The girls of the lower school were all busy with their preparation. Violet and Rose sat side by side. They had been chums for nearly a year now, and the fact was so fully recognized in the school that even their desks were placed close together. Violet was puzzling her little brains over a very difficult piece of French translation, Rose endeavoring to learn four or five long stanzas from Scott's "Lady of the Lake." They were both clever little girls, and, as a rule, their preparation was quickly over, and their tasks speedily conquered; but to-night there was a holiday feeling in the air; a sense of idleness pervaded everyone. Lessons seemed cruel, and the children rebelled against their tasks. They looked at one another, laughed, yawned, struggled with the listlessness which seized them, shot envious glances at their more studious companions, and absolutely refused to overcome the difficulties of the French translation and the English poetry.

The door between the lower schoolroom and the room occupied by the girls of the middle school had been thrown open, and from where the children sat they could see the pretty flounce of a pale blue muslin dress, and the provoking and exasperating peep of a little, pointed, blue Morocco shoe. The shoe evidently belonged to a restless foot, for it often appeared beneath the flounce, to vanish as quickly, and then to poke itself into notice again.

"It's Biddy," whispered Violet in a low tone to Rose. "I don't believe she's learning her lessons a bit better than we are."

"She never learns them at all," answered Rose. "Janet does them for her now; don't you know that, Violet?"

"Hush!" said Violet, "we are disturbing Katie and Susy Martin, and they are such spiteful little cats, they are sure to tell on us. Hush! do hush, Rose! you ought not to say such things."

"I won't say them if you don't like," whispered Rose back again; "but they are true all the same."

Violet bent over her French translation. Rose made another frantic struggle to conquer "The Lady of the Lake."

The other children in the room were working with considerable industry; the little idlers in the corner had to suppress their emotions as best they could.

Rose had a very emphatic way; she was a stronger character than Violet, and in consequence had her little friend more or less under her thumb.

Violet had a great admiration for Biddy, and, as she was really an honorable and conscientious child, Rose's words shocked her very much.

The moments went by. The summer evening outside looked more beautiful and inviting each moment. After preparation was over, there was a treat in store for the children. This was Bridget O'Hara's birthday, and she was herself the giver of the treat. The children were to have a sort of supper-tea in the tent on the lawn, and afterward Biddy was going to give each of them a little present in memory of the day.

The thought of Biddy's present and Biddy's treat had filled every little heart with a pleasant sense of excitement during the entire day; but Violet felt now that if Rose's words were really true she would not care to accept a keepsake from Bridget.

As she sat before her desk, too lazy, too languid, and at the same time too excited, to pay the smallest heed to her lessons, she could not help wishing that she could see something more of the blue frock than just that part which covered the pretty foot.

She slipped down lower and lower by her desk, and presently contrived to get a view of Bridget's desk. She could not see her face, but she could catch a glance of a plump young hand; it was quite still, it did not move, it did not turn a page. Violet could stand it no longer. In a moment of desperation she kicked off her slipper, and springing from her seat, bent low on the floor to pick it up.

From there she could see the whole of Biddy's figure. Oh, horror! her little heart went down to zero; Bridget O'Hara's head rested against her plump hand; she was fast asleep.

The shrill voice of mademoiselle was heard from her corner of the room:

"Reste tranquille, mon enfant; tu es bien ennuyeuse; est ce que tu ne sais pas que c'est l'heure de silence?"

Violet scrambled to, her feet, and sat down before her French translation with a crimson face.

In the meanwhile a pale, quiet-looking girl had entered the room where the middle school were busy over their tasks, and, bending down by Bridget O'Hara's side, took up an exercise she had just finished, and looked over it swiftly and eagerly.

"That is right," she said; "you will get good marks for this. Now, what about your arithmetic?"

"I have managed my sums fairly well, Janet; see," pulling an exercise-book forward. "I suppose they are all right, but they look very funny."

"They must be all right, dear. Let me see! Yes, yes; oh, what an incorrigibly stupid girl you are! This sum in compound subtraction has got the answer which should be attached to the compound addition sum. Quick, Bridget, give me your pen; I will score through these two lines, and then you must add the figures underneath yourself. That is right. What have you done with my——"

"Your copy, Janet? I was going to tear it up, as I had done with it."

"Don't do that, give it to me; it will be safest. Now, try and look over your poetry, Bridget. I will wait for you outside."

"Oh, that is easy enough; I shan't be any time. It's the first page or two of that delightful 'Ancient Mariner'; I can get it done in no time."

"Lucky for you. I will wait for you outside; I have something I want to say to you. Be quick, for all those small tots will be out immediately, and they'll want to take up every moment of your time. Give me those notes, however, before I go."

