"Who do you think is going to win that prize of Mr. Ashton's?" asked Fred Bradford of his sisters that day at the dinner table. "It is coming near Easter, you know, and you must have some idea by this time."

"Why, Maggie, of course," answered Bessie, positively, for the question was not one which admitted of dispute to Bessie's mind. She gave no time for her sister to answer, and Maggie did not reply.

"You seem to be very sure of your position, little woman," said her father.

"Well, papa," said Bessie, still confidently, "Lena has not been able to try for it, you know, since she was burned; and Gracie will not try. She says she don't want it, and she acts very queerly and seems to have no interest about it at all."

"Perhaps she's ashamed of the way she behaved that day she had the row with Lena," said Fred, who had heard the account of Gracie's ill-behavior, not from Maggie and Bessie, but from some of "the other fellows" whose sisters were members of the "Cheeryble Sisters."

Bessie shook her sunny head.

"No, I don't think so," she answered. "At least she has never said so, and if she felt sorry enough to keep her from trying for the prize, I should think she would tell Lena so."

"You would, but not she," said Fred. "Catch Gracie Howard eating humble pie. But you don't seem to have much idea of gaining it yourself."

"I!" said Bessie, opening wide her eyes in undisguised astonishment, "why, no; I am not even trying for it."

"Well, it is too late now, as it is so near Easter," said Harry; "but since the prize is for general improvement and not for any one particular composition, I do not see why you should not have tried and generally improved as well as the others."

"Well, I did try to do the best I could and to improve myself," answered Bessie; "but I did not think about gaining the prize. I know I couldn't."

"Catch Bess not doing her level best for conscience' sake, prizes, or no prizes," said Fred. "Oh, I say, Bess, you are going to begin your music lessons at Easter, are you not?"

The color flushed all over Bessie's face and neck as she answered, after a moment's hesitation, "No, I am not, Fred; and no questions asked."

"'No questions asked,'" repeated Fred, laughing, "but that is rather hard on our curiosity, when you have been so wild for music lessons for the last year or more. What have you been doing that they are forfeited, for I know papa promised them to you after Easter?"

"I told you no questions asked," repeated Bessie, in a slightly irritated tone, and looking very much disturbed.

"Hallo!" said the astonished Fred, taking these for the signs of guilt. "Hallo! our pattern Bess has never been doing anything wrong, has she? And so very wrong that—ouch! Hal, what was that for? I'll thank you not to be kicking me that way under the table!"

For Harry had given him a by no means gentle reminder of that nature; and now his father, too, came to the rescue.

"Let your sister alone, Fred," he said. "I can tell you that she has done nothing wrong. She and I have a little understanding on this matter; but she has forgotten that there is no necessity for doing without the music lessons, and she is, I assure you, to have them. But, as Bessie says, 'no questions asked.' We will drop the subject."

Bessie's soft eyes opened wide, as she gazed at her father in pleased surprise. Although the money which had been devoted by her to Lena's relief had not come through him, it actually had not occurred to her until this moment that she would not be called upon to give up the music lessons. She had made the sacrifice freely for Lena's sake, and had had no thought of evading its fulfilment, even after circumstances had turned out so differently from anything that she had expected.

She flashed a grateful, appreciative glance at her father from out of the depths of those loving eyes, but said nothing; and, as Mr. Bradford had decreed, the subject was changed. The father and his little daughter understood one another.

Mr. Bradford did not, however, tell Bessie that he had never intended that she should be obliged to carry out her sacrifice; she had offered it unselfishly, and in good faith, and he would let her have the satisfaction of feeling that she had been willing to do this for her little friend.

Bessie was not sure whether or no she was in haste to see Lena and hear from her of the providential gift she had received. She was so little accustomed to conceal her feelings, to evasion, or to affectation of an ignorance which did not exist, that she did not know how she was to maintain an appearance of innocence when Lena should tell her that which she would doubtless believe to be surprising news; and more and more confirmed became her resolution "never, never, never to have another secret" which she could not share with her mother and Maggie.

