A World of Girls: The Story of a School

Annie continued her walk. The circumstances of the last two months had combined to do for her what nothing had hitherto effected. When a little child she had known hardship and privation, she had passed through that experience which is metaphorically spoken of as “going down hill.” As a baby little Annie had been surrounded by comforts and luxuries, and her father and mother had lived in a large house, and kept a carriage, and Annie had two nurses to wait on herself alone. These were in the days before she could remember anything. With her first early memories came the recollection of a much smaller house, of much fewer servants, of her mother often in tears, and her father often away. Then there was no house at all that the Forests could call their own, only rooms of a tolerably cheerful character—and Annie’s nurse went away, and she took her daily walks by her mother’s side and slept in a little cot in her mother’s room. Then came a very, very sad day, when her mother lay cold and still and fainting on her bed, and her tall and handsome father caught Annie in his arms and pressed her to his heart, and told her to be a good child and to keep up her spirits, and, above all things, to take care of mother. Then her father had gone away; and though Annie expected him back, he did not come, and she and her mother went into poorer and shabbier lodgings, and her mother began to try her tear-dimmed eyes by working at church embroidery, and Annie used to notice that she coughed a good deal as she worked. Then there was another move, and this time Mrs. Forest and her little daughter found themselves in one bedroom, and things began to grow very gloomy, and food even was scarce. At last there was a change. One day a lady came into the dingy little room, and all on a sudden it seemed as if the sun had come out again. This lady brought comforts with her—toys and books for the child, good, brave words of cheer for the mother. At last Annie’s mother died, and she went away to Lavender House to live with this good friend who had made her mother’s dying hours easy.

“Annie, Annie,” said the dying mother, “I owe everything to Mrs. Willis; we knew each other long ago when we were girls, and she has come to me now and made everything easy. When I am gone she will take care of you. Oh, my child, I cannot repay her; but will you try?”

“Yes, mother,” said little Annie, gazing full into her mother’s face with her sweet bright eyes, “I’ll—I’ll love her, mother; I’ll give her lots and lots of love.”

Annie had gone to Lavender House, and kept her word, for she had almost worshiped the good mistress who was so true and kind to her, and who had so befriended her mother. Through all the vicissitudes of her short existence Annie had, however, never lost one precious gift. Hers was an affectionate, but also a wonderfully bright, nature. It was as impossible for Annie to turn away from laughter and merriment as it would be for a flower to keep its head determinately turned from the sun. In their darkest days Annie had managed to make her mother laugh; her little face was a sunbeam, her very naughtinesses were of a laughable character.

Her mother died—her father was still away, but Annie retained her brave and cheerful spirit, for she gave and received love. Mrs. Willis loved her—she bestowed upon her among all her girls the tenderest glances, the most motherly caresses. The teachers undoubtedly corrected and even scolded her, but they could not help liking her, and even her worst scrapes made them smile. Annie’s companions adored her; the little children would do anything for their own Annie, and even the servants in the school said that there was no young lady in Lavender House fit to hold a candle to Miss Forest.

During the last half-year, however, things had been different. Suspicion and mistrust began to dog the footsteps of the bright young girl; she was no longer a universal favorite—some of the girls even openly expressed their dislike of her.

All this Annie could have borne, but for the fact that Mrs. Willis joined in the universal suspicion. The old glance now never came to her eyes, nor the old tone to her voice. For the first time Annie’s spirits utterly flagged; she could not bear this universal coldness, this universal chill. She began to droop physically as well as mentally.

She was pacing up and down the walk, thinking very sadly, wondering vaguely, if her father would ever return, and conscious of a feeling of more or less indifference to everything and every one, when she was suddenly roused from her meditation by the patter of small feet and by a very eager little exclamation:

“Me tumming—me tumming, Annie!” and then Nan raised her charming face and placed her cool baby hand in Annie’s.

There was delicious comfort in the clasp of the little hand, and in the look of love and pleasure which lit up the small face.

“Me yiding from naughty nurse—me ’tay with you, Annie—me love ’oo, Annie.”

Annie stooped down, kissed the little one, and lifted her into her arms.

“Why ky?” said Nan, who saw with consternation two big tears in Annie’s eyes; “dere, poor ickle Annie—me love ’oo—me buy ’oo a new doll.”

