For several days there was nothing talked of in the school but Peggy Desmond and her serious injury. Peggy herself was so ill that for a long time the doctor was anxious about her; he said the child had received a most curious shock that he could not possibly account for, and that the shock was as bad for her as the injury to the leg. After the first week, however, Peggy slowly began to mend, and then her recovery became rapid. Her greatest pleasure at this time was to have little Elisabeth in the room—dear little innocent Elisabeth, who knew nothing, who liked to sit by Peggy’s side and rattle off her pretty little ideas for Peggy to listen to. The girl loved the child, and the child loved the girl. Molly also came constantly to see Peggy, and one day the Irish girl’s eyes brightened and almost filled with tears when Mrs. Fleming entered the room, accompanied by Mr. Wyndham. It was impossible for Peggy even to imagine how glad she would be to see Mr. Wyndham again. The colour rushed into her little face, then left it white as a sheet.

“Why, Peggy, my child, you have been in the wars!” he said; and then he stooped and kissed her, and sat down by her bedside, holding her hand. Mrs. Fleming had had a long talk with him, and, on purpose, she left him alone with Peggy.

“Now, Peggy,” he said, looking at her, “you will tell me how this happened, won’t you? Which of those abominable girls has been treating you cruelly, poor little woman? You will tell Uncle Paul, won’t you?”

Peggy looked at him out of her wistful blue eyes. “I mustn’t tell,” she said.

“But if I ask you, you will tell.”

“No, I mustn’t tell. I can tell you if you promise never to tell anybody else at all, but you will tell—you will tell Mrs. Fleming, and then she’ll tell the school. No, I can’t tell.”

“But somebody was unkind to you?”

Peggy nodded. Then she said impulsively, “I don’t want to talk of it. How long are ye going to stay, Uncle Paul?”

“I am going to stay until to-morrow morning, Peg.”

“And how is everything at your house, Uncle Paul?”

“Very well, Peg; much as usual.”

“How are Pat and Mary?”

“I don’t know them, my dear.”

“Oh Uncle Paul, wisha now, of course ye know thim; they have the charge of the poultry-yard. Why, Pat, he’s—he’s me favourite of the whole place, although I love Mary nearly as well.”

“I think you must be talking now of the Johns,” said Mr. Wyndham with a laugh. “They’re quite well, Peggy; but their names are neither Patrick nor Mary. Mrs. Johns’ true name is Ann and Johns’ true name is William.”

“That’s not what I call thim,” said Peggy.

“You haven’t inquired for Mrs. Wyndham,” said her “uncle,” after a pause.

“No, belike, and I don’t want to.”

“Why not, dear? That sounds rather—rather rude.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle Paul; ye see, I don’t love her.”

“You don’t love her?”

“No, Uncle Paul, neither she nor me fits, so to spake, that’s why I don’t ask for her; I don’t want to see her at all, at all, nor to hear her spoke of for that matter. Tell me how the little downy chicks are. Oh Uncle Paul, aren’t creatures much nicer than men and women, an’ than girls? I used to think, Uncle Paul, that perhaps girls were as nice as kittens an’ little hins an’ little chicks; but now—they’re the worst of all, the very worst of all. Oh Uncle Paul!”

“Poor child!” said Mr. Wyndham. He talked to her for a little longer and then left her.

He said to Mrs. Fleming: “There’s no doubt that some of the girls have treated Peggy very unkindly. If you would like, my dear friend, I will remove her from the school. What do you think?”

But he was astonished at the bright colour which rushed into Mrs. Fleming’s face. “By no manner of means,” she answered; “do you think that I am going to be conquered by some of my own girls? No, indeed, my dear friend, I will find out what happened before long, in some sort of fashion. Certainly Peggy is not to go; when Peggy is well I shall make a certain amount of fuss about her, and in that way punish those who have treated her so unkindly.”

The subject of the great prize was kept in abeyance on account of Peggy Desmond; but by-and-by she got slowly well, and before the half-term was over was able to limp about the house again, although she could not run as she used to do. The roses had faded from her face, too, leaving it pale and very tired-looking. She was now passionately devoted to Mrs. Fleming, would do anything in the world for the head-mistress, and she also loved Mademoiselle.

