"Yes," replied Matilda, drawing up her little squat person, and trying to look imposing and not frightened; for Matilda, like many other people of her special genus, could be a rare coward on certain occasions. "Yes," she said; "why not?" She tried to throw a pert tone into her voice.

"Why not, of course," replied Kate, standing very upright, and tall, and handsome by her side. "I also am going back to dinner, and as our road home lies part of the way together, shall we start at once?"

"But you don't really want to walk with me?" said Matilda, shrinking back.

"On this occasion I happen to wish to walk with you," said Kate. "I have something to ask you."

"Oh!"

Matilda's freckled face became mottled. She stooped down under the pretense of tying her shoe.

"I am in a great hurry," she said. "Will not this afternoon do?"

"No, it will not do. I shan't take up any of your valuable time. I shall simply walk with you across the quadrangle. Now, come on, or some other girls will join us."

"But I promised to walk with Rosy Merton."

"Rosy Merton must look for another companion. Come, Matilda, I shall think you have reasons for shirking my society if you make any more excuses."

"How could you possibly think that?" said Matilda, with a little nervous laugh. "Everyone knows that to be seen walking with Kate O'Connor is a distinction."

Kate made no response.

"Are you ready?" she said.

Matilda shouldered her bag of books, and the two girls left the school together.

Several curious pairs of eyes saw them go, and the news began to circulate through the class room that Matilda was going to get her deserts from Kate. Matilda's story with regard to Kate was now known to every girl at St. Dorothy's. They listened to the envious, wicked girl's spiteful words with avidity, disliking her cordially all the time, and feeling rather more interested in Kate than they had done hitherto.

Julia Hinkson was one of the girls who saw the pair walk off together, and Julia felt her heart sink down into her boots, as she expressed it.

"Now," said Kate, when they had got beyond the school precincts, "I want to ask you a very plain question, Matilda. Oh, you need not turn away, for I am determined to ask it! Pray slacken your steps; there is no hurry."

"There is. I have a great lot of work to get through," mumbled Matilda. "I thought I could get five minutes before dinner to work up my French verbs. I am going to try for the governors' scholarship, you know, Kate."

Kate made no response for a minute. Then she said in a slow, deliberate voice, which she scarcely recognized as her own: "I am not interested in your studies, Matilda; if I know anything about you, your path and mine in life will always be far apart. I have asked you to walk with me to-day because I have heard a report which troubles me very much. About three weeks ago I happened to tell certain facts with regard to my early life to my friend, Molly Lavender. The story I told her has now, it appears, become common property at St. Dorothy's. More than one girl has told me this. No, excuse me, I do not intend to mention names. In each case I am told that you are responsible for the report which has been circulated about me; I am told, further, that you have got your information from Molly. I want to know if this is the case."

Matilda did not speak at all for a moment.

"Is it true, Matilda?"

"Why do you ask me?" replied Miss Matthews, giving her fat shoulder a little shrug. "Your action and manner tell me all too plainly that you have not a spark of respect for me. If I were to tell you, would you believe me?"

It was now Kate's turn to be silent.

"If you do not intend to believe me, what is the use of my speaking?" continued Matilda.

"On this occasion I think I must believe you," answered Kate.

"Very well; repeat your question."

"Did you hear the report about me from Molly Lavender?"

"Yes."

Kate felt herself turning pale. A cold dew stood out on her forehead; she pressed her hand with a quick movement to her heart.

"I said I'd believe you," she answered, after a pause. "I will not press for further confidence. Our roads divide here. Good-morning!"

Kate rushed off to St. Dorothy's.

She appeared at dinner with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. Her manner had undergone a complete revolution. She was no longer stiff nor defiant. She addressed herself almost as much as formerly to Molly, who received her first advances with delight, but presently turned away her head with a sigh. This voluble, excitable Kate was not the Kate O'Connor of old. A certain element which had made her slightest remark delightful had left her voice. Molly thought, as she listened to her gay and excited words, that she would rather have her silent and distant. But Cecil, who did not know Kate, and the other girls at the dinner table were charmed to have her bright and cheerful once more.