But when she did see Lena—which was not until the latter had sent for her to come to her—all difficulty on that score was removed, for the news which her friend had to communicate to her was really so extraordinary and unlocked for that she did not need to affect surprise, or to feel embarrassed over her own share in the events Lena had to relate. And the possibility of Bessie being the donor of that sum of money never occurred to Lena. Perhaps she would have been glad to know it, for Lena was a proud child, with a very independent spirit, and in spite of the immense relief it was to her to be able to free Percy from the difficulties in which he had involved himself, there had been an uncomfortable feeling back of that from the sense of obligation to some unknown person. Who could have sent her that money? Who could have been aware of her extreme need of it?

There is small occasion to say that it had scarcely come into her hands when it was sent again on its travels; this time to Percy.

The hilarious acknowledgment which immediately came back to her was a relief in more ways than one, although she was half provoked at the insouciant, devil-may-care-now spirit which it evinced.

Percy wrote:

"DEAR LENA,

"You're the dearest of little sisters, the brickiest of bricks! But there is no need for me to rob you of your hundred dollars. You say somebody sent it to you anonymously; well, the same somebody, I suppose, has done the same good office for me, sent me a hundred dollars. You say you don't know who it could be; why, it was Russell, of course. You know he's just as generous as generous can be, and since he came into his own money he can't rid himself of it fast enough, but must always be finding out ways of spending it for other people. And I don't see anything so strange in this way of doing it. He knew the powers that be would make an awful row if they knew we had all that money to spend at our own sweet wills, so he took this way of sending it to us, so that we could keep our own counsel; and if they do find out we have it, we can say we don't know where it came from. It is a blessed thing they will never know that I had mine, at any rate, or ask where it went. You may be sure it did not stay in my hands long, but went into those of Seabrooke in five minutes. How I did want to keep it too. But there, Seabrooke is paid, and I'm free and no one the wiser; at least, no one that I'm afraid of, so no harm is done. But to think I've had to lose that money for such a thing as that. I suppose it was a shabby trick to play, and I tell you I think I never heard anything quite so scurvy as Flagg putting that stuff into Seabrooke's carafe to make him sleep, and I'm sure Seabrooke feels more put out about that than he does about the letter, because that was malice prepense, and the other was—well—an accident; at least, we did not know the mischief we were doing, and we have made it all right. But he can't get over the drugging, and I'm glad I had no hand in it, for I do not know what the doctor will say to it. He is not back yet; but his son is better, and he will be here when we come after the Easter holidays. I'm rather sick of Flagg anyway; he has mean ways, and our dear old Russell wouldn't tolerate him for a moment, so I'll shake him off all I can when I come back to school. I'll keep your hundred dollars till I come home, and hand it to you then. You're a trump, Lena, and I never would have taken it if I could have helped it. But I would have had to do it if this other hundred had not come. And, do you know, there is one thing that puzzles me. It came by post from New York in a hair-pin box, and done up in about a thousand papers-at least there were six—so I suppose Russell sent to some one in the city to do it for him; but the whole thing was awfully womanish. The address was in the most correct, copy-book-y handwriting, every point turned just so, every loop according to rule. But it came just in the nick of time, and saved me and your money. Bless your heart, how are the feet?

"Your own all the same everlastingly obliged brother,

"PERCY NEVILLE."

Thankful as Lena had been to receive this letter, so annoyed was she by Percy's indifferent, careless way of looking upon his own misdeeds that she did not show it to Bessie; she was ashamed to do so, knowing, as she did, Bessie's conscientiousness and strict sense of honor and honesty. "All right now." Was this indeed all the impression made upon Percy by his late peril, all the shame and regret he could feel? Child though she was, and several years younger than her erring brother, the ways of right and wrong were so much clearer to her than they were to him, she had so much more steadfastness of character and purpose.

"Now," she said, when she had told Bessie all, "now if I could only find out who sent me that money and return it when Percy sends it back to me. But you see, Bessie, I am not so sure that it was Russell. It is not at all like the way he does things; he is never mysterious or anonymous; and he is not at all afraid of papa or mamma, and can do what he likes with his own money. He is very, very generous, and always takes such nice ways of being kind to people and giving them pleasure; and I do not think that this would be at all a nice way of sending presents to Percy and me. Do you, Bessie?"