“Dearest little darling,” said Annie in a voice of almost passionate pain; then, with that wonderful instinct which made her in touch with all little children, she cheered up, wiped away her tears, and allowed laughter once more to wreathe her lips and fill her eyes. “Come, Nan,” she said, “you and I will have such a race.”

She placed the child on her shoulder, clasped the little hands securely round her neck, and ran to the sound of Nan’s shouts down the shady walk.

At the farther end Nan suddenly tightened her clasp, drew herself up, ceased to laugh, and said with some fright in her voice:

“Who dat?”

Annie, too, stood still with a sudden start, for the gypsy woman, Mother Rachel, was standing directly in their path.

“Go ’way, naughty woman,” said Nan, shaking her small hand imperiously.

The gypsy dropped a low courtesy, and spoke in a slightly mocking tone.

“A pretty little dear,” she said. “Yes, truly now, a pretty little winsome dear; and oh, what shoes! and little open-work socks! and I don’t doubt real lace trimming on all her little garments—I don’t doubt it a bit.”

“Go ’way—me don’t like ’oo,” said Nan. “Let’s wun back—gee, gee,” she said, addressing Annie, whom she had constituted into a horse for the time being.

“Yes, Nan; in one minute,” said Annie. “Please, Mother Rachel, what are you doing here?”

“Only waiting to see you, pretty missie,” replied the tall gypsy. “You are the dear little lady who crossed my hand with silver that night in the wood. Eh, but it was a bonny night, with a bonny bright moon, and none of the dear little ladies meant any harm—no, no, Mother Rachel knows that.”

“Look here,” said Annie, “I’m not going to be afraid of you. I have no more silver to give you. If you like, you may go up to the house and tell what you have seen. I am very unhappy, and whether you tell or not can make very little difference to me now. Good-night; I am not the least afraid of you—you can do just as you please about telling Mrs. Willis.”

“Eh, my dear?” said the gypsy; “do you think I’d work you any harm—you, and the seven other dear little ladies? No, not for the world, my dear—not for the world. You don’t know Mother Rachel when you think she’d be that mean.”

“Well, don’t come here again,” said Annie. “Good-night.”

She turned on her heel, and Nan shouted back:

“Go way, naughty woman—Nan don’t love ’oo, ’tall, ’tall.”

The gypsy stood still for a moment with a frown knitting her brows; then she slowly turned, and, creeping on all-fours through the underwood, climbed the hedge into the field beyond.

“Oh, no,” she laughed, after a moment; “the little missy thinks she ain’t afraid of me; but she be. Trust Mother Rachel for knowing that much. I make no doubt,” she added after a pause, “that the little one’s clothes are trimmed with real lace. Well, little Missie Annie Forest, I can see with half an eye that you set store by that baby-girl. You had better not cross Mother Rachel’s whims, or she can punish you in a way you don’t think of.”

Susan Drummond got back to Lavender House without apparent discovery. She was certainly late when she took her place in the class-room for her next day’s preparation; but, beyond a very sharp reprimand from mademoiselle, no notice was taken of this fact. She managed to whisper to Nora and Phyllis that the basket would be moved by the first dawn the next morning, and the little girls went to bed happier in consequence. Nothing ever could disturb Susan’s slumbers, and that night she certainly slept without rocking. As she was getting into bed she ventured to tell Annie how successfully she had manœuvered; but Annie received her news with the most absolute indifference, looking at her for a moment with a queer smile, and then saying:

“My own wish is that this should be found out. As a matter of course, I sha‘n’t betray you, girls; but as things now stand I am anxious that Mrs. Willis should know the very worst of me.”

After a remark which Susan considered so simply idiotic, there was, of course, no further conversation between the two girls.

Moses Moore had certainly promised Betty to rise soon after dawn on the following morning, and go to Lavender House to carry off the basket from under the laurel-tree. Moses, a remarkably indolent lad, had been stimulated by the thought of the delicious cherries which would be his as soon as he brought the basket to Betty. He had cleverly stipulated that a quart—not a pint—of cherries was to be his reward, and he looked forward with considerable pleasure to picking them himself, and putting a few extra ones into his mouth on the sly.

