It wanted scarcely three weeks to the holidays, and therefore scarcely three weeks to that auspicious day when Lavender House was to be the scene of one long triumph, and was to be the happy spot selected for a midsummer holiday, accompanied by all that could make a holiday perfect—for youth and health would be there, and even the unsuccessful competitors for the great prizes would not have too sore hearts, for they would know that on the next day they were going home. Each girl who had done her best would have a word of commendation, and only those who were very naughty, or very stubborn, could resist the all-potent elixir of happiness which would be poured out so abundantly for Mrs. Willis’ pupils on this day.

Now that the time was drawing so near, those girls who were working for prizes found themselves fully occupied from morning to night. In play-hours even, girls would be seen with their heads bent over their books, and, between the prizes and the acting, no little bees in any hive could be more constantly employed than were these young girls just now.

No happiness is, after all, to be compared to the happiness of healthful occupation. Busy people have no time to fret and no time to grumble. According to our old friend, Dr. Watts, people who are healthily busy have also no time to be naughty, for the old doctor says that it is for idle hands that mischief is prepared.

Be that as it may, and there is great truth in it, some naughty sprites, some bad fairies, were flitting around and about that apparently peaceful atmosphere. That sunny home, governed by all that was sweet and good, was not without its serpent.

Of all the prizes which attracted interest and aroused competition, the prize for English composition was this year the most popular. In the first place, this was known to be Mrs. Willis’ own favorite subject. She had a great wish that her girls should write intelligibly—she had a greater wish that, if possible, they should think.

“Never was there so much written and printed,” she was often heard to say; “but can any one show me a book with thoughts in it? Can any one show me, unless as a rare exception, a book which will live? Oh, yes, these books which issue from the press in thousands are, many of them, very smart, a great many of them clever, but they are thrown off too quickly. All great things, great books among them, must be evolved slowly.”

Then she would tell her pupils what she considered the reason of this.

“In these days,” she would say, “all girls are what is called highly educated. Girls and boys alike must go in for competitive examinations, must take out diplomas, and must pass certain standards of excellence. The system is cramming from beginning to end. There is no time for reflection. In short, my dear girls, you swallow a great deal, but you do not digest your intellectual food.”

Mrs. Willis hailed with pleasure any little dawnings of real thought in her girls’ prize essays. More than once she bestowed the prize upon the essay which seemed to the girls the most crude and unfinished.

“Never mind,” she would say, “here is an idea—or at least half an idea. This little bit of composition is original, and not, at best, a poor imitation of Sir. Walter Scott or Lord Macaulay.”

Thus the girls found a strong stimulus to be their real selves in these little essays, and the best of them chose their subject and let it ferment in their brains without the aid of books, except for the more technical parts.

More than one girl in the school was surprised at Dora Russell exerting herself to try for the prize essay. She was just about to close her school career, and they could not make out why she roused herself to work for the most difficult prize, for which she would have to compete with any girl in the school who chose to make a similar attempt.

Dora, however, had her own, not very high motive for making the attempt. She was a thoroughly accomplished girl, graceful in her appearance and manner; in short, just the sort of girl who would be supposed to do credit to a school. She played with finish, and even delicacy of touch. There was certainly no soul in her music, but neither were there any wrong notes. Her drawings were equally correct, her perspective good, her trees were real trees, and the coloring of her water-color sketches was pure. She spoke French extremely well, and with a correct accent, and her German also was above the average. Nevertheless, Dora was commonplace, and those girls who knew her best spoke sarcastically, and smiled at one another when she alluded to her prize essay, and seemed confident of being the successful competitor.

“You won’t like to be beaten, Dora, say, by Annie Forest,” they would laughingly remark; whereupon Dora’s calm face, would slightly flush and her lips would assume a very proud curve. If there was one thing she could not bear it was to be beaten.

“Why do you try for it, Dora?” her class-fellows would ask; but here Dora made no reply: she kept her reason to herself.

The fact was, Dora, who must be a copyist to the end of the chapter, and who could never to her latest day do anything original, had determined to try for the composition prize because she happened accidentally to hear a conversation between Mrs. Willis and Miss Danesbury, in which something was said about a gold locket with Mrs. Willis’ portrait inside.

Dora instantly jumped at the conclusion that this was to be the great prize bestowed upon the successful essayist. Delightful idea; how well the trinket would look round her smooth white throat! Instantly she determined to try for this prize, and of course as instantly the bare idea of defeat became intolerable to her. She went steadily and methodically to work. With extreme care she chose her subject. Knowing something of Mrs. Willis’ peculiarities, she determined that her theme should not be historical; she believed that she could express herself freely and with power if only she could secure an unhackneyed subject. Suddenly an idea which she considered brilliant occurred to her. She would call her composition “The River.” This should not bear reference to Father Thames, or any other special river of England, but it should trace the windings of some fabled stream of Dora’s imagination, which, as it flowed along, should tell something of the story of the many places by which it passed. Dora was charmed with her own thought, and worked hard, evening after evening, at her subject, covering sheets of manuscript paper with penciled jottings, and arranging and rearranging her somewhat confused thoughts. She greatly admired a perfectly rounded period, and she was most particular as to the style in which she wrote. For the purpose of improving her style she even studied old volumes of Addison’s Spectator; but after a time she gave up this course of study, for she found it so difficult to mold her English to Addison’s that she came to the comfortable conclusion that Addison was decidedly obsolete, and that if she wished to do full justice to “The River” she must trust to her own unaided genius.

