Miss Noakes had not heard us, but our troubles were not over.

It was not until I had helped Adelaide to retire (for her poor hands were too badly burned to put up her own hair), and had gone away into my own room that I realized that Winnie was not with us and that she had been left behind in the stampede up the turret stairs. I crept around through the corridor into the darkened studio. Professor Waite and his friend had gone, why had not Winnie returned? I opened the door leading to the turret and called her name softly. I was answered by a groan. I hastened to light a candle and stole down the winding stair. Half way down I found Winnie sitting on the steps, a bundle of misery.

“I came up once,” she exclaimed, “but Professor Waite was in the studio and I had to go back to the closet and wait until he left the house.”

“It must have been very chilly and unpleasant with nothing but a watering can and a lawn mower to sit on,” I remarked; “but why didn’t you come all the way up this time. You surely don’t intend to spend the night where you are.”

“I don’t know,” Winnie replied, with another groan; “I’ve sprained my ankle or something, and I can’t bear my weight on it. It was all that I could do to drag myself up and back again, and then as far as this. Ow! how it hurts! No, I just cannot take another step.”

“Dear! dear!” I exclaimed; “what a night this has been! With Milly’s narrow escape from death, and Adelaide’s burned hands, and your sprained ankle, we have had enough Halloween for one year.”

“What do you mean?” Winnie asked, in her absorption taking several little hops up the stairs. “Milly’s escape? What has happened? Ow! wow! You’ll have to get a derrick, Tib, and hoist me up. I cannot budge an inch.”

“Lean on me,” I said, “and listen while I tell you all about it”; and I rehearsed the thrilling story of Professor Waite’s rescue.

“I can smell the smoke still. Snooks will think the house is on fire,” Winnie declared, snuffing vigorously as we reached the studio. “You had better open the windows a bit and air off. And there are some burned scraps of Milly’s wrapper on the floor; let’s pick them all up. Ow! don’t let go of me. This is really what Milly calls a state of dreadfulness—no other word will describe it. How can I ever stand it until morning?”

I helped her to her bed and bound up her ankle with Pond’s Extract; but it had swollen so much and was so painful that when morning came Winnie consented to have the school physician called. He kindly asked no questions, and treated Adelaide’s hands, only remarking, “I see you have been celebrating Halloween.”

“He thinks I burned them in snatching the raisins out of the lighted alcohol,” Adelaide said; “or perhaps in putting out some clothing which was set on fire in that way.”

Even Madame was considerate and did not inquire closely into the details of the trouble.

“I hope you have learned from this,” she said, “that it is a dangerous thing to play with fire.”

Halloween was a disagreeable subject after this to all of us, but especially to Winnie. “Don’t mention it,” she would say. “I shall never play another trick in all my mortal days. I feel as mean and demoralized as a lunch-basket on its way home from a picnic.”

The state of dreadfulness deepened as time went on. Winnie kept her room for days, and it was necessary to feed Adelaide at table, and dress and undress her; but their hurts troubled me less than the heart bruise received by my poor Milly. I kept her secret and she was brave, and no one else suspected it. Professor Waite was very impatient with her, treating her work contemptuously, and disregarding her personally altogether. He never alluded to the accident, treating it, as Winnie said, as of no more consequence than if he had extinguished a bale of cotton that had happened to take fire.

“That man is utterly incapable of sentiment,” Winnie remarked wrathfully. “Now how natural it would be to make a romance out of such a rescue, but Professor Waite’s heart is as stony as that of the Apollo Belvedere.”

Milly smiled piteously and shook her head, while she looked significantly from me toward Adelaide, as much as to say: “We know better; he is not so stony-hearted as he seems.”

Having my attention directed to the matter, I kept my eyes open for little indications of the state of Professor Waite’s sentiments, and presently found that they were not lacking. The studio was not occupied by classes until after ten o’clock in the morning, and Professor Waite came every day very early, and painted there alone until the first wave of pupils swept in and filled the room with an encampment of easels. He explained to me that he was preparing a picture for the Academy exhibition, the morning light was good, and as his studio in the city was shared with another young artist, he preferred to come here where he could work quietly and undisturbed for a few hours each morning. He always bolted the corridor door to secure complete seclusion, and we had often to wait a few moments until he admitted us. He did not show us the painting, but it was evident that he was deeply interested in it, for he was frequently distraught, and apparently vexed at being obliged to turn his attention to our offences against art, just as he was worked up to a fine phrensy of production. At such times he would run his fingers through his hair, and stare at the work which the first unfortunate pupil presented with a repugnance which was often more clearly than politely expressed. Sometimes his ill humour vented itself on the model. We were in the habit of taking turns and, dressed in some picturesque costume, of posing for the class for a week at a time. After the Halloween experience it happened to be Milly’s turn. We had costumed her as an Italian contadina, and thought that she looked very prettily. But Professor Waite was not satisfied.

“Why have you chosen a blonde for such a character?” he asked me impatiently. “That little snub nose and milk-and-water complexion have nothing Italian in their make up. If you could induce that superb creature, Miss Armstrong, to wear the costume, you would see the difference.”

Milly had heard the remark though he did not intend she should do so, and her eyes suffused with tears as usual. “I will ask Adelaide,” she said meekly, “but I don’t believe she will be willing to pose for the class.”

“Never mind the class,” Professor Waite replied eagerly. “If Miss Armstrong will honor me by giving me personally a few sittings each morning for my Academy picture I shall be more gratified than I can express.”

Milly, more than happy to attempt to do the professor a favor, besought Adelaide, who was obdurate and even indignant.

“The very idea!” she exclaimed. “I never heard of such assurance. I figure in his picture at a public exhibition, indeed.”

“Why, I am sure it’s a great honor,” Milly replied, bridling feebly; “and I won’t have you treat him in such a desultory manner.”

