“I have no doubt you are right,” said Maggie, “but,” she added, “I have not made up my mind, and I still long for Priscilla to wear the crown of bay.”

“You will win that crown yourself, my dear.”

“Oh, no, it is not for me.”

“I am very anxious about you, Maggie. Why do you speak in that reckless tone? Your position and Prissie’s are not the least alike: it is your duty to do your very utmost with those talents which have been bestowed upon you.”

“Perhaps,” answered Maggie, shrugging her shoulders, “but I am tired of stretching out my hand like a baby to catch soap-bubbles. I cannot speak of myself at all to-night, Miss Heath. Thank you for what you have said, and again good-night.”

Maggie had scarcely left the room before Priscilla appeared.

“Are you too tired to see me to-night, Miss Heath?”

“No, my love; come in and sit down. I was sorry to miss you this morning.”

“But I am glad as it turned out,” replied Priscilla.

“You were in great trouble, Prissie. The servant told me how terribly upset you were.”

“I was. I felt nearly mad.”

“But you look very happy now.”

“I am; my trouble has all vanished away. It was a great bogie. As soon as I came boldly up to it, it vanished into smoke.”

“Am I to hear the name of the bogie?”

“I think I would rather not tell you – at least not now. If Maggie thinks it right, she will speak to you about it; but, as far as I am concerned, it cannot touch me again.”

“Why have you come to see me then to-night, Priscilla?”

“I want to speak about Maggie.”

“What about her? She has just been here to speak of you.”

“Has she?”

“It is possible that she may make you a proposition which will affect your whole future, but I am not at liberty to say any more. Have you a proposition to make about her?”

“I have, and it will affect all Maggie’s life. It will make her so good – so very, very happy. Oh, Miss Heath! you ought to do it: you ought to make her marry Mr Hammond at once.”

“My dear Priscilla!” Miss Heath’s face turned crimson. “Are you alluding to Geoffrey Hammond? I know great friends of his; he is one of the cleverest men at St. Hilda’s.”

“Yes, and one of the best,” pursued Prissie, clasping her hands and speaking in that excited way which she always did when quite carried out of herself. “You don’t know how good he is, Miss Heath. I think he is one of the best of men. I would do anything in the world for him – anything.”

“Where have you met him, Priscilla?”

“At the Marshalls’, and once at the Elliot-Smiths’, and to-day, when I was so miserable, when the bogie ran after me, you know, at St. Hilda’s, just outside the chapel. Mr Hammond asked me to come to the service, and I went, and afterwards he chased the bogie away. Oh, he is good, he is kind, and he loves Maggie with all his heart. He has loved her for a long time, I am sure, but she is never nice to him.”

“Then, of course,” said Miss Heath, “if Miss Oliphant does not care for Mr Hammond, there is an end of the matter. You are a very innocent and very young girl, Priscilla; but this is a subject in which you have no right to interfere. Far from me to say that I disapprove of marriage for our students, but, while at St. Benet’s, it is certainly best for them to give their attention to other matters.”

“For most of us,” replied Prissie, “but not for Maggie. No one in the college thinks Maggie happy.”

“That is true,” replied Miss Heath, thoughtfully.

“And everyone knows,” pursued Prissie, “that Mr Hammond loves her.”

“Do they? I was not aware that such reports had got abroad.”

“Oh, yes: all Maggie’s friends know that, but they are so dreadfully stupid they cannot guess the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“That dear Maggie is breaking her heart on account of Mr Hammond.”

“Then you think she loves him?”

“I do – I know it. Oh, won’t you do something to get them to marry each other?”

“My dear child, these are subjects in which neither you nor I can interfere.”

“Oh!” Prissie’s eyes filled with sudden tears. “If you won’t do anything, I must.”

“I don’t see what you can do, Priscilla; I don’t know what you have a right to do. We do not care that our students should think of love and courtship while here, but we have never limited their freedom in the matter. If Miss Oliphant cares for Mr Hammond, and he cares for her, they know perfectly that they can become engaged. Miss Oliphant will be leaving St. Benet’s at the end of the summer term, she is completely, in every sense of the word, her own mistress.”

“Oh, no, she is not her own mistress, she is oppressed by a bogie. I don’t know the name of the bogie, or anything about it; but it is shadowing all Maggie’s life; it is taking the sunshine away from her, and it is making it impossible for her to marry Mr Hammond. They are both so fond of each other; they have both noble hearts, but the dreadful bogie spoils everything – it keeps them apart. Dear Miss Heath, I want you to come and kill the bogie.”