“I want to learn the French,” Peggy said, “because I won’t be makin’ the mistakes that are always croppin’ up in that English. Oh thin, ma’am, it’s a poor tongue whin ye come to consider of it; it ain’t kept the colour in it that the Irish has.”

“But, my child, you don’t talk Irish.”

“The Irish-English, ma’am, is what I’m manin’.”

“Meaning, dear—say meaning.”

“Now, ma’am, don’t that sound thin-like; isn’t maning much richer?”

“But it isn’t the right way to say it, Peggy.”

“Oh, wurra, thin, wid yer right ways; it bates me intirely, ma’am, to have to spake as ye spake.”

“But for my sake you’ll try to speak as I speak, and for my sake you won’t say ‘wurra,’ and you’ll say mean, not mane, and speak, not spake.”

“What a queer, colourless girl I’ll grow! But, for the Lord’s sake, ma’am, if it makes ye happy, I’m willin’—there, I can’t do more.”

Mrs. Fleming, as a matter of fact, had given more thought to Irish Peggy than she had given to any other girl who had come to reside at The Red Gables. She began to read the character of the child and to find out for herself how sweet and true and rich and human it was. She saw that Peggy was endowed with great gifts; but they were the gifts which might easily, if not carefully watched and directed now, lead to destruction. The child’s passions were as strong as her affections were warm, the extraordinary absence of fear in her nature was at once a source of rejoicing to her governess and also a cause of uneasiness. Peggy, in short, could only be guided by love, and with all that warmth and strength of affection which she possessed hers was by no means a nature to be easily won. She could take as violent dislikes as she could take violent and tempestuous likings; she was also terribly outspoken, and to have such a wild, untamed creature in a small school of carefully brought-up and carefully educated English girls was, Mrs. Fleming knew well, a task of no small difficulty to her. A head-mistress has to be very careful to excite no undue jealousy in a school. Peggy, by every right, ought still to belong to the Lower School; nevertheless, Mrs. Fleming determined to do a somewhat daring thing, and to remove the child at once into the Upper School. There she would be more or less immediately under Mrs. Fleming’s own eyes, she would be in the same school with the Wyndhams, her cousins, as they were invariably called, although in reality they were not related to Peggy at all; she would also be under the influence of that charming Irish girl, Bridget O’Donnell. Peggy would have, in the Upper School, a little bedroom all to herself, and would, of course, have the use of that lovely sitting-room into which even the head-mistress could not enter without invitation. To make such a remarkable change in Peggy’s favour must, Mrs. Fleming knew well, cause a good deal of annoyance in the Lower School; nevertheless, this fact did not deter her; on the contrary, she felt that by removing Peggy altogether from the influence of The Imp and her friends she was punishing them without appearing to do so.

Mrs. Fleming had a long talk with both Miss Archdale and Miss Greene, and they both approved of her plan. The school, however, knew nothing at all with regard to this until a certain morning in the first week of November, when Peggy, having recovered her health, and being able to walk once again with the slight assistance of a stick, entered the school at prayer-time. There was a look of astonishment on every face when they saw her, and Alison Maude, suddenly giving the lead, a violent clapping of hands and stamping of feet began, and more than one girl called out, “Welcome back, Peggy! welcome back!”

“It’s meself that’s glad to see yez,” answered Peggy, the pretty, delicate colour rushing into her charming little face. As she spoke she raised her starry eyes and let them rove from one face to another of the assembled girls. Suddenly the black eyes of The Imp and the sapphire-blue eyes of Irish Peggy met in a long, bold stare; there was a distinct challenge in both pairs of eyes, and this fact was noticed and commented on afterwards by more than one girl present.

“Peggy, you are not strong yet, my dear,” said Mrs. Fleming; “come and sit by my side here on the platform.”

This was indeed an honour, and the black eyes of The Imp flashed a wicked fire. Peggy took her seat with due modesty, and prayers began. She looked sweetly pretty in her neat, dark-blue serge frock, her little features, always refined, were rendered more so than usual now owing to her late severe illness. Prayers began and came to an end. When the girls were about to disperse, Mrs. Fleming raised her hand.

“I wish the attention of the school for a minute,” she said. She then took Peggy’s little hand and led her to the edge of the platform.