When the meal came to an end, Kate rushed off to find Miss Leicester.

"I want to ask a great favor of you, Miss Leicester," exclaimed the girl.

"What is that, my dear?"

"My birthday will be on Saturday. I shall be seventeen on that occasion; I want to know if I may celebrate the event by a little party, to which I want to ask all my friends and acquaintances belonging to the school."

Miss Leicester considered for a moment.

"We don't much care to have entertainments of that sort during term," she said.

"Yes; but this is a most special occasion. I do beg of you to let me have it."

"Where do you propose to entertain your friends, Kate?"

"I think Hester Temple will let me use her room; it is a good large one."

"My dear, I can't, of course, really object. You want to have a little supper?"

"Yes; if I may."

"You may, Kate; you are a good girl; we all like you, and I am not going to refuse the first request you have ever asked me."

"Thank you a thousand times! How truly kind you are! Will you add to the favor you are conferring on me by being one of my guests?"

"If you really wish it, of course, my dear; but will it not spoil the fun?"

"I don't think there will be much fun."

"What do you mean?"

"Will you come, Miss Leicester? I really can't explain myself."

"Kate, you don't look happy. Is anything the matter, my dear child?"

"You will know if you come on Saturday. Of course there is nothing the matter—I mean nothing of consequence. Please come! I am Irish; I am subject to moods—to many moods."

"Yes, I will come, Kate. Have you got money for your little entertainment?"

"I have an unbroken sovereign in my purse—more than enough. Thank you a thousand times for giving me leave."

Kate went off with her head in the air. She met Hester coming downstairs.

"Hetty," she cried, running up to her, "I am going to have a birthday on Saturday!"

"Are you indeed, Kate? and how bright you look!"

"Why not? Have you any objection?"

"No, I am sure I have not," replied Hester heartily. "I am only too delighted. I felt like cutting out my tongue, Katy, for having told you what I did last night."

"Oh, I don't bother myself with reports like that!" replied Kate, in a low tone. "Most people have gossip spread about them."

"Then you are not going to quarrel with Molly Lavender?"

"Quarrel with her? Certainly not. Hetty, I want to ask you a favor."

"What is it?"

"I want to celebrate my birthday."

"Indeed, lucky you! have you got money?"

"Yes; an unbroken sovereign. I mean to give a feast."

"Delicious! Bon-bons, do you mean?"

"More than bon-bons. I thought of lemonade, sandwiches, ginger-beer, chocolate, cakes."

"Nectar for the gods!" cried Hester, with enthusiasm.

"I spoke to Miss Leicester, and she has given me permission," continued Kate.

"Oh, the angel!" exclaimed Hester. "Then it is not going to be a case of stolen sweets; eh, Kate?"

"No; it is to be all rectitude, noble example, true hospitality; the most aboveboard sort of thing in existence."

"It won't be such fun as if there were a little spice of wickedness in it," quoth Hester.

"Hetty, you shock me! I shall be seventeen on Saturday. At seventeen one ought to discard wickedness as one would a worn-out shell."

"All right, love! Of course I approve, but did you not say that you wanted to ask me a favor?"

"Rather; I want you to lend me your room for the great occasion."

"Of course I will; what is more, I will help you by every means in my power. Of course Molly is coming to the birthday feast?"

"Of course she is; she is to be one of my most distinguished guests."

"And that new girl, Cecil Ross?"

"She shall also be invited; Molly shall not be deprived of her dear friend's society."

"Kate, I am certain you are jealous of Cecil Ross."

"Furiously jealous," answered Kate, with a light laugh.

"Oh, but you needn't be! Molly loves you; she was crying about you this morning."

"What a very unpleasant thing to tell me!" said Kate. "Am I in such a deplorable condition, in either mind or body, as to require tears?"

Hester opened her lips to speak, but Kate suddenly clapped her hand across her mouth.