“I must find out its name first,” said Miss Heath.

Chapter Twenty Nine
At the Elliot-Smiths’ Party

Rosalind Merton had been in the wildest spirits all day; she had laughed with the gayest, joined in all the games, thrown herself heart and soul into every project which promised fun, which gave a possibility for enjoyment. Rosalind’s mood might have been described as reckless. This was not her invariable condition; she was a girl who, with all her gay spirits, took life with coolness. She was not given to over-excitement; her nerves were too well balanced for anything of this kind.

To-day, however, something seemed wrong with these equable nerves of hers: she could not keep still; her voice was never quiet; her laugh was constant. Once or twice she saw Annie Day’s eyes fixed upon her; she turned from their glance; a more brilliant red than usual dyed her cheeks; her laugh grew louder and more insolent.

On this evening the Elliot-Smiths would give their long-promised party. The wish of Annie Day’s heart was gratified; she had angled for an invitation to this merry-making and obtained it. Lucy Marsh was also going, and several other St. Benet’s girls would be present.

Early in the evening Rosalind retired to her own room, locked her door, and, taking out her new white dress, laid it across her bed. It was a very pretty dress, made of soft silk, which did not rustle, but lay in graceful puffs and folds on body and skirt. It was just the dress to make this young, slight figure of Rosalind’s look absolutely charming. She stood over it now and regarded it lovingly. The dress had been obtained, like most of Rosalind’s possessions, by manoeuvres. She had made up a piteous story, and her adoring mother had listened and contrived to deny herself and some of Rosalind’s younger sisters to purchase the white robe on which the young girl’s heart was set.

Deliberately and slowly Rosalind made her toilet, her golden, curling hair was brushed out, and then carefully coiled round her head. Rosalind had no trouble with her hair: a touch or two, a pin stuck here, a curl arranged there, and the arrangement became perfect – the glistening mass lay in natural waves over the small, graceful head.

Rosalind’s hair arranged to her satisfaction, she put on her lovely white dress. She stood before her long glass, a white-robed little figure, smiles round her lips, a sweet, bright colour in her cheeks, a dewy look in her baby-blue eyes. Rosalind’s toilet was all but finished; she stood before her glass now and hesitated. Should she go to the Elliot-Smiths’ as she was, or should she give the last finishing touch to render herself perfect? Should she wear her beautiful coral ornaments?

The coral was now her own, paid for to the uttermost farthing; Polly Singleton could not come up to Rosalind now, and disgrace her in public by demanding her coral back again. The coral was no longer Polly’s; it was Rosalind’s. The debt was cleared off; the exquisite ornaments were her own. Unlocking a drawer in her bureau she took out a case, which contained her treasures; she touched the spring of the case, opened it, and looked at them lovingly. The necklace, the bracelets, the earrings, and pins for the hair looked beautiful on their velvet pillow. For the sake of the pink coral, Rosalind had manoeuvred for her white dress; for its sake she had knowingly stinted her mother and sisters; for its sake she had also stolen a five-pound note from Maggie Oliphant. She dreamt many times of the triumphs which would be hers when she appeared at the Elliot-Smiths’ in her white silk dress, just tipped with the slight colour which the pink coral ornaments would bestow. Rosalind had likened herself to all kinds of lovely things in this beautiful yet simple toilet – to a daisy in the field, to a briar-rose: in short, to every flower which denoted the perfection of baby innocence.

Yet, as she held the coral necklace in her hand to-night, she hesitated deeply whether it would be wise to appear at the Elliot-Smiths’ in her treasured ornaments.

Rose had not felt comfortable all day. She had banished thought with the usual device of extra hilarity; she had crushed the little voice in her heart which would persistently cry, “Shame! shame!” which would go on telling her, “You are the meanest, the most wicked girl in St. Benet’s; you have done something for which you could be put in prison.” The voice had little opportunity of making itself heard that day, and, as Maggie Oliphant evidently did not intend to investigate the matter, Rosalind had every hope that her sin would never be found out. Nevertheless, she could not help feeling uneasy; for why did Annie Day, her own chosen and particular friend, so persistently avoid her? Why had Lucy Marsh refused to walk with her yesterday? and why did Annie so often look at her with meaning and inquiry in her eyes? These glances of Annie’s caused Rosalind’s heart to beat too quickly; they gave her an undefined sense of uneasiness.

