyes fixed with almost ludicrous dismay on this unexpected trial.  As
she gazed, a fresh discovery caused her to utter an exclamation of
horror aloud.

The newcomer had curled herself up comfortably in _her_ bed.  Suddenly,
to her surprise, a voice said very quietly, without a flicker of
expression coming over the calm face, or the eyes even making an effort
to open--

"Are you my new school-mate?"

"Yes," said Hester, "I am sorry to say I am."

"Oh, don't be sorry, there's a good creature; there's nothing to be
sorry about.  I'll stop snoring when I turn on my side--it's all right.
I always snore for half an hour to rest my back, and the time is nearly
up.  Don't trouble me to open my eyes, I am not the least curious to see
you.  You have a cross voice, but you'll get used to me after a bit."

"But you're in my bed," said Hester.  "Will you please to get into your
own?"

"Oh, no, don't ask me; I like your bed best.  I slept in it the whole of
last term.  I changed the sheets myself, so it does not matter.  Do you
mind putting my muddy boots outside the door, and folding up my
stockings?  I forgot them, and I shall have a bad mark if Danesbury
comes in.  Good-night--I'm turning on my side--I won't snore any more."

The heavy face was now only seen in profile, and Hester, knowing that
Miss Danesbury would soon appear to put out the candle, had to hurry
into the other bed as fast as she could; something impelled her,
however, to take up the muddy boots with two very gingerly fingers, and
place them outside the door.

She slept better this second night, and was not quite so startled the
next morning when the remorseless gong aroused her from slumber.  The
maid-servant came in as usual to light the candles, and to place two
cans of hot water by the two wash-handstands.

"You are awake, miss?" she said to Hester.

"Oh, yes," replied Hester almost cheerfully.

"Well, that's all right," said the servant.  "Now I must try and rouse
Miss Drummond, and she always takes a deal of waking; and if you don't
mind, miss, it will be an act of kindness to call out to her in the
middle of your own dressing--that is, if I don't wake her effectual."

With these words, the housemaid approached the bed where the red-haired
girl lay again on her back, and again snoring loudly.

"Miss Drummond, wake, miss; it's half-past six.  Wake up, miss--I have
brought your hot water."

"Eh?--what?" said the voice in the bed sleepily; "don't bother me,
Hannah--I--I've determined not to ride this morning; go away--" then
more sleepily, and in a lower key, "Tell Percy he can't bring the dogs
in here."

"I ain't neither your Hannah, nor your Percy, nor one of the dogs,"
replied the rather irate Alice--"There, get up, miss, do.  I never see
such a young lady for sleeping, never."

"I won't be bothered," said the occupant of the bed, and now she turned
deliberately on her side and snored more loudly than ever.

"There's no help for it," said Alice: "I have to do it nearly every
morning, so don't you be startled, miss.  Poor thing, she would never
have a good conduct mark but for me.  Now then, here goes.  You needn't
be frightened, miss--she don't mind it the least bit in the world."

Here Alice seized a rough Turkish towel, placed it under the sleepy head
with its shock of red hair, and, dipping a sponge in a basin of icy cold
water, dashed it on the white face.

This remedy proved effectual; two large pale blue eyes opened wide, a
voice said in a tranquil and unmoved tone--

"Oh, thank you, Alice.  So I'm back at this horrid, detestable school
again?"

"Get your feet well on the carpet, Miss Drummond, before you falls off
again," said the servant.  "Now then, you'd better get dressed as fast
as possible, miss--you have lost five minutes already."

Hester, who had laughed immoderately during this little scene, was
already up and going through the processes of her toilet.  Miss
Drummond, seated on the edge of her bed, regarded her with sleepy eyes.

"So you are my new room-mate?" she said--"What's your name?"

"Hester Thornton," replied Hetty with dignity.

"Oh--I'm Susy Drummond--you may call me Susy if you like."

Hester made no response to this gracious invitation.

Miss Drummond sat motionless, gazing down at her toes.

"Had not you better get dressed?" said Hester after a long pause, for
she really feared the young lady would fall asleep where she was
sitting.

Miss Drummond started.

"Dressed!  So I will, dear creature.  Have the sweet goodness to hand me
my clothes."

"Where are they?" asked Hester rather crossly, for she did not care to
act as lady's-maid.

"They are over there, on a chair, in that lovely heap with a shawl flung
over them.  There, toss them this way--I'll get into them somehow."

Miss Drummond did manage to get into her garments; but her whole
appearance was so heavy and untidy when she was dressed, that Hester by
the very force of contrast felt obliged to take extra pains with her own
toilet.

"Now, that's a comfort," said Susan, "I'm in my clothes.  How bitter it
is!  There's one comfort, the chapel will be warm.  I often catch forty
winks in chapel--that is, if I'm lucky enough to get behind one of the
tall girls, where Mrs Willis won't see me.  It does seem to me,"
continued Susan in a meditative tone, "the strangest thing why girls are
not allowed sleep enough."

Hester was pinning a clean collar round her neck when Miss Drummond came
up close, leaned over the dressing-table, and regarded her with languid
curiosity.

"A penny for your thoughts.  Miss Prunes and Prism."

"Why do you call me that?" said Hester angrily.

"Because you look like it, sweet.  Now, don't be cross, little pet--no
one ever yet was cross with sleepy Susy Drummond.  Now, tell me, love,
what had you for breakfast yesterday?"

"I'm sure I forget," said Hester.

"You _forget_?--how extraordinary!  You're sure that it was not buttered
scones?  We have them sometimes, and I tell you they are enough even to
keep a girl awake.  Well, at least you can let me know if the eggs were
very stale, and the coffee very weak, and whether the butter was
second-rate Dorset, or good and fresh.  Come now--my breakfast is of
immense importance to me, I assure you."

"I dare say," answered Hester.  "You can see for yourself this morning
what is on the table--I can only inform you that it was good enough for
me, and that I don't remember what it was."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Susan Drummond, "I'm afraid she has a little
temper of her own--poor little room-mate.  I wonder if chocolate-creams
would sweeten that little temper?"

"Please don't talk--I'm going to say my prayers," said Hester.

She did kneel down, and made a slight effort to ask God to help her
through the day's work and the day's play.  In consequence, she rose
from her knees with a feeling of strength and sweetness which even the
feeblest prayer when uttered in earnest can always give.

The prayer-gong now sounded, and all the girls assembled in the chapel.
Miss Drummond was greeted by many appreciative nods, and more than one
pair of longing eyes gazed in the direction of her pockets, which stuck
out in the most ungainly fashion.

Hester was relieved to find that her room-mate did not share her class
in school, nor sit anywhere near her at table.

When the half-hour's recreation after breakfast arrived, Hester,
determined to be beholden to none of her school-mates for companionship,
seated herself comfortably in an easy chair, with a new book.  Presently
she was startled by a little stream of lollipops falling in a shower
over her head, down her neck, and into her lap.  She started up with an
expression of disgust.  Instantly Miss Drummond sank into the vacated
chair.

"Thank you, love," she said, in a cosy, purring voice.  "Eat your
lollipops, and look at me; I'm going to sleep.  Please pull my toe when
Danesbury comes in.  Oh, fie!  Prunes and Prisms--not so cross--eat your
lollipops; they will sweeten the expression of that--little--face."

The last words came out drowsily.  As she said "face," Miss Drummond's
languid eyes were closed--she was fast asleep.

CHAPTER NINE.

WORK AND PLAY.

In a few days Hester was accustomed to her new life.  She fell into its
routine, and in a certain measure won the respect of her fellow-pupils.
She worked hard, and kept her place in class, and her French became a
little more like the French tongue and a little less like the English.
She showed marked ability in many of her other studies, and the
mistresses and masters spoke well of her.  After a fortnight spent at
Lavender House, Hester had to acknowledge that the little Misses Bruce
were right, and that school might be a really enjoyable place for some
girls.  She would not yet admit that it could be enjoyable for her.
Hester was too shy, too proud, too exacting to be popular with her
school-fellows.  She knew nothing of school-girl life--she had never
learned the great secret of success in all life's perplexities, the
power to give and take.  It never occurred to Hester to look over a
hasty word, to take no notice of an envious or insolent look.  As far as
her lessons were concerned she was doing well; but the hardest lesson of
all, the training of mind and character, which the daily companionship
of her school-fellows alone could give her, in this lesson she was
making no way.  Each day she was shutting herself up more and more from
all kindly advances, and the only one in the school whom she sincerely
and cordially liked was gentle Cecil Temple.

Mrs Willis had some ideas with regard to the training of her young
people which were peculiarly her own.  She had found them successful,
and, during her thirty years' experience, had never seen reason to alter
them.  She was determined to give her girls a great deal more liberty
than was accorded in most of the boarding-schools of her day.  She never
made what she called impossible rules; she allowed the girls full
liberty to chatter in their bedrooms; she did not watch them during
play-hours; she never read the letters they received, and only
superintended the specimen home letter which each girl was required to
write once a month.  Other head-mistresses wondered at the latitude she
allowed her girls, but she invariably replied--

"I always find it works best to trust them.  If a girl is found to be
utterly untrustworthy.  I don't expel her, but I request her parents to
remove her to a more strict school."

Mrs Willis also believed much in that quiet half-hour each evening,
when the girls who cared to come could talk to her alone.  On these
occasions she always dropped the school-mistress and adopted the _role_
of the mother.  With a very refractory pupil she spoke in the tenderest
tones of remonstrance and affection at these times.  If her words
failed--if the discipline of the day and the gentle sympathy of these
moments at night did not effect their purpose, she had yet another
expedient--the vicar was asked to see the girl who would not yield to
this motherly influence.

Mr Everard had very seldom taken Mrs Willis's place.  As he said to
her, "Your influence must be the mainspring.  At supreme moments I will
help you with personal influence, but otherwise, except for my nightly
prayers with your girls, and my weekly class, and the teachings which
they with others hear from my lips Sunday after Sunday, they had better
look to you."

The girls knew this rule well, and the one or two rare instances in the
school history where the vicar had stepped in to interfere, were spoken
of with bated breath and with intense awe.

Mrs Willis had a great idea of bringing as much happiness as possible
into young lives.  It was with this idea that she had the quaint little
compartments railed off in the play-room.

"For the elder girls," she would say, "there is no pleasure so great as
having, however small the spot, a little liberty hall of their own.  In
her compartment each girl is absolute monarch.  No one can enter inside
the little curtained rail without her permission.  Here she can show her
individual taste, her individual ideas.  Here she can keep her
most-prized possessions.  In short, her compartment in the play-room is
a little home to her."

The play-room, large as it was, admitted of only twenty compartments;
these compartments were not easily won.  No amount of cleverness
attained them; they were altogether dependent on conduct.  No girl could
be the honourable owner of her own little drawing-room until she had
distinguished herself by some special act of kindness and self-denial.
Mrs Willis had no fixed rule on this subject.  She alone gave away the
compartments, and she often made choice of girls on whom she conferred
this honour in a way which rather puzzled and surprised their fellows.

When the compartment was won it was not a secure possession.  To retain
it depended also on conduct; and here again Mrs Willis was absolute in
her sway.  More than once the girls had entered the room in the morning
to find some favourite's furniture removed and her little possessions
taken carefully down from the walls, the girl herself alone knowing the
reason for this sudden change.  Annie Forest, who had been at Lavender
House for four years, had once, for a solitary month of her existence,
owned her own special drawing-room.  She had obtained it as a reward for
an act of heroism.  One of the little pupils had set her pinafore on
fire.  There was no teacher present at the moment--the other girls had
screamed and run for help, but Annie, very pale, had caught the little
one in her arms and had crushed out the flames with her own hands.  The
child's life was spared, the child was not even hurt, but Annie was in
the hospital for a week.  At the end of a week she returned to the
school-room and play-room as the heroine of the hour.  Mrs Willis
herself kissed her brow, and presented her in the midst of the approving
smiles of her companions with the prettiest drawing-room of the sets.
Annie retained her honourable post for one month.

Never did the girls of Lavender House forget the delights of that month.
The fantastic arrangements of the little drawing-room filled them with
ecstasies.  Annie was truly Japanese in her style--she was also
intensely liberal in all her arrangements.  In the tiny space of this
little inclosure wild pranks were perpetrated, ceaseless jokes made up.
From Annie's drawing-room issued peals of exquisite mirth.  She gave
afternoon tea from a Japanese set of tea-things.  Outside her
drawing-room always collected a crowd of girls, who tried to peep over
the rail or to draw aside the curtains.  Inside the sacred spot
certainly reigned chaos, and one day Miss Danesbury had to fly to the
rescue, for in a fit of mad mirth Annie herself had knocked down the
little Japanese tea-table, the tea-pot and tea-things were in fragments
on the floor, and the tea and milk poured in streams outside the
curtains.  Mrs Willis sent for Annie that evening, and Miss Forest
retired from her interview with red eyes and a meek expression.

"Girls," she said, in confidence that night, "good-bye to Japan.  I gave
her leave to do it--the care of an empire is more than I can manage."

The next day the Japanese drawing-room had been handed over to another
possessor, and Annie reigned as queen over her empire no more.

Mrs Willis, anxious at all times that her girls should be happy, made
special arrangements for their benefit on Sunday.  Sunday was by no
means dull at Lavender House--Sunday was totally unlike the six days
which followed it.  Even the stupidest girl could scarcely complain of
the severity of Sunday lessons--even the merriest girl could scarcely
speak of the day as dull.  Mrs Willis made an invariable rule of
spending all Sunday with her pupils.  On this day she really unbent--on
this day she was all during the long hours, what she was during the
short half-hour on each evening in the week.  On Sunday she neither
reproved nor corrected.  If punishment or correction were necessary, she
deputed Miss Good or Miss Danesbury to take her place.  On Sunday she
sat with the little children round her knee, and the older girls
clustering about her.  Her gracious and motherly face was like a sun
shining in the midst of these young girls.  In short, she was like the
personified form of Goodness in their midst.  It was necessary,
therefore, that all those who wished to do right should be happy on
Sunday, and only those few who deliberately preferred evil should shrink
from the brightness of this day.

