A World of Girls: The Story of a School

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 hear 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 favor. 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 behavior than they did in her old daring and hoydenish days. Cecil Temple always spent Easter with an old aunt who lived in a neighboring 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 gamboled 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 re-adjust 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 backward and forward. 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 under-bred, 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 favoritism 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’ 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. Lablanché. I hear that her establishment is most recherché.”

“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 favorite 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 these 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’ 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 harboring 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.

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’ 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 down stairs, 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 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 schoolfellows, her character was being molded; 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 honorable 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 favorite.

“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 sympathize.

“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 sympathized with Hester, and among 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.

In the midst of their happy little talk together Annie Forest, in her usual careless fashion, entered the play-room. 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 gaily-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 that 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 seat 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 certainty 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 patronizing 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.

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 honors 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 favored 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 parlor, which belonged to Mrs. Willis’ 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 parlor.

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 schoolgirls’ themes are so bad and affected, as a rule, and she says she does not think any one 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 honors. 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 honor 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 hearing 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 schoolfellows, 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 parlor. 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 parlor—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 whose ideas were always flavored 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 take 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 dropped out of the south parlor.

“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’ 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 color 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’ 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 say 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 vigor, 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.

When Annie ran out of the south parlor 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 parlor?”

“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 not one of them. May I go into the garden, Mrs. Willis?”

“Certainly, my dear.”

Annie did not even glance at her governess. She pushed aside the baize door, and found herself in the great stone hall which led to the play-room and school-room. Her garden hat hung on a peg in the hall, and she tossed it off its place, and holding it in her hand ran toward the side door which opened directly into the garden. She had a wild wish to get to the shelter of the forsaken hammock and there cry out her whole heart. The moment she got into the open air, however, she was met by a whole troop of the little children, who were coming in after their usual short exercise before going to bed. Miss Danesbury was with them, and when Annie ran out by the open door, she entered holding two little ones by the hands. Last in this group toddled Hester’s little sister Nan. The moment she saw Annie, her little face broke into smiles, she held out two hands eagerly, and fled to the young girl’s side.

“Where dat pitty toy?” she said, raising her round face to Annie’s; “some one did buy dat toy, and it’s vedy pitty, and me wants it—where’s dat toy?”

Annie stooped down, and spoke suddenly and impulsively to the little child.

“You shall have the toy for your very own, Nan if you will do something for me?”

Nan’s baby eyes looked straight into Annie’s.

“Me will,” she said emphatically; “me want dat toy.”

“Put your arms, round me, little darling, and give me a great tight hug.”

This request was great fun to Nan, who squeezed her little arms round Annie’s neck, and pressed her dimpled cheek to her lips.

“Dere,” she said triumphantly, “will dat do?”

“Yes, you little treasure, and you’ll try to love me, won’t you?”

“Me do,” said Nan, in a solemn voice; but then Miss Danesbury called her, and she ran into the house.

As Nan trotted into the house she put up her dimpled hand to wipe something from her round cheek—it was a tear which Annie Forest had left there.

Annie herself, when all the little ones had disappeared, walked slowly and sadly down toward the shady walk. The sun had just set, and though it was now nearly May, and the evenings long, the wind was sufficiently cold to cause Annie to shiver in her thin house frock. At all times utterly fearless with regard to her health, she gave it no thought now, but entering the walk where she knew she should not be disturbed, she looked up at the hammock, and wondered whether she should climb into it. She decided, however, not to do so—the great and terrible weight of tears which had pressed close to her heart were relieved by Nan’s embrace; she no longer cared to cry until she could cry no longer—the worst of her pain had been soothed by the sweet baby graciousness of the little one.

Then there darted into poor Annie’s sore heart and perplexed brain that dangerous thought and temptation which was to work so much future pain and trouble. She already loved little Nan, and Nan, as most children did, had taken a fancy to her. Annie stood still, and clasped her hands as the dark idea came to her to steal the heart of little Nan from Hester, and so revenge herself on her. By doing this she would touch Hester in her most vulnerable point—she would take from her what she valued most. The temptation came swiftly, and Annie listened to it, and thought how easy it would be to carry it into effect. She knew well that no little child could resist her when she chose to exercise her charms—it would be easy, easy work to make that part of Nan which was most precious all her own. Annie became fascinated by the idea; how completely then she would have revenged all her wrongs on Hester! Some day Hester would bitterly repent of her unjust prejudice toward her; some day Hester would come to her, and beg of her in agony to give her back her darling’s love; ah! when that day came it would be her turn to triumph.

She felt more than satisfied as the temptation grew upon her; she shut out persistently from her view all the other side of the picture; she would not let herself think that the work she was about to undertake was cruel and mean. Hester had been more than unjust, and she was going to punish her.