She felt as she stood now before her glass that, after all, she was doing a rash thing in wearing her coral. Annie Day knew of her money difficulties; Annie knew how badly Rosalind had wanted four guineas to pay the debt she still owed for the ornaments. If Rosalind wore them to-night, Annie would ask numerous questions. Oh, yes, there was a risk – there was a decided risk – but Rosalind’s vanity was greater than her fears.

There came a knock at her room door. To Rosalind’s surprise, Annie Day’s voice, with an extremely friendly tone in it, was heard outside.

“Are you ready, Rosie?” she cried; “for, if you are, there is just room for you in the fly with Lucy Marsh and Miss Singleton and myself.”

“Oh, thank you!” cried Rosalind from the other side of the door; “just wait one moment, Annie, and I will be with you.”

Both fear and hesitation vanished at the friendly tones of Annie’s voice. She hastily fastened on her necklace and earrings, slipped on her bracelets, and stuck the coral pins in her hair. She saw a dazzling little image in the glass, and turned away with a glad, proud smile.

“We can’t be kept waiting; are you ready?” called Miss Day’s voice in the passage.

“Yes, yes; in one moment, Annie, dear,” replied Rosalind. She wrapped herself from head to foot in a long white opera cloak, pulled the hood over her head, seized her gloves and fan, and opened the door. The coral could not be seen now, and Annie, who was also in white, took her hand and ran with her down the corridor.

A few moments later the four girls arrived at the Elliot-Smiths’ and were shown into a dressing-room on the ground floor to divest themselves of their wraps. They were amongst the earliest of the arrivals, and Annie Day had both space and opportunity to rush up to Rosalind and exclaim at the perfect combination of white silk and pink coral.

“Lucy, Lucy!” she said, “do come and look at Rosalind’s coral! Oh, poor Polly! you must miss your ornaments; but I am obliged frankly to confess, my dear, that they are more becoming to this little cherub than they ever were to you.”

Polly was loudly dressed in blue silk. She came up, and turned Rosalind round, and, putting her hand on her neck, lifted the necklace, and looked at it affectionately.

“I did love those ornaments,” she said; “but, of course, I can’t grudge them to you, Rose. You paid a good sum for them – didn’t you, dear? – although nothing like what they were worth, so, of course, they are yours by every right.”

“You have paid off the debt? I congratulate you, Rose,” said Annie Day.

“Yes,” said Rosalind, blushing.

“I am glad you were able to get the money, my dear.”

“And I wish she hadn’t got it,” retorted Polly. “Money is of no moment to me now. Dad is just rolling in wealth, and I have, in consequence, more money than I know what to do with. I confess I never felt crosser in my life than when you brought me that five-pound note last Monday night, Miss Merton.”

Rosalind coloured, then grew very pale; she saw Annie Day’s eyes blaze and darken. She felt that her friend was putting two and two together, and drawing a conclusion in her own mind. Annie turned abruptly from Rosalind, and, touching Lucy Marsh on the arm, walked with her out of the dressing-room. The unsuspecting Polly brought up the rear with Rosalind.

The four girls entered the drawing-room, and Rosalind tried to forget the sick fear which was creeping round her heart in the excitement of the moment.

Nearly an hour later Maggie Oliphant arrived. She was also in white, but without any ornament, except a solitary diamond star which blazed in the rich coils of her hair. The beautiful Miss Oliphant was received with enthusiasm. Until her arrival Rose had been the undoubted belle of the evening, but beside Maggie the petite charms which Rose possessed sank out of sight. Maggie herself never felt less conscious of beauty; the heaviness at her heart made her cheeks look pale, and gave her brown eyes a languid expression; she was indifferent to the admiration which greeted her. The admiration which greeted her gave her a momentary feeling of surprise – almost of displeasure.

Meta Elliot-Smith and her mother buzzed round Maggie, and expressed their gratitude to her for coming.

“We expect a friend of yours to arrive presently,” said Meta – “Mr Hammond. You know Mr Hammond, don’t you? I have had a note from him. He says he will look in as soon after ten as possible. I am so glad; I was dreadfully afraid he couldn’t come, for he had to go suddenly into the country at the beginning of this week. You know Mr Hammond very well, don’t you, Miss Oliphant?”

“Yes,” replied Maggie, in her careless voice; “he is quite an old friend of mine.”

“You will be glad to see him?”

“Very glad.”