It is astonishing how much a sympathising and guiding spirit can effect.
The girls at Lavender House thought Sunday the shortest day in the
week.  There were no unoccupied or dull moments--school toil was
forgotten--school punishment ceased, to be resumed again if necessary on
Monday morning.  The girls in their best dresses could chatter freely in
English--they could read their favourite books--they could wander about
the house as they pleased: for on Sunday the two baize doors were always
wide-open, and Mrs Willis's own private suite of rooms was ready to
receive them.  If the day was fine they walked to church, each choosing
her own companion for the pleasant walk; if the day was wet there was
service in the chapel, Mr Everard always conducting either morning or
evening prayers.  In the afternoon the girls were allowed to do pretty
much as they pleased, but after tea there always came a delightful hour,
when the elder girls retired with their mistress into her own special
boudoir, and she either told them stories or sang to them as only she
could sing.  At sixty years of age Mrs Willis still possessed the most
sympathetic and touching voice those girls had ever listened to.  Hester
Thornton broke down completely on her first Sunday at Lavender House
when she heard her school-mistress sing "The Better Land."  No one
remarked on her tears, but two people saw them; for her mistress kissed
her tenderly that night, and said a few strong words of help and
encouragement, and Annie Forest, who made no comment, had also seen
them, and wondered vaguely if this new and disagreeable pupil had a
heart after all.

On Sunday night Mrs Willis herself went round to each little bed and
gave a mother-kiss to each of her pupils--a mother-kiss and a murmured
blessing; and in many breasts resolves were then formed which were to
help the girls through the coming week.  Some of these resolves, made
not in their own strength, bore fruit in long after-years.  There is no
doubt that very few girls who lived long enough at Lavender House ever
in after-days found their Sundays dull.

CHAPTER TEN.

VARIETIES.

Without any doubt, wild, naughty, impulsive Annie Forest was the most
popular girl in the school.  She was always in scrapes--she was scarcely
ever out of hot water--her promises of amendment were truly like the
proverbial pie-crust: but she was so lovable, so kind-hearted, so saucy
and piquant and pretty, that very few could resist the nameless charm
which she possessed.  The little ones adored Annie, who was kindness
itself to them; the bigger girls could not help admiring her
fearlessness and courage; the best and noblest girls in the school tried
to influence her for good.  She was more or less an object of interest
to every one; her courage was of just the sort to captivate
school-girls, and her moral weakness was not observed by these
inexperienced young eyes.

Hester alone, of all the girls who for a long time had come to Lavender
House, failed to see any charm in Annie.  She began by considering her
ill-bred, and when she found she was the school favourite, she tossed
her proud little head and determined that she for one would never be
subjugated by such a naughty girl.  Hester could read character with
tolerable clearness; she was an observant child--very observant, and
very thoughtful for her twelve years; and as the little witch Annie had
failed to throw any spell over her, she saw her faults far more clearly
than did her companions.  There is no doubt that this brilliant,
charming, and naughty Annie had heaps of faults; she had no
perseverance; she was all passion and impulse; she could be the kindest
of the kind, but from sheer thoughtlessness and wildness she often
inflicted severe pain, even on those she loved best.  Annie very nearly
worshipped Mrs Willis, she had the most intense adoration for her, she
respected her beyond any other human being.  There were moments when the
impulsive and hot-headed child felt that she could gladly lay down her
life for her school-mistress.  Once the mistress was ill, and Annie
curled herself up all night outside her door, thereby breaking rules,
and giving herself a severe cold; but her passion and agony were so
great that she could only be soothed by at last stealing into the
darkened room and kissing the face she loved.

"Prove your love to me, Annie, by going downstairs and keeping the
school rules as perfectly as possible," whispered the teacher.

"I will--I will never break a rule again as long as I live, if you get
better, Mrs Willis," responded the child.

She ran downstairs with her resolves strong within her, and yet in half
an hour she was reprimanded for wilful and desperate disobedience.

One day Cecil Temple had invited a select number of friends to afternoon
tea in her little drawing-room.  It was the Wednesday half-holiday, and
Cecil's tea, poured into the tiniest cups and accompanied by thin wafer
biscuits, was of the most _recherche_ quality.  Cecil had invited Hester
Thornton, and a tall girl who belonged to the first-class and whose name
was Dora Russell, to partake of this dainty beverage.  They were sitting
round the tiny tea-table, on little red stools with groups of flowers
artistically painted on them, and were all three conducting themselves
in a most ladylike and refined manner, when Annie Forest's curly head
and saucy face popped over the inclosure, and her voice said eagerly--

"Oh, may I be permitted to enter the shrine?"

"Certainly, Annie," said Cecil, in her most cordial tones.  "I have got
another cup and saucer, and there is a little tea left in the tea-pot."

Annie came in, and ensconced herself cosily on the floor.  It did not
matter in the least to her that Hester Thornton's brow grew dark, and
that Miss Russell suddenly froze into complete indifference to all her
surroundings.  Annie was full of a subject which excited her very much;
she had suddenly discovered that she wanted to give Mrs Willis a
present, and she wished to know if any of the girls would like to join
her.

"I will give her the present this day week," said excitable Annie.  "I
have quite made up my mind.  Will any one join me?"

"But there is nothing special about this day week, Annie," said Miss
Temple.  "It will neither be Mrs Willis's birthday, nor Christmas Day,
nor New Year's Day, nor Easter Day.  Next Wednesday will be just like
any other Wednesday.  Why should we make Mrs Willis a present?"

"Oh, because she looks as if she wanted one, poor dear.  I thought she
looked sad this morning; her eyes drooped and her mouth was down at the
corners.  I am sure she's wanting something from us all by now, just to
show that we love her, you know."

"Pshaw!" here burst from Hester's lips.

"Why do you say that?" said Annie, turning round with her bright eyes
flashing.  "You've no right to be so contemptuous when I speak about
our--our head-mistress.  Oh, Cecil," she continued, "do let us give her
a little surprise--some spring flowers, or something just to show her
that we love her."

"But _you_ don't love her," said Hester, stoutly.

Here was throwing down the gauntlet with a vengeance!  Annie sprang to
her feet and confronted Hester with a whole torrent of angry words.
Hester firmly maintained her position.  She said over and over again
that love proved itself by deeds, not by words; that if Annie learned
her lessons, and obeyed the school rules, she would prove her affection
for Mrs Willis far more than by empty protestations.  Hester's words
were true, but they were uttered in an unkind spirit, and the very
flavour of truth which they possessed caused them to enter Annie's heart
and to wound her deeply.  She turned, not red, but very white, and her
large and lovely eyes grew misty with unshed tears.

"You are cruel," she gasped, rather than spoke, and then she pushed
aside the curtains of Cecil's compartment and walked out of the
play-room.

There was a dead silence among the three girls when she left them.
Hester's heart was still hot, and she was still inclined to maintain her
own position, and to believe she had done right in speaking in so severe
a tone to Annie.  But even she had been made a little uneasy by the look
of deep suffering which had suddenly transformed Annie's charming
childish face into that of a troubled and pained woman.  She sat down
meekly on her little three-legged stool and, taking up her tiny cup and
saucer, sipped some of the cold tea.

Cecil Temple was the first to speak.

"How could you?" she said, in an indignant voice for her.  "Annie is not
the girl to be driven, and, in any case, it is not for you to correct
her.  Oh, Mrs Willis would have been so pained had she heard you--you
were not _kind_, Miss Thornton.  There, I don't wish to be rude, but I
fear I must leave you and Miss Russell--I must try and find Annie."

"I'm going back to my own drawing-room," said Miss Russell, rising to
her feet.  "Perhaps," she added, turning round with a very gracious
smile to Hester, "you will come and see me there, after tea, this
evening."

Miss Russell drew aside the curtains of Cecil Temple's little room, and
disappeared.  Hester, with her eyes full of tears, now turned eagerly to
Cecil.

"Forgive me, Cecil," she exclaimed.  "I did not mean to be unkind, but
it is really quite ridiculous the way you all spoil that girl--you know
as well as I do that she is a very naughty girl.  I suppose it is
because of her pretty face," continued Hester, "that you are all so
unjust, and so blind to her faults."

"You are prejudiced the other way, Hester," said Cecil in a more gentle
tone.  "You have disliked Annie from the first.  There, don't keep me--I
must go to her now.  There is no knowing what harm your words may have
done.  Annie is not like other girls.  If you knew her story, you would
perhaps be kinder to her."

Cecil then ran out of her drawing-room, leaving Hester in sole
possession of the little tea-things and the three-legged stools.  She
sat and thought for some time; she was a girl with a great deal of
obstinacy in her nature, and she was not disposed to yield her own
point, even to Cecil Temple; but Cecil's words had, nevertheless, made
some impression on her.

At tea-time that night, Annie and Cecil entered the room together.
Annie's eyes were as bright as stars, and her usually pale cheeks glowed
with a deep colour.  She had never looked prettier--she had never looked
so defiant, so mischievous, so utterly reckless.  Mdlle.  Perier fired
indignant French at her across the table.  Annie answered respectfully,
and became demure in a moment; but even in the short instant in which
the governess was obliged to lower her eyes to her plate, she had thrown
a look so irresistibly comic at her companions, that several of them had
tittered aloud.  Not once did she glance at Hester although she
occasionally looked boldly in her direction; but when she did so, her
versatile face assumed a blank expression, as if she were seeing
nothing.  When tea was over, Dora Russell surprised the members of her
own class by walking straight up to Hester, putting her hand inside her
arm, and leading her off to her own very refined-looking little
drawing-room.

"I want to tell you," she said, when the two girls found themselves
inside the small inclosure, "that I quite agree with you in your opinion
of Miss Forest.  I think you were very brave to speak to her as you did
to-day.  As a rule, I never trouble myself with what the little girls in
the third-class do, and of course Annie seldom comes under my notice;
but I think she is a decidedly spoiled child, and your rebuff will
doubtless do her a great deal of good."

These words of commendation, coming from tall and dignified Miss
Russell, completely turned poor Hester's head.

"Oh, I am so glad you think so!" she stammered, colouring high with
pleasure.  "You see," she added, assuming a little tone of extra
refinement, "at home I always associated with girls who were perfect
ladies."

"Yes, any one can see that," remarked Miss Russell approvingly.

"And I do think Annie underbred," continued Hester.  "I cannot
understand," she added, "why Miss Temple likes her so much."

"Oh, Cecil is so amiable; she sees good in every one," answered Miss
Russell.  "Annie is evidently not a lady, and I am glad at last to find
some one of the girls who belong to the middle school capable of
discerning this fact.  Of course, we of the first-class have nothing
whatever to say to Miss Forest, but I really think Mrs Willis is not
acting quite fairly by the other girls when she allows a young person of
that description into the school.  I wish to assure you, Miss Thornton,
that you have at least my sympathy, and I shall be very pleased to see
you in my drawing-room now and then."

As these last words were uttered, both girls were conscious of a little
rustling sound not far away.  Miss Russell drew back her curtain, and
asked very sharply, "Who is there?" but no one replied, nor was there
any one in sight, for the girls who did not possess compartments were
congregated at the other end of the long play-room, listening to stories
which Emma Marshall, a clever elder girl, was relating for their
benefit.

Miss Russell talked on indifferent subjects to Hester, and at the end of
the half-hour the two entered the class-room side by side, Hester's
little head a good deal turned by this notice from one of the oldest
girls in the school.

As the two walked together into the school-room, Susan Drummond, who,
tall as she was, was only in the fourth class, rushed up to Miss Forest,
and whispered something in her ear.

"It is just as I told you," she said, and her sleepy voice was quite
wide awake and animated.  Annie Forest rewarded her by a playful pinch
on her cheek; then she returned to her own class, with a severe
reprimand from the class teacher, and silence reigned in the long room,
as the girls began to prepare their lessons as usual for the next day.

Miss Russell took her place at her desk in her usual dignified manner.
She was a clever girl, and was going to leave school at the end of next
term.  Hers was a particularly fastidious, but by no means great
nature--she was the child of wealthy parents, she was also well-born,
and because of her money, and a certain dignity and style which had come
to her as nature's gifts, she held an influence, though by no means a
large one, in the school.  No one particularly disliked her, but no one,
again, ardently loved her.  The girls in her own class thought it well
to be friendly with Dora Russell, and Dora accepted their homage with
more or less indifference.  She did not greatly care for either their
praise or blame.  Dora possessed in a strong degree that baneful
quality, which more than anything else precludes the love of others--she
was essentially selfish.

She sat now before her desk, little guessing how she had caused Hester's
small heart to beat by her patronage, and little suspecting the mischief
she had done to the girl by her injudicious words.  Had she known, it is
to be doubted whether she would have greatly cared.  She looked through
the books which contained her tasks for the next day's work, and,
finding they did not require a great deal of preparation, put them
aside, and amused herself during the rest of preparation time with a
story-book, which she artfully concealed behind the leaves of some
exercises.  She knew she was breaking the rules, but this fact did not
trouble her, for her moral nature was, after all, no better than poor
Annie's, and she had not a tenth of her lovable qualities.

Dora Russell was the soul of neatness and order.  To look inside her
school-desk was a positive pleasure; to glance at her own neat and trim
figure was more or less of a delight.  Hers were the whitest hands in
the school, and hers the most perfectly kept and glossy hair.  As the
preparation hour drew to a close, she replaced her exercises and books
in exquisite order in her school-desk and shut down the lid.

Hester's eyes followed her as she walked out of the school-room, for the
head class never had supper with the younger girls.  Hester wondered if
she would glance in her direction; but Miss Russell had gratified a very
passing whim when she condescended to notice and praise Hester, and she
had already almost forgotten her existence.

At bed-time that night Susan Drummond's behaviour was at the least
extraordinary.  In the first place, instead of being almost
overpoweringly friendly with Hester, she scarcely noticed her; in the
next place, she made some very peculiar preparations.

"What _are_ you doing on the floor, Susan?" inquired Hetty in an
innocent tone.

"That's nothing to you," replied Miss Drummond, turning a dusky red, and
looking annoyed at being discovered.  "I do wish," she added, "that you
would go round to your side of the room and leave me alone; I sha'n't
have done what I want to do before Danesbury comes in to put out the
candle."

Hester was not going to put herself out with any of Susan Drummond's
vagaries; she looked upon sleepy Susan as a girl quite beneath her
notice, but even she could not help observing her, when she saw her sit
up in bed a quarter of an hour after the candles had been put out, and
in the flickering firelight which shone conveniently bright for her
purpose, fasten a piece of string first round one of her toes, and then
to the end of the bed-post.

"What _are_ you doing?" said Hester again, half laughing.

"Oh, what a spy you are!" said Susan.  "I want to wake, that's all; and
whenever I turn in bed that string will tug at my toe, and, of course,
I'll rouse up.  If you were more good-natured, I'd give the other end of
the string to you; but, of course, that plan would never answer."