Bridget pulled some crumpled bits of paper out of her pocket, and thrust them into Janet's eager hand.

Miss May left the room, and Biddy, wide awake now, devoted herself to her poetry.

There was an eager, pleased, almost satisfied, expression on her face.

It was over a week now since Janet had taken her up. During that time she had, without in the least guessing the fact herself, been brought into a considerable state of discipline.

If she obeyed no one else in the school, Janet's slightest nod was sufficient for her.

It was Janet's present aim, whether by foul means or fair, to make Biddy appear both good and fascinating.

She did not want her captive to feel the end of her chain; she was clever enough to make Biddy her complete slave without allowing the slave to be conscious of her slavery.

The result of this week of very judicious slavery was, as far as externals went, highly beneficial.

Biddy had a gorgeous taste in the matter of dress. She wore her splendid garments with truly barbarian recklessness, overdressing herself on one occasion, being untidy and almost slovenly on another. A few suggestions, however, from Janet, altered all this, and the most fastidious person could now see nothing to object to in the clothes which adorned her beautifully proportioned figure, and the hats under which that charming and lovely face looked out.

To-night, Biddy's pale blue muslin, made simply, but with a lavish disregard to expense in the matter of lace and ribbons, was all that was appropriate; her crisp chestnut curls surrounded her fair face like a halo. There was a queer mixture of the woman and the child about her; she was by many degrees the most striking-looking girl in the school.

It took Biddy but a very few minutes to conquer the difficulties of "The Ancient Mariner." She had a great aptitude for committing poetry to memory, and after repeating the stanzas two or three times under her breath, she slipped the book inside her desk and ran out.

To do this she had to go through the schoolroom where the little girls, Violet and Alice, were sitting mournfully in front of their unlearned lessons.

"Oh, you poor tots!" she said, struck by the expression on their wistful faces, "haven't you done yet? The feast is almost ready. I've ordered clothes baskets of strawberries, my dears, and quarts and quarts of cream."

"Silence, mademoiselle!" screamed the French teacher.

Bridget put her rosy fingers to her lips in mock solemnity, blew a kiss to all the children, and banged the door somewhat noisily behind her.

Violet's blue eyes sought Alice's; there was a world of entreaty in their meaning. Alice began, with feverish, forced energy, to mutter to herself:

"A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid."

Violet continued to gaze at her; then, taking up a scrap of paper, she scribbled on it:

"I don't believe that Janet helps Biddy with her lessons."

This scrap of paper was thrust into Alice's hand, who, in a moment, tossed a reply into Violet's lap:

"Yes, she does. You ask Honora Stedman or Jessie Sparkes."

Violet tore the paper into a thousand bits. Tears, she could scarcely tell why, dimmed her pretty eyes. She sank back in her seat, and resumed her lessons.

"Maintenant, mes enfants, l'heure de prÉparation est passÉe," said the French governess, rising, and speaking with her usual, quick little scream. "Mettez vos livres de cÔtÉ; allons-nous À la fÊte donnÉe par la gracieuse Mlle. Bridget O'Hara."

The children jumped up with alacrity. Chairs scraped against the floor; desks were opened and books deposited therein more quickly than quietly, and then the whole eager group went out.

There was a large tent erected on the front lawn; gay flags were posted here and there round it, and a rustic porch had been hastily contrived at the entrance. This was crowned with many smaller flags, and was further rendered gay with bunches of wild flowers and ferns which had been fastened to it, under Bridget's supervision, early in the day.

The brilliant effect of the many colored flags and banners, the peep within the tent of tempting tables and many charming presents, excited the wild spirits of the little ones to an almost alarming degree.

Alice looked at Violet with a face full of ecstasy.

"How I love Biddy O'Hara!" she exclaimed. "Think of her getting up such a lovely, exquisite treat for us! Would any other girl think only of others on her birthday? Oh, I love her; I do love her!"

"But if she does really crib her lessons!" answered Violet, in a low tone of great sorrow. "O Alice, it can't be true."

"It is true," replied Alice; "but, for goodness' sake, Violet, don't fret yourself; it isn't our affair if Biddy chooses to do wrong. Whether she does right or wrong, I shall still maintain that she's a dear, generous darling. Do come on now, Violet, and let us enjoy ourselves." Alice caught her little companion's hand as she spoke, and the two children ran down the rather steep grassy incline to the tent.

Most of their companions had arrived before them, and when they entered under the flower-crowned porch, they found themselves in the midst of a very gay and attractive scene. Bridget, with two or three older girls of the school, was entertaining the children with strong sweet tea, piles of bread and butter, cakes of various sizes and shapes, and quantities of strawberries, which were further supplemented with jugs of rich cream.