“Girls,” said Mrs. Fleming, “I have delayed until now to speak to you all on a matter of great importance. I have done this because of the absence of Peggy Desmond from the school. I have a word now to say with regard to Peggy, and then I can proceed to speak to you on the other matter. It will take some little time, and you are permitted, girls, to seat yourselves.”

The girls did so, all pressing eagerly forward.

“I am glad,” began Mrs. Fleming, “that you welcomed Peggy when she came into the school this morning. I am glad that some amongst my girls are endowed with a right spirit with regard to her. We all know the old story now of that sad catastrophe which occurred during Peggy Desmond’s first real day at school. Some girl, or some girls, in the Lower School, are guilty of a terrible and most ferocious act of cruelty towards her; a very little more of this violence and Peggy Desmond might not be standing here. I have questioned the girls of the Lower School, but no one will throw light on the matter; I have used what influence I possess to bring the culprits to listen to reason, but no one will speak, no one will tell me how Peggy’s leg was broken. She herself, brave child, knows, but keeps silence, because of that noblesse oblige which, girls of the Lower School, some of you, alas! do not possess. Peggy has recovered, and in a few days she will be as well as ever; but I wish to let you all know now that there was a whole week during which the doctors and I were more than anxious about her; we thought it highly probable that she would not recover. Girls of the Lower School, think what your feelings would have been had such been the case.”

At this moment an unexpected interruption occurred, for Peggy herself burst into tears. “Ah, thin, wisha, why, ma’am,” she said, “don’t be rubbing it into thim like that; for the Lord’s sake, ma’am, don’t! I’m gettin’ strong as fast as possible, an’ the cratures needn’t be frightened at all. If I had died, for sure an’ sartin I might have appeared to some of thim as a white ghostie; but there, I’m all right, ma’am, so go on wid yer beautiful talk. Cratures, be aisy now, all of yez.” Here she looked boldly at The Imp and her satellites.

The rage in the heart of the said Imp may be better imagined than described, but far worse was to follow.

Mrs. Fleming allowed Peggy’s little outburst; then she said, gently, “Dear, you must not interrupt again while I am speaking. It is not done, dear, and I don’t wish it. Now, not a word, my love.”

Peggy subsided into her chair, where Mrs. Fleming had motioned her, and then the good lady proceeded.

“The Lower School has been unkind to Peggy Desmond; I therefore, having consulted with some of your teachers, have decided to remove her into the Upper School, where I can at least guarantee that she will not suffer again as she did in the past.”

There was an astonished silence; a breathless look of consternation was most markedly visible, not only on the face of The Imp, who looked forward to a great deal more fun out of Peggy, the Dodds, her satellites, but also on the face of Jessie Wyndham, who glanced at her sister, bent forward, and whispered something, and then was silent.

“Miss Greene,” said Mrs. Fleming, “you will undertake to arrange Peggy’s lessons, and you will tell her the drift of the rules of the Upper School. She is now well enough to study every day, although she must not overtire herself. And now, girls all, to turn from Peggy Desmond, I have something of the utmost importance to say to you. It is something which I did hope would concern the whole school; it does concern the whole school, but not quite as I had hoped during the first night of term. My dear girls, you have heard me speak of my very old and very dear friend, Agatha Howard. She was the best friend to The Red Gables School during her lifetime, and, children, she, being dead, yet speaks. She has left this world, doubtless to serve her heavenly Father in more extensive spheres and in larger fields of usefulness elsewhere. With her present occupations we have nothing to do, but we all have to love and bless her memory. She has richly endowed our school and in various ways, some of which need not concern the girls here assembled. She and I have met once, at least, every vacation, and the prize which I now offer in her name to the school has been most carefully thought out by us both. It is a prize of sterling value, and can only be obtained by one girl each year. My intention was that the Howard Prize was to be competed for towards the end of the spring term; but, owing to Peggy’s illness, I am now obliged to make the competition take place at the end of the summer term. The prize itself is a miniature of Agatha Howard, done when she was young and—very beautiful. It was done by the great miniature painter Richard Cosway, and was one of his later works. The miniature is to be copied by the best miniature painter of the present day, regardless of expense; when copied, it is to be set in a frame surrounded by large diamonds and with a back of pure gold. It will be suspended to a narrow gold chain, and will form a most exquisite ornament to wear round the neck of the lucky girl who obtains it. Now, this is the prize—the miniature of Mrs. Howard set in diamonds. Some of you may think nothing of it at the first idea, but let me explain its value. It will be very hard to win, and yet each year one girl, chosen by a committee of strangers to the school, people of the highest integrity and the soundest learning, are to adjudge it. The prize is to be given, not only for ability, but for conduct, and for—beauty of expression. This latter clause will, my dear children, doubtless surprise you very much, for you may say to yourselves that no girl can possibly help her expression; but let me assure you, children, that this is very far from the case, and that a brave, steadfast, and gallant soul, above all things the truthful soul, cannot help shining in the eyes and being reflected on the lips of a girl who otherwise may be quite plain. This beauty, this rare beauty of the mind, may pass by a face otherwise charming, may have nothing to do with bright eyes or a clear complexion or perfect features, but may come to dwell with the homely and the otherwise almost plain. Mrs. Howard in her lifetime so absolutely believed in real goodness of heart, that goodness of heart which comes from serving God, loving Him and obeying His commandments, that she determined to make it the first essential clause in her great competition. She may have been wrong—she may have been right—I have no opinion to give on these matters; I only know that such is her ruling, and those who compete for the prize have to take it into account. Now let me repeat over to you the three points at issue.

