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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, may I be permitted to enter the shrine?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Pshaw!” here burst from Hester’s lips.

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

“But you don’t love her,” said Hester, stoutly.

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

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

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

Cecil Temple was the first to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I do think Annie under-bred,” continued Hester. “I cannot understand,” she added, “why Miss Temple likes her so much.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing on the floor, Susan?” inquired Hetty in an innocent tone.

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

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

“What are you doing?” said Hester again, half laughing.

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

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

“I’m going to sleep now, at any rate,” answered Susan; “I’m on my back, and I’m beginning to snore; good night.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Attention, young ladies!” said Miss Good; “no talking, if you please. Do I understand, Miss Russell, that ‘Jane Eyre’ is yours?”

“Yes, Miss Good.”

“Why did you keep it in your desk—were you reading it during preparation?”

“Oh, yes, certainly.”

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

“Yes, Miss Good.”

“I must retain the book—you can return now to your place in class.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cecil paused for a moment.

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

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

Miss Temple’s face looked puzzled and sad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come here, Miss Temple,” said Mrs. Willis.

Cecil instantly left her desk and walked up the room.

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

“Yes, madam.”

“When did you discover this?”

“To-day, Mrs. Willis.”

“You kept it to yourself?”

“Yes.”

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

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

“You deliberately disobey me, Cecil?” said Mrs. Willis.

“Yes, madam.”

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

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

Cecil’s face grew whiter and whiter.

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Willis waited for a full minute.

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

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

“Are you guilty?”

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

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

Cecil’s face was in many ways a remarkable one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have prayed,” said Cecil.

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

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

Mrs. Willis put her hand on Cecil’s shoulder.

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

Cecil’s face grew very pale.

“And your love, too?” she said, looking up with imploring eyes; “oh, surely not your love as well?”

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

Cecil covered her face with her hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cecil looked up expectantly.

“Your motive for this concealment is as clear as the daylight, Cecil. You are keeping back what you know because you want to shield some one. Am I not right, my dear?”

The color flooded Cecil’s pale face. She bent her head in silent assent, but her eyes were too full of tears, and her lips trembled too much to allow her to speak.

“The girl you want to defend,” continued Mrs. Willis, in that clear, patient voice of hers, “is one whom you and I both love—is one for whom we both have prayed—is one for whom we would both gladly sacrifice ourselves if necessary. Her name is——”

“Oh, don’t,” said Cecil imploringly—“don’t say her name; you have no right to suspect her.”

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

Cecil began to cry.

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

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

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

Cecil was quite silent.

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

Cecil suddenly sprang to her feet.

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

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