Moses was not at all the kind of a boy who would have scrupled to steal a few cherries; but in this particular old Betty, ill as she was, was too sharp for him or for any of the other village lads. Her bed was drawn up close to her little window, and her window looked directly on to the two cherry trees. Never, to all appearance, did Betty close her eyes. However early the hour might be in which a village boy peeped over the wall of her garden, he always saw her white night-cap moving, and he knew that her bright blue eyes would be on him, and he would be proclaimed a thief all over the place before many minutes were over.

Moses, therefore, was very glad to secure his cherries by fair means, as he could not obtain them by foul; and he went to bed and to sleep, determined to be off on his errand with the dawn.

A very natural thing, however, happened. Moses, unaccustomed to getting up at half-past three in the morning, never opened his eyes until the church clock struck five. Then he started upright, rubbed and rubbed at his sleepy orbs, tumbled into his clothes, and, softly opening the cottage door, set off on his errand.

The fact of his being nearly an hour and a half late did not trouble him in the least. In any case, he would get to Lavender House before six o’clock, and would have consumed his cherries in less than an hour from that date.

Moses sauntered gaily along the roads, whistling as he went, and occasionally tossing his battered cap in the air. He often lingered on his way, now to cut down a particularly tempting switch from the hedge, now to hunt for a possible bird’s nest. It was very nearly six o’clock when he reached the back avenue, swung himself over the gate, which was locked, and ran softly on the dewy grass in the direction of the laurel bush. Old Betty had given him most careful instructions, and he was far too sharp a lad to forget what was necessary for the obtaining of a quart of cherries. He found his tree, and lay flat down on the ground in order to pull out the basket. His fingers had just clasped the handle when there came a sudden interruption—a rush, a growl, and some very sharp teeth had inserted themselves into the back of his ragged jacket. Poor Moses found himself, to his horror, in the clutches of a great mastiff. The creature held him tight, and laid one heavy paw on him to prevent him rising.

Under these circumstances, Moses thought it quite unnecessary to retain any self-control. He shrieked, he screamed, he wriggled; his piercing yells filled the air, and, fortunately for him, his being two hours too late brought assistance to his aid. Michael, the gardener, and a strong boy who helped him, rushed to the spot, and liberated the terrified lad, who, after all, was only frightened, for Rover had satisfied himself with tearing his jacket to pieces, not himself.

“Give me the b-basket,” sobbed Moses, “and let me g-g-go.”

“You may certainly go, you little tramp,” said Michael, “but Jim and me will keep the basket. I much misdoubt me if there isn’t mischief here. What’s the basket put hiding here for, and who does it belong to?”

“Old B-B-Betty,” gasped forth the agitated Moses.

“Well, let old Betty fetch it herself. Mrs. Willis will keep it for her,” said Michael. “Come along, Jim, get to your weeding, do. There, little scamp, you had better make yourself scarce.”

Moses certainly took his advice, for he scuttled off like a hare. Whether he ever got his cherries or not, history does not disclose.

Michael, looking gravely at Jim, opened the basket, examined its contents, and, shaking his head solemnly, carried it into the house.

“There’s been deep work going on, Jim, and my missis ought to know,” said Michael, who was an exceedingly strict disciplinarian. Jim, however, had a soft corner in his heart for the young ladies, and he commenced his weeding with a profound sigh.

The next morning Annie Forest opened her eyes with that strange feeling of indifference and want of vivacity which come so seldom to youth. She saw the sun shining through the closed blinds; she heard the birds twittering and singing in the large elm-tree which nearly touched the windows; she knew well how the world looked at this moment, for often and often in her old light-hearted days she had risen before the maid came to call her, and, kneeling by the deep window-ledge, had looked out at the bright, fresh, sparkling day. A new day, with all its hours before it, its light vivid but not too glaring, its dress all manner of tender shades and harmonious colorings! Annie had a poetical nature, and she gloried in these glimpses which she got all by herself of the fresh, glad world.

To-day, however, she lay still, sorry to know that the brief night was at an end, and that the day, with its coldness and suspicion, its terrible absence of love and harmony, was about to begin.

Annie’s nature was very emotional; she was intensely sensitive to her surroundings; the grayness of her present life was absolute destruction to such a nature as hers.

The dressing-bell rang; the maid came in to draw up the blinds, and call the girls. Annie rose languidly and began to dress herself.