"No, indeed," replied Hester; "I am not going to trouble myself to wake
you.  You must trust to your sponge of cold water in the morning, unless
your own admirable device succeeds."

"I'm going to sleep now, at any rate," answered Susan; "I'm on my back,
and I'm beginning to snore; good-night."

Once or twice during the night Hester heard groans from the
self-sacrificing Susan, who, doubtless, found the string attached to her
foot very inconvenient.

Hester, however, slept on when it might have been better for the peace
of many in the school that she should have awakened.  She heard no sound
when, long before day, sleepy Susan stepped softly out of bed, and
wrapping a thick shawl about her, glided out of the room.  She was away
for over half an hour, but she returned to her chamber and got into bed
without in the least disturbing Hester.  In the morning she was found so
soundly asleep that even the sponge of cold water could not arouse her.

"Pull the string at the foot of the bed, Alice," said Hester: "she
fastened a string to her toe, and twisted the other end round the
bed-post, last night--pull it, Alice, it may effect its purpose."

But there was no string now round Susan Drummond's foot, nor was it
found hanging to the bed-post.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

WHAT WAS FOUND IN THE SCHOOL-DESK.

The next morning, when the whole school were assembled, and all the
classes were getting ready for the real work of the day, Miss Good, the
English teacher, stepped to the head of the room, and, holding a neatly
bound volume of "Jane Eyre" in her hand, begged to know to whom it
belonged.  There was a hush of astonishment when she held up the little
book, for all the girls knew well that this special volume was not
allowed for school literature.

"The house maid who dusts the school-room found this book on the floor,"
continued the teacher.  "It lay beside a desk near the top of the room.
I see the name has been torn out, so I cannot tell who is the owner.  I
must request her, however, to step forward and take possession of her
property.  If there is the slightest attempt at concealment, the whole
matter will be laid before Mrs Willis at noon to-day."

When Miss Good had finished her little speech, she held up the book in
its green binding and looked down the room.

Hester did not know why her heart beat--no one glanced at her, no one
regarded her; all eyes were fixed on Miss Good, who stood with a severe,
unsmiling, but expectant face.

"Come, young ladies," she said, "the owner has surely no difficulty in
recognising her own property.  I give you exactly thirty seconds more;
then, if no one claims the book, I place the affair in Mrs Willis's
hands."

Just then there was a stir among the girls in the head class.  A tall
girl in dove-coloured cashmere, with a smooth head of golden hair, and a
fair face which was a good deal flushed at this moment, stepped to the
front, and said in a clear and perfectly modulated voice--

"I had no idea of concealing the fact that `Jane Eyre' belongs to me.  I
was only puzzled for a moment to know how it got on the floor.  I placed
it carefully in my desk last night.  I think this circumstance ought to
be inquired into."

"Oh! oh!" came from several suppressed voices here and there through the
room; "whoever would have supposed that Dora Russell would be obliged to
humble herself in this way?"

"Attention, young ladies!" said Miss Good; "no talking, if you please.
Do I understand, Miss Russell, that `Jane Eyre' is yours?"

"Yes, Miss Good."

"Why did you keep it in your desk--were you reading it during
preparation?"

"On, yes, certainly."

"You are, of course, aware that you were breaking two very stringent
rules of the school.  In the first place, no story-books are allowed to
be concealed in a school-desk, or to be read during preparation.  In the
second place, this special book is not allowed to be read at any time in
Lavender House.  You know these rules, Miss Russell?"

"Yes, Miss Good."

"I must retain the book--you can return now to your place in class."

Miss Russell bowed sedately, and with an apparently unmoved face, except
for the slightly deepened glow on her smooth cheek, resumed her
interrupted work.

Lessons went off as usual, but during recreation the mystery of the
discovered book was largely discussed by the girls.  As is the custom of
school-girls, they took violent sides in the matter--some rejoicing in
Dora's downfall, some pitying her intensely.  Hester was, of course, one
of Miss Russell's champions, and she looked at her with tender sympathy
when she came with her haughty and graceful manner into the school-room,
and her little heart beat with a vague hope that Dora might turn to her
for sympathy.

Dora, however, did nothing of the kind.  She refused to discuss the
affair with her companions, and none of them quite knew what Mrs Willis
said to her, or what special punishment was inflicted on the proud girl.
Several of her school-fellows expected that Dora's drawing-room would
be taken away from her, but she still retained it; and after a few days
the affair of the book was almost forgotten.

There was, however, an uncomfortable and an uneasy spirit abroad in the
school.  Susan Drummond, who was certainly one of the most uninteresting
girls in Lavender House, was often seen walking with and talking to Miss
Forest.  Sometimes Annie shook her pretty head over Susan's remarks;
sometimes she listened to her; sometimes she laughed and spoke eagerly
for a moment or two, and appeared to acquiesce in suggestions which her
companion urged.

Annie had always been the soul of disorder--of wild pranks, of naughty
and disobedient deeds--but, hitherto, in all her wildness she had never
intentionally hurt any one but herself.  Hers was a giddy and
thoughtless, but by no means a bitter tongue--she thought well of all
her school-fellows--and on occasions she could be self-sacrificing and
good-natured to a remarkable extent.  The girls of the head class took
very little notice of Annie, but her other school-companions, as a rule,
succumbed to her sunny, bright, and witty ways.  She offended them a
hundred times a day, and a hundred times a day was forgiven.  Hester was
the first girl in the third-class who had ever persistently disliked
Annie and Annie, after making one or two overtures of friendship, began
to return Miss Thornton's aversion; but she had never cordially hated
her until the day they met in Cecil Temple's drawing-room and Hester had
wounded Annie in her tenderest part by doubting her affection for Mrs
Willis.

Since that day there was a change very noticeable in Annie Forest--she
was not so gay as formerly, but she was a great deal more mischievous--
she was not nearly so daring, but she was capable now of little actions
slight in themselves, which yet were calculated to cause mischief and
real unhappiness.  Her sudden friendship with Susan Drummond did her no
good, and she persistently avoided all intercourse with Cecil Temple,
who hitherto had influenced her in the right direction.

The incident of the green book had passed with no apparent result of
grave importance, but the spirit of mischief which had caused this book
to be found was by no means asleep in the school.  Pranks were played in
a most mysterious fashion with the girls' properties.

Hester herself was the very next victim.  She too was a neat and orderly
child--she was clever and thoroughly enjoyed her school work.  She was
annoyed, therefore, and dreadfully puzzled, by discovering one morning
that her neat French exercise-book was disgracefully blotted, and one
page torn across.  She was severely reprimanded by Mdlle.  Perier for
such gross untidiness and carelessness, and when she assured the
governess that she knew nothing whatever of the circumstance, that she
was never guilty of blots, and had left the book in perfect order the
night before, the French lady only shrugged her shoulders, made an
expressive gesture with her eyebrows, and plainly showed Hester that she
thought the less she said on that subject the better.

Hester was required to write out her exercise again, and she fancied she
saw a triumphant look in Annie Forest's eyes as she left the
school-room, where poor Hester was obliged to remain to undergo her
unmerited punishment.

"Cecil," called Hester, in a passionate and eager voice, as Miss Temple
was passing her place.

Cecil paused for a moment.

"What is it, Hetty?--oh, I am so sorry you must stay in this lovely
bright day."

"I have done nothing wrong," said Hester; "I never blotted this
exercise-book; I never tore this page.  It is most unjust not to believe
my word; it is most unjust to punish me for what I have not done."

Miss Temple's face looked puzzled and sad.

"I must not stay to talk to you now, Hester," she whispered; "I am
breaking the rules.  You can come to my drawing-room by-and-by, and we
will discuss this matter."

But Hester and Cecil, talk as they would, could find no solution to the
mystery.  Cecil absolutely refused to believe that Annie Forest had
anything to do with the matter.

"No," she said, "such deceit is not in Annie's nature.  I would do
anything to help you, Hester; but I can't, and I won't, believe that
Annie tried deliberately to do you any harm."

"I am quite certain she did," retorted Hester, "and from this moment I
refuse to speak to her until she confesses what she has done and
apologises to me.  Indeed, I have a great mind to go and tell everything
to Mrs Willis."

"Oh, I would not do that," said Cecil; "none of your school-fellows
would forgive you if you charged such a favourite as Annie with a crime
which you cannot in the least prove against her.  You must be patient,
Hester, and if you are, I will take your part, and try to get at the
bottom of the mystery."

Cecil, however, failed to do so.  Annie laughed when the affair was
discussed in her presence, but her clear eyes looked as innocent as the
day, and nothing would induce Cecil to doubt Miss Forest's honour.

The mischievous sprite, however, who was sowing such seeds of
unhappiness in the hitherto peaceful school was not satisfied with two
deeds of daring; for a week afterwards Cecil Temple found a book of Mrs
Browning's, out of which she was learning a piece for recitation, with
its cover half torn off, and, still worse, a caricature of Mrs Willis
sketched with some cleverness and a great deal of malice on the
title-page.  On the very same morning, Dora Russell, on opening her
desk, was seen to throw up her hands with a gesture of dismay.  The neat
composition she had finished the night before was not to be seen in its
accustomed place, but in a corner of the desk were two bulky and
mysterious parcels, one of which contained a great junk of rich
plum-cake, and the other some very sticky and messy "Turkish delight;"
while the paper which enveloped these luxuries was found to be that on
which the missing composition was written.  Dora's face grew very
white--she forgot the ordinary rules of the school, and, leaving her
class, walked down the room, and interrupted Miss Good, who was
beginning to instruct the third-class in English grammar.

"Will you please come and see something in my desk, Miss Good?" she said
in a voice which trembled with excitement.

It was while she was speaking that Cecil found the copy of Mrs Browning
mutilated, and with the disgraceful caricature on its title-page.
Startled as she was by this discovery, and also by Miss Russell's
extraordinary behaviour, she had presence of mind enough to hide the
sight which pained her from her companions.  Unobserved, in the strong
interest of the moment, for all the girls were watching Dora Russell and
Miss Good, she managed to squeeze the little volume into her pocket.
She had indeed received a great shock, for she knew well that the only
girl who could caricature in the school was Annie Forest.  For a moment
her troubled eyes sought the ground, but then she raised them and looked
at Annie.  Annie, however, with a particularly cheerful face, and her
bright dark eyes full of merriment, was gazing in astonishment at the
scene which was taking place in front of Miss Russell's desk.

Dora, whose enunciation was very clear, seemed to have absolutely
forgotten herself; she disregarded Miss Good's admonitions, and declared
stoutly that at such a moment she did not care what rules she broke.
She was quite determined that the culprit who had dared to desecrate her
composition, and put plum-cake and "Turkish delight" into her desk,
should be publicly exposed and punished.

"The thing cannot go on any longer, Miss Good," she said; "there is a
girl in this school who ought to be expelled from it, and I for one
declare openly that I will not submit to associate with a girl who is
worse than unladylike.  If you will permit me, Miss Good, I will carry
these things at once to Mrs Willis, and beg of her to investigate the
whole affair, and bring the culprit to justice, and to turn her out of
the school."

"Stay, Miss Russell," exclaimed the English teacher, "you strangely and
completely forget yourself.  You are provoked.  I own, but you have no
right to stand up and absolutely hoist the flag of rebellion in the
faces of the other girls.  I cannot excuse your conduct.  I will myself
take away these parcels which were found in your desk, and will report
the affair to Mrs Willis.  She will take what steps she thinks right in
bringing you to order, and in discovering the author of this mischief.
Return instantly to your desk, Miss Russell; you strangely forget
yourself."

Miss Good left the room, having removed the plum-cake and "Turkish
delight" from Dora Russell's desk, and lessons continued as best they
could under such exciting circumstances.

At twelve o'clock that day, just as the girls were preparing to go up to
their rooms to get ready for their usual walk, Mrs Willis came into the
school-room.

"Stay one moment, young ladies," said the head-mistress in that slightly
vibrating and authoritative voice of hers.  "I have a word or two to say
to you all.  Miss Good has just brought me a painful story of wanton and
cruel mischief.  There are fifty girls in this school, who, until
lately, lived happily together.  There is now one girl among the fifty
whose object it is to sow seeds of discord and misery among her
companions.  Miss Good has told me of three different occasions on which
mischief has been done to different girls in the school.  Twice Miss
Russell's desk has been disturbed, once Miss Thornton's.  It is possible
that other girls may also have suffered who have been noble enough not
to complain.  There is, however, a grave mischief, in short, a moral
disease in our midst.  Such a thing is worse than bodily illness--it
must be stamped out instantly and completely at the risk of any personal
suffering.  I am now going to ask you, girls, a simple question, and I
demand instant truth without any reservation.  Miss Russell's desk has
been tampered with--Miss Thornton's desk has been tampered with.  Has
any other girl suffered injury--has any other girl's desk been touched?"

Mrs Willis looked down the long room--her voice had reached every
corner, and the quiet, dignified, and deeply-pained expression in her
fine eyes was plainly visible to each girl in the school.  Even the
little ones were startled and subdued by the tone of Mrs Willis's
voice, and one or two of them suddenly burst into tears.  Mrs Willis
paused for a full moment, then she repeated her question.

"I insist upon knowing the exact truth, my dear children," she said
gently but with great decision.

"My desk has also been tampered with," said Miss Temple in a low voice.

Every one started when Cecil spoke, and even Annie Forest glanced at her
with a half-frightened and curious expression.  Cecil's voice indeed was
so low, so shaken with doubt and pain, that her companions scarcely
recognised it.

"Come here, Miss Temple," said Mrs Willis.

Cecil instantly left her desk and walked up the room.

"Your desk has also been tampered with, you say?" repeated the
head-mistress.

"Yes, madam."

"When did you discover this?"

"To-day, Mrs Willis."

"You kept it to yourself?"

"Yes."

"Will you now repeat in the presence of the school, and in a loud enough
voice to be heard by all here, exactly what was done?"

"Pardon me," answered Cecil, and now her voice was a little less
agitated and broken, and she looked full into the face of her teacher,
"I cannot do that."

"You deliberately disobey me, Cecil?" said Mrs Willis.

"Yes, madam."

Mrs Willis's face flushed--she did not, however, look angry--she laid
her hand on Cecil's shoulder and looked full into her eyes.

"You are one of my best pupils, Cecil," she said tenderly.  "At such a
moment as this honour requires you to stand by your mistress.  I must
insist on your telling me here and now exactly what has occurred."

Cecil's face grew whiter and whiter.

"I cannot tell you," she murmured; "it breaks my heart, but I cannot
tell you."