Annie paced faster and faster up and down the shady walk, and whenever her resolution wavered, the memory of Hester’s face as she had seen it the same night in the south parlor came visibly back and strengthened it. Yes, her turn had come at last Hester had contrived since her entrance into the school to make Annie’s life thoroughly miserable. Well, never mind, it was Annie’s turn now to make her wretched.

In concentrating her thoughts of revenge on Hester, Annie ceased to trouble her head about Dora Russell. She considered Hester a crueler enemy than Dora. Hester belonged to her own set, worked in her own class, and would naturally, had things not turned out so unjustly, so unfairly, have been her friend, and not her enemy. Dora had nothing to say to Annie, and before Hester’s advent into the school had scarcely noticed her existence. Annie therefore concentrated all her powers on punishing Hester. This gave her an aim and an occupation, and at first she felt that her revenge might give her real pleasure.

Susan Drummond now shared Annie’s bedroom, and Annie was rather startled one evening to hear this phlegmatic young person burst out into a strong tirade against Hester and Dora. Dora had managed, for some inexplicable reason, to offend Susan, and Susan now looked to Annie for sympathy, and boldly suggested that they should get up what she was pleased to called “a lark” between them for the punishment of this very dignified young lady.

Annie had never liked Susan, and she now stared at her, and said, in her quick way:

“You won’t catch me helping you in any of your larks. I’ve had trouble enough on that score as it is.”

Susan gazed at her stupidly, and a dull red spread over her face.

“But I thought you hated Dora and Hester,” she said—“I’m sure they hate you.”

Annie was silent.

“You do hate them, don’t you?” persisted Miss Drummond.

“It’s nothing to you what I feel toward them, Susy,” said Annie. “Please don’t disturb me with any more of your chatter; I am very sleepy, and you are keeping me awake.”

Thus silenced, Susan had to content herself by turning on her back, and going into the land of dreams; but she was evidently a good deal surprised and disappointed, and began to entertain a certain respect, and even fear, of Annie which had been hitherto unknown to her.

Meanwhile Hester was very busy, very happy, and more satisfied—brighter and better employed than she had ever been in her life before. Nan’s love satisfied the affectionate side of her nature, and all her intellect was strained to the utmost to win honors in the coming struggle.

She had stuck firmly to her resolve to work for the English composition prize, and she firmly made up her own mind to leave no stone unturned to win it. What affection she possessed for Miss Russell was not at all of a character to prevent her from thoroughly enjoying taking the prize out of her hands. Her love for Dora had been fed by vanity, and was not at all of a deep or noble character. She was some time carefully choosing the subject of her theme, and at last she resolved to write a brief historical description of the last days of Marie Antoinette. To write properly on this subject she had to read up a great deal, and had to find references in books which were not usually allowed as school-room property. Mrs. Willis, however, always allowed the girls who were working for the English composition prize to have access to her rather extensive library, and here Hester was often to be found during play-hours. Two evenings in the week were also taken up in preparation for the coming plays, and as Hester was to take rather an important part in one, and a small character in another, she was obliged to devote herself to getting up her parts during the weekly half-holidays. Thus every moment was busy, and, except at night, she had little time to devote herself to Nan.

Nan slept in a pretty crib in Hester’s room, and each evening the young girl knelt down by her sister’s side, and gazed at her with love, which was almost motherly, swelling in her breast.

All that was best of Hester was drawn out at these moments; something greater than ambition—something far and away above school triumphs and school jealousies spoke then in her heart of hearts. These moments found her capable of being both sympathizing and forgiving; these moments followed out in her daily life might have made Hester almost great. Now was the time, with her eyes full of tears and her lips trembling with emotion, for Annie Forest to have caught a glimpse of the divine in Hester; the hardness, the pride, the haughty spirit were all laid aside, and hers was the true child-heart as she knelt by the sleeping baby. Hester prayed earnestly at these moments, and, in in truth, Nan did better for her than any sermon; better for her than even Mrs. Willis’ best influences. Nan was as the voice of God to her sister.

Hester, in her very busy life, had no time to notice, however, a very slight and almost imperceptible change in bright little Nan. In the mornings she was in too great a hurry to pay much heed to the little one’s chatter; in the afternoons she had scarcely an instant to devote to her, and when she saw her playing happily with the other children she was quite content, and always supposed that when a spare half-hour did come in her busy life, Nan would rush to her with the old ecstasy, and give her the old devotion.

One day, toward the end of a very fine May, the girls were all to go for a picnic to some woods about four miles away. They had looked forward for several days to this relaxation, and were in the highest state of delight and the wildest spirits. After an early dinner they were to drive in several large wagonettes to the place of rendezvous, where they were to be regaled with gypsy-tea, and were to have a few hours in the lovely woods of Burn Castle, one of the show places of the neighborhood. Mrs. Willis had invited the Misses Bruce to accompany them, and they were all to leave the house punctually at two o’clock. The weather was wonderfully fine and warm, and it was decided that all the children, even Nan, should go.