Violet and Alice seated themselves at once at one end of the long table, and the merry feast went on.

What laughter there was at it, what childish jokes, what little harmless, affectionate, mirthful repartees! Bridget O'Hara's face wore its sweetest expression. The Irish girl had never looked more in her element. Frances Murray and Dorothy, who were both helping her, had never seen Bridget look like this. She showed herself capable of two things: of giving others the most intense pleasure and enjoyment, and absolutely forgetting herself.

Dorothy had not felt kindly disposed to Bridget during the past week. Bridget's conduct, Bridget's extraordinary reserve, the marked way in which she resented small overtures of friendship from Evelyn Percival, hurt her feelings a great deal; but to-night Dorothy Collingwood felt her heart going out to Biddy in a new, unexpected way.

"I agree with Evelyn," she said suddenly, turning round and speaking to Frances Murray.

"About what, my dear?" retorted that young lady. "You generally do agree with Evelyn, you know."

"Don't tease me, Frances; of course we're chums, but I hold, and always will hold, my own opinions. I agree with her now, however. I agree with her with regard to Bridget O'Hara."

"Biddy looks very sweet to-night," replied Frances, "but surely Evelyn cannot care about her."

"Biddy has been very nasty to Evelyn," answered Dolly. "Of course, I know who is really to blame for it. Still I thought Biddy would have more spirit than to be led in a matter of this sort. But do you think Evelyn resents this sort of thing? Not a bit of her. She is just as sweet and good about it all as she can be, and she said to me, what I am really inclined to believe, that if Biddy is only done justice to, there won't be a nobler woman in the world than she."

"Oh, fudge!" said Frances; "I grant that she does look very sweet now, but it's just like Evelyn to go to the fair with things, and it's just like you, Dolly, to believe her. Come, come, the little ones cannot eat another strawberry, however hard they try, and Bridget is going up to the end of the tent to distribute the presents."

"Let us see," replied Dolly.

The two girls went up to the far end of the tent, where a little table covered with a crimson cloth stood; on this Bridget had placed her small gifts.

They were all minute, but all dainty. They had arrived from Paris, a few nights ago, in a small box. Thimbles in charming little cases, dainty workboxes, writing cases, penholders, dolls, photograph frames, boxes of colors, etc., etc., lay in profusion on the pretty table.

Biddy stood by her presents, a bright light in her eyes, a bright color on her cheeks. The two elder girls, who stood in the background, could not help a sudden pang as they watched her. There was something about her mien and bearing which made them, for the first time, clearly understand that this girl was a wild Irish princess at home. For the first time they got an insight into Biddy's somewhat complex character.

"Come here, darlings," she said to the children in her sweet, rather low-pitched voice. "I am glad to give you a little bit of pleasure. It is the best sort of thing that can happen to me, now that I'm away from father. Had you enough to eat, pets?"

"Oh, yes, Biddy, oh, yes!" they all cried.

"That's right. I thought you would. We have lots of feasts of this sort at the Castle. The children aren't like you, of course; they live, half of them, down in the cabins near the water's edge, and they come up with their little bare feet, and their curly heads that have never known hat nor bonnet, and their eyes as blue as a bit of the sky, or as black as the sloes in the hedges. Oh, they are pets every one of them, with their soft voices, and their little prim courtesies, and their 'Thank you, kind lady,' and their 'Indeed, then, it's thrue for ye, that I'm moighty honored by ateing in the sight of yer honor.' Ah, I can hear them now, the pets! and don't they like the presents afterward, and don't they send up three cheers for father and me before they go away! They are all having a feast to-night at the Castle in honor of my birthday, and father is there, and all the dogs, but I'm away; I expect they're a bit lonesome, poor dears, without Biddy, but never mind! You have all been very good to let me give you a little feast, my dear darling pets."

There was a great pathos in Biddy's words; the children felt more inclined to cry than to laugh; Dolly felt a lump in her throat, and even Frances looked down on the ground for a second, but when there was a brief pause Frances raised her hand, and waved it slightly as a signal.

This was enough, all the hands were raised, all the handkerchiefs waved, and from every throat there rose a "Hip! hip! hurrah!" and "Three cheers for the Irish princess!"

"Many happy returns of the day," said Frances, and then all the children repeated her words.

"You must not add any more," exclaimed Biddy. "I don't wish to cry; I want to be happy, as I ought to be when you are all so nice and good to me. I may as well say frankly that I did not at all like school at first, but I do now. If you are all affectionate and loving, and if Janet goes on being kind to me, I shall like school, and I shan't mind so much being broken in."