"You have defied me, Cecil," said Mrs Willis in a tone of deep pain.
"I must, my dear, insist on your obedience, but not now.  Miss Good,
will you take Miss Temple to the chapel?  I will come to you, Cecil, in
an hour's time."

Cecil walked down the room crying silently.  Her deep distress and her
very firm refusal to disclose what she knew had made a great impression
on her school-fellows.  They all felt troubled and uneasy, and Annie
Forest's face was very pale.

"This thing, this wicked, mischievous thing has gone deeper than I
feared," said Mrs Willis, when Cecil had left the room.

"Only some very strong motive would make Cecil Temple behave as she is
now doing.  She is influenced by a mistaken idea of what is right; she
wishes to shield the guilty person.  I may as well tell you all, young
ladies, that, dear as Cecil is to me, she is now under the ban of my
severe displeasure.  Until she confesses the truth and humbles herself
before me, I cannot be reconciled to her.  I cannot permit her to
associate with you.  She has done very wrong, and her punishment must be
proportionately severe.  There is one chance for her, however.  Will the
girl whom she is mistakenly, though generously, trying to shield, come
forward and confess her guilt, and so release poor Cecil from the
terrible position in which she has placed herself?  By doing so, the
girl who has caused all this misery will at least show me that she is
trying to repent."

Mrs Willis paused again, and now she looked down the room with a face
of almost entreaty.  Several pairs of eyes were fixed anxiously on her,
several looked away, and many girls glanced in the direction of Annie
Forest, who, feeling herself suspected, returned their glances with bold
defiance, and instantly assumed her most reckless manner.

Mrs Willis waited for a full minute.

"The culprit is not noble enough," she said then.  "Now, girls, I must
ask each of you to come up one by one and deny or confess this charge.
As you do so, you are silently to leave the school-room and go up to
your rooms, and prepare for the walk which has been so painfully
delayed.  Miss Conway, you are at the head of the school, will you set
the example?"

One by one the girls of the head class stepped up to their teacher, and
of each one she asked the same question--

"Are you guilty?"

Each girl replied in the negative and walked out of the school-room.
The second-class followed the example of the first, and then the
third-class came up to their teacher.  Several ears were strained to
hear Annie Forest's answer, but her eyes were lifted fearlessly to Mrs
Willis's face, and her "No!" was heard all over the room.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

IN THE CHAPEL.

The bright light from a full noontide sun was shining in coloured bars
through the richly-painted windows of the little chapel when Mrs Willis
sought Cecil Temple there.

Cecil's face was in many ways a remarkable one.  Her soft brown eyes
were generally filled with a steadfast and kindly ray.  Gentleness was
her special prerogative, but there was nothing weak about her--hers was
the gentleness of a strong and pure and noble soul.  To know Cecil was
to love her.  She was a motherless girl, and the only child of a most
indulgent father.  Colonel Temple was now in India, and Cecil was to
finish her education under Mrs Willis's care, and then, if necessary,
to join her father.

Mrs Willis had always taken a special interest in this girl.  She
admired her for her great moral worth.  Cecil was not particularly
clever, but she was so studious, so painstaking, that she always kept a
high place in class.  She was without doubt a religious girl, but there
was nothing of the prig about her.  She was not, however, ashamed of her
religion, and, if the fitting occasion arose, she was fearless in
expressing her opinion.

Mrs Willis used to call Cecil her "little standard-bearer," and she
relied greatly on her influence over the third-class girls.  Mrs Willis
considered the third-class, perhaps, the most important in the school.
She was often heard to say--

"The girls who fill this class have come to a turning-point--they have
come to the age when resolves may be made for life, and kept.  The good
third-class girl is very unlikely to degenerate as she passes through
the second and first classes.  On the other hand, there is very little
hope that the idle or mischievous third-class girl will mend her ways as
she goes higher in the school."

Mrs Willis's steps were very slow, and her thoughts extremely painful,
as she entered the chapel to-day.  Had any one else offered her defiance
she would have known how to deal with the culprit, but Cecil would never
have acted as she did without the strongest motive, and Mrs Willis felt
more sorrowful than angry as she sat down by the side of her favourite
pupil.

"I have kept you waiting longer than I intended, my dear," she said.  "I
was unexpectedly interrupted, and I am sorry; but you have had more time
to think, Cecil."

"Yes, I have thought," answered Cecil, in a very low tone.

"And, perhaps," continued her governess, "in this quiet and beautiful
and sacred place, my dear pupil has also prayed?"

"I have prayed," said Cecil.

"Then you have been guided, Cecil," said Mrs Willis in a tone of
relief.  "We do not come to God in our distress without being shown the
right way.  Your doubts have been removed, Cecil; you can now speak
fully to me; can you not, dear?"

"I have asked God to tell me what is right," said Cecil.  "I don't
pretend to know.  I am very much puzzled.  It seems to me that more good
would be done if I concealed what you asked me to confess in the
school-room.  My own feeling is that I ought not to tell you.  I know
this is great disobedience, and I am quite willing to receive any
punishment you think right to give me.  Yes, I think I am quite willing
to receive _any_ punishment."

Mrs Willis put her hand on Cecil's shoulder.

"Ordinary punishments are not likely to affect you, Cecil," she said;
"on you I have no idea of inflicting extra lessons, or depriving you of
half-holidays, or even taking away your drawing-room.  But there is
something else you must lose, and that I know will touch you deeply--I
must remove from you my confidence."

Cecil's face grew very pale.

"And your love, too?" she said, looking up with imploring eyes: "oh,
surely not your love as well?"

"I ask you frankly, Cecil," replied Mrs Willis, "can perfect love exist
without perfect confidence?  I would not willingly deprive you of my
love, but of necessity the love I have hitherto felt for you must be
altered--in short, the old love which enabled me to rest on you and
trust you, will cease."

Cecil covered her face with her hands.

"This punishment is very cruel," she said.  "You are right; it reaches
down to my very heart.  But," she added, looking up with a strong and
sweet light in her face, "I will try and bear it, and some day you will
understand."

"Listen, Cecil," said Mrs Willis, "you have just told me you have
prayed to God, and have asked Him to show you the right path.  Now, my
dear, suppose we kneel together, and both of us ask Him to show us the
way out of this difficult matter.  I want to be guided to use the right
words with you, Cecil.  You want to be guided to receive the instruction
which I, as your teacher and mother-friend, would give you."

Cecil and Mrs Willis both knelt down, and the head-mistress said a few
words in a voice of great earnestness and entreaty; then they resumed
their seats.

"Now, Cecil," said Mrs Willis, "you must remember in listening to me
that I am speaking to you as I believe God wishes me to.  If I can
convince you that you are doing wrong in concealing what you know from
me, will you act as I wish in the matter?"

"I long to be convinced," said Cecil, in a low tone.

"That is right, my dear; I can now speak to you with perfect freedom.
My words you will remember, Cecil, are now, I firmly believe, directed
by God; they are also the result of a large experience.  I have trained
many girls.  I have watched the phases of thought in many young minds.
Cecil, look at me.  I can read you like a book."

Cecil looked up expectantly.

"Your motive for this concealment is as clear as the daylight, Cecil.
You are keeping back what you know because you want to shield some one.
Am I not right, my dear?"  The colour flooded Cecil's pale face.  She
bent her head in silent assent, but her eyes were too full of tears, and
her lips trembled too much to allow her to speak.

"The girl you want to defend," continued Mrs Willis, in that clear
patient voice of hers, "is one whom you and I both love; is one for whom
we both have prayed; is one for whom we would both gladly sacrifice
ourselves if necessary--her name is--"

"Oh, don't," said Cecil imploringly--"don't say her name; you have no
right to suspect her."

"I must say her name, Cecil dear.  If you suspect Annie Forest, why
should not I?  You do suspect her, do you not, Cecil?"

Cecil began to cry.

"I know it," continued Mrs Willis.  "Now, Cecil, we will suppose,
terrible as this suspicion is, fearfully as it pains us both, that Annie
Forest _is_ guilty.  We must suppose for the sake of my argument that
this is the case.  Do you not know, my dear Cecil, that you are doing
the falsest, cruellest thing by dear Annie in trying to hide her sin
from me?  Suppose, just for the sake of our argument, that this cowardly
conduct on Annie's part was never found out by me; what effect would it
have on Annie herself?"

"It would save her in the eyes of the school," said Cecil.

"Just so, but God would know the truth.  Her next downfall would be
deeper.  In short, Cecil, under the idea of friendship you would have
done the cruellest thing in all the world for your friend."

Cecil was quite silent.

"This is one way to look at it," continued Mrs Willis, "but there are
many other points from which this case ought to be viewed.  You owe much
to Annie, but not all--you have a duty to perform to your other
school-fellows.  You have a duty to perform to me.  If you possess a
clue which will enable me to convict Annie Forest of her sin, in common
justice you have no right to withhold it.  Remember that while she goes
about free and unsuspected some other girl is under the ban--some other
girl is watched and feared.  You fail in your duty to your
school-fellows when you keep back your knowledge, Cecil.  When you
refuse to trust me, you fail in your duty to your mistress; for I cannot
stamp out this evil and wicked thing from our midst unless I know all.
When you conceal your knowledge, you ruin the character of the girl you
seek to shield.  When you conceal your knowledge, you go against God's
express wish.  There--I have spoken to you as He directed me to speak."

Cecil suddenly sprang to her feet.

"I never thought of all these things," she said.  "You are right, but it
is very hard, and mine is only a suspicion.  Oh, do be tender to her,
and--forgive me--may I go away now?"

As she spoke, she pulled out the torn copy of Mrs Browning, laid it on
her teacher's lap, and ran swiftly out of the chapel.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

TALKING OVER THE MYSTERY.

Annie Forest sitting in the midst of a group of eager admirers, was
chatting volubly.  Never had she been in higher spirits, never had her
pretty face looked more bright and daring.

Cecil Temple, coming into the play-room, started when she saw her.
Annie, however, instantly rose from the low hassock on which she had
perched herself and, running up to Cecil, put her hand through her arm.

"We are all discussing the mystery, darling," said she; "we have
discussed it, and literally torn it to shreds, and yet never got at the
kernel.  We have guessed and guessed what your motive can be in
concealing the truth from Mrs Willis, and we all unanimously vote that
you are a dear old martyr, and that you have some admirable reason for
keeping back the truth.  You cannot think what an excitement we are in--
even Susy Drummond has stayed awake to listen to our chatter.  Now,
Cecil, do come and sit here in this most inviting little armchair, and
tell us what our dear head-mistress said to you in the chapel.  It did
seem so awful to send you to the chapel, poor dear Cecil."

Cecil stood perfectly still and quiet while Annie was pouring out her
torrent of eager words; her eyes, indeed, did not quite meet her
companion's, but she allowed Annie to retain her clasp of her arm, and
she evidently listened with attention to her words.  Now, however, when
Miss Forest tried to draw her into the midst of the eager and animated
group who sat round the play-room fire, she hesitated and looked
longingly in the direction of her peaceful little drawing-room.  Her
hesitation, however, was but momentary.  Quite silently she walked with
Annie down the large play-room and entered the group of girls.

"Here's your throne, Queen Cecil," said Annie trying to push her into
the little armchair; but Cecil would not seat herself.

"How nice that you have come, Cecil!" said Mary Pierce, a second-class
girl.  "I really think, we all think, that you were very brave to stand
out against Mrs Willis as you did.  Of course we are devoured with
curiosity to know what it means; aren't we, Flo?"

"Yes, we're in agonies," answered Flo Dunstan, another second-class
girl.

"You will tell exactly what Mrs Willis said, darling heroine?"
proceeded Annie in her most dulcet tones.  "You concealed your
knowledge, didn't you? you were very firm, weren't you? dear, brave
love!"

"For my part, I think Cecil Temple the soul of brave firmness," here
interrupted Susan Drummond.  "I fancy she's as hard and firm in herself
when she wants to conceal a thing as that rocky sweetmeat which always
hurts our teeth to get through.  Yes, I do fancy that."

"Oh, Susy, what a horrid metaphor!" here interrupted several girls.

One, however, of the eager group of school-girls had not opened her lips
or said a word; that girl was Hester Thornton.  She had been drawn into
the circle by an intense curiosity; but she had made no comment with
regard to Cecil's conduct.  If she knew anything of the mystery she had
thrown no light on it.  She had simply sat motionless, with watchful and
alert eyes and silent tongue.  Now, for the first time, she spoke.

"I think, if you will allow her, that Cecil has got something to say,"
she remarked.

Cecil glanced down at her with a very brief look of gratitude.

"Thank you, Hester," she said.  "I won't keep you a moment, girls.  I
cannot offer to throw any light on the mystery which makes us all so
miserable to-day; but I think it right to undeceive you with regard to
myself.  I have not concealed what I know from Mrs Willis.  She is in
possession of all the facts, and what I found in my desk this morning is
now in her keeping.  She has made me see that in concealing my knowledge
I was acting wrongly, and whatever pain has come to me in the matter,
she now knows all."

When Cecil had finished her sad little speech she walked straight out of
the group of girls, and, without glancing at one of them, went across
the play-room to her own compartment.  She had failed to observe a quick
and startled glance from Susan Drummond's sleepy blue eyes, nor had she
heard her mutter--half to her companions, half to herself--"Cecil is not
like the rocky sweetmeat; I was mistaken in her."

Neither had Cecil seen the flash of almost triumph in Hester's eyes, nor
the defiant glance she threw at Miss Forest.  Annie stood with her hands
clasped, and a little frown of perplexity between her brows, for a
moment; then she ran fearlessly down the play-room, and said in a low
voice at the other side of Cecil's curtains--

"May I come in?"

Cecil said "Yes," and Annie, entering the pretty little drawing-room,
flung her arms round Miss Temple's neck.

"Cecil," she exclaimed impulsively, "you're in great trouble.  I am a
giddy, reckless thing, I know, but I don't laugh at people when they are
in real trouble.  Won't you tell me all about it, Cecil?"

"I will, Annie.  Sit down there and I will tell you everything.  I think
you have a right to know, and I am glad you have come to me.  I thought,
perhaps--but no matter.  Annie, can't you guess what I am going to say?"