At last the first ten pages were written. The subject was entered upon with considerable flourishes, and some rather apt poetical quotations from a book containing a collection of poems; the river itself had already left its home in the mountain, and was careering merrily past sunny meadows and little rural, impossible cottages, where the golden-haired children played.

Dora made a very neat copy of her essay so far. She now began to see her way clearly—there would be a very powerful passage as the river approached the murky town. Here, indeed, would be room for powerful and pathetic writing. She wondered if she might venture so far as to hide a suicide in her rushing waters; and then at last the brawling river would lose itself in the sea; and, of course, there would not be the smallest connection between her river, and Kingsley’s well-known song,

She finished writing her ten pages, and being now positively certain of her gold locket, went to bed in a happy state of mind.

This was the very night when Annie was to lead her revelers through the dark wood, but Dora, who never troubled herself about the younger classes, would have been certainly the last to notice the fact that a few of the girls in Lavender House seemed little disposed to eat their suppers of thick bread and butter and milk. She went to bed and dreamed happy dreams about her golden locket, and had little idea that any mischief was about to be performed.

Hester Thornton also, but in a very different spirit, was working hard at her essay. Hester worked conscientiously; she had chosen “Marie Antoinette” as her theme, and she read the sorrowful story of the beautiful queen with intense interest, and tried hard to get herself into the spirit of the times about which she must write. She had scarcely begun her essay yet, but she had already collected most of the historical facts.

Hester was a very careful little student, and as she prepared herself for the great work, she thought little or nothing about the prize—she only wanted to do justice to the unfortunate queen of France. She was in bed that night, and just dropping off to sleep, when she suddenly remembered that she had left a volume of French poetry on her school desk. This was against the rules, and she knew that Miss Danesbury would confiscate the book in the morning, and would not let her have it back for a week. Hester particularly wanted this special book just now, as some of the verses bore reference to her subject, and she could scarcely get on with her essay without having it to refer to. She must lose no time in instantly beginning to write her essay, and to do without her book of poetry for a week would be a serious injury to her.

She resolved, therefore, to break through one of the rules, and, after lying awake until the whole house was quiet, to slip down stairs, enter the school-room and secure her poems. She heard the clock strike eleven, and she knew that in a very few moments Miss Danesbury and Miss Good would have retired to their rooms. Ah, yes, that was Miss Danesbury’s step passing her door. Ten minutes later she glided out of bed, slipped on her dressing-gown, and opening her door ran swiftly down the carpetless stairs, and found herself in the great stone hall which led to the school-room.

She was surprised to find the school-room door a little ajar, but she entered the room without hesitation, and, dark as it was, soon found her desk, and the book of poems lying on the top. Hester was about to return when she was startled by a little noise in that portion of the room where the first class girls sat. The next moment somebody came heavily and rather clumsily down the room, and the moon, which was just beginning to rise, fell for an instant on a girl’s face. Hester recognized the face of Susan Drummond. What could she be doing here? She did not dare to speak, for she herself had broken a rule in visiting the school-room. She remained, therefore, perfectly still until Susan’s steps died away, and then, thankful to have secured her own property, returned to her bedroom, and a moment or two later was sound asleep.

In the morning Dora Russell sat down as usual before her orderly and neatly-kept desk. She raised the lid to find everything in its place—her books and exercises all as they should be, and her pet essay in a neat brown paper cover, lying just as she had left it the night before. She was really getting quite excited about her river, and as this was a half-holiday, she determined to have a good work at it in the afternoon. She was beginning also to experience that longing for an auditor which occasionally is known to trouble the breasts of genius. She felt that those graceful ideas, that elegant language, those measured periods, might strike happily on some other ears before they were read aloud as the great work of the midsummer holidays.

She knew that Hester Thornton was making what she was pleased to term a poor little attempt at trying for the same prize. Hester would scarcely venture to copy anything from Dora’s essay; she would probably be discouraged, poor girl, in working any longer at her own composition; but Dora felt that the temptation to read “The River,” as far as it had gone, to Hester was really too great to be resisted. Accordingly, after dinner she graciously invited Hester to accompany her to a bower in the garden, where the two friends might revel over the results of Dora’s extraordinary talents.

Hester was still, to a certain extent, under Dora’s influence, and had not the courage to tell her that she intended to be very busy over her own essay this afternoon.

“Now, Hester, dear,” said Dora, when they found themselves both seated in the bower, “you are the only girl in the school to whom I could confide the subject of my great essay. I really believe that I have hit on something absolutely original. My dear child, I hope you won’t allow yourself to be discouraged. I fear that you won’t have much heart to go on with your theme after you have read my words; but, never mind, dear, it will be good practice for you, and you know it was rather silly to go in for a prize which I intended to compete for.”