"Not a word more, Hetty," she exclaimed; "I have really no time to consider Molly Lavender's feelings at the present moment. I mean to ask all the girls whom I know to my birthday feast, even Matilda Matthews."

"Oh, that horrid creature! I wouldn't if I were you."

"You would if you were me."

"But surely you are not going to take up a girl of that sort?"

"Did I say so?"

"No; but to ask her to your party!"

"That is no special sign of friendship," replied Kate; "both friends and acquaintances are to be invited. Well, this is Wednesday, and I have no more time to spare. I must go to my cubicle now to write invitations."

Kate ran off.

That afternoon the girls at St. Dorothy's, and several girls in other houses of residence, received short letters from Kate O'Connor. The letters ran as follows:

"Kate O'Connor requests the pleasure of your company to a birthday supper on the twentieth inst., at eight o'clock.

"r.s.v.p."

Molly found her invitation lying on the top of her bureau; there was one also for Cecil. The girls began to talk and wonder, but Kate kept her own counsel. Her eyes were brighter than usual, and she held herself more aloof than of old. All the girls to whom the invitations had been sent longed for Saturday—all, with the exception of Matilda Matthews. Matilda was devoured with curiosity, she was proud of being invited; but mixed with her pride and her sensations of curiosity was a strange, incomprehensible feeling of fear.

So many girls accepted the invitation that Hester's room was discovered to be quite too small for the festive occasion. A good-natured neighbor, however, Lucy Anderson by name, came unexpectedly to the rescue. She suggested that the supper should be in her room, and that the guests should assemble in Hester's. This could be easily managed, for the two rooms had communicating doors. Kate was now very busy, and Hester became her right hand.

A week ago she would have consulted Molly with regard to all the arrangements for her birthday party; now Hester was the favored one. Kate was in her gayest, most dÉbonnaire mood. Her Irish wit rose to fever point; she kept those girls with whom she chose to be intimate in ceaseless giggles and wild peals of mirth. As she scattered her bon-mots, she scarcely laughed herself, but the light in her sparkling eyes was infectious, and the smiles which came at rare intervals, and showed her pearly white teeth, had something fascinating about them. Hester was alone in the secret with regard to the capacities of Kate's sovereign. Hester was clever with regard to the laying out of a limited sum of money. Between twenty and thirty girls had accepted Kate's invitation. Girls of the ages of from fourteen to seventeen are proverbial for healthy appetites; wise Hester therefore suggested that the cakes should be plain and abundant, rather than rich and scanty; that the lemonade should not be made entirely with fresh lemons; in short, that several little economies should be practiced in order to make the feast, if simple, full and plenty.

There was no hitch in the arrangements. Each girl was requested to bring her own cup and saucer, her own spoon, plate, and glass. When the hour arrived, Hester met the invited guests at the door, and quickly relieved them of these little accessories to the feast. Laughter, talk, and high good-humor marked the auspicious hour. Kate herself, the acknowledged queen of the evening, was one of the last to appear. This fact rather astonished Hester, who, although behind the scenes in one sense of the word, was completely in the dark as to Kate's real motive for calling her friends together. She walked into Hester Temple's pretty rooms when they were quite full, and nodded to her assembled friends with a bright smile and a word of welcome. Her dress on this occasion annoyed more than one. It consisted of a cotton blouse and a short dark-blue serge skirt. The blouse was slightly old-fashioned in make, and looked as if it had often visited the washtub. Kate's luxuriant hair was arranged more simply than on ordinary occasions, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were wonderfully bright; she wore neat black stockings, and a stout little pair of shoes.

"Dear me, Kate, what a funny costume!" said Lucy Anderson. "Why, you look exactly as if you were dressing up to do the part of a dairymaid."

"Well, it's a very good part to do, isn't it?" said Kate.

She laughed merrily, and, going into the supper room, began to help Hester in dispensing the viands. Matilda Matthews, who was sitting near one of the doors, looked strangely uncomfortable when Kate came in; she felt somehow as if Kate were laughing at her. She did not like that dairymaid dress, and wondered if she could quietly escape without anyone noticing her exit.