She first finished her toilet, and then approached her little bed, and stood by its side for a moment hesitating. She did not want to pray, and yet she felt impelled to go down on her knees. As she knelt with her curls falling about her face, and her hands pressed to her eyes, one line of one of her favorite poems came flashing with swiftness and power across her memory:

The words filled her whole heart with a sudden sense of peace and of great longing.

The prayer-bell rang: she rose, and, turning to Susan Drummond, said earnestly:

“Oh, Susy, I do wish Mrs. Willis could know about our going to the fairy-field; I do so want God to forgive me.”

Susan stared in her usual dull, uncomprehending way; then she flushed a little, and said brusquely:

“I think you have quite taken leave of your senses, Annie Forest.”

Annie said no more, but at prayers in the chapel she was glad to find herself near gentle Cecil Temple, and the words kept repeating themselves to her all during the morning lessons:

Just before morning school several of the girls started and looked distressed when they found that Mrs. Willis lingered in the room. She stood for a moment by the English teacher’s desk, said something to her in a low voice, and then, walking slowly to her own post at the head of the great school-room, she said suddenly:

“I want to ask you a question, Miss Drummond. Will you please just stand up in your place in class and answer me without a moment’s hesitation.”

Phyllis and Nora found themselves turning very pale; Mary Price and one or two more of the rebels also began to tremble, but Susan looked dogged and indifferent enough as she turned her eyes toward her teacher.

“Yes, madam,” she said, rising and dropping a courtesy.

“My friends, the Misses Bruce, came to call on me yesterday evening, Susan, and told me that they saw you running very quickly on the high road in the direction of the village. You, of course, know that you broke a very distinct rule when you left the grounds without leave. Tell me at once where you were going.”

Susan hesitated, colored to her dullest red, and looked down. Then, because she had no ready excuse to offer, she blurted out the truth:

“I was going to see old Betty.”

“The cake-woman?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“I—I heard she was ill.”

“Indeed—you may sit down, Miss Drummond. Miss Good, will you ask Michael to step for a moment into the school-room?”

Several of the girls now indeed held their breath, and more than one heart beat with heavy, frightened bumps as a moment later Michael followed Miss Good into the room, carrying the redoubtable picnic-basket on his arm.

“Michael,” said Mrs. Willis, “I wish you to tell the young ladies exactly how you found the basket this morning. Stand by my side, please, and speak loud enough for them to hear.”

After a moment’s pause Michael related somewhat diffusely and with an occasional break in his narrative the scene which had occurred between him and Moses that morning.

“That will do, Michael; you can now go,” said the head mistress.

She waited until the old servant had closed the door, and then she turned to her girls:

“It is not quite a fortnight since I stood where I now stand, and asked one girl to be honorable and to save her companions. One girl was guilty of sin and would not confess, and for her sake all her companions are now suffering. I am tired of this sort of thing—I am tired of standing in this place and appealing to your honor, which is dead, to your truth which is nowhere. Girls, you puzzle me—you half break my heart. In this case more than one is guilty. How many of the girls in Lavender House are going to tell me a lie this morning?”

There was a brief pause; then a slight cry, and a girl rose from her seat and walked up the long school-room.

“I am the most guilty of all,” said Annie Forest.

“Annie!” said Mrs. Willis, in a tone half of pain, half of relief, “have you come to your senses at last?”

“Oh, I’m so glad to be able to speak the truth,” said Annie. “Please punish me very, very hard; I am the most guilty of all.”

“What did you do with this basket?”

“We took it for a picnic—it was my plan, I led the others.”

“Where was your picnic?”

“In the fairies’ field.”

“Ah! At what time?”

“At night—in the middle of the night—the night you went to London.”

Mrs. Willis put her hand to her brow; her face was very white and the girls could see that she trembled.

“I trusted my girls——” she said; then she broke off abruptly.

“You had companions in this wickedness—name them.”

“Yes, I had companions; I led them on.”

“Name them, Miss Forest.”

For the first time Annie raised her eyes to Mrs. Willis’ face; then she turned and looked down the long school-room.

“Oh, won’t they tell themselves?” she said.

Nothing could be more appealing than her glance. It melted the hearts of Phyllis and Nora, who began to sob, and to declare brokenly that they had gone too, and that they were very, very sorry.