"No," answered Bessie, doubtfully, remembering her own way of conveying to Lena the means of rescuing Percy,—"no—I—do not like anonymousity very much; but I suppose there are times when one has to do it."

"Um-m-m; no, I do not think so," said Lena, all unconscious of
Bessie's secret, and looking at her with surprise; for she knew
Bessie's ideas about underhand dealings to be as uncompromising as
her own.

But Bessie stuck to her point; she had known of a case where "to be anonymous" was the best and only course to take, so it had seemed to her, and she was not to be convinced that there were not times when it was justifiable.

However, she was not anxious to dwell upon the subject, and soon changed it. She knew that Lena's unknown friend was not her brother Russell, and she was herself mystified about the other sum sent to Percy; but, fearful of betraying her own part, she began to talk of something else.

"Do you remember, Lena," she said, "that next Sunday is Easter Sunday, and that Saturday is the day for Miss Ashton to name the one who deserves Mr. Ashton's prize?"

"Yes," answered Lena, rather despondently, "but that cannot make much difference to me, except that I shall be so glad if you or Maggie win it."

"Oh, Maggie will, certainly," said Bessie, secure in her belief that no one could compete with her sister, now that Lena was supposed to be out of the question and Gracie Howard had decidedly withdrawn from the contest. "Maggie is sure to have it, and you know that she is anxious for it so she can give it to Gladys Seabrooke, as you would have done."

"I was thinking," said Lena, with a little hesitation, very different from her usual straightforward, somewhat blunt way of speaking, "I was thinking that you and Maggie praise me too much for wishing to earn the prize for Gladys Seabrooke. I would like to be the one to win it for her; but I think—I know—it is more for my own sake than for hers. You know I told you I wished so much that papa and mamma would think me so much improved by Miss Ashton's teaching that they would wish me to stay with her; and they would think it a sign of that if I did win the prize."

"Yes, I know," answered Bessie; "but I thought your father had promised that you should stay with Uncle Horace and Aunt May, and go to Miss Ashton's while you were in our country."

"Yes," said Lena, "but I want to stay here till I am quite grown up and educated. I want papa and mamma to think that I am doing better here, improving more than I have ever done before—as I am—so that they will leave me till I am grown up and quite old. Uncle Horace and Aunt May would keep me; Uncle Horace said he would like to have me for his girl always."

Not even her opinion of Mrs. Neville as a mother, not even her appreciation of the happiness of a home with her beloved Colonel and Mrs. Rush could quite reconcile Bessie to the fact that Lena was not only willing but anxious to leave her own home and family and to remain in a country where she would be separated from them for years to come; but nevertheless she felt a great sympathy for her and a strong desire that this wish should be fulfilled. Still she could not but have a little feeling of gladness that, according to her belief, there was no one who could now compete with her own Maggie for the prize; and she rather evaded the subject and took up that of school-news until Maggie, who had come with Jane, the nursery-maid, to take Bessie home, ran in.

She brought with her the papers read at the last meeting of the "Cheeryble Sisters' Club," such papers being, at Lena's special request, always turned over to her for perusal.

"Whose are these?" asked the young convalescent, when Maggie delivered them to her.

"One is Bessie's, and it is poetry. Did you know that Bessie had begun to write poetry?" said Maggie.

"Two poetesses in one family!" said Lena. "No, I did not hear that
Bessie wrote poetry too."

"And this is so sweet," said Maggie; "such a pretty idea. And this paper is Lily's. Lily has given up the resolution that she would never let her compositions be read in the club, and this is the second one she has given us. It is good, too," she added. "And this is another one from Frankie. He seems to think himself quite a 'Cheeryble Sister,'" she added, laughing.

"Can you not read them to me before you go?" asked Lena, and Maggie assented.

"I'll read the best first," with a smile full of appreciative pride at Bessie, "for fear Jane comes and asks me to hurry because she has a million things to do."