The thought had scarcely darted through her mind before Kate approached her.

"I am so glad to see you," she said; "you must not sit there by the door; you are a stranger in this house, and as a stranger, I wish to show you special attention. Pray come up and sit here. You won't! Oh, yes, I am sure you will, to oblige me! Here's our new girl, Cecil Ross. I will introduce you to Miss Ross; she is a very distinguished-looking girl, and will make her mark at St. Dorothy's. You always like to be in the swim; don't you, Matilda? Well, you ought to know Cecil. Come, I shall have pleasure in making you both acquainted with each other."

Matilda found herself absolutely tongue-tied. Kate's words were polite enough, but beneath them she felt the strong and iron will of the resolute and thoroughly enraged girl. The two walked across the room together; they made a striking contrast. The phrase "One of nature's ladies" darted through more than one girl's mind as she looked at Kate. Matilda was much overdressed. She wore a dirty rose-colored silk blouse, and a tawdry skirt trimmed with quantities of cheap lace. Her light hair was frizzed and distorted out of all grace, her freckled cheeks were mottled, and her dull eyes were destitute of life and fire. Cecil rose gravely from her seat by Molly's side, when Kate brought Matilda up to be introduced to her.

"Miss Matthews—Miss Ross," said Kate. "Matilda Matthews hopes soon to be an inmate of St. Dorothy's," continued Kate. "You are the new girl at present, Miss Ross. Matilda hopes to be in that enviable position at the half term."

Cecil bowed gravely. Matilda squeezed her fat person into a chair by her side.

"Did you ever see anyone more plebeian in your life?" she whispered to Cecil, when Kate moved off.

This remark slightly relieved her feelings, and there was a good deal of venom in the tone in which she uttered it.

"I don't understand you," replied Cecil gravely.

"Well, I wonder you don't; I suppose I must explain myself. Our hostess looks like a dairymaid, n'est ce pas?"

"I am not particularly acquainted with the appearance of dairymaids," replied Cecil. "I think our hostess quite the prettiest girl I have ever seen."

Matilda shrugged her fat shoulders.

"Chacun À son goÛt," she repeated.

Cecil looked at her in a puzzled way. She felt surprised at Kate's going to the trouble of introducing her to such a girl, and after saying a few polite words, turned again to talk to Molly. Molly was in white, and looked one of the sweetest girls in the room. Her simple white dress, the innocent, open expression of her face, gave her something the appearance of a daisy. Cecil, pale, and in deep mourning, made a strong contrast to her friend. The festivities of the evening were now at their height. The girls laughed and joked, and walked from one room to the other. Kate was here, there, and everywhere. The birthday party became so hilarious that Kate's somewhat peculiar dress was forgotten; all was eager conversation and high mirth. Still, Matilda had her own reasons for feeling uncomfortable. Again and again her eyes sought the neighborhood of the door. But whenever she began to make her escape, Kate was down upon her.

"You are eating nothing, Matilda," she said on one of these occasions. "Come into the supper room. Oh, how hot you look! a little lemonade will do you good. Come in here; come with me. Hester, will you give Matilda Matthews a glass of lemonade?"

Hester hurried to comply. As she did so, Kate stooped to whisper to her:

"I don't want that girl to slip out of the room," she said. "Watch her; follow her; keep your eye on her."

"Kate, what is the matter with you?"

"Nothing, nothing! Only keep your eye on Matilda Matthews."

The supper was over at last; even schoolgirls' appetites were satisfied.

"Now, then, let's clear the room," cried Kate.

A few eager hands and legs were immediately at her service. The trays, piled with plates, cups and saucers, and glasses, were conveyed into the passage outside. A moment or two later Miss Leicester came in. She wore a black velvet dress with a long train, and looked particularly dignified and handsome. Kate ran to the door to bid her welcome.

"How sweet of you to come!" she cried. "You are just in time for my birthday speech."

"Are you going to make a speech, dear child?" said Miss Leicester.

"Yes; a little birthday oration. I hope you won't mind."