Meta looked at her in a puzzled way. Reports of Hammond’s love affair had reached her ears. She had expected to see emotion and confusion on Maggie’s face; it looked bright and pleased. Her “very glad” had a genuine ring about it.

“I am so delighted he is coming!” repeated Meta. “I do trust he will be here in good time.”

She led Miss Oliphant to a prominent seat at the top of the room as she spoke.

“I shall have to leave soon after ten,” replied Maggie, “so, if Mr Hammond cannot arrive until after that hour, I shall not have the pleasure of seeing him.”

“Oh, but you must really stay later than that; it would be too cruel to leave us so early.”

“I am afraid I cannot. The gates are closed at St. Benet’s at eleven o’clock, and I do not care to remain out until the last moment.”

Meta was obliged, with great reluctance, to leave her guest, and a moment later Annie Day came up eagerly to Maggie’s side.

“It’s all right,” she said, drawing Miss Oliphant into the shelter of a window; “I have found out all I want to know.”

“What is that?” asked Maggie.

“Rosalind Merton is the thief.”

“Miss Day, how can you say such dreadful things?”

“How can Rosalind do them? I am awfully sorry – indeed, I am disgusted – but the facts are too plain.” Miss Day then in a few eager whispers, which Maggie in vain endeavoured to suppress, gave her chain of evidence. Rosalind’s distress; her passionate desire to keep the coral; her entreaties that Miss Day would lend her four guineas; her assurances that she had not a penny in the world to pay her debt; her fears that it was utterly useless for her to expect the money from her mother. Then the curious fact that, on that very same evening, Polly Singleton should have been given a five-pound note by her. “There is not the least doubt,” concluded Miss Day, “that Rosalind must have gone into your room, Miss Oliphant, and stolen the note while Priscilla was absent. You know Miss Peel said that she did leave your room for a moment or two to fetch her Lexicon. Rosalind must have seized the opportunity; there cannot be a doubt of it.”

Maggie’s face turned white; her eyes were full of indignation and horror.

“Something must be done,” continued Annie. “I am no prude, but I draw the line at thieves. Miss Merton ought to be expelled; she is not fit to speak to one of us.”

“The affair is mine,” said Maggie, after a pause. “You must let me deal with it.”

“Will you?”

“I certainly will.”

“To-night?”

“I cannot say; I must think. The whole thing is terrible, it upsets me.”

“I thought you would feel it. I am a good bit upset myself, and so is Lucy Marsh.”

“Does Miss Marsh know, too? In that case, Miss Day, it will, I fear, be my duty to consult Miss Heath. Oh, I must think; I can do nothing hastily. Please, Miss Day, keep your own counsel for the present, and ask Miss Marsh to do the same.”

Annie Day ran off, and Maggie stood by the open window looking out at the starry night. Her head ached; her pulses beat; she felt sick and tired. The noise and laughter which filled the gaily thronged rooms were all discordant to her – she wished she had not come. A voice close by made her start – a hand not only clasped hers, but held it firmly for a moment. She looked up, and said with a sudden impulse, “Oh, Geoffrey! I am glad you are here.” Then, with a burning blush, she withdrew her hand from Hammond’s.

“Can I help you?” he asked. His heart was beating fast; her words were tingling in his ears, but his tone was quiet. “Can I help you?” he repeated. “Here is a seat.” He pulled a chair from behind a curtain, and Maggie dropped into it.

“Something is wrong,” she said; “something dreadful has happened.”

“May I know what it is?”

“I don’t think I have any right to tell you. It is connected with the college; but it has given me a blow, and I was tired beforehand. I came here against my will, and now I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

“That can be easily managed. I will stand here, and keep off all intruders.”

“Thank you.” Maggie put her hand to her forehead.

The headache, which had scarcely left her for a fortnight, was now so acute that all her thoughts were confused; she felt as if she were walking in a dream. It seemed perfectly right and natural that Hammond should stand by her side and protect her from the crowd; it seemed natural to her at that moment, natural, and even right, to appeal to him.

After a long pause, he said —

“I am afraid I also have bad news!”

“How?”

“I went to see my uncle, Mr Hayes.”

“Yes; it was good of you – I remember.”

“I failed in my mission. Mr Hayes says that Miss Peel, our Prissie’s aunt, would rather die than accept help from anyone.”

“Oh, how obstinate some people are!” replied Maggie, wearily. “Happiness, help, and succour come to their very door, and they turn these good things away.”

“That is true,” replied Hammond. “I am firmly convinced,” he added, “that the good angel of happiness is within the reach of most of us once at least in our lives; but for a whim – often for a mere whim – we tell him to go.”