Spurred by their example Mary Price also confessed, and one by one all the little conspirators revealed the truth, with the exception of Susan, who kept her eyes steadily fixed on the floor.

“Susan Drummond,” said Mrs. Willis, “come here.”

There was something in her tone which startled every girl in the school. Never had they heard this ring in their teacher’s voice before.

“Susan,” said Mrs. Willis, “I don’t ask you if you are guilty; I fear, poor miserable girl, that if I did you would load your conscience with a fresh lie. I don’t ask you if you are guilty because I know you are. The fact of your running without leave to see old Betty is circumstantial evidence. I judge you by that and pronounce you guilty. Now, young ladies, you who have treated me so badly, who have betrayed my trust, who have been wanting in honor, I must think, I must ask God to teach me how to deal with you. In the meantime, you cannot associate with your companions. Miss Good, will you take each of these eight girls to their bedrooms.”

As Annie was leaving the room she looked full into Mrs. Willis’ face. Strange to say, at this moment of her great disgrace the cloud which had so long brooded over her was lifted. The sweet eyes never looked sweeter. The old Annie, and yet a better and a braver Annie than had ever existed before, followed her companions out of the school-room.

On the evening of that day Cecil Temple knocked at the door of Mrs. Willis’ private sitting-room.

“Ah, Cecil! is that you?” said her governess. “I am always glad to see you, dear; but I happen to be particularly busy to-night. Have you anything in particular to say to me?”

“I only wanted to talk about Annie, Mrs. Willis. You believe in her at last, don’t you?”

“Believe in her at last!” said the head-mistress in a tone of astonishment and deep pain. “No, Cecil, my dear; you ask too much of my faith. I do not believe in Annie.”

Cecil paused; she hesitated, and seemed half afraid to proceed.

“Perhaps,” she said at last in a slightly timid tone, “you have not seen her since this morning?”

“No; I have been particularly busy. Besides, the eight culprits are under punishment; part of their punishment is that I will not see them.”

“Don’t you think, Mrs. Willis,” said Cecil, “that Annie made rather a brave confession this morning?”

“I admit, my dear, that Annie spoke in somewhat of her old impulsive way; she blamed herself, and did not try to screen her misdemeanors behind her companions. In this one particular she reminded me of the old Annie who, notwithstanding all her faults, I used to trust and love. But as to her confession being very brave, my dear Cecil, you must remember that she did not confess until she was obliged; she knew, and so did all the other girls, that I could have got the truth out of old Betty had they chosen to keep their lips sealed. Then, my dear, consider what she did. On the very night that I was away she violated the trust I had in her—she bade me ‘good-bye’ with smiles and sweet glances, and then she did this in my absence. No, Cecil, I fear poor Annie is not what we thought her. She has done untold mischief during the half-year, and has willfully lied and deceived me. I find, on comparing dates, that it was on the very night of the girls’ picnic that Dora’s theme was changed. There is no doubt whatever that Annie was the guilty person. I did my best to believe in her, and to depend on Mr. Everard’s judgment of her character, but I confess I can do so no longer. Cecil, dear. I am not surprised that you look pale and sad. No, we will not give up this poor Annie: we will try to love her even through her sin. Ah! poor child, poor child! how much I have prayed for her! She was to me as a child of my own. Now, dear Cecil, I must ask you to leave me.”

Cecil went slowly out of her governess’ presence, and, wandering across the wide stone hall, she entered the play-room. It happened to be a wet night, and the room was full of girls, who hung together in groups and whispered softly. There were no loud voices, and, except from the little ones, there was no laughter. A great depression hung over the place, and few could have recognized the happy girls of Lavender House in these sad young faces. Cecil walked slowly into the room, and presently finding Hester Thornton, she sat down by her side.

“I can’t get Mrs. Willis to see it,” she said very sadly.

“What?” asked Hester.