We all laughed, for Milly, as usual when excited, had mixed her words—insulting and derogatory clamoring at the same time in her small mind for utterance.

“I think it would be perfectly scrum to be in an Academy picture,” Winnie exclaimed. “I wish he would ask me.”

Perfectly “scrum,” or “scrumptious,” was Winnie’s superlative; while Adelaide, to express a similar delight, would have quoted the Anglicism, “Quite too far more than most awfully delicious.”

“I wonder what his Academy picture is, anyway,” Winnie went on, “and why he never shows it to us. I mean to ask him to let me see it; I am sure I might help him with some suggestions.”

“Well you are unassuming,” I exclaimed, never dreaming that Winnie, with all her audacity, would dare to criticise a picture by our professor. What was my astonishment, therefore, on awakening the next morning, to find that Winnie was already dressed.

“I am going into the studio,” she remarked coolly, “to take a look at Professor Waite’s picture before he arrives.”

“O Winnie!” I begged, “don’t; you’ve no business to do such a thing.” Winnie made a little face, courtesied, and flounced out of the room. She returned presently, all aglow with excitement.

“He was already there at work,” she exclaimed, “painting, as the French say, like an enragé. He had forgotten to bolt the door and I slipped right in. His back was toward me, and he did not notice me at first, so I had one good solid look. And what do you suppose it is, Tib? Why, Adelaide, holding a candle and glancing over her shoulder as he must have seen her going down the stairs. The Rembrandtesque effect of artificial light and deep shadow is stunning. He has rigged up his lay-figure on the landing in the dark turret, and had a lighted candle wedged into her woodeny fingers, so that he gets the lighting on the face and drapery, while he has daylight on his canvas.

“Of course he has had to do the face from imagination or memory, but it was perfect. I screamed right out: ‘Don’t touch that again or you’ll spoil it!’ He turned the canvas back forward quicker than a wink, and looked at me as if he would like to eat me, but I didn’t care, and I begged him not to disturb himself or interrupt his work on my account; that I had only dropped in in a friendly way to give him a little helpful criticism. With that he put on his eye-glasses and remarked; ‘Well, you are about the coolest young lady that it has ever been my privilege to meet,’ but he had to come right down from that nifty position, for I said, ‘If my opinions are of no use, perhaps Madame’s will be more helpful; shall I ask her to come up and take a look at the picture?’ That made him wince. He turned all sorts of colors, chewed his mustache, and hadn’t a word to say. I felt sort of sorry for him and I assured him that I had no intention of telling, at least not if he was nice; and I reminded him that he owed the subject to me in the first place, for if I had not suggested the trick he would never have seen Adelaide in that particular lighting. With that he changed his tune and said that he was very grateful for my kind intention, and that if I would kindly lend him a photograph of Adelaide he would be still more grateful. But I told him that I did not think that it was fair to exhibit a portrait of Adelaide, and he admitted that it was not, and said that he had decided not to send the picture to the exhibition, but merely to keep it himself.”

Adelaide happened to knock at our door at this juncture, and Winnie told her what she had discovered.

“This is past endurance,” Adelaide exclaimed angrily; “you must come with me, Tib, and insist on Professor Waite’s showing me this picture. If the face is recognizable as my portrait I shall destroy it then and there.”

“Don’t, Adelaide,” I begged. “Professor Waite is a gentleman; he has already told Winnie that he does not intend to exhibit the picture——”

“But I do not choose that he shall possess it,” she cried; “if you will not go with me I shall go alone,” and she hurried to the studio door. It was locked, and Professor Waite did not choose to reply to her oft-repeated knocks. He evidently considered Winnie’s visit all-sufficient for one morning. Adelaide came back in a towering passion. “If my poor hands would only let me write,” she exclaimed, “I would give him such a piece of my mind. Winnie, be my amanuensis. Write what I dictate.”

Winnie sat down good-humoredly and dashed off in her large scrawling script, which filled a page with these lines, the following indignant protest:

She was excited and she spoke loudly. When she finished, there was dead silence in the little parlor. We all felt that Adelaide had put it a little too strongly. That silence was broken by a half-suppressed sneeze on the balcony outside the window. A sneeze which we all recognized as belonging to Miss Noakes. Had she been listening? Had she heard? Winnie balanced the ink bottle over the letter ready to obliterate its contents by an “accident” if Miss Noakes suddenly knocked. No one appeared, and going to the window a moment afterward, I saw Miss Noakes walking between her window and ours, and taking in great sniffs of the keen morning air with much apparent enjoyment.

The bell rang for breakfast and Adelaide and I walked along together, pausing to slip the note under the studio door. It would not go quite through, a little end protruding, but that did not strike us as of any consequence. I had descended one flight of stairs when I found that I had forgotten my geometry and I hastened back to get it. I met Winnie before I turned into the corridor. “Hurry,” she exclaimed, “Snooks is just leaving her door; she will mark you for tardiness.” I flew along at the top of my speed, but on reaching our corridor I saw a sight which suddenly arrested my footsteps. Miss Noakes stood before the studio door, carefully adjusting her eye-glasses and looking at the note; presently she stooped, picked it up, and read the address. She hesitated a moment, seemed half inclined to replace it, turned it over as though she wished to open it, then glancing down the hall and spying me, she placed it in the great leather bag which hung at her side. She closed the bag with a savage click and glared at me as I turned and fled, for I had not the courage to meet her.

I reported the calamity at breakfast table in an awe-stricken whisper to Milly, who turned a trifle pale.

“I am afraid it will get Professor Waite into trouble,” she said, “Adelaide is still very angry with him, but I am sure she does not want to make him lose his position in the school.”

