“Well, for my part, I think it’s abominably unfair,” said Jessie Wyndham. She was standing in the room which she shared with her sister, and there was a flush of great annoyance on her pretty face.

“But, Jessie,” exclaimed Molly, “surely you must admit that Mrs. Fleming has the right to do what she pleases in the school.”

“Oh fiddlesticks!” exclaimed Jessie. “That horrid Peggy has a way of bewitching people; it really is beyond endurance. I did hope that when we got to school we wouldn’t be worried with her. What right has she to be in the Upper School? I am certain Alison Maude doesn’t think it fair.”

“Oh yes, she does,” answered Molly, “for I spoke to her about it during recess, and she said that Mrs. Fleming had consulted her, and that she—she quite approved; so there! now you see that you’re wrong, Jess.”

“But, if for no other reason, she doesn’t know enough,” said Jessie.

“You are quite out there, she knows a wonderful lot for her age. Miss Greene says that her knowledge of history and geography would put us all to shame. As to French, of course, she doesn’t know any; but she’ll soon pick that up, she’s so clever.”

“Oh I see,” said Jessie, “you’re as mad about her as some of the other people who come in contact with her; but I can tell you every one doesn’t agree with you. This is Saturday, and I was able to have a long chat with that nice girl, Kitty Merrydew, and she says that Peggy is a horribly deceitful girl, that there’s no doubt whatever that her leg was broken by the pony; but just to get her schoolfellows into a scrape she managed matters in such a knowing way that the fault was supposed to rest on some of their devoted heads. Poor Kitty is in a horrible way about it, because she says Mrs. Fleming, beyond doubt, suspects her. Of course, she’s going to try for the prize; naturally—I should think so, indeed—it’s most important for poor Kitty to get it, for she’s anything but well off; but she says it’s most painful the way Mrs. Fleming doubts her, and that any one with eyes in her head can detect the reason—it’s Peggy. Peggy declares that the pony did not kick her, when she knew perfectly well that it did. Oh, I’m sick of her, I really am! And to have her next door to us again, it’s quite intolerable! I told that dear little Kitty pretty straight out what my views were, and I think I comforted her a good bit. I’m going to ask mother if Kitty may come and stay with us during the holidays. We can’t see much of her at school. She would like to come, because she will be close to her friends, the Dodds, who will probably ask her to go to them after she has been with us for a week or so. Oh dear, oh dear, it’s Kitty who ought to be in the Upper School, not that horrid Peggy!”

It was just at that moment that a rustling sound was heard in the room next to where the two Wyndham girls slept. It was, as has been stated, the rule in the Upper School for each girl to have a bedroom to herself; but in the case of sisters this was sometimes altered, and Jessie and Molly, in consequence, had a large and lovely room which they shared together. The room next to theirs had not been used yet during the present term; it was, therefore, with some astonishment that the Wyndhams now listened to this slight rustle. Was it possible that Peggy had been given the room next to them, and that she was in it, and that she had overheard some of their remarks? The door between the two rooms was a little ajar. How had this come about?

Molly sank down on her chair, feeling cold and faint.

“Oh Jess,” she whispered, “can she be there, and could she have overheard? Oh Jess, the poor, dear little thing! you were speaking so unkindly of her.”

“Hush, nonsense!” said Jessie; “if she did hear, it served her right for listening; eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves.” But she spoke in a faltering voice, for even she did not want to be too unkind.

“I feel queer,” said Molly; “you forget how fond father is of her, and how he loved her father; and even I didn’t know, until Mrs. Fleming mentioned it the other day, that Peggy’s father was a V. C. Oh dear, I think somehow she has inherited part of his gallant spirit.”

“Nonsense, nonsense!” said Jessie; “if you go on praising her I shall positively hate her.”

“Jess, darling, do be kind! I do wonder who was rustling in the other room. Shall we knock and find out?”

“Of course not, we are not allowed to go into each other’s bedrooms.”

Meanwhile all sound in the next room had ceased, for the simple reason that the girl who had been given that room as her bedroom had left the apartment. She had stood for a few minutes like one stunned, listening when she ought not to listen, drinking in knowledge which ought never to have reached her. Oh, oh, was it in that way they thought of her? She had told a lie to save the pony, she had—what had she not done? At least one thing was quite clear to the poor child. She had no right to be in the Upper School; dear, kind, sweet Mrs. Fleming had put her there in order to make her happy; but she must not stay, of course she must not stay. Jessie was right: she was an ignorant, silly girl, and Kitty ought to be in the Upper School, not poor, despised Peggy Desmond. Tears brimmed into those sapphire-blue eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She was not at all strong yet; her illness had weakened her considerably. In hospital all had been delightful—the pretty flowers, the nice story-books, the company of little Elisabeth and of Chloe, who was so funny and agreeable, and made her laugh, and had as much colour in her speech as the Irish had in their speech. And then Mrs. Fleming had come to her night after night and talked to her, much as an angel might talk, and she had listened and resolved to do anything on earth to please one so gracious and so kind. She would drop for her sake the language of colour and take up the language of cold neutrality, that gray tongue which sufficed for a gray race; but she would do it to please her mistress; she would do anything for her.