“Why, that we have got our old Annie back again; that she did take the girls out to that picnic, and was as wild, and reckless, and naughty as possible about it; and then, just like the old Annie I have always known, the moment the fun was over she began to repent, and that she has gone on repenting ever since, which has accounted for her poor sad little face and white cheeks. Of course she longed to tell—Nora and Phyllis have told me so—but she would not betray them. Now at last there is a load off her heart, and, though she is in great disgrace and punishment, she is not very unhappy. I went to see her an hour ago, and I saw in her face that my own darling Annie has returned. But what do you think Mrs. Willis does, Hester? She is so hurt and disappointed, that she believes Annie is guilty of the other thing—she believes that Annie stole Dora’s theme, and that she caricatured her in my book some time ago. She believes it—she is sure of it. Now, do you think, Hester, that Annie’s face would look quite peaceful and happy to-night if she had only confessed half her faults—if she had this meanness, this sin, these lies still resting on her soul? Oh! I wish Mrs. Willis would see her! I wish—I wish! but I can do nothing. You agree with me, don’t you, Hester? Just put yourself in Annie’s place, and tell me if you would feel happy, and if your heart would be at rest, if you had only confessed half your sin, and if through you all your schoolfellows were under disgrace and suspicion? You could not, could you, Hester? Why, Hester, how white you are!”

“You are so metaphysical,” said Hester, rising; “you quite puzzle me. How can I put myself in your friend Annie’s place? I never understood her—I never wanted to. Put myself in her place?—no, certainly that I’m never likely to. I hope that I shall never be in such a predicament.”

Hester walked away, and Cecil sat still in great perplexity.

Cecil was a girl with a true sense of religion. The love of God guided every action of her simple and straightforward life. She was neither beautiful nor clever; but no one in the school was more respected and honored, no one more sincerely loved. Cecil knew what the peace of God meant, and when she saw even a shadowy reflection of that peace on Annie’s little face, she was right in believing that she must be innocent of the guilt which was attributed to her.

The whole school assembled for prayers that night in the little chapel, and Mr. Everard, who had heard the story of that day’s confession from Mrs. Willis, said a few words appropriate to the occasion to the unhappy young girls.

Whatever effect his words had on the others, and they were very simple and straightforward, Annie’s face grew quiet and peaceful as she listened to them. The old clergyman assured the girls that God was waiting to forgive those who truly repented, and that the way to repent was to rise up and sin no more.

“The present fun is not worth the after-pain,” he said, in conclusion. “It is an old saying that stolen waters are sweet, but only at the time; afterward only those who drink of them know the full extent of their bitterness.”

This little address from Mr. Everard strengthened poor Annie for an ordeal which was immediately before her, for Mrs. Willis asked all the school to follow her to the play-room, and there she told them that she was about to restore to them their lost privileges; that circumstances, in her opinion, now so strongly pointed the guilt of the stolen essay in the direction of one girl, that she could no longer ask the school to suffer for her sake.

“She still refuses to confess her sin,” said Mrs. Willis, “but, unless another girl proclaims herself guilty, and proves to me beyond doubt that she drew the caricature which was found in Cecil Temple’s book, and that she changed Dora Russell’s essay, and, imitating her hand, put another in its place, I proclaim the guilty person to be Annie Forest, and on her alone I visit my displeasure. You can retire to your rooms, young ladies. Tomorrow morning Lavender House resumes its old cheerfulness.”

However calmly or however peacefully Annie slept that night, poor Hester did not close her eyes. The white face of the girl she had wronged and injured kept rising before her. Why had she so deceived Annie? Why from the very first had she turned from her, and misjudged her, and misrepresented her? Was Annie, indeed, all bad? Hester had to own to herself that to-night Annie was better than she—was greater than she. Could she now have undone the past, she would not have acted as she had done; she would not for the sake of a little paltry revenge have defiled her conscience with a lie, have told her governess that she could throw no light on the circumstance of the stolen essay. This was the first lie Hester had ever told; she was naturally both straightforward and honorable, but her sin of sins, that which made her hard and almost unlovable, was an intensely proud and haughty spirit. She was very sorry she had told that lie; she was very sorry she had yielded to that temptation; but not for worlds would she now humble herself to confess—not for worlds would she let the school know of her cowardice and shame. No, if there was no other means of clearing Annie except through her confession, she must remain with the shadow of this sin over her to her dying day.

Hester, however, was now really unhappy, and also truly sorry for poor Annie. Could she have got off without disgrace or punishment, she would have been truly glad to see Annie exonerated. She was quite certain that Susan Drummond was at the bottom of all the mischief which had been done lately at Lavender House. She could not make out how stupid Susan was clever enough to caricature and to imitate peoples’ hands. Still she was convinced that she was the guilty person, and she wondered and wondered if she could induce Susan to come forward and confess the truth, and so save Annie without bringing her, Hester, into any trouble.