“May I read your essay, please, Dora?” asked Hester. “I am very much interested in my own study, and, whether I win the prize or not, I shall always remember the pleasure I took in writing it.”

“What subject did you select, dear?” inquired Miss Russell.

“Well, I am attempting a little sketch of Marie Antoinette.”

“Ah, hackneyed, my dear girl—terribly hackneyed; but, of course, I don’t mean to discourage you. Now I—I draw a life-picture, and I call it ‘The River.’ See how it begins—why, I declare I know the words by heart, ‘As our eyes rest on this clear and limpid stream, as we see the sun sparkle——’ My dear Hester, you shall read me my essay aloud. I shall like to hear my own words from your lips, and you have really a pretty accent, dear.”

Hester folded back the brown paper cover, and wanting to have her task over began to read hastily. But, as her eyes rested on the first lines, she turned to her companion, and said:

“Did you not tell me that your essay was called ‘The River’?”

“Yes, dear; the full title is ‘The Windings of a Noble River.’”

“That’s very odd,” replied Hester. “What I see here is ‘The Meanderings of a Muddy Stream.’ ‘As our dull orbs rest on this turbid water on which the sun cannot possibly shine.’ Why, Dora, this cannot be your essay, and yet, surely, it is your handwriting.”

Dora, with her face suddenly flushing a vivid crimson, snatched the manuscript from Hester’s hand, and looked over it eagerly. Alas! there was no doubt. The title of this essay was “The Meanderings of a Muddy Stream,” and the words which immediately followed were a smart and ridiculous parody on her own high flown sentences. The resemblance to her handwriting was perfect. The brown paper cover, neatly sewn on to protect the white manuscript, was undoubtedly her cover; the very paper on which the words were written seemed in all particulars the same. Dora turned the sheets eagerly, and here for the first time she saw a difference. Only four or five pages of the nonsense essay had been attempted, and the night before, when finishing her toil, she had proudly numbered her tenth page. She looked through the whole thing, turning leaf after leaf, while her cheeks were crimson, and her hands trembled. In the first moment of horrible humiliation and dismay she literally could not speak.

At last, springing to her feet, and confronting the astonished and almost frightened Hester, she found her voice.

“Hester, you must help me in this. The most dreadful, the most atrocious fraud has been committed. Some one has been base enough, audacious enough, wicked enough, to go to my desk privately, and take away my real essay—my work over which I have labored and toiled. The expressions of my—my—yes, I will say it—my genius, have been ruthlessly burned, or otherwise made away with, and this thing has been put in their place. Hester, why don’t you speak—why do you stare at me like this?”

“I am puzzled by the writing,” said Hester; “the writing is yours.”

“The writing is mine!—oh, you wicked girl! The writing is an imitation of mine—a feeble and poor imitation. I thought, Hester, that by this time you knew your friend’s handwriting. I thought that one in whom I have confided—one whom I have stooped to notice because, I fancied we had a community of soul, would not be so ridiculous and so silly as to mistake this writing for mine. Look again, please, Hester Thornton, and tell me if I am ever so vulgar as to cross my t’s. You know I always loop them; and do I make a capital B in this fashion? And do I indulge in flourishes? I grant you that the general effect to a casual observer would be something the same, but you, Hester—I thought you knew me better.”

Here Hester, examining the false essay, had to confess that the crossed t’s and the flourishes were unlike Miss Russell’s calligraphy.

“It is a forgery, most cleverly done,” said Dora. “There is such a thing, Hester, as being wickedly clever. This spiteful, cruel attempt to injure another can have but proceeded from one very low order of mind. Hester, there has been plenty of favoritism in this school, but do you suppose I shall allow such a thing as this to pass over unsearched into? If necessary, I shall ask my father to interfere. This is a slight—an outrage; but the whole mystery shall at last be cleared up. Miss Good and Miss Danesbury shall be informed at once, and the very instant Mrs. Willis returns she shall be told what a serpent she has been nursing in this false, wicked girl, Annie Forest.”

“Stop, Dora,” said Hester suddenly. She sprang to her feet, clasping her hands, and her color varied rapidly from white to red. A sudden light poured in upon her, and she was about to speak when something—quite a small, trivial thing—occurred. She only saw little Nan in the distance flying swiftly, with outstretched arms, to meet a girl, whose knees she clasped in baby ecstasy. The girl stooped down and kissed the little face, and the round arms were flung around her neck. The next instant Annie Forest continued her walk alone, and Nan, looking wistfully back after her, went in another direction with her nurse. The whole scene took but a moment to enact, but as she watched, Hester’s face grew hard and white. She sat down again, with her lips firmly pressed together.

“What is it, Hester?” exclaimed Dora. “What were you going to say? You surely know nothing about this?”

“Well, Dora, I am not the guilty person. I was only going to remark that you cannot be sure it is Annie Forest.”