Maggie’s face grew very white. “I must say ‘Good-bye’: I am going home,” she said, rising; then she added, looking full at Hammond, “Sometimes it is necessary to reject happiness; and necessity ought not to be spoken of as a whim.”

Chapter Thirty
“If I Had Known You Sooner.”

As Maggie was leaving the crowded drawing-room, she came face to face with Rosalind. One of those impulses which always guided her, more or less, made her stop suddenly and put her hand on the young girl’s shoulder.

“Will you come home with me?” she asked.

Rosalind was talking gaily at the moment to a very young undergraduate.

“I am obliged to you,” she began; “you are kind, but I have arranged to return to St. Benet’s with Miss Day and Miss Marsh.”

“I should like you to come now with me,” persisted Maggie in a grave voice.

Something in her tone caused Rosalind to turn pale. The sick fear, which had never been absent from her heart during the evening, became on the instant intolerable. She turned to the young lad with whom she had been flirting, bade him a hasty and indifferent “Good-night,” and followed Maggie out of the room.

Hammond accompanied the two girls downstairs, got their cab for them, and helped them in.

After Rosalind consented to come home, Miss Oliphant did not address another word to her. Rosalind sat huddled up in a corner of the cab; Maggie kept the window open, and looked out. The clear moonlight shone on her white face and glistened on her dress. Rosalind kept glancing at her; the guilty girl’s terror of the silent figure by her side grew greater each moment.

The girls reached Heath Hall, and Maggie again touched Rosalind on her arm.

“Come to my room,” she said; “I want to say something to you.”

Without waiting for a reply she went on herself in front. Rosalind followed abjectly; she was shaking in every limb.

The moment Maggie closed her room door, Rosalind flung her cloak off her shoulders, and, falling on her knees, caught the hem of Maggie’s dress and covered her face with it.

“Don’t, Rosalind; get up,” said Miss Oliphant, in a tone of disgust.

“Oh, Maggie, Maggie, do be merciful! Do forgive me! Don’t send me to prison, Maggie – don’t!”

“Get off your knees at once, or I don’t know what I shall do,” replied Maggie.

Rosalind sprang to her feet; she crouched up against the door; her eyes were wide open. Maggie came and faced her.

“Oh, don’t!” said Miss Merton, with a little shriek, “don’t look at me like that!” She put up her hand to her neck and began to unfasten her coral necklace. She took it off, slipped her bracelets from her arms, took her earrings out, and removed her pins.

“You can have them all,” she said, holding out the coral; “they are worth a great deal more – a great deal more than the money I —took!”

“Lay them down,” said Maggie. “Do you think I could touch that coral? Oh, Rosalind,” she added, a sudden rush of intense feeling coming into her voice, “I pity you! I pity any girl who has so base a soul.”

Rosalind began to sob freely. “You don’t know how I was tempted,” she said. “I went through a dreadful time, and you were the cause – you know you were, Maggie. You raised the price of that coral so wickedly, you excited my feelings. I felt as if there was a fiend in me. You did not want the sealskin jacket, but you bid against me, and won it. Then I felt mad, and, whatever you had offered for the coral, I should have bidden higher. It was all your fault; it was you who got me into debt. I would not be in the awful, awful plight I am in to-night but for you, Maggie.”

“Hush!” said Maggie. The pupils of her eyes dilated curiously; she put her hand before them.

“The fruits of my bad half-hours,” she murmured under her breath. After a long pause, she said —

“There is some truth in your words, Rosalind; I did help you to get into this false position. I am sorry; and when I tell Miss Heath the whole circumstance – as I must to-morrow – you may be sure I shall not exonerate myself.”

“Oh, Maggie, Maggie, you won’t tell Miss Heath! If you do, I am certain to be expelled, and my mother – my mother will die; she is not over strong just now, and this will kill her. You cannot be so cruel as to kill my mother, Maggie Oliphant, particularly when you yourself got me into this.”

“I did not get you into this,” retorted Maggie. “I know I am not blameless in the matter; but could I imagine for a moment that any girl, any girl who belonged to this college, could debase herself to steal, and then throw the blame on another. Nancy Banister has told me, Rose, how cruelly you spoke to Priscilla – what agony your cruel words cost her. I did wrong I own, but no act of mine would have tempted another girl to do what you have done. Now, stop crying; I have not brought you here to discuss your wickedness with you. I shall tell the whole circumstance to Miss Heath in the morning. It is my plain duty to do so, and no words of yours can prevent me.”