She resolved to speak to Susan, and without confessing that she had been in the school-room on the night the essay was changed, to let her know plainly that she suspected her.

She became much calmer when she determined to carry out this resolve, and toward morning she fell asleep.

She was awakened at a very early hour by little Nan clambering over the side of her crib, and cuddling down cozily in a way she loved by Hester’s side.

“Me so ’nug, ’nug,” said little Nan. “Oh, Hetty, Hetty, there’s a wy on the teiling!”

Hester had then to rouse herself, and enter into an animated conversation on the subject of flies generally, and in especial she had to talk of that particular fly which would perambulate on the ceiling over Nan’s head.

“Me like wies,” said Nan, “and me like ’oo, Hetty, and me love—me love Annie.”

Hester kissed her little sister passionately; but this last observation, accompanied by the expression of almost angelic devotion which filled little Nan’s brown eyes, as she repeated that she liked flies and Hetty, but that she loved Annie, had the effect of again hardening her heart.

Hester’s hour of trial, however, was at hand, and before that day was over she was to experience that awful emptiness and desolation which those know whom God is punishing.

Lessons went on as usual at Lavender House that morning, and, to the surprise of several, Annie was seen in her old place in class. She worked with a steadiness quite new to her; no longer interlarding her hours of study with those indescribable glances of fun and mischief, first at one school-companion and then at another, which used to worry her teachers so much.

There were no merry glances from Annie that morning; but she worked steadily and rapidly, and went through that trying ordeal, her French verbs, with such satisfaction that mademoiselle was on the point of praising her, until she remembered that Annie was in disgrace.

After school, however, Annie did not join her companions in the grounds, but went up to her bedroom, where, by Mrs. Willis’ orders, she was to remain until the girls went in. She was to take her own exercise later in the day.

It was now the tenth of June—an intensely sultry day; a misty heat brooded over everything, and not a breath of air stirred the leaves in the trees. The girls wandered about languidly, too enervated by the heat to care to join in any noisy games. They were now restored to their full freedom, and there is no doubt they enjoyed the privileges of having little confabs, and whispering secrets to each other without having Miss Good and Miss Danesbury forever at their elbows. They talked of many things—of the near approach of the holidays, of the prize day which was now so close at hand, of Annie’s disgrace, and so on.

They wondered, many of them, if Annie would ever be brought to confess her sin, and, if not, how Mrs. Willis would act toward her. Dora Russell said in her most contemptuous tones:

“She is nothing, after all, but a charity child, and Mrs. Willis has supported her for years for nothing.”

“Yes, and she’s too clever by half; eh, poor old Muddy Stream?” remarked a saucy little girl. “By the way, Dora, dear, how goes the river now? Has it lost itself in the arms of mother ocean yet?”

Dora turned red and walked away, and her young tormentor exclaimed with considerable gusto:

“There, I have silenced her for a bit; I do hate the way she talks about charity children. Whatever her faults, Annie is the sweetest and prettiest girl in the school, in my opinion.”

In the meantime Hester was looking in all directions for Susan Drummond. She thought the present a very fitting opportunity to open her attack on her, and she was the more anxious to bring her to reason as a certain look in Annie’s face—a pallid and very weary look—had gone to her heart, and touched her in spite of herself. Now, even though little Nan loved her, Hester would save Annie could she do so not at her own expense.

Look, however, as she would, nowhere could she find Miss Drummond. She called and called, but no sleepy voice replied. Susan, indeed, knew better; she had curled herself up in a hammock which hung between the boughs of a shady tree, and though Hester passed under her very head, she was sucking lollipops and going off comfortably into the land of dreams, and had no intention of replying. Hester wandered down the shady walk, and at its farther end she was gratified by the sight of little Nan, who, under her nurse’s charge, was trying to string daisies on the grass. Hester sat down by her side, and Nan climbed over and made fine havoc of her neat print dress, and laughed, and was at her merriest and best.

“I hear say that that naughty Miss Forest has done something out-and-out disgraceful,” whispered the nurse.