"No; I shall be interested to hear what you have got to say."

Kate led Miss Leicester to the chair of honor. All the girls had now collected in Hester Temple's pretty room.

"It is awfully hot," whispered Matilda to her nearest companion. "For my part, I think this a very stupid sort of entertainment. The food was awful. Fancy asking a person to come and eat seedcake, and that dreadful lemonade made with tartaric acid. I shall have the stomach-ache to-night. Don't you think this affair very slow, Jenny? What do you say to our going home?"

"No; I'm enjoying myself," said Jenny Howe. "Did you hear Kate say that she was going to make a birthday speech? Kate is such a bright, clever creature, I am quite longing to hear what she has got to say. By the way, Matilda, I don't believe a word of that horrid story you told me about her."

"Did I say anything?" queried Matilda. "I'm sure, if I did, I've forgotten all about it. Of course, I admire Kate O'Connor. She is a little peculiar, but she can't help that."

"Hush!" said Jenny; "she is going to begin her speech. Try not to be so spiteful, Matilda."

Matilda flushed more hotly than ever. She looked in the direction of the door, and made a sudden dart toward it. Hester Temple was standing close to it.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Home; I am suffocating. This room is too hot for me."

"I'll open the window, and you can stand near it. You really can't go now, Matilda; it would be awfully rude; just when Kate is going to make her birthday speech."

Matilda looked round her wildly; there was no means of escape. She resigned herself sullenly to her fate.

There was a little empty space in the middle of the room, and into this space Kate now lightly stepped. She looked around her to right and left. Her eyes, bright as stars, met Molly's. They did not rest a moment on her old friend's face. From Molly she looked full at Matilda.

"There is a seat in front for you," she said. "Come forward, Matilda; you are choking, back there in the crowd. Come and sit near Miss Leicester."

"Yes, my dear; here is a comfortable chair, in which you will be quite cool," said Miss Leicester.

Poor Matilda was dragged unwillingly to the front. Kate's eyes danced more brightly than ever, and smiles of delight soon rippled all over her face.

"It was so kind of you all to come to celebrate my birthday," she began. "I am seventeen to-day; quite old for a girl. I have been at St. Dorothy's exactly a year. It has been a very happy year to me. I have made a good many friends. The girls in the house have been particularly kind to me. I want to thank all the girls here for their kindness. I want also to say something else."

Here her manner suddenly changed. The gay sparkle and fun went out of her face. She pressed one hand for an instant to her left side; her eyes, troubled and misty, were fixed on Miss Leicester's face.

"I think Miss Leicester knows all about me," she said. "She knows my origin; she knows what I was before I came to St. Dorothy's."

"Kate, dear, I would rather you did not allude to that subject," said Miss Leicester, distress and astonishment in her tone.

"I am very sorry to disobey you, Miss Leicester, but I have thought it all out, and I think it is best," replied Kate. "I am ashamed of nothing. I should like now to describe the life—the early life—of a girl."

Here she looked quickly from one eager face to the other.

"The girl is myself," continued Kate. "If I were to shut my eyes now, I should see a picture. Perhaps I can describe that picture to you with eyes open. There is a little farm, far, far away in the west of Ireland. The country is beautiful, although somewhat wild. The mountains seem in parts to reach the very sky. Now and then the clouds come right down and cover them. The grass is very green, and the streams make a merry sound as they ripple past the little farmstead. The house would be thought a poor one by most of you. It has a thatched roof; there is a kitchen, and a great open hearth. On the hearth the fire blazes merrily. A lot of bacon hangs from the rafters across the ceiling. There is a deal table in the middle of the room, and a great dresser at one side. The table is clean and white, as white as snow. The dresser is white also, and the plates and cups and saucers, and jugs and bowls, and the tins and saucepans, all shine with good washing and good rubbing. You see, it is a very humble kitchen, and there is no parlor, nor drawing room, nor any regular sitting room in the little old house. Upstairs there are two bedrooms. You go upstairs by means of a step-ladder. One of the rooms is prettier than the other. It has a lattice window, and there are lots of monthly roses, creepers, myrtle, and other flowers twining about it. A sweet smell comes in when you open the window, and you hear the robins and swallows chirping in the eaves, and you get a sweet whiff of strong air from the mountains opposite. The little room inside is very poor, but the window and the view without are lovely. The inner room looks out on the yard or byre. You can see the cattle from this window; the four cows in their stalls, and the dairymaid, with her red elbows, milking them. I am not the dairymaid, but I go to superintend the milking. At the back of the kitchen is the dairy. The dairy is lovely; it is cool and sweet and dark. On the hottest day in summer you feel a breath of ice on your cheek when you enter here, and the milk and cream look good in the large glass pans; and the churn stands open, waiting to receive its daily portion of cream; and there are piles of yellow butter standing on the shelves, and great dishes of fresh eggs not far away.