“It may make her lose her own position,” Cynthia Vaughn suggested. “Writing notes to young men is against the rules. It’s an expellable offence. But then,” she added, “this wasn’t exactly a love letter.”

“I should think not,” I exclaimed.

“It’s all the worse,” Milly groaned, as she scalded her throat with hot coffee.

“Adelaide can say she didn’t write it, you know,” Cynthia suggested cheerfully. “Winnie wrote it; and she didn’t poke it under the door either—Tib did that.”

“Do you suppose, Cynthia Vaughn, that Adelaide would do such a mean thing as not to take the consequences of her own actions?” Milly asked indignantly. Then she clasped my hand, for Miss Noakes stood at Madame’s table, and had opened her black bag and was handing Madame the note. We could see even at that distance that the seal was unbroken, but this gave us scant comfort; it was only putting off the evil day.

“Winnie might steal that note for us,” Cynthia suggested, “before Madame has a chance to read it.”

“Why are you always thinking up scrapes for Winnie to get into?” Milly asked.

Winnie pricked her ears, at the other side of the table. “What about Winnie?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Milly replied shortly; but as we went up to the studio a little before ten o’clock, I explained the situation. To my surprise Winnie’s eyes danced with merriment. “Snooks listened,” she exclaimed, “she heard Adelaide, I knew she did, and now we know how she finds out things that happen in the Amen Corner; often and often I have thought that I heard her, and have opened the door quickly only to find the corridor empty. Of course she is smart enough to know that she would get caught if she listened at the door; she would never in the world have time enough to scuttle down to her own room before we would see her. But the balcony! Strange we never thought of that. I’ll lay a trap for her—no, I need not; she has trapped herself; this affair is proof enough that she peeks and listens.”

“But I don’t see how this helps us,” I exclaimed. “This is the worst scrape of the season. Don’t you see it is? Such glee on your part is positively idiotic. We may all be expelled and Professor Waite too.”

“Fret not your dear little sympathetic, apprehensive gizzard. Don’t say one word, except to answer questions. Don’t volunteer any confessions, or let Adelaide do so. Remember, the prisoner is not obliged to criminate himself, the burden of proof lies with Snooks, and she will find it a pretty heavy burden.”

“Not with that note!” I replied.

“That note! Ha! ha! But I won’t tell you. It’s too good a joke.”

“And Professor Waite’s picture of Adelaide?”

“The picture, I had forgotten that,” and Winnie became grave at once. “He must take it right away,” she added. “I will tell him to.”

“You talk as if you could make him do anything,” I said.

“Anything I choose to try,” Winnie replied confidently. We were at the studio door a little ahead of time, and Professor Waite threw it open at our knock, and welcomed us in with his palette still on his thumb. “Come and see my picture,” he said, with a smile.

“Poor man!” I thought, “he would not look so happy if he knew how angry Adelaide is, and what a mine is waiting to be exploded beneath him.”

He led us to the easel and displayed the canvas triumphantly.

It was an effective, striking picture, but it did not in the least resemble Adelaide.

Winnie uttered an exclamation of disgust. “There now, you’ve spoiled it. I knew you would. It was just perfect, and you’ve ruined it. I’m sure I never want to look at that thing again. I told you not to touch it. Why couldn’t you let it alone?” and a half dozen other wails of the same order.

Professor Waite did not attempt to put a stop to her somewhat impertinent remarks. He was plainly annoyed, however, and when she had emptied the vials of her indignation, he replied: “I thought you would approve of the change, Miss DeWitt. It was a remark of yours this morning which made me realize that I had no right to paint Miss Armstrong’s portrait without her permission; that probably she would be unwilling that I should possess it; and as I would gladly sacrifice any ambition or pleasure of my own for the sake of not offending her, I have, as you see, painted in an entirely new face.”

“You are quite right, Professor,” I exclaimed warmly; “and Adelaide will be grateful for your consideration.”

At this juncture the girls trooped in and took their places at their easels, and Professor Waite laid the picture in the great chest in front of our door. The correction of work went on as usual until the latter part of the hour, when an ominous knock was heard at the door, and Madame, accompanied by Miss Noakes, sailed majestically into the room. Professor Waite bowed deeply and expressed himself as highly honored. Madame lifted her lorgnette and surveyed the class. Milly was posing in her despised Italian costume. Madame smiled kindly at her, and then passed about from easel to easel examining the girls’ work. “I do not know whether it is exactly the thing for the young ladies to allow themselves to be painted in this way,” she said, “though to be sure the studies are hardly recognizable as likenesses.”

“The young ladies have all asked the permission of their parents to sit for each other,” Professor Waite explained.

“For each other,” Madame repeated doubtfully; “but do you never make sketches of them also, Professor? A parent might well object to having his daughter’s portrait exhibited in a public place, sold to a stranger, or even shown among studies of professional models in your studio.”

“I have made no studies from life from any of the young ladies,” Professor Waite replied promptly.

Miss Noakes drew a long breath and seemed to bristle with anticipated triumph.

“I am glad that you can assure me of this,” Madame replied in her softest, most purring accents. Then she glanced around the room again and asked, “Are all of the art students present? I do not see Miss Armstrong.”

“Miss Armstrong has not honoured me by joining the class,” Professor Waite replied stiffly.

“But she at least sits for the others, does she not? She is such a strikingly picturesque girl, I should think you would ask her.”

“We have asked her,” Milly replied, “but she is just as obstinate as she can be. I wish, Madame, you would make her.”

Madame shook her little wiry curls. “This is a matter which must be left entirely to individual preference, my dear. It would be very wrong, indeed, for any of you to make a portrait of Miss Armstrong without her consent. I have known young amateur photographers to lay themselves open to an action at law by taking photographs of people without their knowledge. Our personality is a very sacred thing, and whoever possesses himself of that without warrant commits a dishonorable action.”

Milly looked as if she were about to faint, while Professor Waite, who felt the intention of Madame’s remarks, and his own thoughtlessness, bit his mustache nervously. Winnie was tittering in an unseemly manner behind her easel, but, thankful as I was that the professor had changed the portrait, I still felt the gravity of the occasion.

Madame’s manner changed. “Miss Vaughn,” she said to Cynthia, “will you ask Miss Armstrong to step to the studio for a moment.” Then turning to our teacher, she added, “I have a very painful duty to perform, my dear Professor, and you must pardon me if my questions seem to you unwarranted. Will you tell me whether, for any reason whatever, you have carried on a written correspondence with Miss Armstrong or with any other member of this school?”

“I have not, Madame.”

“Have never either written to her or received letters from her?”

“Never, Madame. Who has charged me with such a clandestine and dishonourable act?”

Madame did not reply, for Adelaide entered the room. She was very stately and pale. Cynthia had not had far to go, and Adelaide had come instantly.

“Why have you sent for me?” she asked resolutely.

“Merely to ask you one or two simple questions,” Madame replied. “But first, Professor, may we be permitted to see the picture which you are preparing for the Academy exhibition?”

Adelaide leaned forward eagerly. Professor Waite was about to be punished for his presumption and yet she was not so glad as she fancied that she would be. Her anger had faded out and she almost pitied him. A hot blush swept up to his forehead as he felt her gaze, and silently placed the painting upon the easel. Madame examined it critically through her lorgnette; it was evidently not what she had expected to see.

Milly, who had not known of the change, could hardly believe her eyes, and seemed to fancy that a miracle had been performed to save her dear professor. Miss Noakes stood at the canvas with a look of disappointed malignity on her unattractive features.

“Is this the only picture which you intend to exhibit?” Madame asked, after a moment, during which she had assured herself that the face on the canvas was utterly unlike any of her pupils.

“It is the only one that I have had time to paint this season,” Professor Waite replied. “The face bore at one time a resemblance to Miss Armstrong’s, but I purposely destroyed that resemblance and shall send it in as you see it.”

Madame seemed somewhat relieved, but she turned toward Adelaide, who had seated herself and was staring at the picture, her heart filled with a vague regret that she had written so unkind a letter.

“Young ladies,” said Madame solemnly, “you have heard the questions which I have asked Professor Waite. Certain accusations have been made which have greatly troubled me. It has been suspected that a clandestine flirtation and correspondence has for some time been carried on between your professor and one of the members of this school. Hitherto I have paid no attention to these reports, as they rested only on suspicion, but this morning startling evidence has been produced, and before bringing it forward I call upon any young lady who has been guilty of such an indiscretion to anticipate the discovery of her fault by a full confession.” No one responded. The accusation was so much more serious than the truth, that Adelaide did not imagine that she was the suspected culprit. Dead silence, in the midst of which Madame produced the fateful letter. Adelaide started and Madame asked in awful tones:

“Will any young lady present acknowledge that she has written this letter?”

Winnie and Adelaide each rose promptly.

Madame frowned. “Have we two claimants?” she asked.

“I am responsible for the contents of that note,” said Adelaide.

“But I wrote it,” added Winnie, “and I demand that it be read aloud.”

It seemed to me that Winnie was absolutely insane, and even Adelaide seemed to feel that there was no necessity of rushing so recklessly on the spears of the enemy.

Professor Waite looked completely mystified, and Madame said very seriously:

“You will see, Professor, that this note is directed to you, and that it has not been opened. I could not take that liberty; but Miss Noakes discovered it being sent in a very irregular manner, which justified her in confiscating it. There are other suspicious matters connected with it, which I trust its contents will fully explain.”

I felt that the crucial moment had arrived. Miss Noakes was absolutely radiant, and sat rubbing her hands with ghoulish glee. Madame looked troubled but judicial. The professor was a favourite of hers, but Miss Noakes had brought too weighty an accusation to be glossed over.

A silence like that before a thunder-clap reigned. Winnie covered her face with her handkerchief and shook—could it be with suppressed laughter? If so, it seemed to me that she must be going insane.

Professor Waite opened the letter and glanced over its contents. “This note is from Miss Winifred De Witt,” he said to Madame, “and since I have her permission, I will read it aloud.” And to our utter astonishment, Professor Waite read—not the indignant letter which Adelaide had dictated, but the following:

Professor Waite politely handed this effusion to Madame. Miss Noakes snatched it from her hand and glared at it with the look of a foiled assassin. Madame bit her lips with annoyance and scowled at Miss Noakes. She was evidently angry with her for having caused her to arraign Professor Waite on insufficient testimony and creating a scene derogatory to her own dignity. She quickly recovered her self-possession, however, and remarked loftily:

“Miss De Witt, when you have any future communications to make with your professor, pray do so in a more fitting manner. Placing notes under doors is really unworthy of any young lady in my school.”

“So is listening at windows,” Cynthia whispered to Winnie. Madame turned to Professor Waite and expressed herself as much pleased that this very serious accusation had been proved to be founded on an entire mistake. She had herself felt perfect confidence in the integrity of Professor Waite and the propriety of her pupils throughout the entire affair, and had only investigated it to give the slander its proper refutation: and her stiff silk dress rustled with dignity out of the studio.

As for Miss Noakes, she simply disappeared, “evaporated,” as Milly expressed it. The door had hardly closed upon Madame before our long-repressed feelings found vent in laughter. Winnie congratulated Professor Waite on the part of the school that he had been found innocent of so heinous a crime. The girls swarmed up to shake hands with him. Those who could not grasp his hand shook the skirts of his coat. Exuberant confusion reigned. Milly was dissolved in happy tears, and even Adelaide smiled when Professor Waite expressed his regret that Miss Noakes had connected their names in so disagreeable a manner.

It was not until the occupants of the Amen Corner had gathered in their study parlor that Adelaide said:

“But I really do not understand what became of my note; the one I dictated to Winnie and tucked under the door.”

“Winnie, how did you manage to steal it?” Cynthia asked.

“I didn’t take it from Snooks,” Winnie replied. “It struck me that Adelaide had expressed herself rather strongly, and that she would regret it after she had cooled down, and if she didn’t, she ought to. So while you were investigating the eavesdropping I destroyed that note, wrote one of my own and sealed it up in its place.”

“And I’ve really put this note of yours under the door?” Adelaide asked.

“Yes, my dear, and that is why I have not shared Tib’s anxiety since we knew that it had been confiscated. Don’t you think that dig about Snooks enjoying the scenery of the back yard was rather good?” and Winnie chuckled with enjoyment of her own impertinence. “You should have seen her face when Professor Waite read that. Nebuchadnezzar’s when he ordered Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego to the burning, fiery furnace must have been amiable in comparison. She would have seen me boiled in oil with pleasure. I haven’t enjoyed anything so much for ages.”

Of course Adelaide did not feel it necessary to tell Mr. Mudge all the consequences of our Halloween party, but only the facts of our having used the turret staircase on that memorable night.

“And now,” she said, with a laugh, “Mr. Mudge has gone racing off to investigate Professor Waite. I seem doomed to get that poor man into trouble. Though of course he never could be suspected of this robbery.”

Milly had entered while Adelaide was speaking, and she uttered a little cry of dismay. “Professor Waite suspected! that could never be!”

“Circumstances are against him,” Winnie replied. “Mr. Mudge believes that the robbery was committed between twelve o’clock and a quarter past. Now, if Professor Waite was in the studio at that time——”

“He was earlier than usual,” Milly replied. “I heard him come up the staircase. You know the head of our bed is right against the turret wall. Someway, I always hear his step on the stair, and then he usually whistles an air from one of the operas. Last night he whistled the Wedding March in ‘Lohengrin.’”

“Then you were lying awake, too, last night,” Winnie remarked. “Did you hear me moving about in this room?”

“Yes,” Milly replied hesitatingly.

“Why didn’t you say so before?”

“There didn’t seem to be any necessity of telling of it,” Milly replied.

“You thought it might throw suspicion on me?”

“Oh, no,” Milly disclaimed. “No one could suspect you, Winnie, or Professor Waite, either; the ideas are equally absurd.”

“Unless it is proved that the robbery was committed before Professor Waite came up the stairs, it may not seem at all absurd to Mr. Mudge,” Winnie continued mercilessly. “Tib and I saw him examining the door into the studio, and he seemed possessed with the idea that the burglar entered the room from the studio. I know, too, that Mr. Mudge examined Professor Waite’s tool chest in the studio, and that he found the broken lock in it, with a screw-driver and other tools, showing that Professor Waite had been tinkering with the door, trying unsuccessfully to mend the lock, as we all know.”

“You know this! How did you find it out?” Adelaide asked, and Winnie replied:

“Professor Waite wanted to use his screw-driver and went to his tool chest after it during the painting lesson to-day. It was gone; so was the lock to the door. He hunted everywhere, and told me that he was afraid that Miss Noakes had been in his studio and had discovered the broken lock, and that we would be called in question for that old scrape. I felt sure from the first that it was Mr. Mudge, but I did not mention him, for Madame told us to say nothing about the robbery outside of our own circle.”

“I would do anything to keep Professor Waite out of trouble,” Milly said. “I am the only one who knows that he was in the studio, and I will not tell.”

“Nothing will help Professor Waite so much as the entire truth,” Winnie replied. “Of course he is not the one who took the money. If the person really responsible can be discovered, or will confess, the Professor and all other innocent persons will be cleared from suspicion.”

“Of course,” Milly replied, looking at Winnie in a puzzled way. “And I am sure,” she added hopefully, “that Mr. Mudge will find the guilty individual soon, if he is as keen as you all seem to think him. I really dread meeting him, and I am glad he has gone away for to-day. There goes the supper bell. What a long day this has been!”

After supper Milly woke to a consciousness that she had not prepared one of her lessons for the next day. She sat puckering her pretty forehead into ugly wrinkles, and repeating helplessly, “‘Populi Romani!’ I am sure I’ve had that before.” Then she began a wild attempt at translation, with manifold running comments. “‘Because Ariovistus, King of the Germans, had sat down on their boundaries—’ Now, was there anything ever so absurd as that? Why did old Ariovistus want to sit down on their boundaries?”

“Perhaps the word doesn’t mean boundaries here,” Adelaide suggested, and Milly turned patiently to her lexicon—“If finibus comes from finitimus it may mean neighbors—and then Ariovistus sat down on his neighbors; well I must say that was cool——”

Milly worked on for a little while in silence, and then exclaimed, “I’m getting into the sensibility of it now—how’s this? ‘These things having been known, Cæsar confirmed the mind of all Gaul with words.’ He was always very generous of his words. We have a review to-morrow, and the ridiculosity of the whole thing comes out. Now just listen to this: ‘Wherefore it pleased him to send legates to Ariovistus, who should ask him to appoint some place in the middle of the others for a colloquy. To these legates he responded if it was too much trouble for him to come to himself, himself would come to him and he—Cæsar—would then find out who ought to do the coming. Besides, he would admire to see all Gaul in a row, and it was no business of Cæsar’s or his old Populo Romano.’ I rather like his pluck but I’m afraid my translation is rather free. Then here is a place that I am not quite sure about; ‘The Helvetians, the Tulingians, and the Lotobigians, and all the other igians, in their boundaries or something, whence they had something else—he commanded to—thingummy; and because all their fruits were—were—frost bitten, I guess, and at home nothing was which could tolerate hunger—he commanded the other ninkums that they should make for them copious corn—’ I perfectly hate Cæsar. He was always boasting of his own benefits and clemency to one tribe in making another support it, and then ‘pacifying’ the other tribes by slaying a few thousand of their soldiers, and I just don’t see the use of our muddling our heads with what that stupid, cruel, conceited old bandit did, anyhow. But if I don’t know this lesson I shall not be able to pass in examination, and you will all graduate and leave me behind for ages and ages——”

Ordinarily Winnie could not have resisted such an appeal as this. I have known her to patiently translate all of Milly’s lessons for her, and then as patiently explain them to her over and over again, until some faint idea of their meaning had penetrated her befogged little brain. And having spent the evening thus, go unprepared to her geometry, and stoically receive a cipher as her class mark, and see Cynthia carry off the honors of the day. But to-night Winnie did not seem to see the forget-me-not eyes turned appealingly to her. She appeared to be completely absorbed in her Cicero. I endured Milly’s frowns as long as I could, and finally pushed aside my own studies, and said, “Come into my bedroom where we will not disturb the other girls, and I will straighten it out for you.”

Milly was delighted. She threw her arms around my neck and thrust some cream peppermints into my pocket.

We were in the midst of Cæsar’s negotiations with Ariovistus, and had nearly finished the paragraph, when Milly suddenly looked up.

“Tib,” she said, “do you know whatever became of Madame Celeste’s last bill? I thought I put it in my bureau drawer, but I must have left it around somewhere. Have you seen it? I can’t find it.”

“Then you could not pay it this afternoon?” I asked evasively.

“Oh, yes! she made out another bill and receipted it for me, but I want to be sure that the first one is destroyed.”

“I thought all your money was taken; where did you get enough to pay this bill?”

“Oh! that is a secret,” she replied, with a pleased little flutter of importance. “It’s no manner of consequence how I came by it. I’ve paid the bill—that’s the essential thing—and I’ve got out of that dreadful quicksand. Oh, Tib, I have been so unhappy, and Cynthia has been so mean! I did not think it possible that any one could be so horrid.”

“Tell me all about it, dear,” I said, caressing the curly blond head which nestled on my knee.

“I believe I will. I feel like telling somebody, and Winnie is so queer lately—she freezes me. She has disapproved of me and scolded me ever since she found out about Cynthia’s dress, and I can’t bear to be disapproved of. It isn’t one bit nice. Adelaide is perfectly splendid; she likes me and pets me, but perhaps she wouldn’t if she knew everything; but you are just my dear old Tib. You would always like me, wouldn’t you, even if I were real wicked?”

“Yes indeed, Milly,” I replied; “and so would Winnie; you don’t half realize her love for you.”

“Then she has a very queer way of showing it. She makes me feel as if I had committed some dreadful sin, and she was urging me to confess. She is just about as pleasant a companion as that Florentine monk—what’s his name? who kept nagging Lorenzo de Medici—even when the poor man was just as busy as he could be a-dying.”

“Savonarola acted as he thought was kindest and best for his poor guilty friend. Sometimes the surgeon who probes our wound is the truest friend—But you are going to tell me about your trouble—I’ve noticed how red your little nose has been of late.”

“It was partly Celeste’s fault, too,” Milly said. “Cynthia’s and Celeste’s and mine. Of course the fault was mostly mine. You see it all started with the minuet—with which Professor Fafalata closed his dancing class just before the Christmas holidays. He wished us to be costumed in the Florentine style of the early part of the sixteenth century. I was talking it over with Celeste, and she said I ought to have the front of my petticoat covered with some jewelled net which she had just imported from Paris. It was very expensive, but very beautiful, and showy in the evening. The net was made of gold thread set with imitation amethysts and rubies, an arabesque design, copied from some mediæval embroidery, and just the thing for me, since I was to represent a young princess of the house of Medici. I thought that I would write mother, who was in Florida then, and ask her to lend me one of her party dresses, and that it would be just the thing to put over it; and while I was admiring it and before I had really ordered it, or realized what she was doing, Celeste had cut me off a yard of it, and had charged it to my account—fifteen dollars. I brought it here, you remember, only to find that Madame had interested Professor Waite in the minuet, and that he had promised to lend the girls some beautiful costumes of the period which he had brought back from Paris. There was that lovely heliotrope velvet edged with ermine for Adelaide, and a faded pink brocade sprigged with primroses for me.

“So of course there wasn’t the slightest need for my golden net. I carried it to Celeste to see if she would take it back. She said that she would like to oblige me, but as it was cut she couldn’t quite do that, but she would try to dispose of it for me. And she did sell it a few days later for ten dollars. I thought that was better than to lose the entire sum. She handed me the money, saying that it would put her to some trouble to change her accounts, and I had better let the bill go in just as she had made it out, and I could hand mother the ten dollars and explain matters. I really intended to do so, but I was nearly bankrupt that month. My pocket money just seemed to walk away. I had invited Adelaide to see the play of the ‘Harvard Hasty Pudding,’ and of course I had to have Miss Noakes chaperone us, and I hadn’t money enough left to buy the tickets.”

“Why didn’t you tell her so?” I asked.

“Oh! I couldn’t back out after I had asked her; and I owed her a little treat of some kind, for she invited me to see the cadet drill at her brother’s school.

“Well, after I had broken the ten dollar bill to get the tickets, the first thing I knew it was all gone. I knew mother wouldn’t mind, and that I could tell her any time after she came home, but it never seemed necessary to mention it in my letters and I never did.”

“Oh, Milly!”

“Horrid of me, wasn’t it? But I had worse temptations. My pocket money is so very skimpy compared with what the other girls have, and with what I have, too, in the way of credit for certain things, that I am often really embarrassed and have to turn and twist and borrow and pinch to make it stretch out. When you girls clubbed together and paid for Polo’s sisters at the Home, I wanted awfully to help, but I couldn’t. You see father lets me subscribe so much annually to the Home and he sends in a check every year for me, and thinks that ought to be enough. But I don’t feel as though I was giving it at all, for it does not even pass through my hands. I don’t deny myself to give it, as Adelaide does for her charities, and I haven’t a penny for any special case of distress or sudden emergency which I may happen to hear of.

“Do you know, Tib, that Satan actually suggested to me how easily I might have extra pocket money by ordering things from Celeste, and letting her sell them again in just the same way that she managed with the golden net? I knew that she would be glad enough to do it, for I found out afterward that Rosario Ricos bought that net of Celeste and paid her full price for it! So you see she kept back five dollars on the second sale, besides making a good commission on the first.”

“But you didn’t do it, Milly dear; you surely did not obtain your charity money in any such dishonest way as that?”

“No, Tib. I didn’t do it for charity. I some way felt that God would not accept such a gift from me; but there came a time when I had a worse temptation still. You know all last term papa used to ride with me every Saturday afternoon either at the riding academy or in the Park. Well, something is the matter with his liver; it hurts him to trot, and he has had to give it up, and Wiggins took me out. But I hate riding with a groom, and so one day when papa called I told him I didn’t care for any more riding this winter. This happened the week you went home to help tend your mother when she was sick, and that is the reason you never heard of it. I was taking father up to the studio when I said it, to show him Professor Waite’s Academy picture, and papa was so vexed with me about my not wanting to ride that he didn’t half notice the pictures.

“He took to Professor Waite, though, right away; and just as he was leaving asked him if he rode. ‘When I am so fortunate as to have the opportunity,’ Professor Waite replied.

“‘Very good,’ said papa. ‘Then possibly you will oblige me by accompanying my daughter and one of her friends on an occasional ride in the park.’ He explained that he had a good saddle horse, which needed exercise, which he would be glad to have him use; and that, what was more important, I needed exercise too, and was so perverse that I did not want to take it alone. ‘And now,’ said he, ‘the cruel parent proposes, Milly, to pay for another horse for one of your other girl friends. I suppose you will choose Adelaide, and if Professor Waite will act as your escort occasionally, I think you can manage to extract some pleasure from the exercise.’

“Of course I was perfectly delighted, and hugged papa, and called him a dear old thing. Professor Waite, who had looked awfully bored and had even begun to mumble something about being too busy, began to take an interest in the matter as soon as Adelaide’s name was mentioned, and papa had an interview with Madame and got her permission to let us ride every Saturday morning. Adelaide was down at her tenement, and it was left that I was to tell her when she returned, and I thought everything was settled. But when Adelaide came in she was looking troubled over some of her tenants’ tribulations and she only half listened to me.

“‘I would like above all things to ride again,’ she said ‘as I used to on the plains when I lived out West; but there is no use talking about it, Milly dear, I can’t do it. I have no riding habit, and I cannot afford to have one made. Thank you just as much, but don’t say another word about it.’

“You can imagine how disappointed I was. I knew very well that neither Madame nor mamma would let me ride alone with Professor Waite, even if papa would permit it; and I knew, too, that the Professor would lose every bit of interest in the plan if Adelaide did not go. I was not thoroughly selfish, Tib. I wanted Adelaide to have a good time too, and I wanted Professor Waite to be happy. I told myself that if he loved Adelaide, I would do all I could to help him, and perhaps some day he would remember that it was through me that he had won her, and like me a little for it, and never suspect that I—that I——”

Her voice broke and she buried her head on my shoulder. “Dear Milly,” I said, caressing and soothing her as best I could. “Of course you were not selfish. Well, and what happened next?”

“I couldn’t give up the plan, Tib, and I thought that if all that kept Adelaide from joining in it was the lack of a habit, that could be easily arranged. I would make her a present of it. I was sure that father would give me twenty-five dollars for my next birthday present, and I thought it would do no harm to spend it in advance. So I asked Celeste how much cloth it would take, and I had it sent her from Arnold’s, a beautiful fine dark-green broadcloth. And then I told Adelaide what I had done and that she must go around to Celeste’s with me and be fitted. Do you believe it, she would not? She said that it would be wrong for her to accept such a present from me; and besides, nothing would induce her to ride with Professor Waite, for she couldn’t endure him. That put an end to the ride in the Park. Cynthia would have taken Adelaide’s place, but when I told Professor Waite that Adelaide would not go, he looked so angry that I saw he wanted to get out of the arrangement, and I suggested that perhaps we had better give up the plan. He said, very well, just as I pleased, and looked so relieved that I almost cried then and there. Papa was so provoked when I told him of it that I did not dare say a word about the riding-habit, especially as he had just handed me my little Swiss watch as my birthday present. So I pretended to be pleased with it, and there was that dreadful cloth for the riding-habit on my hands, and I didn’t know what to do. Mamma was still in Florida, and papa said that she was not very strong and must not be worried—I must only write cheerful letters to her. I didn’t feel very cheerful, I assure you. Then Cynthia told me one day that she had twenty dollars with which she wanted to purchase a winter suit and she would like my advice about it. I was in debt just twenty dollars for the cloth for the habit, and I told her about it and begged her to take it off my hands. She went with me to Celeste’s and liked it very much. The only trouble was that her mother had intended the twenty dollars to pay for both material and making, and of course she ought to get something not nearly so nice.

“She said at last that if I would get Celeste to wait for her pay she would take the dress and pay her later. I thought only of paying for the material at Arnold’s, for I had expected to have the money by that time, and had asked them to make a separate bill out, and not put it on my book that goes every month to papa. So we arranged it. Cynthia gave me her twenty dollars and I settled for the cloth, and Celeste made the dress for her, and furnished the trimmings. But how she did run them up! She had a band of real sable around the hem of the skirt and trimmed the jacket with it too; and made her that cute little toque with heads and tails on it, and when the bill came in it was sixty dollars. Cynthia was frightened. ‘I never can pay it in the world,’ she said. ‘I think your dressmaker is frightfully extortionate; and I had no idea it would be so much.’ I felt sorry for her and I felt, too, that I was to blame for getting her into the predicament; so I said we would divide the expense, and she should only pay half. But she grumbled at that, and said that I had inveigled her into the trouble, and that she had a dressmaker on 125th Street who would have made the suit for ten dollars. When I reminded her of the fur, she said she did not believe it was real sable, and she didn’t want it any way.

“I offered to take it to Gunther’s and see if I could get something for it, if she would rip it off, but she said she would do no such thing; the dress would be a fright without it. It was all a miserable mess, and I was so unhappy. It would have been some consolation if Cynthia had been grateful, but she blamed me for everything, and I think that, considering all I have done for her, she treated me very shabbily when she said that Adelaide was the only lady in the Amen Corner, and she did not care to speak to any of us again.”

“That was like Cynthia, and I am sure that the loss of her friendship can only be a benefit to you. But, Milly, you must bravely shoulder the greater part of the blame yourself. Your first wrong step was in getting the golden net without permission, then in letting Celeste pay you for it and yet having it charged to your father. Then, again, in getting the cloth for Adelaide’s habit without consulting your father you deliberately did wrong; and in bargaining with Cynthia, instead of going straight to your father and confessing your fault, you waded still more deeply in——”

“I know it; but there you are scolding me just like Winnie, and it doesn’t make the trouble a bit easier to bear to be told that I deserve it all, and am a miserable little sinner. You needn’t imagine that I did not realize what a wretch I was; only I didn’t seem to see the way out. Everything I did to extricate myself got me deeper into the quicksand. I saved every way, all that I could; one month I laid by two dollars and thirty-seven cents, but the next I slipped back three and a quarter, and Cynthia handed me a five dollar bill one day, and told me that was every cent that she could pay, and I must let her off from the rest. And to crown it all, Winnie found out about it, and nearly drove me wild. Oh, Tib, I have been in such trouble, what with this dreadful bill that I didn’t dare tell papa about, and Professor Waite, and all my lessons so hard, and my marks getting worse than ever, and Winnie turning on me. It just seemed as if I would die, and I almost wished I could. I thought seriously about killing myself only the night before last. I think if I could have found any poison that would not have hurt I would have taken it.”

“Don’t talk so, Milly; it is wicked. You would have done nothing of the sort.”

“But I would. I went into the chemical laboratory and looked at the green and blue stuff in the test tubes, but I couldn’t quite screw my courage up to do more than taste just a little bit of one kind that looked more deadly than the rest. It was horrid, and took the skin off of the tip of my tongue. I ate a quarter of a pound of assorted mints before I could get the taste out of my mouth. If I could have found some laudanum, or something that would not have tasted so bad, or would have killed me by putting me to sleep, I would have taken it that night, for I was miserable enough to do anything, however unscrupulous and reckless. If I hadn’t been so very desperate perhaps I would never have dared to do what I did do; the thing which really broke the meshes of the golden net which seemed to have me in its toils. I didn’t mean to tell any one, but I was just driven to it, and I know you will keep my secret—besides I have told you so much that you might as well know all. Tib, I——”

“Milly, it is time we were all in bed.” It was Winnie who spoke. She stood in the doorway, cold and commanding, and Milly cowered before her. She did not offer to kiss her, but shrank, frightened, away to her room.

“Oh, Winnie,” I said, “why did you come in just then? Milly was just about to confess to me what she did to get the money with which she has just paid Celeste.”

“You have no business to coax her secret from her,” Winnie replied angrily. “Whatever it is, you have no right to know it unless she has wronged you. I am afraid our dear Milly is in deep waters. But whatever she may have done lies between her own conscience and God, and I believe that He will show her how to make restitution and keep, in the future, strictly to the right. Oh, my poor, precious Milly! I wish I could suffer all the consequences of your wrong doing for you, but I can’t. Every sin brings suffering, and it is the suffering that purifies. I can’t save you that experience, but I will shield you from open shame if I can. I forbid you, Tib, to pry into Milly’s affairs any further, to question her, or allow her to confide in you, or even suspect her. Only pray for her, and love her; that is all you can do.”

“It is you who suspect her,” I exclaimed hotly, “and unjustly, Winnie. Milly has been extravagant and thoughtless; worse than that, she has been underhanded and deceitful in regard to expenditures, but she did not take the money from the cabinet; of that I am positive.”

“Have I ever charged her with anything so dreadful?” Winnie asked. “Have I not tried in every way to keep that suspicion from every one? Give me credit for that, at least.”

“In words, Winnie; but in your secret thought you have wronged her. I know that you love her with a sort of a fierce, maternal love which makes you want her to be perfect, and which fears the worst and tortures yourself with imaginary impossibilities. I tell you that Milly has learned a very thorough lesson in regard to deception; she will never offend in that way again; and as to this affair of the cabinet, I would as soon suspect you as her.”

“Suspect me, then,” Winnie cried. “I wish you would. I hoped that Cynthia was going to lead suspicion my way, but it seems she can’t do it. I have too good a reputation.” And Winnie laughed cynically. “Well, the time may come when you may not think so well of me. Meantime, I thank you with all my heart for believing in Milly.”