"No, I'm sure I can't," said Annie.  "I saw for a moment or two to-day
that some of those absurd girls suspected me of being the author of all
this mischief.  Now, you know, Cecil, I love a bit of fun beyond words.
If there's any going on I feel nearly mad until I am in it; but what was
done to-day was not at all in accordance with my ideas of fun.  To tear
up Miss Russell's essay and fill her desk with stupid plum-cake and
Turkish delight seems to me but a sorry kind of jest.  Now, if I had
been guilty of that sort of thing, I'd have managed something far
cleverer than that.  If _I_ had tampered with Dora Russell's desk, I'd
have done the thing in style.  The dear, sweet, dignified creature
should have shrieked in real terror.  You don't know perhaps, Cecil,
that our admirable Dora is no end of a coward.  I wonder what she would
have said if I had put a little nest of field-mice in her desk.  I saw
that the poor thing suspected me, as she gave way to her usual little
sneer about the `underbred girl:' but, of course, _you_ know me, Cecil.
Why, my dear Cecil, what is the matter?  How white you are, and you are
actually crying!  What is it, Cecil? what is it, Cecil, darling?"

Cecil dried her eyes quickly.

"You know my pet copy of Mrs Browning's poems, don't you, Annie?"

"Oh, yes, of course.  You lent it to me one day.  Don't you remember how
you made me cry over that picture of little Alice, the over-worked
factory girl?  What about the book, Cecil?"

"I found the book in my desk," said Cecil, in a steady tone, and now
fixing her eyes on Annie, who knelt by her side--"I found the book in my
desk, although I never keep it there; for it is quite against the rules
to keep our recreation books in our school-desks, and you know, Annie, I
always think it is so much easier to keep these little rules.  They are
matters of duty and conscience after all.  I found my copy of Mrs
Browning in my desk this morning with the cover torn off, and with a
very painful and ludicrous caricature of our dear Mrs Willis sketched
on the title-page."

"What?" said Annie.  "No, no; impossible."

"You know nothing about it do you, Annie?"

"I never put it there, if that's what you mean," said Annie.  But her
face had undergone a curious change.  Her light and easy and laughing
manner had altered.  When Cecil mentioned the caricature she flushed a
vivid crimson.  Her flush had quickly died away, leaving her
olive-tinted face paler than its wont.

"I see," she said, after a long pause, "you, too, suspected me, Cecil,
and that is why you tried to conceal the thing.  You know that I am the
only girl in the school who can draw caricatures, but did you suppose
that I would show _her_ dishonour?  Of course things look ugly for me,
if this is what you found in your book; but I did not think that _you_
would suspect me, Cecil."

"I will believe you, Annie," said Cecil eagerly.  "I long beyond words
to believe you.  With all your faults, no one has ever yet found you out
in a lie.  If you look at me, Annie, and tell me honestly that you know
nothing whatever about that caricature, I will believe you.  Yes, I will
believe you fully, and I will go with you to Mrs Willis and tell her
that, whoever did the wrong, you are innocent in this matter.  Say you
know nothing about it, dear, dear Annie, and take a load off my heart."

"I never put the caricature into your book, Cecil."

"And you know nothing about it?"

"I cannot say that; I never--never put it in your book."

"Oh, Annie, exclaimed poor Cecil, you are trying to deceive me.  Why
won't you be brave?  Oh, Annie, I never thought you would stoop to a
lie!"

"I'm telling no lie," answered Annie with sudden passion.  "I do know
something about the caricature, but I never put it into that book.
There! you doubt me, you have ceased to believe me, and I won't waste
any more words on the matter."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

"SENT TO COVENTRY."

There were many girls in the school who remembered that dismal
half-holiday--they remembered its forced mirth and its hidden anxiety;
and as the hours flew by the suspicion that Annie Forest was the author
of all the mischief grew and deepened.  A school is like a little world,
and popular opinion is apt to change with great rapidity.  Annie was
undoubtedly the favourite of the school; but favourites are certain to
have enemies, and there were several girls unworthy enough and mean
enough to be jealous of poor Annie's popularity.  She was the kind of
girl whom only very small natures could really dislike.  Her popularity
arose from the simple fact that hers was a peculiarly joyous and
unselfish nature.  She was a girl with scarcely any self-consciousness;
those she loved, she loved devotedly; she threw herself with a certain
feverish impetuosity into their lives, and made their interests her own.
To get into mischief and trouble for the sake of a friend was an
every-day occurrence with Annie.  She was not the least studious; she
had no one particular talent, unless it was an untrained and birdlike
voice; she was always more or less in hot water about her lessons,
always behindhand in her tasks, always leaving undone what she should
do, and doing what she should not do.  She was a contradictory, erratic
creature--jealous of no one, envious of no one--dearly loving a joke,
and many times inflicting pain from sheer thoughtlessness, but always
ready to say she was sorry, always ready to make friends again.

It is strange that such a girl as Annie should have enemies, but she
had, and in the last few weeks the feeling of jealousy and envy which
had always been smouldering in some breasts took more active form.  Two
reasons accounted for this: Hester's openly avowed and persistent
dislike to Annie, and Miss Russell's declared conviction that she was
underbred and not a lady.

Miss Russell was the only girl in the first-class who had hitherto given
wild little Annie a thought.

In the first-class, to-day, Annie had to act the unpleasing part of the
wicked little heroine.  Miss Russell was quite certain of Annie's guilt;
she and her companions condescended to discuss poor Annie and to pull
all her little virtues to pieces, and to magnify her sins to an alarming
extent.

After two or three hours of judicious conversation, Dora Russell and
most of the other first-class girls decided that Annie ought to be
expelled, and unanimously resolved that they at least, would do what
they could to "send her to Coventry."

In the lower part of the school Annie also had a few enemies, and these
girls, having carefully observed Hester's attitude toward her, now came
up close to this dignified little lady, and asked her boldly to declare
her opinion with regard to Annie's guilt.

Hester, without the least hesitation, assured them that "of course Annie
had done it."

"There is not room for a single doubt on the subject," she said;
"there--look at her now."

At this instant Annie was leaving Cecil's compartment, and with red
eyes, and hair, as usual, falling about her face, was running out of the
play-room.  She seemed in great distress; but, nevertheless, before she
reached the door, she stopped to pick up a little girl of five, who was
fretting about some small annoyance.  Annie took the little one in her
arms, kissed her tenderly, whispered some words in her ear, which caused
the little face to light up with some smiles and the round arms to clasp
Annie with an ecstatic hug.  She dropped the child, who ran back to play
merrily with her companions, and left the room.

The group of middle-class girls still sat on by the fire, but Hester
Thornton now, not Annie, was the centre of attraction.  It was the first
time in all her young life that Hester had found herself in the enviable
position of a favourite; and without at all knowing what mischief she
was doing, she could not resist improving the occasion, and making the
most of her dislike for Annie.

Several of those who even were fond of Miss Forest came round to the
conviction that she was really guilty, and one by one, as is the fashion
not only among school-girls but in the greater world outside, they began
to pick holes in their former favourite.  These girls, too, resolved
that, if Annie were really so mean as maliciously to injure other girls'
property and get them into trouble, she must be "sent to Coventry."

"What's Coventry?" asked one of the little ones, the child whom Annie
had kissed and comforted, now sidling up to the group.

"Oh, a nasty place, Phena," said Mary Bell, putting her arm round the
pretty child and drawing her to her side.

"And who is going there?"

"Why, I am afraid it is naughty Annie Forest."

"She's not naughty!  Annie sha'n't go to any nasty place.  I hate you,
Mary Bell."  The little one looked round the group with flashing eyes of
defiance, then wrenched herself away to return to her younger
companions.

"It was stupid of you to say that, Mary," remarked one of the girls.
"Well," she continued, "I suppose it is all settled, and poor Annie, to
say the least of it, is not a lady.  For my own part, I always thought
her great fun, but if she is proved guilty of this offence I wash my
hands of her."

"We all wash our hands of her," echoed the girls, with the exception of
Susan Drummond, who, as usual, was nodding in her chair.

"What do you say, Susy?" asked one or two--"you have not opened your
lips all this lime."

"I--eh?--what?" asked Susan, stretching herself and yawning, "oh, about
Annie Forest--I suppose you are right, girls.  Is not that the tea-gong?
I'm awfully hungry."

Hester Thornton went into the tea-room that evening feeling particularly
virtuous, and with an idea that she had distinguished herself in some
way.

Poor foolish, thoughtless Hester, she little guessed what seed she had
sown, and what a harvest she was preparing for her own reaping
by-and-by.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

ABOUT SOME PEOPLE WHO THOUGHT NO EVIL.

A few days after this Hester was much delighted to receive an invitation
from her little friends, the Misses Bruce.  These good ladies had not
forgotten the lonely and miserable child whom they had comforted not a
little during her journey to school six weeks ago.  They invited Hester
to spend the next half-holiday with them, and as this happened to fall
on a Saturday, Mrs Willis gave Hester permission to remain with her
friends until eight o'clock, when she would send the carriage to fetch
her home.

The trouble about Annie had taken place the Wednesday before, and all
the girls' heads were full of the uncleared-up mystery when Hester
started on her little expedition.

Nothing was known; no fresh light had been thrown on the subject.
Everything went on as usual within the school, and a casual observer
would never have noticed the cloud which rested over that usually happy
dwelling.  A casual observer would have noticed little or no change in
Annie Forest; her merry laugh was still heard, her light step still
danced across the play-room floor, she was in her place in class, and
was, if anything, a little more attentive and a little more successful
over her lessons.  Her pretty, piquant face, her arch expression, the
bright, quick and droll glance which she alone could give, were still to
be seen; but those who knew her well and those who loved her best saw a
change in Annie.

In the play-room she devoted herself exclusively to the little ones; she
never went near Cecil Temple's drawing-room, she never mingled with the
girls of the middle school as they clustered round the cheerful fire.
At meal-times she ate little, and her room-fellow was heard to declare
that she was awakened more than once in the middle of the night by the
sound of Annie's sobs.  In chapel, too, when she fancied herself quite
unobserved, her face wore an expression of great pain; but if Mrs
Willis happened to glance in her direction, instantly the little mouth
became demure and almost hard, the dark eyelashes were lowered over the
bright eyes, the whole expression of the face showed the extreme of
indifference.  Hester felt more sure than ever of Annie's guilt; but one
or two of the other girls in the school wavered in this opinion, and
would have taken Annie out of "Coventry" had she herself made the
smallest advance toward them.

Annie and Hester had not spoken to each other now for several days; but
on this afternoon, which was a bright one in early spring, as Hester was
changing her school-dress for her Sunday one, and preparing for her
visit to the Misses Bruce, there came a light knock at her door.  She
said "Come in," rather impatiently, for she was in a hurry, and dreaded
being kept.

To her surprise Annie Forest put in her curly head, and then, dancing
with her usual light movement across the room, she laid a little bunch
of dainty spring flowers on the dressing-table beside Hester.

Hester stared, first at the intruder and then at the early primroses.
She passionately loved flowers, and would have exclaimed with ecstasy at
these had anyone brought them in except Annie.

"I want you," said Annie, rather timidly for her, "to take these flowers
from me to Miss Agnes and Miss Jane Bruce.  It will be very kind of you
if you will take them.  I am sorry to have interrupted you--thank you
very much."

She was turning away when Hester compelled herself to remark--

"Is there any message with the flowers?"

"Oh, no--only Annie Forest's love.  They'll understand."  She turned
half round as she spoke, and Hester saw that her eyes had filled with
tears.  She felt touched in spite of herself.  There was something in
Annie's face now which reminded her of her darling little Nan at home.
She had seen the same beseeching, sorrowful look in Nan's brown eyes
when she had wanted her friends to kiss her and take her to their hearts
and love her.

Hester would not allow herself, however, to feel any tenderness toward
Annie.  Of course she was not really a bit like sweet little Nan, and it
was absurd to suppose that a great girl like Annie could want caressing
and petting and soothing; still, in spite of herself, Annie's look
haunted her, and she took great care of the little flower-offering, and
presented it with Annie's message instantly on her arrival to the little
old ladies.

Miss Jane and Miss Agnes were very much pleased with the early
primroses.  They looked at one another and said--

"Poor dear little girl," in tender voices, and then they put the flowers
into one of their daintiest vases, and made much of them, and showed
them to any visitors who happened to call that afternoon.

Their little house looked something like a doll's house to Hester, who
had been accustomed all her life to large rooms and spacious passages;
but it was the sweetest, daintiest, and most charming little abode in
the world.  It was not unlike a nest, and the Misses Bruce in certain
ways resembled bright little robin redbreasts, so small, so neat, so
chirrupy they were.

Hester enjoyed her afternoon immensely; the little ladies were right in
their prophecy, and she was no longer lonely at school.  She enjoyed
talking about her school-fellows, about her new life, about her studies.
The Misses Bruce were decidedly fond of a gossip, but something which
she could not at all define in their manner prevented Hester from
retailing for their benefit any unkind news.  They told her frankly at
last that they were only interested in the good things which went on in
the school, and that they found no pursuit so altogether delightful as
finding out the best points in all the people they came across.  They
would not even laugh at sleepy, tiresome Susan Drummond; on the
contrary, they pitied her, and Miss Jane wondered if the girl could be
quite well, whereupon Miss Agnes shook her head, and said emphatically
that it was Hester's duty to rouse poor Susy, and to make her waking
life so interesting to her that she should no longer care to spend so
many hours in the world of dreams.

There is such a thing as being so kind-hearted, so gentle, so charitable
as to make the people who have not encouraged these virtues feel quite
uncomfortable.  By the mere force of contrast they begin to see
themselves something as they really are.  Since Hester had come to
Lavender House she had taken very little pains to please others rather
than herself, and she was now almost startled to see how she had allowed
selfishness to get the better of her.  While the Misses Bruce were
speaking, old longings, which had slept since her mother's death, came
back to the young girl, and she began to wish that she could be kinder
to Susan Drummond, and that she could overcome her dislike to Annie
Forest.  She longed to say something about Annie to the little ladies,
but they evidently did not wish to allude to the subject.  When she was
going away, they gave her a small parcel.

"You will kindly give this to your schoolfellow, Miss Forest, Hester
dear," they both said, and then they kissed her, and said they hoped
they should see her again: and Hester got into the old-fashioned school
brougham, and held the brown-paper parcel in her hand.

As she was going into the chapel that night, Mary Bell came up to her
and whispered--

"We have not got to the bottom of that mystery about Annie Forest yet.
Mrs Willis can evidently make nothing of her, and I believe Mr Everard
is going to talk to her after prayers to-night."

As she was speaking, Annie herself pushed rather rudely past the two
girls; her face was flushed, and her hair was even more untidy than was
its wont.