“Oh, so you are going to take that horrid girl’s part now? I wonder at you! She all but killed your little sister, and then stole her love away from you. Did you see the little thing now, how she flew to her? Why, she never kisses you like that.”

“I know—I know,” said Hester, and she turned away her face with a groan, and leaned forward against the rustic bench, pressing her hot forehead down on her hands.

“You’ll have your triumph, Hester, when Miss Forest is publicly expelled,” said Dora, tapping her lightly on the shoulder, and then, taking up the forged essay, she went slowly out of the garden.

Hester stayed behind in the shady little arbor, and then, on that soft spring day, while the birds sang overhead, and the warm light breezes came in and fanned her hot cheeks, good angels and bad drew near to fight for a victory. Which would conquer? Hester had many faults, but hitherto she had been honorable and truthful; her sins had been those of pride and jealousy, but she had never told a falsehood in her life. She knew perfectly—she trembled as the full knowledge overpowered her—that she had it in her power to exonerate Annie. She could not in the least imagine how stupid Susan Drummond could contrive and carry out such a clever and deep-laid plot; but she knew also that if she related what she had seen with her own eyes the night before, she would probably give such a clue to the apparent mystery that the truth would come to light.

If Annie was cleared from this accusation, doubtless the old story of her supposed guilt with regard to Mrs. Willis’ caricature would also be read with its right key. Hester was a clever and sharp girl; and the fact of seeing Susan Drummond in the school-room in the dead of night opened her eyes also to one or two other apparent little mysteries. While Susan was her own room-mate she had often given a passing wonder to the fact of her extraordinary desire to overcome her sleepiness, and had laughed over the expedients Susan had used to wake at all moments.

These things, at the time, had scarcely given her a moment’s serious reflection; but now she pondered them carefully, and became more and more certain, that, for some inexplicable and unfathomable reason sleepy, and apparently innocent, Susan Drummond wished to sow the seeds of mischief and discord in the school. Hester was sure that if she chose to speak now she could clear poor Annie, and restore her to her lost place in Mrs. Willis’ favor.

Should she do so? ah! should she? Her lips trembled, her color came and went as the angels, good and bad, fought hard for victory within her. How she had longed to revenge herself on Annie! How cordially she had hated her! Now was the moment of her revenge. She had but to remain silent now, and to let matters take their course; she had but to hold her tongue about the little incident of last night, and, without any doubt, circumstantial evidence would point at Annie Forest, and she would be expelled from the school. Mrs. Willis must condemn her now. Mr. Everard must pronounce her guilty now. She would go, and when the coast was again clear the love which she had taken from Hester—the precious love of Hester’s only little sister—would return.

“You will be miserable; you will be miserable,” whispered the good angels sorrowfully in her ear; but she did not listen to them.

“I said I would revenge myself, and this is my opportunity,” she murmured. “Silence—just simply silence—will be my revenge.”

Then the good angels went sorrowfully back to their Father in heaven, and the wicked angels rejoiced. Hester had fallen very low.

Mrs. Willis was not at home many hours before Dora Russell begged for an interview with her. Annie had not as yet heard anything of the changed essay; for Dora had resolved to keep the thing a secret until Mrs. Willis herself took the matter in hand.

Annie was feeling not a little anxious and depressed. She was sorry now that she had led the girls that wild escapade through the wood. Phyllis and Nora were both suffering from heavy colds in consequence, and Susan Drummond was looking more pasty about her complexion, and was more dismally sleepy than usual. Annie was going through her usual season of intense remorse after one of her wild pranks. No one repented with more apparent fervor than she did, and yet no one so easily succumbed to the next temptation. Had Annie been alone in the matter she would have gone straight to Mrs. Willis and confessed all; but she could not do this without implicating her companions, who would have screamed with horror at the very suggestion.

All the girls were more or less depressed by the knowledge that the gypsy woman, Mother Rachel, shared their secret; and they often whispered together as to the chances of her betraying them. Old Betty they could trust; for Betty, the cake-woman, had been an arch-conspirator with the naughty girls of Lavender House from time immemorial. Betty had always managed to provide their stolen suppers for them, and had been most accommodating in the matter of pay. Yes, with Betty they felt they were safe; but Mother Rachel was a different person. She might like to be paid a few more sixpences for her silence; she might hover about the grounds; she might be noticed. At any moment she might boldly demand an interview with Mrs. Willis.

“I’m awfully afraid of Mother Rachel,” Phyllis moaned, as she shivered under the influence of her bad cold.

Nora said “I should faint if I saw her again, I know I should;” while the other girls always went out provided with stray sixpences, in case the gypsy mother should start up from some unexpected quarter and demand blackmail.

On the day of Mrs. Willis’ return, Annie was pacing up and down the shady walk, and indulging in some rather melancholy and regretful thoughts, when Susan Drummond and Mary Morris rushed up to her, white with terror.

“She’s down there by the copse, and she’s beckoning to us! Oh, do come with us—do, darling, dear Annie.”

“There’s no use in it,” replied Annie; “Mother Rachel wants money, and I am not going to give her any. Don’t be afraid of her, girls, and don’t give her money. After all, why should she tell on us? she would gain nothing by doing so.”