And accordingly she unfolded one of the papers she had laid upon Lena's table when she came in; but before she had time even to commence it, Jane put her head in at the door with the usual formula.

"Miss Maggie and Miss Bessie, will you please come. I have a million things to do, and ought to be at home."

"In a few moments," answered Maggie; but Jane added to her persuasions by saying:

"And it's snowing, too; a snow kind of soft-like that'll be turning into rain before long, and Miss Bessie'll get wet."

This moved Maggie, as the politic Jane knew that it would do, for it was not expedient for Bessie to be out in the damp or wet; and when she glanced out of the window and saw that the maid's words were true, she lingered no longer, but laid the papers down again and told Lena they must go; and Jane, congratulating herself that she had gained her point so easily, was bearing away her young charge when an interruption occurred.

The children were in Mrs. Rush's sitting-room, and just at this moment she came in, accompanied by a little old lady, who will, doubtless be immediately recognized by those who have met her before.

"Maggie and Bessie, you are not just going, are you?" said Mrs. Rush. "Here is an old friend who would like to see you, at least for a few moments."

"I think we must go, Aunt May," said Maggie, "for it is snowing, and mamma would not like Bessie to be out." Then, turning to the little old lady, "How do you do, Miss Trevor? It is a long time since we have seen you."

"Time, indeed; time, yes, time," said Miss Trevor, shaking hands warmly with both Maggie and Bessie. "And you've grown, yes, grown, actually grown—why, grown!" she added, in a tone which would indicate that it was a matter of surprise two girls of the ages of Maggie and Bessie should grow. Then she put her head on one side and critically scanned her quondam pupils, giving them little nods of approval as she did so.

Maggie and Bessie were used to Miss Trevor's odd ways and manner of speaking; but to Lena they were a novelty, as she had never seen her before, although she had heard of her from her aunt and from her schoolmates, who often made merry over the recollection of her peculiarities when she had been their teacher in writing and drawing.

Presently she turned to Lena and surveyed her as if she were a kind of natural curiosity; yet there was nothing rude or obtrusive in the gaze.

"My niece, Lena Neville, Miss Trevor," said Mrs. Rush. "Lena, dear, this is Miss Trevor, of whom you have often heard me speak."

"So this is the little heroine," murmured Miss Trevor, "heroine, yes, heroine, indeed. Fire, oh yes, indeed, fire; such courage, such presence of mind, yes, mind, indeed, mind."

Lena was annoyed. She did not like allusions to the fire, to her own bravery and her rescue of her little sister, even from those who were near and dear to her; and from strangers they were unendurable to her. She shrank back in her chair and half turned her face from Miss Trevor, while the dark look which Mrs. Rush knew so well, but which she seldom wore now, came over it.

She hastened to effect a diversion.

"Miss Maggie, if you please, it's snowing fast," said Jane, "and I've a mil—"

"The young ladies cannot walk home in this wet snow," interposed Mrs. Rush. "The carriage has gone for the colonel; when it returns it shall take them home. And, Miss Trevor, it shall take you also. You can go to the nursery if you choose, Jane."

So Jane, forgetting the "million things" in the prospect of a comfortable gossip with old Margaret, departed to the nursery till the carriage should return and her young ladies be ready to go.

Miss Trevor, who was at her ease with Mrs. Rush and her former pupils of Miss Ashton's class if she was with any one, asked many questions about the studies of the latter and of the progress they were making in the two branches in which she had been their instructress, and gave some information respecting herself; Lena listening and looking on in wonder at her peculiarities of speech and manner, but taking no part in the conversation.

But at last Miss Trevor turned to her again.

"Neville, you said, my dear Mrs. Rush,—your niece—yes, Neville, indeed, Neville. Such a favorite with me—me, indeed, yes, favorite. I know a boy, yes, boy—indeed, youth—such a fine youth—such a hero—ro, indeed, ro—does not fear geese—hissing creatures, my dears—yes, creatures, indeed creatures, my dears, yes, creatures, indeed. Neville he is, yes, Neville—chevalier sans peur et sans reproche, 'proche, indeed, 'proche."