"Here is a parcel for you, Miss Forest," said Hester, in a much more
gentle tone than she was wont to use when she addressed this
objectionable school-mate.

All the girls were now filing into the chapel, and Hester should
certainly not have presented the little parcel at that moment.

"Breaking the rules, Miss Thornton," said Annie; "all right, toss it
here."  Then, as Hester failed to comply, she ran back, knocking her
school-fellows out of place, and, snatching the parcel from Hester's
hand, threw it high in the air.  This was a piece of not only wilful
audacity and disobedience, but it even savoured of the profane, for
Annie's step was on the threshold of the chapel, and the parcel fell
with a noisy bang on the floor some feet inside the little building.

"Bring me that parcel, Annie Forest," whispered the stern voice of the
head-mistress.

Annie sullenly complied; but when she came up to Mrs Willis, her
governess took her hand, and pushed her down into a low seat a little
behind her.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

"AN ENEMY HATH DONE THIS."

The short evening service was over, and one by one, in orderly
procession, the girls left the chapel.  Annie was about to rise to her
feet to follow her school-companions, when Mrs Willis stooped down and
whispered something in her ear.  Her face became instantly suffused with
a dull red; she resumed her seat, and buried her face in both her hands.
One or two of the girls noticed her despondent attitude as they left
the chapel, and Cecil Temple looked back with a glance of such
unutterable sympathy that Annie's proud, suffering little heart would
have been touched could she but have seen the look.

Presently the young steps died away, and Annie, raising her head, saw
that she was alone with Mr Everard, who seated himself in the place
which Mrs Willis had occupied by her side.

"Your governess has asked me to speak to you, my dear," he said, in his
kind and fatherly tones; "she wants us to discuss this thing which is
making you so unhappy quite fully together."  Here the clergyman paused,
and, noticing a sudden wistful and soft look in the girl's brown eyes,
he continued: "Perhaps, however, you have something to say to me which
will throw light on this mystery?"

"No, sir, I have nothing to say," replied Annie, and now again the
sullen expression passed like a wave over her face.

"Poor child," said Mr Everard.  "Perhaps, Annie," he continued, "you do
not quite understand me--you do not quite read my motive in talking to
you to-night.  I am not here in any sense to reprove you.  You are
either guilty of this sin, or you are not guilty.  In either case I pity
you; it is very hard, very bitter, to be falsely accused--I pity you
much if this is the case; but it is still harder, Annie, still more
bitter, still more absolutely crushing to be accused of a sin which we
are trying to conceal.  In that terrible case God Himself hides His
face.  Poor child, poor child, I pity you most of all if you are
guilty."

Annie had again covered her face, and bowed her head over her hands.
She did not speak for a moment, but presently Mr Everard heard a low
sob, and then another, and another, until at last her whole frame was
shaken with a perfect tempest of weeping.

The old clergyman, who had seen many strange phases of human nature, who
had in his day comforted and guided more than one young school-girl, was
far too wise to do anything to check this flow of grief.  He knew Annie
would speak more fully and more frankly when her tears were over.  He
was right.  She presently raised a very tear-stained face to the
clergyman.

"I felt very bitter at your coming to speak to me," she began.  "Mrs
Willis has always sent for you when everything else has failed with us
girls, and I did not think she would treat me so.  I was determined not
to say anything to you.  Now, however, you have spoken good words to me,
and I can't turn away from you.  I will tell you all that is in my
heart.  I will promise before God to conceal nothing, if only you will
do one thing for me."

"What is that, my child?"

"Will you believe me?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Ah, but you have not been tried yet.  I thought Mrs Willis would
certainly believe; but she said the circumstantial evidence was too
strong--perhaps it will be too strong for you."

"I promise to believe you, Annie Forest; if, before God, you can assure
me that you are speaking the whole truth, I will fully believe you."

Annie paused again, then she rose from her seat and stood a pace away
from the old minister.

"This is the truth before God," she said, as she locked her two hands
together and raised her eyes freely and unshrinkingly to Mr Everard's
face.

"I have always loved Mrs Willis.  I have reasons for loving her which
the girls don't know about.  The girls don't know that when my mother
was dying she gave me into Mrs Willis's charge, and she said, `You must
keep Annie until her father comes back.'  Mother did not know where
father was; but she said he would be sure to come back some day, and
look for mother and me: and Mrs Willis said she would keep me
faithfully until father came to claim me.  That is four years ago, and
my father has never come, nor have I heard of him, and I think, I am
almost sure, that the little money which mother left must be all used
up.  Mrs Willis never says anything about money, and she did not wish
me to tell my story to the girls.  None of them know except Cecil
Temple.  I am sure some day father will come home, and he will give Mrs
Willis back the money she has spent on me; but never, never, never can
he repay her for her goodness to me.  You see I cannot help loving Mrs
Willis.  It is quite impossible for any girl to have such a friend and
not to love her.  I know I am very wild, and that I do all sorts of mad
things.  It seems to me that I cannot help myself sometimes: but I would
not willingly, indeed, I would not willingly hurt anybody.  Last
Wednesday, as you know, there was a great disturbance in the school.
Dora Russell's desk was tampered with, and so was Cecil Temple's.  You
know, of course, what was found in both the desks.  Mrs Willis sent for
me, and asked me about the caricature which was drawn in Cecil's book.
I looked at it and I told her the truth.  I did not conceal one thing.
I told her the whole truth as far as I knew it.  She did not believe me.
She said so.  What more could I do then?"

Here Annie paused, she began to unclasp and clasp her hands, and she
looked full at Mr Everard with a most pleading expression.

"Do you mind repeating to me exactly what you said to your governess?"
he questioned.

"I said this, sir.  I said, `Yes, Mrs Willis, I did draw that
caricature.  You will scarcely understand how I, who love you so much,
could have been so mad and ungrateful as to do anything to turn you into
ridicule.  I would cut off my right hand now not to have done it; but I
did do it, and I must tell you the truth.'  `Tell me, dear,' she said,
quite gently then.  `It was one wet afternoon about a fortnight ago,' I
said to her; `a lot of us middle-school-girls were sitting together, and
I had a pencil and some bits of paper, and I was making up funny little
groups of a lot of us, and the girls were screaming with laughter, for
somehow I managed to make the likeness that I wanted in each case.'  It
was very wrong of me, I know.  It was against the rules; but I was in
one of my maddest humours, and I really do not care what the
consequences were.  At last one of the girls said: `You won't dare to
make a picture like that of Mrs Willis, Annie--you know you won't
dare.'  The minute she said that name I began to feel ashamed.  I
remembered I was breaking one of the rules, and I suddenly tore up all
my bits of paper and flung them into the fire, and I said, `No, I would
not dare to show her dishonour.'  Well, afterwards, as I was washing my
hands for tea up in my room, the temptation came over me so strongly
that I felt I could not resist it, to make a funny little sketch of Mrs
Willis.  I had a little scrap of thin paper, and I took out my pencil
and did it all in a minute.  It seemed to me very funny, and I could not
help laughing at it; and then I thrust it into my private writing-case,
which I always keep locked, and I put the key in my pocket and ran
downstairs.  I forgot all about the caricature.  I had never shown it to
anyone.  How it got into Cecil's book is more than I can say.  When I
had finished speaking Mrs Willis looked very hard at the book.  `You
are right,' she said; `this caricature is drawn on a very thin piece of
paper, which has been cleverly pasted on the title-page.'  Then, Mr
Everard, she asked me a lot of questions.  Had I ever parted with my
keys?  Had I ever left my desk unlocked?  `No,' I said, `my desk is
always locked, and my keys are always in my pocket.  Indeed,' I added,
`my keys were absolutely safe for the last week, for they went in a
white petticoat to the wash, and came back as rusty as possible.'  I
could not open my desk for a whole week, which was a great nuisance.  I
told all this story to Mrs Willis, and she said to me, `You are
positively certain that this caricature has been taken out of your desk
by somebody else, and pasted in here?  You are sure that the caricature
you drew is not to be found in your desk?'  `Yes,' I said; `how can I be
anything but sure; these are my pencil marks, and that is the funny
little turn I gave to your neck which made me laugh when I drew it.
Yes; I am certainly sure.'

"`I have always been told, Annie,' Mrs Willis said, `that you are the
only girl in the school who can draw these caricatures.  You have never
seen an attempt at this kind of drawing amongst your school-fellows, or
amongst any of the teachers?'

"`I have never seen any of them try this special kind of drawing,' I
said.  `I wish I was like them.  I wish I had never, never done it.'

"`You have got your keys now?'  Mrs Willis said.

"`Yes,' I answered, pulling them all covered with rust out of my pocket.

"Then she told me to leave the keys on the table, and to go upstairs and
fetch down my little private desk.

"I did so, and she made me put the rusty key in the lock and open the
desk, and together we searched through its contents.  We pulled out
everything, or rather I did, and I scattered all my possessions about on
the table, and then I looked up almost triumphantly at Mrs Willis.

"`You see the caricature is not here,' I said, `somebody picked the lock
and took it away.'

"`This lock has not been picked,' Mrs Willis said, `and what is that
little piece of white paper sticking out of the private drawer?'

"`Oh, I forgot my private drawer,' I said; `but there is nothing in it--
nothing whatever,' and then I touched the spring, and pulled it open,
and there lay the little caricature which I had drawn in the bottom of
the drawer.  There it lay, not as I had left it, for I had never put it
into the private drawer.  I saw Mrs Willis's face turn very white, and
I noticed that her hands trembled.  I was all red myself, and very hot,
and there was a choking lump in my throat, and I could not have got a
single word out even if I had wished to.  So I began scrambling the
things back into my desk, as hard as ever I could, and then I locked it,
and put the rusty keys back in my pocket.

"`What am I to believe now, Annie?'  Mrs Willis said.

"`Believe anything you like now,' I managed to say; and then I took my
desk and walked out of the room, and would not wait even though she
called me back.

"That is the whole story, Mr Everard," continued Annie.  "I have no
explanation whatever to give.  I did make the one caricature of my dear
governess.  I did not make the other.  The second caricature is
certainly a copy of the first, but I did not make it.  I don't know who
made it.  I have no light whatever to throw on the subject.  You see
after all," added Annie Forest, raising her eyes to the clergyman's
face, "it is impossible for you to believe me.  Mrs Willis does not
believe me, and you cannot be expected to.  I don't suppose you are to
be blamed.  I don't see how you can help yourself."

"The circumstantial evidence is very strong against you, Annie," replied
the clergyman; "still, I promised to believe, and I have no intention of
going back from my word.  If, in the presence of God in this little
church you would willingly and deliberately tell me a lie I should never
trust human being again.  No, Annie Forest, you have many faults, but
you are not a liar.  I see the impress of truth on your brow, in your
eyes, on your lips.  This is a very gainful mystery, my child; but I
believe you.  I am going to see Mrs Willis now.  God bless you, Annie.
Be brave, be courageous, don't foster malice in your heart to any
unknown enemy.  An enemy has truly done this thing, poor child; but God
Himself will bring this mystery to light.  Trust Him, my dear; and now I
am going to see Mrs Willis."

While Mr Everard was speaking, Annie's whole expressive face had
changed; the sullen look had left it; the eyes were bright with renewed
hope; the lips had parted in smiles.  There was a struggle for speech,
but no words came; the young girl stooped down and raised the old
clergyman's withered hands to her lips.

"Let me stay here a little longer," she managed to say at last; and then
he left her.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

"THE SWEETS ARE POISONED."

"I think, my dear madam," said Mr Everard to Mrs Willis, "that you
must believe your pupil.  She has not refused to confess to you from any
stubbornness, but from, the simple reason that she has nothing to
confess.  I am firmly convinced that things are as she stated them, Mrs
Willis.  There is a mystery here which we neither of us can explain, but
which we must unravel."

Then Mrs Willis and the clergyman had a long and anxious talk together.
It lasted for a long time, and some of its results at least were
manifest the next morning, for, just before the morning's work began,
Mrs Willis came to the large school-room, and, calling Annie Forest to
her side, laid her hand on the young girl's shoulder.

"I wish to tell you all, young ladies," she said, "that I completely and
absolutely exonerate Annie Forest from having any part in the
disgraceful occurrence which took place in this school-room a short time
ago.  I allude, of course, as you all know, to the book which was found
tampered with in Cecil Temple's desk.  Some one else in this room is
guilty, and the mystery has still to be unravelled, and the guilty girl
has still to come forward and declare herself.  If she is willing at
this moment to come to me here, and fully and freely confess her sin, I
will quite forgive her."

The head-mistress paused, and, still with her hand on Annie's shoulder,
looked anxiously down the long room.  The love and forgiveness which she
felt shone in her eyes at this moment.  No girl need have feared aught
but tenderness from her just then.

No one stirred; the moment passed, and a look of sternness returned to
the mistress's fine face.

"No," she said, in her emphatic and clear tones, "the guilty girl
prefers waiting until God discovers her sin for her.  My dear, whoever
you are, that hour is coming, and you cannot escape from it.  In the
meantime, girls, I wish you all to receive Annie Forest as quite
innocent.  I believe in her, so does Mr Everard, and so must you.
Anyone who treats Miss Forest except as a perfectly innocent and
truthful girl incurs my severe displeasure.  My dear, you may return to
your seat."

Annie, whose face was partly hidden by her curly hair during the greater
part of this speech, now tossed it back, and raised her brown eyes with
a look of adoration in them to her teacher.  Mrs Willis's face,
however, still looked harassed.  Her eyes met Annie's, but no
corresponding glow was kindled in them; their glance was just, calm, but
cold.

The childish heart was conscious of a keen pang of agony, and Annie went
back to her lessons without any sense of exultation.

The fact was this: Mrs Willis's judgment and reason had been brought
round by Mr Everard's words, but in her heart of hearts, almost unknown
to herself, there still lingered a doubt of the innocence of her wayward
and pretty pupil.  She said over and over to herself that she really now
quite believed in Annie Forest, but then would come those whisperings
from her pained and sore heart.

"Why did she ever make a caricature of one who has been as a mother to
her?  If she made one caricature, could she not make another?  Above all
things, if _she_ did not do it, who did?"

Mrs Willis turned away from these unpleasant whispers--she would not
let them stay with her, and turned a deaf ear to their ugly words.  She
had publicly declared in the school her belief in Annie's absolute
innocence, but at the moment when her pupil looked up at her with a
world of love and adoration in her gaze, she found to her own infinite
distress that she could not give her the old love.