“Oh, don’t!” said Hester impatiently. “Why should every one throw mud at a girl when she is down? If poor Annie is naughty and guilty, she is suffering now.”

“Annie not naughty,” said little Nan. “Me love my own Annie; me do, me do.”

“And you love your own poor old nurse, too?” responded the somewhat jealous nurse.

Hester left the two playing happily together, the little one caressing her nurse, and blowing one or two kisses after her sister’s retreating form. Hester returned to the house, and went up to her room to prepare for dinner. She had washed her hands, and was standing before the looking-glass re-plaiting her long hair, when Susan Drummond, looking extremely wild and excited, and with her eyes almost starting out of her head, rushed into the room.

“Oh, Hester, Hester!” she gasped, and she flung herself on Hester’s bed, with her face downward; she seemed absolutely deprived for the moment of the power of any further speech.

“What is the matter, Susan?” inquired Hester half impatiently. “What have you come into my room for? Are you going into a fit of hysterics? You had better control yourself, for the dinner gong will sound directly.”

Susan gasped two or three times, made a rush to Hester’s wash-hand stand, and, taking up a glass, poured some cold water into it, and gulped it down.

“Now I can speak,” she said. “I ran so fast that my breath quite left me. Hester, put on your walking things or go without them, just as you please—only go at once if you would save her.”

“Save whom?” asked Hester.

“Your little sister—little Nan. I—I saw it all. I was in the hammock, and nobody knew I was there, and somehow I wasn’t so sleepy as usual, and I heard Nan’s voice, and I looked over the side of the hammock, and she was sitting on the grass picking daisies, and her nurse was with her, and presently you came up. I heard you calling me, but I wasn’t going to answer. I felt too comfortable. You stayed with Nan and her nurse for a little, and then went away; and I heard Nan’s nurse say to her: ‘Sit here, missy, till I come back to you; I am going to fetch another reel of sewing cotton from the house. Sit still, missy; I’ll be back directly.’ She went away, and Nan went on picking her daisies. All on a sudden I heard Nan give a sharp little cry, and I looked over the hammock, and there was a tall, dark woman, with such a wicked face, and she snatched up Nan in her arms, and put a thick shawl over her face, and ran off with her. It was all done in an instant. I shouted and I scrambled out of the hammock, and I rushed down the path; but there wasn’t a sign of anybody there. I don’t know where the woman went—it seemed as if the earth swallowed up both her and little Nan. Why, Hester, are you going to faint?”

“Water!” gasped Hester—“one sip—now let me go.”

In a few moments every one in Lavender House was made acquainted with Susan’s story. At such a time ceremony was laid aside, dinner forgotten, teachers, pupils, servants all congregated in the grounds, all rushed to the spot where Nan’s withered daisies still lay, all peered through the underwood, and all, alas! looked in vain for the tall dark woman and the little child. Little Nan, the baby of the school, had been stolen—there were loud and terrified lamentations. Nan’s nurse was almost tearing her hair, was rushing frantically here, there, and everywhere. No one blamed the nurse for leaving her little charge in apparent safety for a few moments, but the poor woman’s own distress was pitiable to see. Mrs. Willis took Hester’s hand, and told the poor stunned girl that she was sending to Sefton immediately for two or three policemen, and that in the meantime every man on the place should commence the search for the woman and child.

“Without any doubt,” Mrs. Willis added, “we shall soon have our little Nan back again; it is quite impossible that the woman, whoever she is, can have taken her so far away in so short a time.”

In the meantime, Annie in her bedroom heard the fuss and the noise. She leaned out of her window and saw Phyllis in the distance; she called to her. Phyllis ran up, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Oh, something so dreadful!” she gasped; “a wicked, wicked woman has stolen little Nan Thornton. She ran off with her just where the undergrowth is so thick at the end of the shady walk. It happened to her half an hour ago, and they are all looking, but they cannot find the woman or little Nan anywhere. Oh, it is so dreadful! Is that you, Mary?”

Phyllis ran off to join her sister, and Annie put her head in again, and looked round her pretty room.

“The gypsy,” she murmured, “the tall, dark gypsy has taken little Nan!”

Her face was very white, her eyes shone, her lips expressed a firm and almost obstinate determination. With all her usual impulsiveness, she decided on a course of action—she snatched up a piece of paper and scribbled a hasty line: