It always takes nearly a week to get a boarding-school into good working order, so, although Mrs. Abbott appointed Wednesday for arriving, she never really expected much would be done till the next Monday. By that time the rapture of greeting between old friends, the acquaintances to be formed with new-comers, and the natural touch of homesickness were supposed to be over, and the business of life must begin.

One of the five new scholars has been described. The others seemed nice, quiet, lady-like girls, a little inclined to be teary, as was quite natural, for they knew the pleasures of the homes they had left, and they could not yet know how much there was to enjoy at Coventry school.

They all found Elfie a quiet comforter, for the child, now that she had become entirely at home, seemed to take the duties of a hostess upon herself and made very pretty little efforts to please the strangers. Any other child would have been in danger of being spoiled by the petting lavished upon her; she was every one’s darling; and to have Elfie for an hour was the greatest treat a girl could have.

Edna Tryon, one of the new girls, was quite as far advanced as any of the old scholars, and was put into the class with them. She had been for years at a fashionable city school, but having, as her mother thought, shown some symptoms of delicate health, she was brought to Mrs. Abbott’s in hopes the pure country air might be of advantage.

There was something very attractive about Edna Tryon’s appearance; teachers and girls were pleased with her from the first, but as time went on she developed some unlovely traits, and brought from the fashionable school she had attended ideas which were quite at variance with Mrs. Abbott’s system. She was rather a shrewd girl, and by appealing to certain weaknesses she was quick to discover in a girl’s character was able to acquire an influence over her. She succeeded in getting very much of an influence over Katie Ashley, and through her became on excellent terms with all the Friendly Five.

After Mrs. Abbott’s conversation with the Friendly Five about Mary Ann they had treated her with kindness, and their example had made her much better received by the other scholars than she would have been, for school-girls are very critical, and there was much in Mary Ann’s speech and manner to which to object.

Edna treated her with great haughtiness from the first, and Lily, seeing how often Mary Ann was wounded by her arrogance, asked for liberty to tell her the story of how she came to be there; but Mrs. Abbott, thinking it better no one else should know what a humble position she had held, withheld her permission, at the same time thanking Lily for wishing to befriend Mary Ann.

“It gives me great joy, my dear, to see that you persist in your kindness to poor Mary Ann. She tells me that all of you to whom I told her story are brave champions.”

“I am sorry she needs a champion,” said Lily; “but you know it is a temptation to make fun of her green ways and looks; but she is improving, and I think it’s perfectly grand the way she asks us to tell her of her faults. I should be furious if any one told me of mine. To tell the truth, I don’t like to think people know I have any.”

“We cannot too much admire Mary Ann’s determination to improve herself, and I hope, Lily, you will continue to be her friend.” Lily promised and fully meant to keep her word, but, as Mrs. Abbott had learned by past experience, Lily had two failings which sometimes made her a little trying to those who loved her most: her disposition to seek amusement, even if she had to do it at a friend’s expense, and her easy nature, made her too easily led away from her good intentions. But she had of late struggled with these besetting sins, as she called them herself, and her teacher hoped they would at last disappear.

No one’s general average in the week’s report was ever higher than Mary Ann’s. She was not only a remarkably quick student, but she appreciated, more than any one else in the school, the great blessing of an education. Gratitude to Mrs. Abbott was another spur to industry, and her studiousness and desire to learn made her a favorite with the teachers.

She still had much to bear from the scholars, who were thoughtlessly cruel, and laughed at her many blunders; but their causes of merriment were gradually disappearing, for Mary Ann was so well aware of her defects and so watchful to correct them that Mrs. Abbott told her one day, finding her plunged in despair, that before long, with her great desire for improvement and the rough process of polishing she was enduring, she would acquire the agreeable manner of speech and action she admired in the other girls.

“O, you are so kind to me, ma’am,” said grateful Mary Ann, “and I wisht you’d gimme—give me, I mean—something to do for you. You said to my mother there was work I could do here.”

“I have changed my mind about that. If I were to let you do the light service I had expected to I fear the others would be less likely to treat you as an equal, and, dear, I think you have enough to struggle against without that drawback. I have decided to ask of you something much more serious and important than I had intended. To explain myself, I must tell you something in strict confidence; I am quite sure I may trust you.”

Mary Ann began to pledge her solemn word in the strong language in which she had been accustomed to hear such assertions made; but Mrs. Abbott stopped her, saying:

“One look at your face is all I need to show me you can keep a secret.”

The honest eyes she looked into were shining with pleasure, and Mrs. Abbott smiled lovingly at the girl as, taking her little hard hand in her own, she told the pitiful story of Ethel’s mother’s short, sad life.

She had become engaged while her father was abroad, having left her in the care of a friend who proved very reckless of the trust, to a man in every way unworthy of her. Mr. Bellamy, on his return, at first refused his consent, but Ethel, always delicate, seemed unable to bear disappointment, and, having no actual proof of Mr. Gray’s unworthiness, his fears for her health made him consent to their marriage. There were two years of sad experience, and then Mr. Bellamy, learning of wrongs which had been carefully concealed from him and which fully justified the severest measures, insisted upon a legal separation, and brought Mrs. Gray and her little daughter back to his own home in San Francisco. Soon the older Ethel died, leaving her baby Elfie to her grandfather’s care.

“To guard against interference he legally adopted Elfie, giving her his own name, and he never means to have her know, if it can be helped, that she has a father living.”

“Within the past year,” continued Mrs. Abbott, “Mr. Bellamy has found the worthless father very troublesome, and has grave fears that he will try to get possession of Elfie, probably with the hope of getting hold of the money which she inherits from her mother, independently of her grandfather’s large fortune. He made one attempt in San Francisco, but happily his plot was discovered. Mr. Bellamy believes the man will think he has of course taken Elfie to England with him, and has little fear for her here under my care.

“Candace can be trusted to watch and defend her if necessary, for she would be a tigress if danger threatened her darling; but poor Candace keeps having attacks of rheumatism. Change of climate must have developed it, for she was never afflicted that way before. When her nurse has a sick day some one else must guard Elfie, and you, my dear, will do it more faithfully, I firmly believe, than any one else in the house.”

Mrs. Abbott rose as she finished, and kissed the earnest, honest face of her listener.

Mary Ann’s dark eyes were beaming with joy at being so trusted; but though she longed to say that she would be faithful—yes, faithful unto death, if necessary—there was such a choking in her throat that she could only answer by pressing the dear hand that held hers.