Now, as may be supposed, Lena was far from regarding her brother Percy as a "chevalier sans peur et sans reproche." She had little reason, in view of late occurrences, to do so, and she never connected him with the heroic youth on whose praises this odd little old lady was dwelling. She felt no interest in her, only a sort of impatient surprise, and wished that her aunt would take her away.

Miss Trevor dwelt farther upon the episode of the geese and Percy's coming to the rescue; and while Lena maintained a sober face, seeing nothing especially funny in the story, Maggie and Bessie, and even Mrs. Rush, had some difficulty in restraining themselves from laughing outright at the tragic tale she contrived to make out of it, and the thought of the droll spectacle the old lady must have presented as she flew down the street, pursued by the hissing, long-necked foe.

But presently Lena's attention was aroused.

"But are flocks of geese allowed to wander loose in the streets of Utica, Miss Trevor?" asked Mrs. Rush. "I thought it was too much of a place for that."

"Oh, no, my dear not Utica, no indeed, not Utica—did you not know?
We moved, yes, moved, a year ago, yes, 'go, to Sylvandale, yes,
Sylvandale—yes, 'dale," said Miss Trevor.

"Sylvandale! Neville!" said Mrs. Rush. "Lena has a brother at school at Sylvandale. Percy Neville! Can it be that our Percy is your young cavalier, Miss Trevor?"

"Percy Neville," repeated Miss Trevor, "yes, indeed, that is his name, name, yes, name. Is it possible he is your brother?" turning to Lena with a face now radiant with pleasure at this discovery. "Ah! such a boy, boy, indeed, boy!"

Lena was interested now, and, perhaps a trifle uneasy, lest by any possibility some knowledge of Percy's escapades should have come to Miss Trevor and might by her be incautiously betrayed to Colonel and Mrs. Rush. She turned rather an anxious eye upon the old lady, wishing that she would not pursue the theme of Percy and his valorous deeds, but not seeing very well how she could change the subject. Words did not come easily to Lena.

And her fears were not without foundation, although Miss Trevor knew nothing of Percy's troubles. Further and more startling revelations were to come.

For just at the moment, to this assembled group, entered Hannah, bearing in her hands a tray, on which was a cup of beef-tea for Lena. She was close to her little lady before she perceived the stranger, whom she would have shunned as she would a pestilence. The recognition was mutual, and to Hannah most unpleasant, and in the start it gave her she nearly dropped the tray and its contents.

"Merciful Lord!" she ejaculated, taken completely off her guard; but the exclamation was far more of a prayer than an irreverent mention of her Maker's name.

For was not her beloved nursling in danger? Her Master Percy, for whom she had sacrificed so much, was he not in danger of betrayal and disgrace in case this old lady should touch upon the subject of the money confided to her care to be conveyed to him?

She was not gifted with presence of mind, and she stood perfectly still, staring in undisguised perturbation at Miss Trevor.

Perceiving this, Miss Trevor believed that it was caused not only by surprise at seeing her there when she had told Hannah that she expected to return at once to Sylvandale, but also by the fear that the money had not reached its destination in good time, and she hastened to relieve her, thus bringing on the disclosures which Hannah was dreading.

"Good morning," she said, kindly. "Your money has gone, yes gone, my good woman, gone. I stayed in the city, yes, stayed, but the money has gone. He has it, the dear boy, yes, boy, he has it."

It was not her money but her boy that Hannah was fearing for now, and for whom she stood dismayed at the sight of Miss Trevor. Moreover, although she knew her place, and generally treated her superiors with all due respect, if there was one thing more than another which exasperated her, it was to have any one call her "my good woman;" and, hastily setting her tray upon the table, she looked daggers at Miss Trevor, as she answered, snappishly:

"I wasn't askin' ye nothin', ma'am."

Then she turned and fled, desirous to avoid all questions, although it was not Hannah's way to flee before danger, either real or apprehended.

[Illustration: "I WASN'T ASKIN' YE NOTHIN', MA'AM."]