"I think I have described the house well enough to you now. You must see for yourselves that it is just the sort of place where poor people would live. The people who live in it are an old man and a girl. They keep no servant; they do their own work. There is a dairymaid who comes morning and evening to milk the cows and help the girl with the butter, and there are two men who help with the land, and that is all. The old man and the girl have the house to themselves most of the time. I should like to describe that old man. He does a lot of rough work; he lays the fire for the girl day after day, and fills the kettle for her, and won't allow her to do anything except the lightest part of the daily toil; but, for all that, he is quite a gentleman. I say nothing about the girl. She may belong, in every sense of the word, to the class from which she springs, but the old man is a king in his way. He has a very noble head, and hair as white as silver. His eyes are dark and soft, his nose aquiline. When he stands up, he looks dignified; when he looks at you, you get a peep at his grand soul.

"That old man is between seventy and eighty years of age. He has spent his entire life in one county, and he is known all over the place. The old people know him, and the young people, and the children; and there is not an individual who does not love him. Not an evil word has ever been flung against him. During the whole of his long life no one can accuse him of having ever done a mean thing, of having oppressed the fatherless and the widow, of having taken money that did not belong to him. All during his long life he has lived by the golden rule, 'Do to others as you would be done by.' He is not a learned man, but he knows his Bible very well, and he can quote whole pages from Shakspere. He also understands nature splendidly. It is wonderful to hear him when he talks about nature's secrets. There is nothing that grows on the land, or feeds on the soil, or flies in the air, or lives in the sea (which is not far away), that this old man does not know about. He can tell you about the habits of all the birds, and the ways of all the fishes, and about the medicinal uses of a great many herbs, and the food uses of all the vegetables and the fruits. It is delightful to hear him when he speaks, for he chooses his words with grace, and his grammar is perfectly correct. He has the most beautiful mind the girl ever came across in the whole course of her life. It is an idyl and a poem to live with him.

"I must now tell you something of the life of the girl. She is naturally very fond of books, but she has not much time for them. She gets up at five o'clock in the morning, summer and winter; she is busy from early morning till early bedtime. There are the cows to see to—she loves those cows. She wishes she could describe to you the look in Cusha's eyes. Cusha has the most perfect brown eyes of any creature in all the world. The girl cannot think of them now without tears coming into her own. She loves the memory of the other cows, too, but Cusha comes first. She has even milked Cusha—yes, with these hands; look at them. She and Cusha enjoyed themselves at these times. The girl has not only the dairy to see to and superintend, but she has also the poultry yard. Do you like fluffy little balls of yellow chickens? There is nothing vulgar about them, is there? The girl walked about the yard, and through the gardens, with the chickens pressed to her neck, and cuddled in her arms, hundreds and hundreds of times; and there are the goslings, almost prettier still. You see for yourselves that she must have plenty to do.

"She has also the flower garden to see to. All the mignonette, and the sweet peas, and the roses; the great hedges of Scotch roses, white and red, are her care. She lives with her flowers. The old man talks to her about them while she tends them. It is strange, but it seems to me there is nothing vulgar nor commonplace in her life. She has no time for commonplace thoughts, nor for slander and gossip, nor evil speaking. She is not to be praised for not indulging in these things; she has simply no time for them. In the evening she studies. She reads Shakspere and many books of history, and she always ends up with the Bible. She goes to bed quite early. Perhaps I have not half described her life; perhaps also I have told you enough.