"Poor Biddy," exclaimed Dorothy, turning to her companion; "she reminds me of the lovely silver-winged horse Pegasus. She does not like the taming process."

"No, my dear, that's true," replied Frances; "but Pegasus grew very fond of Bellerophon in the end."

"Only I deny," said Dolly, "that Janet is in the least like Bellerophon."

"Listen!" exclaimed Frances.

"I am going to give you your presents now," said Bridget. "Come here, each of you in turn."

The children pressed eagerly to the front, and Biddy put a small gift into each of their hands.

"Now come for a walk with me," she said. "I shall tell you a fairy story—a very short one; it pleased the barefooted children at home, and I dare say it will please you. After that you must go to bed."

It was really late now. The sun had set, but there was an after-glow all over the sky, and the moon was showing her calm, full, round face above the horizon.

Alice linked her hand inside Biddy's arm, the other children surrounded her, and Violet felt herself pressed up to her other side.

On another occasion Violet would have taken Biddy's arm, and held it tight. She did not do so to-night; she walked quietly by her side, holding a lovely jointed doll in her arms.

Bridget told a wonderful fairy tale, but Violet's eyes were fixed on her doll, and her thoughts were far away.

The other children cheered and applauded, and questioned and criticised, but Violet was absolutely silent.

At last the gong in the great house sounded. This was the signal for all the little ones to go to bed. They each of them pressed up to kiss Bridget, and thank her for the lovely treat she had given them. Each one after she had kissed her friend ran into the house.

At last Violet was the only child left. Even Alice ran off, but Violet stood in the middle of the gravel walk, clasping her doll in her arms.

"What is the matter, Vi?" asked Bridget. "Don't you like the doll? Would you rather I exchanged it for something else?"

Alice had climbed the steep grassy slope. She stood on the summit, and shouted down into the gathering darkness:

"Come, Violet, come at once, or you'll be late!"

"Kiss me, Violet, and run to bed," said Bridget. "If you don't like the doll, I'll exchange it to-morrow."

"But I do like the doll," said Violet. "I love it! It isn't that, Biddy. May I ask you something?"

"Of course you may, you little darling. How pale you look. What's the matter, Vi?"

"Is it true, Biddy, that you crib your lessons? Alice says it's true; but I don't believe her."

Bridget had knelt down by Violet in her earnest desire to comfort her. She rose now to her feet, and stood erect and tall in the moonlight. After a very brief pause, she spoke in a haughty tone:

"Alice says that I crib?" she repeated. "What do you English girls mean by 'cribbing'?"

"Alice says—oh, please don't be angry, Biddy—she says that Janet helps you; that Janet does—does some of your lessons for you, herself. I don't believe it! I said it wasn't true."

"You are a good little soul," said Biddy.

She took the child's hand within her own.

"What a plucky little thing you are, Vi. So you think it wrong to crib?"

"I think it wrong to crib?" repeated Violet. "I think it wrong to crib? Why, of course; it is most unhonorable."

Bridget colored.

"That's what you English think," she said, in a would-be careless tone; "but when a girl doesn't know, and when she's quite certain to get into all sorts of scrapes—eh, Vi—you tell me what a girl of that sort has got to do?"

"She must not crib," said Violet, in a shaky and intensely earnest little voice; "it's most awfully unhonorable of her; a girl who cribs must feel so—so mean. If it was me, I'd rather have all the punishments in the school than feel as mean as that. But you don't crib, Biddy, darling; you are so lovely, and you are so sweet; I know—I know you don't crib."

Bridget O'Hara had been tempted by Janet into a very dishonorable course of action, but no spoken lie had ever yet passed her lips.

When Violet looked up at her with the moonlight reflected on her little pale, childish, eager face, Biddy felt the hour for that first lie had arrived. She thought that she would do anything in the world rather than crush the love and the eager trust which shone out of Violet's eyes.

"Of course I don't crib," she was about to say; but suddenly, like a flash, she turned away.

"I'm sorry to destroy your faith in me, Vi," she said, in a would-be careless tone; "but though I have done a very 'unhonorable' thing, as you call it, I really can't tell a lie about it. I do crib, if cribbing means taking Janet's help when I learn my lessons."

The faint roses which Violet wore in her cheeks faded out of them.

"I'm awfully sorry for you," she said. "I didn't believe it a bit when Alice said it; I wouldn't believe it now from anyone but yourself. There's the doll back again, Biddy; I—I can't keep it, Biddy."

She pushed the waxen beauty into Bridget's arms, and rushed back to the house.