“Oh, yes, she would, Annie—she would, Annie,” said Mary Morris, beginning to sob; “oh, do come with us, do! We must pacify her, we really must.”

“I can’t come now,” said Annie; “hark! some one is calling me. Yes, Miss Danesbury—what is it?”

“Mrs. Willis wishes to see you at once, Annie, in her private sitting-room,” replied Miss Danesbury; and Annie, wondering not a little, but quite unsuspicious, ran off.

The fact, however, of her having deliberately disobeyed Mrs. Willis, and done something which she knew would greatly pain her, brought a shade of embarrassment to her usually candid face. She had also to confess to herself that she did not feel quite so comfortable about Mother Rachel as she had given Mary Morris and Susan Drummond to understand. Her steps lagged more and more as she approached the house, and she wished, oh, how longingly! oh, how regretfully! that she had not been naughty and wild and disobedient in her beloved teacher’s absence.

“But where is the use of regretting what is done?” she said, half aloud. “I know I can never be good—never, never!”

She pushed aside the heavy velvet curtains which shaded the door of the private sitting-room, and went in, to find Mrs. Willis seated by her desk, very pale and tired and unhappy looking, while Dora Russell, with crimson spots on her cheeks and a very angry glitter in her eyes, stood by the mantel-piece.

“Come here, Annie dear,” said Mrs. Willis in her usual gentle and affectionate tone.

Annie’s first wild impulse was to rush to her governess’ side, to fling her arms round her neck, and, as a child would confess to her mother, to tell her all that story of the walk through the wood, and the stolen picnic in the fairies’ field. Three things, however, restrained her—she must not relieve her own troubles at the expense of betraying others; she could not, even if she were willing, say a word in the presence of this cold and angry-looking Dora; in the third place, Mrs. Willis looked very tired and very sad. Not for worlds would she add to her troubles at this instant. She came into the room, however, with a slight hesitation of manner and a clouded brow, which caused Mrs. Willis to watch her with anxiety and Dora with triumph.

“Come here, Annie,” repeated the governess. “I want to speak to you. Something very dishonorable and disgraceful has been done in my absence.”

Annie’s face suddenly became as white as a sheet. Could the gypsy mother have already betrayed them all?

Mrs. Willis, noticing her too evident confusion, continued in a voice which, in spite of herself, became stern and severe.

“I shall expect the truth at any cost, my dear. Look at this manuscript-book. Do you know anything of the handwriting?”

“Why, it is yours, of course, Dora,” said Annie, who was now absolutely bewildered.

“It is not mine,” began Dora, but Mrs. Willis held up her hand.

“Allow me to speak, Miss Russell. I can best explain matters. Annie, during my absence some one has been guilty of a very base and wicked act. One of the girls in this school has gone secretly to Dora Russell’s desk and taken away ten pages of an essay which she had called ‘The River,’ and which she was preparing for the prize competition next month. Instead of Dora’s essay this that you now see was put in its place. Examine it, my dear. Can you tell me anything about it?”

Annie took the manuscript-book and turned the leaves.

“Is it meant for a parody?” she asked, after a pause; “it sounds ridiculous. No, Mrs. Willis, I know nothing whatever about it; some one has imitated Dora’s handwriting. I cannot imagine who is the culprit.”

She threw the manuscript-book with a certain easy carelessness on the table by her side, and glanced up with a twinkle of mirth in her eyes at Dora.

“I suppose it is meant for a clever parody,” she repeated; “at least it is amusing.”

Her manner displeased Mrs. Willis, and very nearly maddened poor Dora.

“We have not sent for you, Annie,” said her teacher, “to ask you your opinion of the parody, but to try and get you to throw light on the subject. We must find out, and at once, who has been so wicked as to deliberately injure another girl.”

“But why have you sent for me?” asked Annie, drawing herself up, and speaking with a little shade of haughtiness.

“Because,” said Dora Russell, who could no longer contain her outraged feelings, “because you alone can throw light on it—because you alone in the school are base enough to do anything so mean—because you alone can caricature.”

“Oh, that is it,” said Annie; “you suspect me, then. Do you suspect me, Mrs. Willis?”

“My dear—what can I say?”

“Nothing, if you do. In this school my word has long gone for nothing. I am a naughty, headstrong, willful girl, but in this matter I am perfectly innocent. I never saw that essay before: I never in all my life went to Dora Russell’s desk. I am headstrong and wild, but I don’t do spiteful things. I have no object in injuring Dora; she is nothing to me—nothing. She is trying for the essay prize, but she has no chance of winning it. Why should I trouble myself to injure her? Why should I even take the pains to parody her words and copy her handwriting? Mrs. Willis, you need not believe me—I see you do not believe me—but I am quite innocent.”

Here Annie burst into sudden tears, and ran out of the room.