With a stifled cry, Rosalind Merton again fell on her knees.

“Get up,” said Maggie, “get up at once, or I shall bring Miss Heath here now. Your crime, Rosalind, is known to Miss Day and to Miss Marsh. Even without consulting Miss Heath, I think I can take it upon me to say that you had better leave St. Benet’s by the first train in the morning.”

“Oh, yes – yes! that would be much the best thing to do.”

“You are to go home, remember.”

“Yes, I will certainly go home. But, Maggie, I have no money – I have literally no money.”

“I will ask Priscilla Peel to go with you to the railway-station, and I will give her sufficient money to pay your fare to London – you live in London, don’t you?”

“Yes, at Bayswater.”

“What is your address?”

“19, Queen Street, Bayswater.”

“Priscilla shall telegraph to your mother, when you start, and ask her to meet you at. King’s Cross.”

Rosalind’s face grew paler and paler. “What excuse am I to give to mother?” she asked.

“That is your own affair; I have no doubt you will find something to say. I should advise you, Rosalind, to tell your poor mother the truth, for she is certain to hear all about it from Miss Heath the following morning.”

“Oh, what a miserable, miserable girl I am, Maggie!”

“You are a very miserable and sinful girl. It was a wretched day for St. Benet’s when a girl such as you are came to live here. But I don’t want to speak of that now, Rosalind; there is something you must do before you leave.”

“What is that?”

“You must go to Priscilla Peel, and humbly beg her pardon.”

“Oh, I cannot, I cannot! You have no idea how I hate Priscilla.”

“I am not surprised; the children of darkness generally hate those who walk in the light.”

“Maggie, I can’t beg her pardon.”

“You can please yourself about that: I certainly shall not force you; but, unless you beg Priscilla’s pardon, and confess to her the wicked deed you have done, I shall lend you no money to go home. You can go to your room now, Rosalind; I am tired, and wish to go to bed. You will be able to let me know your decision in the morning.”

Rosalind turned slowly away. She reached her room before the other girls had arrived home, and tossing the coral ornaments on her dressing-table, she flung herself across her bed, and gave way to the most passionate, heart-broken sobs that had ever rent her baby frame.

She was still sobbing, but more quietly, for the force of her passion had exhausted her, when a very light touch on her shoulder caused her to raise herself, and look up wildly. Prissie was bending over her.

“I knocked several times,” she said, “but you did not hear me, so I came in. You will be sick if you cry like this, Rose. Let me help you to go to bed.”

“No, no; please don’t touch me. I don’t want you, of all people, to do anything for me.”

“I wish you would let me undress you. I have often helped Aunt Raby to go to bed when she was very tired. Come, Rose, don’t turn away from me. Why should you?”

“Priscilla, you are the last person in the world who ought to be kind to me just now; you don’t know, you can never, never guess, what I did to you.”

“Yes, I can partly guess, but I don’t want to think of it.”

“Listen, Prissie: when I stole that money, I hoped people would accuse you of the theft.”

Prissie’s eyes filled with tears. “It was a dreadful thing to do,” she said, faintly.

“Oh, I knew you could never forgive me.”

“I do forgive you.”

“What! aren’t you angry? Aren’t you frantic with rage and passion?”

“I don’t wish to think of myself at all: I want to think of you. You are the one to be pitied.”

“I? Who could pity me?”

“Well, Rosalind, I do,” answered Priscilla in a slow voice; “you have sunk so low, you have done such a dreadful thing, the kind of thing that the angels in heaven would grieve over.”

“Oh, please don’t talk to me of them.”

“And then, Rosalind,” continued Prissie, “you look so unlike a girl who would do this sort of thing. I have a little sister at home – a dear, little innocent sister, and her eyes are blue like yours, and she is fair, too, as you are fair. I love her, and I think all good things of her. Rosalind, I fancy that your mother thinks good things of you. I imagine that she is proud of you, and that she loves to look at your pretty face.”

“Oh, don’t – don’t?” sobbed Rosalind. “Oh, poor mother, poor mother!” she burst into softened and sorrowful weeping. The hardness of her heart had melted for the time under the influence of Priscilla’s tender words.

“I wish I had known you sooner,” whispered Rose when Prissie bent down and kissed her before leaving her for the night. “Perhaps I might have been a good girl if I had really known you sooner, Priscilla Peel.”