"The girl—the girl who now stands before you—lived this beautiful ideal life until she was nearly sixteen years of age; then God thought it right, for reasons of his own, to take it away from her. The old man, the grand old king of the hamlet, was found dead in his bed one morning. It was a very fitting end for him, and he was quite ready to go. But the girl! somehow or other, her heart broke then. She has never been the same since that dreadful summer's morning. The sun of her early happy youth seemed to set for her then, and though the bees hummed, and the birds sang, and the flowers bloomed, and all the creatures of the world went on in their happy way, the girl felt that nothing could be perfect with her again until she joined the old man in the land beyond the sea.

"Great troubles came to her after this. Perhaps some of you here would not have thought them so. The little old farm, the shabby, dear old house, had to be sold, and Cusha went to strangers, and the other cows followed her example, and the chickens and goslings, and all the other live stock, even to dear Black Beauty, the farm horse, who was so sweet and noble that the girl can't talk about him without tears—they were all scattered far and wide, and the girl herself was left with money in the bank; not much, but a little. Then she remembered her grandfather, and she said to herself, 'For his sake I will stop fretting, and I will make the most I can out of my life.' She wrote to Miss Forester, and Miss Forester wrote back, and begged of her to come to Redgarth. She came, and in the fresh, glad, full life she tried to drown her sorrow.

"But," continued Kate, stopping abruptly, and turning with flashing eyes from Molly to where Matilda crouched by Miss Leicester's side, "she can never drown the sorrow which tells her that the old beautiful life is over. Lately, quite lately, a report has reached this girl, which for a day or two drove her nearly mad. There are certain girls at St. Dorothy's, and at other houses of residence, who think the ideal life which she used to live desecration. This fact cut her to the heart. Perhaps, girls," continued Kate, "I am not a lady in your acceptation of the word, but I wish to tell you all to-night, every one of you, that I would not change with you. I would not give up that old memory. I would not give up that near relationship to the grand old king of that humble hamlet for any you could confer on me. You know everything now. You can gossip as much as you like. You can speak of me as low, as uneducated, as of humble birth. Do you think I care? No, not now; now that you know the simple truth. I have only one word more to say. Among the gossip which has reached my ears, I am told that I am the recipient of Miss Forester's charity. I am quite certain that Miss Forester would give charity in the kindest and most thoughtful way, but my grandfather was proud as well as great, and he left me enough money when he died to give me all the advantages of this home of learning. Girls, I may be poor and humble, but I am not here on charity."

As Kate uttered her last words, she walked quietly out of the room. She had spoken with force; there had been an earnest ring in her voice, and a look about her eyes which had caused a queer sensation in the minds of all who listened to her. When she went toward the door of the room, no one stirred to call her back; there was a dead silence. After a time, Miss Leicester rose to her feet and spoke.

"I am very much surprised at all this," she said. "Has anyone in this school dared to be unkind to Kate O'Connor? Has anyone dared to gossip about her, or laugh about her? No, I don't expect an answer to-night, for this matter must be thoroughly investigated."

Then she also left the room.

Her departure was the signal for a perfect babel of tongues. The girls of St. Dorothy's were immensely excited. Matilda sought an opportunity to find her way to the door; no one noticed her departure now, and she rushed out of the house trembling a good deal, and glad when she found herself in the open air. Matilda was a thorough coward. She perceived at a glance that the full weight of public opinion would be against her, if her part in this sorry story were known.

"There is nothing for it now, but for me to take up Kate O'Connor," she said to herself; "to make much of her; to consider it the finest thing in the world to have been a dairymaid and a peasant girl when you were a child. Kate is wonderfully clever, and she has scored a point in her favor. By and by, however, there will come a reaction, and then my hour will have arrived."