Dora Russell had declared, in Hester’s presence, and with intense energy in her manner, that the author of the insult to which she had been exposed should be publicly punished and, if possible, expelled. On the evening of her interview with the head teacher, she had so far forgotten herself as to reiterate this desire with extreme vehemence. She had boldly declared her firm conviction of Annie’s guilt, and had broadly hinted at Mrs. Willis’ favoritism toward her. The great dignity, however, of her teacher’s manner, and the half-sorrowful, half-indignant look she bestowed on the excited girl, calmed her down after a time. Mrs. Willis felt full sympathy for Dora, and could well understand how trying and aggravating this practical joke must be to so proud a girl; but although her faith was undoubtedly shaken in Annie, she would not allow this sentiment to appear.

“I will do all I can for you, Dora,” she said, when the weeping Annie had left the room; “I will do everything in my power to find out who has injured you. Annie has absolutely denied the accusation you bring against her, and unless her guilt can be proved it is but right to believe her innocent. There are many other girls in Lavender House, and to-morrow morning I will sift this unpleasant affair to the very bottom. Go, now, my dear, and if you have sufficient self-command and self-control, try to have courage to write your essay over again. I have no doubt that your second rendering of your subject will be more attractive than the first. Beginners cannot too often re-write their themes.”

Dora gave her head a proud little toss, but she was sufficiently in awe of Mrs. Willis to keep back any retort, and she went out of the room feeling unsatisfied and wretched, and inclined for a sympathizing chat with her little friend Hester Thornton.

Hester, however when she reached her, seemed not at all disposed to talk to any one.

“I’ve had it all out with Mrs. Willis, and there is no doubt she will be exposed to-morrow morning,” said Dora half aloud.

Hester, whose head was bent over her French history, looked up with an annoyed expression.

“Who will be exposed?” she asked, in a petulant voice.

“Oh, how stupid you are growing, Hester Thornton!” exclaimed Dora; “why, that horrid Annie Forest, of course—but really I have no patience to talk to you; you have lost all your spirit. I was very foolish to demean myself by taking so much notice of one of the little girls.”

Dora sailed down the play-room to her own drawing-room, fully expecting Hester to rise and rush after her; but to her surprise Hester did not stir, but sat with her head bent over her book, and her cheeks slightly flushed.

The next morning Mrs. Willis kept her word to Dora, and made the very strictest inquiries with regard to the practical joke to which Dora had been subjected. She first of all fully explained what had taken place in the presence of the whole school, and then each girl was called up in rotation, and asked two questions: first, had she done this mischievous thing herself? second, could she throw any light on the subject.

One by one each girl appeared before her teacher, replied in the negative to both queries, and returned to her seat.

“Now, girls,” said Mrs. Willis, “you have each of you denied this charge. Such a thing as has happened to Dora could not have been done without hands. The teachers in the school are above suspicion; the servants are none of them clever enough to perform this base trick. I suspect one of you, and I am quite determined to get at the truth. During the whole of this half-year there has been a spirit of unhappiness, of mischief, and of suspicion in our midst. Under these circumstances love cannot thrive; under these circumstances the true and ennobling sense of brotherly kindness, and all those feelings which real religion prompt must languish. I tell you all now plainly that I will not have this thing in Lavender House. It is simply disgraceful for one girl to play such tricks on her fellows. This is not the first time nor the second time that the school desks have been tampered with. I will find out—I am determined to find out, who this dishonest person is; and as she has not chosen to confess to me, as she has preferred falsehood to truth, I will visit her, when I do discover her, with my very gravest displeasure. In this school I have always endeavored to inculcate the true principles of honor and of trust. I have laid down certain broad rules, and expect them to be obeyed; but I have never hampered you with petty and humiliating restraints. I have given you a certain freedom, which I believed to be for your best good, and I have never suspected one of you until you have given me due cause.

“Now, however, I tell you plainly that I alter all my tactics. One girl sitting in this room is guilty. For her sake I shall treat you all as guilty, and punish you accordingly. For the remainder of this term, or until the hour when the guilty girl chooses to release her companions, you are all, with the exception of the little children and Miss Russell, who can scarcely have played this trick on herself, under punishment. I withdraw your half-holidays, I take from you the use of the south parlor for your acting, and every drawing-room in the play-room is confiscated. But this is not all that I do. In taking from you my trust, I must treat you as untrustworthy—you will no longer enjoy the liberty you used to delight in—everywhere you will be watched. A teacher will sit in your play-room with you, a teacher will accompany you into the grounds, and I tell you plainly, girls, that chance words and phrases which drop from your lips shall be taken up, and used, if necessary, to the elucidation of this disgraceful mystery.”

Here Mrs. Willis left the room, and the teachers desired the several girls in their classes to attend to their morning studies.

Nothing could exceed the dismay which her words had produced. The innocent girls were fairly stunned, and from that hour for many a day all sunshine and happiness seemed really to have left Lavender House.

The two, however, who felt the change most acutely, and on whose altered faces their companions began to fix suspicious eyes, were Annie Forest and Hester Thornton. Hester was burdened with an intolerable sense of the shameful falsehood she had told; Annie, guilty in another matter, succumbed at last utterly to a sense of misery and injustice. Her orphaned and lonely position for the first time began to tell on her; she ate little and slept little, her face grew very pale and thin, and her health really suffered.