“The girl who wins the Howard miniature is to be brave, truthful, loving, and chivalrous. She is to be, as far as possible, highly intellectual, and this fact is to be tested by a paper which she will be set to write on a subject yet to be decided on. Finally, she is to be athletic and physically strong.

“Now, my dears, this is a strange prize, and the competition for it is, if possible, still stranger. The rules for the said competition will be given to you all to-morrow morning after prayers; but before we close the subject of the prize to-day, and return to our normal work, I have something further to add. The girl who wins the Howard miniature wins a great deal more than a beautiful painting, set in gold and diamonds. Mrs. Howard has made certain conditions in connection with her prize, and they are, let me assure you, girls, very vital. Mrs. Howard, dear soul, passed out of the world the last of her race; but she had a strong desire to be remembered in futurity, and in especial to be remembered by girls, for the most passionate love of her heart was given to girls, she herself having lost her only granddaughter, who was educated at this school. Now the girl who receives the miniature and who sells it or loses it or exchanges the very valuable diamonds for paste receives no further benefits whatsoever; but, on the other hand, the girl who keeps it as an inestimable treasure, and who eventually gives it to her children or nearest of kin, possesses, both she and her heirs, in the Howard portrait, a fairy gift; for it is arranged by Mrs. Howard that the lucky possessor of a Howard portrait obtains with it a small sealed parchment, which she is not to open until her hour of need. Whenever that time comes, and she finds herself in want of money, or sympathy, or friendship, she has but to put herself immediately into communication with the trustees of the Howard Portrait Fund, who will immediately help her according to her requirements. There may be at present in this school girls who desire to do something big and great and noble in their lives, and are kept back by that common evil, want of funds. Let such a girl try for the Howard Portrait Prize, and see how kind and great and munificent a fairy she will evoke. The girl who gets the prize, on the other hand, may never want to use it herself, but some of her children may. In short, my dears, the Howard Portrait Prize points not only to the present time, but to futurity. It is meant to do that; it is meant to spell happiness. One of you present will probably win the prize and may not need money—mere money, children, which counts for so little; but you may need sympathy, friendship, counsel; the Howard portrait will obtain one or all of these inestimable gifts for you.

“I have spoken of it, my dears, as a fairy gift. The only thing it will not bestow is health; but even that is very much quickened; in short, is accelerated by happiness. The Howard Prize, children, in my opinion, means the beginning of a good life; and whether that life be long or short, who need fear? For Death, to those who follow the counsels laid down for their guidance in this prize, will enter with a smiling face, and say to them, ‘Good and faithful servant, enter into the joy of thy Lord.’ Children, I shall be ready to answer any private questions with regard to the prize any day during the next week. This is Saturday; but those who wish to put down their names as competitors for the prize must do so between now and this day week. I have one last word to say now with regard to the Lower School. Any one who competes for the Howard Prize must be prepared to say solemnly to me that she had nothing whatever to do with the terrible event which took place in connection with Peggy Desmond. I do not think that there is one girl here present who would dare to compete for such a prize with that sin on her conscience. My dears, I leave the matter between you and your God. And now to lessons—to lessons, children.”