Annie went back to her companions, and bent her head over her lessons,
and tried to believe that she was very thankful and very happy, and
Cecil Temple managed to whisper a gentle word of congratulation to her,
and at the twelve o'clock walk Annie perceived that a few of her
school-fellows looked at her with friendly eyes again.  She perceived
now that when she went into the play-room she was not absolutely
tabooed, and that, if she chose, she might speedily resume her old reign
of popularity.  Annie had, to a remarkable extent, the gift of inspiring
love, and her old favourites would quickly have flocked back to their
sovereign had she so willed it.  It is certainly true that the girls to
whom the whole story was known in all its bearings found it difficult to
understand how Annie could be innocent; but Mr Everard's and Mrs
Willis's assertions were too potent to be disregarded, and most of the
girls were only too willing to let the whole affair slide from their
minds, and to take back their favourite Annie to their hearts again.

Annie, however, herself did not so will it.  In the play-room she
fraternised with the little ones who were alike her friends in adversity
and sunshine; she rejected the overtures of her old favourites, but
played, and romped, and was merry with the children of the sixth class.
She even declined Cecil's invitation to come and sit with her in her
drawing-room.

"Oh, no," she said, "I hate being still; I am in no humour for a talk.
Another time, Cecil, another time.  Now then, Sybil, my beauty, get well
on my back, and I'll be the willing dog carrying you round and round the
room."

Annie's face had not a trace of care or anxiety on it, but her eyes
would not quite meet Cecil's, and Cecil sighed as she turned away, and
her heart, too, began to whisper little, mocking, ugly doubts of poor
Annie.

During the half-hour before tea that evening Annie was sitting on the
floor with a small child in her lap, and two other little ones tumbling
about her, when she was startled by a shower of lollipops being poured
over her head, down her neck, and into her lap.  She started up and met
the sleepy gaze of Susan Drummond.

"That's to congratulate you, Miss," said Susan; "you're a very lucky
girl to have escaped as you did."

The little ones began putting Susan's lollipops vigorously into their
mouths.  Annie sprang to her feet, shaking the sticky sweetmeats out of
her dress on to the floor.

"What have I escaped from?" she asked, turning round and facing her
companion haughtily.

"Oh, dear me!" said Susan, stepping back a pace or two.  "I--ah--"
stifling a yawn--"I only meant you were very near getting into an ugly
scrape.  It's no affair of mine, I'm sure; only I thought you'd like the
lollipops."

"No, I don't like them at all," said Annie, "nor you either.  Go back to
your own companions, please."

Susan sulkily walked away, and Annie stooped down on the floor.

"Now, little darlings," she said, "you mustn't eat those.  No, no, they
are not good at all; and they have come from one of Annie's enemies.
Most likely they are full of poison.  Let us collect them all, every
one, and we will throw them into the fire before we go to tea."

"But I don't think there's any poison in them," said little Janie West
in a regretful tone, as she gobbled down a particularly luscious
chocolate cream; "they are all big, and fat, and bursty, and _so_ sweet,
Annie, dear."

"Never mind, Janie, they are dangerous sweeties all the same.  Come,
come, throw them into my apron, and I will run over and toss them into
the fire, and we'll have time for a game of leap-frog before tea; oh,
fie, Judy," as a very small fat baby began to whimper, "you would not
eat the sweeties of one of Annie's enemies."

This last appeal was successful.  The children made a valiant effort,
and dashed the tempting goodies into Annie's alpaca apron.  When they
were all collected, she marched up the play-room and in the presence of
Susan Drummond, Hester Thornton, Cecil Temple, and several more of her
school-companions, threw them into the fire.

"So much for _that_ overture, Miss Drummond," she said, making a mock
curtsey, and returning once more to the children.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

IN THE HAMMOCK.

Just at this time the weather suddenly changed.  After the cold and
dreariness of winter came soft spring days--came longer evenings and
brighter mornings.

Hester Thornton found that, she could dress by daylight, then that she
was no longer cold and shivering when she reached the chapel, then that
she began intensely to enjoy her mid-day walk, then that she found her
winter things a little too hot, until at last, almost suddenly it seemed
to the expectant and anxious girls, glorious spring weather broke upon
the world, the winds were soft and westerly, the buds swelled and
swelled into leaf on the trees, and the flowers bloomed in the
delightful old-fashioned gardens of Lavender House.  Instantly, it
seemed to the girls, their whole lives had altered.  The play-room was
deserted or only put up with on wet days.  At twelve o'clock, instead of
taking a monotonous walk on the roads, they ran races, played tennis,
croquet, or any other game they liked best in the gardens.  Later on in
the day, when the sun was not so powerful, they took their walk; but
even then they had time to rush back to their beloved shady garden for a
little time before tea and preparation for their next day's work.
Easter came this year about the middle of April, and Easter found these
girls almost enjoying summer weather.  How they looked forward to their
few Easter holidays! what plans they made, what tennis matches were
arranged, what games and amusements of all sorts were in anticipation!
Mrs Willis herself generally went away for a few days at Easter; so did
the French governess, and the school was nominally placed under the
charge of Miss Good and Miss Danesbury.  Mrs Willis did not approve of
long Easter holidays; she never gave more than a week, and in
consequence only the girls who lived quite near went home.  Out of the
fifty girls who resided at Lavender House about ten went away at Easter;
the remaining forty stayed behind, and were often heard to declare that
holidays at Lavender House were the most delightful things in the world.

At this particular Easter time the girls were rather surprised to near
that Mrs Willis had made up her mind not to go away as usual; Miss Good
was to have a holiday, and Mrs Willis and Miss Danesbury were to look
after the school.  This was felt to be an unusual, indeed unheard-of,
proceeding, and the girls commented about it a good deal, and somehow,
without absolutely intending to do so, they began to settle in their own
minds that Mrs Willis was staying in the school on account of Annie
Forest, and that in her heart of hearts she did not absolutely believe
in her innocence.  Mrs Willis certainly gave the girls no reason to
come to this conclusion; she was consistently kind to Annie, and had
apparently quite restored her to her old place in her favour.  Annie was
more gentle than of old, and less inclined to get into scrapes; but the
girls loved her far less in her present unnatural condition of reserve
and good behaviour than they did in her old daring and hoydenish days.
Cecil Temple always spent Easter with an old aunt who lived in a
neighbouring town; she openly said this year that she did not wish to go
away, but her governess would not allow her to change her usual plans,
and she left Lavender House with a curious feeling of depression and
coming trouble.  As she was getting into the cab which was to take her
to the station Annie flew to her side, threw a great bouquet of flowers
which she had gathered into her lap, and, flinging her arms tightly
round her neck, whispered suddenly and passionately:

"Oh, Cecil, believe in me."

"I--I--I don't know that I don't," said Cecil, rather lamely.

"No, Cecil, you don't--not in your heart of hearts.  Neither you nor
Mrs Willis--you neither of you believe in me from the very bottom of
your hearts; oh, it is hard!"

Annie gave vent to a little sob, sprang away from Cecil's arms, and
disappeared into a shrubbery close by.

She stayed there until the sound of the retreating cab died away in the
avenue, then, tossing back her hair, rearranging her rather tattered
garden hat, and hastily wiping some tears from her eyes, she came out
from her retreat, and began to look around her for some amusement.  What
should she do?  Where should she go?  How should she occupy herself?
Sounds of laughter and merriment filled the air; the garden was all
alive with gay young figures running here and there.  Girls stood in
groups under the horse chestnut tree--girls walked two and two up the
shady walk at the end of the garden--little ones gambolled and rolled on
the grass--a tennis match was going on vigorously, and the croquet
ground was occupied by eight girls of the middle school.  Annie was one
of the most successful tennis players in the school; she had indeed a
gift for all games of skill, and seldom missed her mark.  Now she looked
with a certain wistful longing toward the tennis-court; but, after a
brief hesitation, she turned away from it and entered the shady walk at
the farther end of the garden.  As she walked along, slowly,
meditatively, and sadly, her eyes suddenly lighted up.  Glancing to one
of the tall trees she saw a hammock suspended there which had evidently
been forgotten during the winter.  The tree was not yet quite in leaf,
and it was very easy for Annie to climb up its branches, to readjust the
hammock, and to get into it.  After its winter residence in the tree
this soft couch was found full of withered leaves, and otherwise rather
damp and uncomfortable.  Annie tossed the leaves on to the ground, and
laughed as she swung herself gently backwards and forwards.  Early as
the season still was the sun was so bright and the air so soft that she
could not but enjoy herself, and she laughed with pleasure, and only
wished that she had a fairy tale by her side to help to soothe her off
to sleep.

In the distance she heard some children calling "Annie," "Annie Forest;"
but she was far too comfortable and too lazy to answer them, and
presently she closed her eyes and really did fall asleep.

She was awakened by a very slight sound--by nothing more nor less than
the gentle and very refined conversation of two girls, who sat under the
oak-tree in which Annie's hammock swung.  Hearing the voices, she bent a
little forward, and saw that the speakers were Dora Russell and Hester
Thornton.  Her first inclination was to laugh, toss down some leaves,
and instantly reveal herself: the next she drew back hastily, and began
to listen with all her ears.

"I never liked her," said Hester--"I never even from the very first
pretended to like her.  I think she is underbred, and not fit to
associate with the other girls in the school-room."

"She is treated with most unfair partiality," retorted Miss Russell in
her thin and rather bitter voice.  "I have not the smallest doubt, not
the smallest, that she was guilty of putting those messes into my desk,
of destroying my composition, and of caricaturing Mrs Willis in Cecil
Temple's book.  I wonder after that Mrs Willis did not see through her,
but it is astonishing to what lengths favouritism will carry one.  Mrs
Willis and Mr Everard are behaving in a very unfair way to the rest of
us in upholding this commonplace, disagreeable girl; but it will be to
Mrs Willis's own disadvantage.  Hester, I am, as you know, leaving
school at Midsummer, and I shall certainly use all my influence to
induce my father and mother not to send the younger girls here; they
could not associate with a person like Miss Forest."

"I never take much notice of her," said Hester; "but of course what you
say is quite right, Dora.  You have great discrimination, and your
sisters might possibly be taken in by her."

"Oh, not at all, I assure you; they know a true lady when they see her.
However, they must not be imperilled.  I will ask my parents to send
them to Mdlle.  Lablanche.  I hear that her establishment is most
_recherche_."

"Mrs Willis is very nice herself, and so are most of the girls," said
Hester, after a pause.  Then they were both silent, for Hester had
stooped down to examine some little fronds and moss which grew at the
foot of the tree.  After a pause, Hester said--

"I don't think Annie is the favourite she was with the girls."

"Oh, of course not; they all, in their heart of hearts, know she is
guilty.  Will you come indoors, and have tea with me in my drawing-room,
Hester?"

The two girls walked slowly away, and presently Annie let herself gently
out of her hammock and dropped to the ground.

She had heard every word; she had not revealed herself, and a new and
terrible--and, truth to say, absolutely foreign--sensation from her true
nature now filled her mind.  She felt that she almost hated those two
who had spoken so cruelly, so unjustly of her.  She began to trace her
misfortunes and her unhappiness to the date of Hester's entrance into
the school.  Even more than Dora Russell did she dislike Hester; she
made up her mind to revenge herself on both these girls.  Her heart was
very, very sore; she missed the old words, the old love, the old
brightness, the old popularity; she missed the mother-tones in Mrs
Willis's voice--her heart cried out for them, at night she often wept
for them.  She became more and more sure that she owed all her
misfortunes to Hester, and in a smaller degree to Dora.  Dora believed
that she had deliberately insulted her, and injured her composition,
when she knew herself that she was quite innocent of even harbouring
such a thought, far less carrying it into effect.  Well, now, she would
really do something to injure both these girls, and perhaps the carrying
out of her revenge would satisfy her sore heart.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

CUP AND BALL.

Just toward the end of the Easter holidays, Hester Thornton was thrown
into a great tumult of excitement, of wonder, of half regret and half
joy, by a letter which she received from her father.  In this letter he
informed her that he had made up his mind to break up his establishment
for several years, to go abroad, and to leave Hester altogether under
Mrs Willis's care.

When Hester had read so far, she flung her letter on the table, put her
head into her hands, and burst into tears.

"Oh, how cruel of father!" she exclaimed; "how am I to live without ever
going home--how am I to endure life without seeing my little Nan?"

Hester cried bitterly; the strongest love of her nature was now given to
this pretty and sweet little sister, and dismal pictures rose rapidly
before her of Nan growing up without in the least remembering her--
perhaps, still worse, of Nan being unkindly treated and neglected by
strangers.  After a long pause, she raised her head, wiped her eyes, and
resumed her letter.  Now, indeed, she started with astonishment, and
gave an exclamation of delight--Sir John Thornton had arranged that Mrs
Willis was also to receive little Nan, although she was younger than any
other child present in the school.  Hester scarcely waited to finish her
letter.  She crammed it into her pocket, rushed up to Susan Drummond,
and astonished that placid young lady by suddenly kissing her.

"Nan is coming, Susy!" she exclaimed; "dear, darling, lovely little Nan
is coming--oh, I am so happy!"

She was far too impatient to explain matters to stolid Susan, and danced
downstairs, her eyes sparkling and smiles on her lips.  It was nothing
to her now how long she stayed at school--her heart's treasure would be
with her there, and she could not but feel happy.

After breakfast Mrs Willis sent for her, and told her what arrangements
were being made; she said that she was going to remove Susan Drummond
out of Hester's bedroom, in order that Hester might enjoy her little
sister's company at night.  She spoke very gently, and entered with full
sympathy into the girl's delight over the little motherless sister, and
Hester felt more drawn to her governess than she had ever been.

Nan was to arrive at Lavender House on the following evening, and for
the first week her nurse was to remain with her until she got accustomed
to her new life.

The morning of the day of Nan's arrival was also the last of the Easter
holidays, and Hester, awakening earlier than her wont, lay in bed, and
planned what she would do to welcome the little one.

The idea of having Nan with her continually had softened and touched
Hester.  She was not unhappy in her school-life--indeed, there was much
in its monotonous, busy, and healthy occupation to stimulate and rouse
the good in her.  Her intellect was being vigorously exercised, and, by
contact with her school-fellows, her character was being moulded; but
the perfect harmony and brightness of the school had been much
interrupted since Hester's arrival; her dislike to Annie Forest had been
unfortunate in more ways than one, and that dislike, which was
increasing each day, was hardening Hester's heart.