All the routine of happy life at Lavender House was changed. In the large play-room the drawing-rooms were unused; there were no pleasant little knots of girls whispering happily and confidentially together, for whenever two or three girls sat down to have a chat they found that one or another of the teachers was within hearing. The acting for the coming play progressed so languidly that no one expected it would really take place, and the one relief and relaxation to the unhappy girls lay in the fact that the holidays were not far off, and that in the meantime they might work hard for the prizes.

The days passed in a truly melancholy fashion, and, perhaps, for the first time the girls fully appreciated the old privileges of freedom and trust which were now forfeited. There was a feeble little attempt at a joke and a laugh in the school at Dora’s expense. The most frivolous of the girls whispered of her as she passed as “the muddy stream;” but no one took up the fun with avidity—the shadow of somebody’s sin had fallen too heavily upon all the bright young lives.

The eight girls who had gone out on their midnight picnic were much startled one day by an unpleasant discovery. Betty had never come for her basket. Susan Drummond, who had a good deal of curiosity, and always poked her nose into unexpected corners, had been walking with a Miss Allison in that part of the grounds where the laurel-bush stood. She had caught a peep of the white handle of the basket, and had instantly turned her companion’s attention to something else. Miss Allison had not observed Susan’s start of dismay; but Susan had taken the first opportunity of getting rid of her, and had run off in search of one of the girls who had shared in the picnic. She came across Annie Forest, who was walking, as usual, by herself, with her head slightly bent, and her curling hair in sad confusion. Susan whispered the direful intelligence that old Betty had forsaken them, and that the basket, with its ginger-beer bottles and its stained table-cloth, might be discovered at any moment.

Annie’s pale face flushed slightly at Susan’s words.

“Why should we try to conceal the thing?” she said, speaking with sudden energy, and a look of hope and animation coming back to her face. “Susy, let’s go, all of us, and tell the miserable truth to Mrs. Willis; it will be much the best way. We did not do the other thing, and when we have confessed about this, our hearts will be at rest.”

“No, we did not do the other thing,” said Susan, a queer, gray color coming over her face; “but confess about this, Annie Forest!—I think you are mad. You dare not tell.”

“All right,” said Annie, “I won’t, unless you all agree to it,” and then she continued her walk, leaving Susan standing on the graveled path with her hands clasped together, and a look of most genuine alarm and dismay on her usually phlegmatic face.

Susan quickly found Phyllis and Nora, and it was only too easy to arouse the fears of these timid little people. Their poor little faces became almost pallid, and they were not a little startled at the fact of Annie Forest, their own arch-conspirator, wishing to betray their secret.

“Oh,” said Susan Drummond, “she’s not out and out shabby; she says she won’t tell unless we all wish it. But what is to become of the basket?”

“Come, come, young ladies; no whispering, if you please,” said Miss Good, who came up at this moment. “Susan, you are looking pale and cold, walk up and down that path half-a-dozen times, and then go into the house. Phyllis and Nora, you can come with me as far as the lodge. I want to take a message from Mrs. Willis to Mary Martin about the fowl for to-morrow’s dinner.”

Phyllis and Nora, with dismayed faces, walked solemnly away with the English teacher, and Susan was left to her solitary meditations.

Things had come to such a pass that her slow wits were brought into play, and she neither felt sleepy, nor did she indulge in her usual habit of eating lollipops.

That basket might be discovered any day, and then—then disgrace was imminent. Susan could not make out what had become of old Betty; never before had she so utterly failed them.

Betty lived in a little cottage about half a mile from Lavender House. She was a sturdy, apple-cheeked, little old woman, and had for many a day added to her income—indeed, almost supported herself—by means of the girls at Lavender House. The large cherry-trees in her little garden bore their rich crop of fruit year after year for Mrs. Willis’ girls, and every day at an early hour Betty would tramp into Sefton and return with a temptingly-laden basket of the most approved cakes and tarts. There was a certain paling at one end of the grounds to which Betty used to come. Here on the grass she would sit contentedly, with the contents of her baskets arranged in the most tempting order before her, and to this seductive spot she knew well that those little misses who loved goodies, cakes and tartlets would be sure to find their way. Betty charged high for her wares; but, as she was always obliging in the matter of credit, the thoughtless girls cared very little that they paid double the shop prices for Betty’s cakes. The best girls in the school, certainly, never went to Betty; but Annie Forest, Susan Drummond, and several others had regular accounts with her, and few days passed that their young faces would not peep over the paling and their voices ask:

“What have you got to tempt me with to-day, Betty?”

It was, however, in the matter of stolen picnics, of grand feasts in the old attic, etc., etc., that Betty was truly great. No one so clever as she in concealing a basket of delicious eatables, no one knew better what schoolgirls liked. She undoubtedly charged her own prices, but what she gave was of the best, and Betty was truly in her element when she had an order from the young ladies of Lavender House for a grand secret feast.