Perhaps none of the girls looked forward to this day’s pleasure with greater joy than did Hester; she determined to make it a real holiday, and a real time of relaxation. She would forget her English theme; she would cease to worry herself about Marie Antoinette; she would cease to repeat her part in the coming play; and she would devote herself exclusively and determinately to Nan’s pleasure. She pictured the little one’s raptures; she heard her gay shouts of joy, her ceaseless little rippling chatter, her baby glee, and, above all things, her intense happiness at being with her own Hetty for the greater part of a whole day. Hester would ride her on her shoulder, would race with her; all her usual companions would be as nothing to her on this occasion, she would give herself up solely to Nan.

As she was dressing that morning she said a word or two to the child about the coming treat.

“We’ll light a fire in the wood, Nan, and hang a kettle over it, and make tea—such good tea; won’t it be nice?”

Nan clapped her hands. “And may I take out my little ummabella (umbrella), case it might wain?” she asked anxiously.

Hester flew to her and kissed her.

“You funny darling!” she said. “Oh, we shall have such a day! You’ll be with your own Hetty all day long—your own Hetty; won’t you be glad?”

“Me am,” said Nan; “own Hetty, and own Annie; me am glad.”

Hester scarcely heard the last words, for the prayer-gong sounded, and she had to fly down stairs.

At dinner time the girls were discussing who would go with each, and all were very merry and full of fun.

“Miss Danesbury will take the little children,” said Miss Good. “Mrs. Willis says that all the little ones are to be in Miss Danesbury’s charge.”

“Oh, please,” said Hester, suddenly, “may Nan come with me, Miss Good? She’ll be so disappointed if she doesn’t, and I’ll take such care of her.”

Miss Good nodded a careless acquiescence, and Hester proceeded with her dinner, feeling thoroughly satisfied.

Immediately after dinner the girls flew to their rooms to prepare for their expedition. Hastily opening a drawer, Hester pulled out a white frock, white piqué pelisse, and washing hat for Nan—she meant her darling to look as charming as possible.

“Oh, dear, Miss Danesbury should have brought her here by now,” she said to herself impatiently, and then, hearing the crunching of carriage wheels on the drive, she flew to the bell and rang it.

In a few moments one of the maids appeared.

“Do you know where Miss Nan is, Alice? She is to go to Burn Castle with me, and I want to dress her, for it is nearly time to go.”

Alice looked a little surprised.

“If you please, miss,” she said, “I think Miss Nan has just gone.”

“What do you mean, Alice? Miss Good said especially she was to go with me.”

“I know nothing about that, miss; I only know that I saw Miss Forest carrying her down stairs in her arms about three minutes ago, and they went off in the wagonette with all the other little children and Miss Danesbury.”

Hester stood perfectly still, her color changed from red to white; for full half a minute she was silent. Then, hearing voices from below calling to her, she said in a cold, quiet tone:

“That will do, Alice; thank you for letting me know.”

She turned to her drawer and put back Nan’s white and pretty things, and also replaced a new and very becoming shady hat which she had meant to wear herself. In her old winter hat, and looking almost untidy for her, she walked slowly down stairs and took her place in the wagonette which was drawn up at the door.

Cecil Temple and one or two other girls whom Hester liked very much were in the same wagonette, but she scarcely cared to talk to them, and only joined in their laughter by a strong effort. She was deeply wounded, but her keenest present desire was to hide any feelings of jealousy she had toward Annie from the quick eyes of her schoolfellows.

“Why,” suddenly exclaimed Julia Morris, a particularly unobservant girl, “I thought you were going to bring that dear baby sister with you, Hester. Oh, I do hope there is nothing the matter with her.”

“Nan has gone on in the first wagonette with the little children,” said Hester as cheerfully as she could speak, but she colored slightly, and saw that Cecil was regarding her attentively.

Susan Drummond exclaimed suddenly:

“I saw Annie Forest rushing down the stairs with little Nan, and Nan had her arms round her neck, and was laughing merrily. You need not be anxious about Nan, Hester; she was quite content to go with Annie.”

“I did not say I was anxious,” replied Hester in a cold voice. “How very beautiful that avenue of beech trees is, Cecil!”

“But Annie heard Miss Good say that you were to take Nan,” persisted Julia Morris. “She could not but have noticed it, for you did flush up so, Hester, and looked so eager. I never saw any one more in earnest about a trifle in my life; it was impossible for Annie not to have heard.”

“The great thing is that Nan is happy,” said Hester in a fretted voice. “Do let us change the subject, girls.”