But it was not hard this morning--all that was sweetest, and softest,
and best in her had come to the surface--the little sister, whom her
mother had left in her charge, was now to be her daily and hourly
companion.  For Nan's sake, then, she must be very good; her deeds must
be gentle and kind, and her thoughts charitable.  Hester had an
instinctive feeling that baby eyes saw deep below the surface; Hester
felt if Nan were to lose even a shadow of her faith in her she could
almost die of shame.

Hester had been very proud of Dora Russell's friendship.  Never before
had it been known in the school that a first-class girl took a third
into such close companionship, and Hester's little head had been
slightly turned by the fact.  Her better judgment and her better nature
had been rather blinded by the fascinations of this tall, graceful,
satirical Dora.  She had been weak enough to agree with Dora with her
lips when in her heart of hearts she knew she was all wrong.  By nature
Hester was an honourable girl, with many fine traits in her character--
by nature Dora was small and mean and poor of soul.

This morning Hester ran up to her favourite.

"Little Nan is coming to-night," she said.

Dora was talking at the moment to Miss Maitland, another first-class
girl, and the two stared rather superciliously at Hester, and, after a
pause, Dora said in her finest drawl--

"Who _is_ little Nan?"

It was Hester's turn to stare, for she had often spoken of Nan to this
beloved friend, who had listened to her narrative and had appeared to
sympathise.

"My little sister, of course," she exclaimed.  "I have often talked to
you about her, Dora.  Are you not glad she is coming?"

"No, my dear child, I can't say that I am.  If you wish to retain my
friendship, Hester, you must be careful to keep the little mite away
from me; I can't bear small children."

Hester walked away with her heart swelling, and she fancied she heard
the two elder girls laughing as she left the play-room.

Many other girls, however, in the school thoroughly sympathised with
Hester, and amongst them no one was more delighted than Susan Drummond.

"I am awfully good-natured not to be as cross as two sticks, Hetty," she
exclaimed, "for I am being turned out of my comfortable room; and whose
room do you suppose I am now to share? why, that little imp Annie
Forest's."  But Hester felt charitable, even toward Annie, on this happy
day.

In the evening little Nan arrived.  She was a very pretty, dimpled,
brown-eyed creature, of just three years of age.  She had all the
imperious ways of a spoilt baby, and, evidently, fear was a word not to
be found in her vocabulary.  She clung to Hester, but smiled and nodded
to the other girls, who made advances to her, and petted her, and
thought her a very charming baby.  Beside Nan, all the other little
girls in the school looked old.  She was quite, two years the youngest,
and it was soon very evident that she would establish that most
imperious of all reigns--a baby reign--in the school.

Hester fondled her and talked to her, and the little thing sat on her
knee and stroked her face.

"Me like 'oo, Hetty," she said several times, and she added many other
endearing and pretty words which caused Hester's heart to swell with
delight.  She alone, of all the girls, had taken no notice of the new
plaything.  She walked to her usual corner, sat down on the floor, and
began to play cup and ball for the benefit of two or three of the
smallest children.  Hester did not regard her in the least; she sat with
Nan on her knee, stroking back her sunny curls, and remarking on her
various charms to several of the girls who sat round her.

"See, how pretty that dimple in her chin is," she said, "and oh, my pet,
your eyes look wiser, and bigger, and saucier than ever.  Look at me,
Nan; look at your own Hetty."

Nan's attention, however, was diverted by the gayly-painted cup and ball
which Annie was using with her wonted dexterity.

"Dat a pitty toy," she said, giving one quick and rather solemn glance
at her sister, and again fixing her admiring gaze on the cup and ball.

Annie Forest had heard the words, and she darted a sudden, laughing look
at the little one.  Annie's power over children was well-known.  Nan
began to wriggle on Hester's knee.

"Dat a pitty lady," she said again, "and dat a pitty, tibby [little]
toy; Nan go see."

In an instant, before Hester could prevent her, she had trotted across
the room, and was kneeling with the other children and shouting with
delight over Annie's play.

"She'll get her, you'll see, Hester," said one of the girls maliciously;
"she'll soon be much fonder of Annie Forest than of you.  Annie wins the
heart of every little child in the school."

"She won't win my Nan's from me," said Hester in a confident tone; but
in spite of her words a great pang of jealousy had gone through her.
She rose to her feet and followed her little sister.

"Nan, you are sleepy, you must go to bed."

"No, no, Hetty; me not s'eepy, me kite awake; go 'way, Hetty, Nan want
to see the pitty tibby toy."

Annie raised her eyes to Hester's.  She did not really want to be
unkind, and at that moment it had certainly never entered into her head
to steal Hester's treasure from her, but she could not help a look of
suppressed delight and triumph filling her eyes.

Hester could scarcely bear the look; she stooped down, and taking one of
Nan's little dimpled hands tried to drag her away.

Instantly Annie threw the cup and ball on the floor.

"The play is all over to-night, little darling," she said; "give Annie
Forest one kiss, and run to bed with sister Hester."

Nan, who had been puckering up her face to cry, smiled instantly; then
she scrambled to her feet, and flung her little fat arms round Annie's
neck.

"Dat a vedy pitty p'ay," she said in a patronising tone, "and me like
'oo, me do."

Then she gave her hand willingly to Hester, and trotted out of the
play-room by her side.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

IN THE SOUTH PARLOUR.

Immediately after Easter the real excitement of the school-year began.
All the girls who had ambition, who had industry, and who had a desire
to please distant fathers, mothers, or guardians, worked hard for that
great day at Midsummer when Mrs Willis distributed her valuable prizes.

From the moment of Hester's entrance into the school she had heard this
day spoken of.  It was, without doubt, the greatest day of the year at
Lavender House.  Smaller prizes were given at Christmas, but the great
honours were always reserved for this long sunshiny June day, when Mrs
Willis herself presented her marks of approbation to her successful
pupils.

The girls who had lived in the school for two or three years gave Hester
vivid descriptions of the excitements, the pleasures, the delights of
this day of days.  In the first place, it was the first of the holidays,
in the second it was spent almost from morning to night in the open
air--for a great tent was erected on the lawn; and visitors thronged to
Lavender House, and fathers and mothers, and aunts and uncles, arrived
from a distance to witness the triumphs of the favoured children who had
won the prizes.  The giving away of the prizes was, of course, _the_
event of the day; but there were many other minor joys.  Always in the
evenings there was some special entertainment.  These entertainments
differed from year to year, Mrs Willis allowing the girls to choose
them for themselves, and only making one proviso, that they must take
all the trouble, and all the pains--in short, that they themselves must
be the entertainers.  One year they had tableaux vivants; another a
fancy ball, every pretty dress of which had been designed by themselves,
and many even made by their own industrious little fingers.  Mrs Willis
delighted in the interest and occupation that this yearly entertainment
gave to her pupils, and she not only, encouraged them in their efforts
to produce something very unique and charming, but took care that they
should have sufficient time to work up their ideas properly.  Always
after Easter she gave the girls of the three first classes two evenings
absolutely to themselves; and these they spent in a pretty room called
the South Parlour, which belonged to Mrs Willis's part of the house,
and was rarely used, except for these great preparations.

Hester, therefore, after Easter found her days very full indeed.  Every
spare moment she devoted to little Nan, but she was quite determined to
win a substantial prize, and she was also deeply interested in various
schemes proposed in the South Parlour.

With regard to prizes, Mrs Willis also went on a plan of her own.  Each
girl was expected to come up to a certain standard of excellence in all
her studies, and if she fell very much below this standard she was not
allowed to try for any prize; if she came up to it, she could select one
subject, but only one, for competition.

On the Monday after the Easter holidays the special subjects for the
Midsummer prizes were given out, and the girls were expected to send in
their answers as to the special prize they meant to compete for by the
following Friday.

When this day arrived Hester Thornton and Dora Russell both discovered
that they had made the same choice--they were going to try for the
English composition prize.  This subject always obtained one of the most
costly prizes, and several of the girls shook their heads over Hester's
choice.

"You are very silly to try for that, Hetty," they exclaimed, "for Mrs
Willis has such queer ideas with regard to English composition.  Of
course, we go in for it in a general way, and learn the rules of grammar
and punctuation, and so forth, but Mrs Willis says that school-girls'
themes are so bad and affected, as a rule, and she says she does not
think anyone will go in for her pet prize who has not natural ability.
In consequence, she gives only one prize for composition between the
three first classes.  You had better change your mind, Hetty, before it
is too late, for much older girls will compete with you, and there are
several who are going to try."

Hester, however, only smiled, and assured her eager friend that she
would stick to her pet subject, and try to do the best she could.

On the morning when the girls signified their choice of subject, Mrs
Willis came into the school-room and made one of her little yearly
speeches with regard to the right spirit in which her girls should try
for these honours.  The few and well-chosen words of the head-mistress
generally roused those girls who loved her best to a fever of
enthusiasm, and even Hester, who was comparatively a newcomer, felt a
great wish, as she listened to that clear and vibrating voice and
watched the many expressions which passed over the noble face, that she
might find something beyond the mere earthly honour and glory of success
in this coming trial.  Having finished her little speech, Mrs Willis
made several remarks with regard to the choice of subjects.  She spoke
of the English composition prize last, and here she heightened the
interest and excitement which always hung around this special prize.
Contrary to her usual rule, she would this year give no subject for an
English theme.  Each girl might choose what pleased her best.

On nearing these words Annie Forest, who had been sitting by her desk
looking rather dull and dejected, suddenly sprang to her feet, her face
aglow, her eyes sparkling, and began whispering vigorously to Miss Good.

Miss Good nodded, and, going up to Mrs Willis, said aloud that Annie
had changed her mind, and that from not wishing to try for any of the
prizes, she now intended to compete for the English composition.

Mrs Willis looked a little surprised, but without any comment she
immediately entered Annie's name in the list of competitors, and Annie
sat down again, not even glancing at her astonished school-fellows, who
could not conceal their amazement, for she had never hitherto shown the
slightest desire to excel in this department.

On the evening of this Friday the girls of the three first classes
assembled for the first time in the South Parlour.  Hitherto these
meetings had been carried on in a systematic and business-like fashion.
It was impossible for all the girls who belonged to these three large
classes to assemble on each occasion.  Careful selections, therefore,
were, as a rule, made from their numbers.  These girls formed a
committee to superintend and carry on the real preparations for the
coming treat, and the others only met when specially summoned by the
committee to appear.

As usual now the three classes found themselves in the South Parlour--as
usual they chattered volubly, and started schemes, to reject them again
with peals of laughter.  Many ideas were put forward, to be cast aside
as utterly worthless.  No one seemed to have any very brilliant thought,
and as the first step on these occasions was to select what the
entertainment should be, proceedings seemed to come to a standstill.

The fact was the most daring originator, the one whoso ideas were always
flavoured with a spice of novelty, was absolutely silent.

Cecil Temple, who had taken a seat near Annie, suddenly, bent forward
and spoke to her aloud.

"We have all said what we would like, and we none of us appear to have
thought of anything at all worth having," she said; "but you have not
spoken at all, Annie.  Give us an idea, dear--you know you originated
the fancy ball last year."

Thus publicly appealed to, Annie raised her full brown eyes, glanced at
her companions, not one of whom, with the exception of Cecil, returned
her gaze fully; then, rising to her feet, she spoke in a slightly
contemptuous tone.

"These preparations seem to me to be much ado about nothing; they lake
up a lot of our time, and the results aren't worth the trouble--I have
nothing particular to say.  Oh, well, yes, if you like--let's have blind
man's buff and a magic lantern;" and then, dropping a mock curtsey to
her companions, she dashed out of the South Parlour.

"Insufferable girl!" said Dora Russell; "I wonder you try to draw her
out, Cecil.  You know perfectly that we none of us care to have anything
to do with her."

"I know perfectly that you are all doing your best to make her life
miserable," said Cecil, suddenly and boldly.  "No one in this school has
obeyed Mrs Willis's command to treat Annie as innocent--you are
practically sending her to Coventry, and I think it is unjust and
unfair.  You don't know, girls, that you are ruining poor Annie's
happiness."

"Oh, dear! she doesn't seem at all dull," said Miss West, a second-class
girl.  "I do think she's a hardened little wretch."

"Little you know about her," said Cecil, the colour fading out of her
pale face.  Then, after a pause, she added, "The injustice of the whole
thing is that in this treatment of Annie you break the spirit of Mrs
Willis's command--you, none of you, certainly tell her that she is
guilty, but you treat her as such."

Here Hester Thornton said a daring thing.

"I don't believe Mrs Willis in her heart of hearts considers Annie
guiltless."

These words of Hester's were laughed at by most of the girls, but Dora
Russell gave her an approving nod, and Cecil, looking paler than ever,
dropped suddenly into her seat, and no longer tried to defend her absent
friend.

"At any rate," said Miss Conway, who as the head girl of the whole
school was always listened to with great respect.  "It is unfortunate
for the success of our entertainment that there should be all this
discussion and bad feeling with regard to Miss Forest.  For my own part,
I cannot make out why the poor little creature should be hunted down, or
what affair it is of ours whether she is innocent or not.  If Mr
Everard and Mrs Willis says she is innocent, is not that enough?  The
fact of her guilt or innocence can't hurt us one way or another.  It is
a great pity, however, for our own sakes, that we should be out with her
now, for, whatever her faults, she is the only one of us who is ever
gifted with an original thought.  But, as we can't have her, let us set
to work without her--we really can't waste the whole evening over this
sort of talk."

Discussions as to the coming pleasure were now again resumed with
vigour, and after a great deal of animated arguing it was resolved that
two short plays should be acted; that a committee should be immediately
formed, who should select the plays, and apportion their various parts
to the different actors.

The committee selected included Miss Russell, Miss Conway, Hester
Thornton, Cecil Temple, and two other girls of the second-class.  The
conference then broke up, but there was a certain sense of flatness over
everything, and Cecil was not the only girl who sighed for the merry
meetings of last year--when Annie had been the life and soul of all the
proceedings, and when one brilliant idea after another with regard to
the costumes for the fancy ball had dropped from her merry tongue.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

STEALING HEARTS.

When Annie ran out of the South Parlour she found herself suddenly face
to face with Mrs Willis.

"Well, my dear child," said the head-mistress in her kindest voice,
"where are you running to?  But I suppose I must not ask; you are, of
course, one of the busy and secret conclave in the South Parlour?"

"No.  I have left them," said Annie, bending her head, and after her
usual habit when agitated, shaking her hair about her face.

"Left them?" repeated Mrs Willis, "you mean, dear, that they have sent
you for some message."

"No.  I am n

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