“You shall have it, my pretties—you shall have it,” she would say, wrinkling up her bright blue eyes, and smiling broadly. “You leave it to Betty, my little loves; you leave it to Betty.”

On the occasion of the picnic to the fairies’ field Betty had, indeed, surpassed herself in the delicious eatables she had provided; all had gone smoothly, the basket had been placed in a secure hiding-place under the thick laurel. It was to be fetched away by Betty herself at an early hour on the following morning.

No wonder Susan was perplexed as she paced about and pretended to warm herself. It was a June evening, but the weather was still a little cold. Susan remembered now that Betty had not come to her favorite station at the stile for several days. Was it possible that the old woman was ill? As this idea occurred to her, Susan became more alarmed. She knew that there was very little chance of the basket remaining long in concealment. Rover might any day remember his pleasant picnic with affection, and drag the white basket from under the laurel-bush. Michael the gardener would be certain to see it when next he cleaned up the back avenue. Oh, it was more than dangerous to leave it there, and yet Susan knew of no better hiding-place. A sudden idea came to her; she pulled out her pretty little watch, and saw that she need not return to the house for another half-hour. “Suppose she ran as fast as possible to Betty’s little cottage and begged of the old woman to come by the first light in the morning and fetch away the basket?”

The moment Susan conceived this idea she resolved to put it into execution. She looked around her hastily: no teacher was in sight, Miss Good was away at the lodge, Miss Danesbury was playing with the little children. Mademoiselle, she knew, had gone indoors with a bad headache. She left the broad walk where she had been desired to stay, and plunging into the shrubbery, soon reached Betty’s paling. In a moment she had climbed the bars, had jumped lightly into the field, and was running as fast as possible in the direction of Betty’s cottage. She reached the high road, and started and trembled violently as a carriage with some ladies and gentlemen passed her. She thought she recognized the faces of the two little Misses Bruce, but did not dare to look at them, and hurried panting along the road, and hoping she might be mistaken.

In less than a quarter of an hour she had reached Betty’s little cottage, and was standing trying to recover her breath by the shut door. The place had a deserted look, and several overripe cherries had fallen from the trees and were lying neglected on the ground. Susan knocked impatiently. There was no discernible answer. She had no time to wait, she lifted the latch, which yielded to her pressure, and went in.

Poor old Betty, crippled, and in severe pain with rheumatism, was lying on her little bed.

“Eh, dear—and is that you, my pretty missy?” she asked, as Susan, hot and tired, came up to her side.

“Oh, Betty, are you ill?” asked Miss Drummond “I came to tell you you have forgotten the basket.”

“No, my dear, no—not forgot. By no means that, lovey; but I has been took with the rheumatism this past week, and can’t move hand or foot. I was wondering how you’d do without your cakes and tartlets, dear, and to think of them cherries lying there good for nothing on the ground is enough to break one’s ’eart.”

“So it is,” said Susan, giving an appreciative glance toward the open door. “They are beautiful cherries, and full of juice, I am sure. I’ll take a few, Betty, as I am going out, and pay you for them another day. But what I have come about now is the basket. You must get the basket away, however ill you are. If the basket is discovered we are all lost, and then good-by to your gains.”

“Well, missy, dear, if I could crawl on my hands and knees I’d go and fetch it, rather than you should be worried; but I can’t set foot to the ground at all. The doctor says as ’tis somethink like rheumatic fever as I has.”

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” said Susan, not wasting any of her precious moments in pitying the poor suffering old woman. “What is to be done? I tell you, Betty, if that basket is found we are all lost.”

“But the laurel is very thick, lovey: it ain’t likely to be found—it ain’t, indeed.”

“I tell you it is likely to be found, you tiresome old woman, and you really must go for it or send for it. You really must.”

Old Betty began to ponder.

“There’s Moses,” she said, after a pause of anxious thought; “he’s a ’cute little chap, and he might go. He lives in the fourth cottage along the lane. Moses is his name—Moses Moore. I’d give him a pint of cherries for the job. If you wouldn’t mind sending Moses to me, Miss Susan, why, I’ll do my best; only it seems a pity to let anybody into your secrets, young ladies, but old Betty herself.”

“It is a pity,” said Susan, “but, under the circumstances, it can’t be helped. What cottage did you say this Moses lived in?”

“The fourth from here, down the lane, lovey—Moses is the lad’s name; he’s a freckled boy, with a cast in one eye. You send him up to me, dearie; but don’t mention the cherries, or he’ll be after stealing them. He’s a sad rogue, is Moses; but I think I can tempt him with the cherries.”

Susan did not wait to bid poor old Betty “good-bye,” but ran out of the cottage, shutting the door after her, and snatching up two or three ripe cherries to eat on her way. She was so far fortunate as to find the redoubtable Moses at home, and to convey him bodily to old Betty’s presence. The queer boy grinned horribly, and looked as wicked as boy could look; but on the subject of cherries he was undoubtedly susceptible, and after a good deal of haggling and insisting that the pint should be a quart, he expressed his willingness to start off at four o’clock on the following morning, and bring away the basket from under the laurel-tree.