Cecil instantly began talking about the coming plays, and soon the conversation became of an absorbing character, and Hester’s voice was heard oftener than the others, and she laughed more frequently than her companions.

For all this forced merriment, however, Cecil did not fail to observe that when Hester got to the place of meeting at Burn Castle she looked around her with a quick and eager glance. Then the color faded from her face, and her eyes grew dim.

That look of pain on Hester’s face was quite enough for kind-hearted Cecil. She had thrown herself on the grass with an exclamation of delight, but in an instant she was on her feet.

“Now, of course, the first thing is to find little Nan,” she said; “she’ll be missing you dreadfully, Hetty.”

Cecil held out her hand to Hester to run with her through the wood, but, to her surprise, Hester drew back.

“I’m tired,” she said; “I daresay we shall find Nan presently. She is sure to be safe, as she is under Miss Danesbury’s care.”

Cecil made no remark, but set off by herself to find the little children. Presently, standing on a little knoll, and putting her two hands round her lips, so as to form a speaking trumpet, she shouted to Hester. Hester came slowly and apparently unwillingly toward her, but when she got to the foot of the knoll, Cecil flew down, and, taking her by the hand, ran with her to the top.

“Oh, do come quick!” she exclaimed; “it is such a pretty sight.”

Down in the valley about fifty yards away were the ten or twelve little children who formed the infant portion of the school. Miss Danesbury was sitting at some distance off quietly reading, and the children, decked with flowers, and carrying tall grasses and reeds in their hands, were flying round and round in a merry circle, while in their midst, and the center attraction, stood Annie, whose hat was tossed aside, and whose bright, curling hair was literally crowned with wild flowers. On Annie’s shoulder stood little Nan, carefully and beautifully poised, and round Nan’s wavy curls was a starry wreath of wood-anemones. Nan was shouting gleefully and clapping her hands, while Annie balanced her slightest movement with the greatest agility, and kept her little feet steady on her shoulders with scarcely an effort. As the children ran round and round Annie she waltzed gracefully backward and forward to meet them, and they all sang snatches of nursery rhymes. When Cecil and Hester appeared they had reached in their varied collection:

Here Nan exclaimed, in her clear, high-pitched voice:

“Me no fall, Annie,” and the small children on the ground clapped their hands and blew kisses to her.

“Isn’t it pretty? Isn’t Annie sweet with children?” said Cecil, looking round to Hester with all the admiration she felt for her friend shining in her face. The expression, however, which Hester wore at that moment really startled Cecil; she was absolutely colorless, and presently she called aloud in a harsh, strained voice:

“Be careful of her! How wicked of you to put her like that on your shoulder! She will fall—yes, I know she will fall; oh, do be careful!”

Hester’s voice startled the children, who ceased singing and dancing; Annie made a hasty step forward, and one little voice alone kept singing out the words:

when there was a crash and a cry, and Nan, in some inexplicable way, had fallen backward from Annie’s shoulders.

In one instant Hester was in the midst of the group.

“Don’t touch her,” she said, as Annie flew to pick up the child, who, falling with some force on her head, had been stunned; “don’t touch her—don’t dare! It was your doing; you did it on purpose—you wished to do it!”

“You are unjust,” said Annie, in a low tone. “Nan was perfectly safe until you startled her. Like all the rest you are unjust. Nan would have come to no harm if you had not spoken.”

Hester did not vouchsafe another word. She sat on the ground with the unconscious and pretty little flower-crowned figure laid across her lap; she was terrified, and thought in her inexperience that Nan must be dead.

At the first mention of the accident Cecil had flown to fetch some water, and when she and Miss Danesbury applied it to little Nan’s temples, she presently sighed, and opened her brown eyes wide.

“I hope—I trust she is not much hurt,” said Miss Danesbury; “but I think it safest to take her home at once. Cecil, dear, can you do anything about fetching a wagonette round to the stile at the entrance of the wood? Now the puzzle is, who is to take care of the rest of the little children? If only they were under Miss Good’s care, I should breathe more easily.”

“I am going home with Nan,” said Hester in a hard voice.

“Of course, my love; no one would think of parting you from your little sister,” said the governess, soothingly.

“If you please, Miss Danesbury,” said Annie, whose face was quite as pale as Hester’s, and her eyes heavy as though she longed to cry, “will you trust me with the little ones? If you do, I will promise to take them straight to Miss Good, and to be most careful of them.”

Miss Danesbury’s gentle and kind face looked relieved.

“Thank you, Annie—of course I trust you, dear. Take the children at once to the meeting-place under the great oak, and wait there until Miss Good appears.” Annie suddenly sprang forward, and threw her arms round Miss Danesbury’s neck.

“Miss Danesbury, you comfort me,” she said, in a kind of stifled voice, and then she ran off with the children.