Peggy had not known that she was to be moved into the Upper School until this morning, and when Miss Greene had shown her the bedroom and told her that it was next door to her cousins, and that Bridget O’Donnell, the nice Irish girl, slept at the other side, Peggy supposed it was all right. She had, it is true, a little nervousness at the back of her heart with regard to both Jessie and Molly; but still she really did like Molly, and she supposed that Jessie would be kind to her. What she heard, therefore, was a horrible revelation. Her small belongings had not yet been sent up from the hospital; it was, therefore, easy to slip out of the room unheard and go downstairs. She found herself presently in the big hall, and by-and-by one of the junior teachers came hurrying past. She stopped when she saw Peggy; every one in the school knew Irish Peggy, and was interested in her on account of her accident and her peculiarly rare and vivid beauty.

“Do you want anything?” said Miss Armstetter, stopping to speak to the child.

“Yes,” answered Peggy, “I’m wantin’ to spake wid herself, if ye plase.”

“Herself?”

“Yerra, to be sure.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Peggy. Who do you mean? Who is ‘herself’? Has she a name?”

“Why thin, yes, for certain. Ye’re ignorant when ye spake like that. She’s Mrs. Fleming, belike ye may have heard of her.”

“Of course I have. I am sorry, Peggy; shall I take you to her?”

“Will she be enthralled with work just now?”

“I hope not. I think she will see you.”

“Thank ye kindly, miss.” Peggy dropped a peasant girl’s little bob. But when Miss Armstetter held out her hand she took it. Presently she raised the soft hand to her glowing red lips. “I’m liking ye entirely,” she said.

“Thank you, Peggy, and I like you. This is Mrs. Fleming’s room; shall we find out if she’s here?”

“Ye needn’t, miss; I can do that me lonesome.”

The governess departed, and in a minute Peggy found herself inside the lovely sitting-room, which as a matter of fact she had never seen before.

Mrs. Fleming was writing letters, and she looked up. When she saw Peggy’s face she rose at once and came towards her. “My dear little girl, what’s wrong?”

“Ah thin, ma’am. Wisha dear heart, but ye’re wrong intirely.”

“In what way am I wrong, Peggy?”

“In putting me up, ma’am. It’s down I should go. Ye take the black un, ma’am, and put her in my place. It’ll plase thim others, Mrs. Fleming dear; and it’s best, it is truly. Ye can’t make out, dear Mrs. Fleming, how things conthrive themselves; but it’s down I must go. So I’m saying good-bye to ye, darling, an’ caed mille afaltha for all yer kindness. I’ll come to school reg’lar, dear, an’ I’ll learn the gray tongue ’cause ye wish it, but I must go to me own place, so I must.”

“Peggy, what utter nonsense you are talking! Do you know, darling, you really almost annoy me? I have made all arrangements for you, and I am the head of the school, dear child, and no one can do anything except what I wish. I wish you to be in the Upper School, Peggy, so in the Upper School you must stay, and you must learn to like it, my child, and not to be silly any more. Now, I’ll ring the bell and ask Miss Greene to take you up to your bedroom. You are looking very tired, Peggy, so you must lie down, and Miss Forrest will come by-and-by and put you to bed. You must have your supper in bed to-night, Peggy. Now, good-night, good-night.”

“I can’t go, misthress dear.”

“But what does this mean, Peggy?”

“I can’t lie alongside of thim.”

“Of them? I am puzzled. What do you mean?”

“I heard them colloguing about me, an’ I can’t do it, misthress.”

“Who are the people you are talking about, Peggy?”

“Thim Wyndhams, no less.”

“What! your own cousins?”

“Ah, my lady swate, they ain’t true cousins to me at all, at all. It’s with the people of the soil I ought to be, an’ not with ladies at all. I have nothing to say ag’in Molly; but Jess, she said I shouldn’t be in the Upper School, that Kitty should be in the Upper School, an’ that I’d bother her intirely.”

“You heard your cousins speaking? Was the door open?”

“I suppose so, a tweeny bit.”

“Did you open it, Peggy?”

“Faix thin, no, ma’am, is it likely?”

“I shouldn’t think it was likely. Well, Peggy, my dear, you must be sensible. Whatever the girls said to one another they didn’t mean you to hear, therefore you must act as though you did not hear it, and I must act as though you did not hear it, and you must not repeat another word of it to me. I am extremely sorry, my child, that anything should have happened to annoy you, and now I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You shall sleep to-night in your dear old hospital, and to-morrow Biddy O’Donnell shall go into the room next to your cousins, and you shall sleep in her room. Come, is that better?”

“Oh Mrs. Fleming, ain’t ye a wonder, to be sure?”

“No more tears now, Peggy. Ah! here comes Miss Greene.—Henrietta, this poor little child is not as strong as I could wish. Will you kindly ask Lucy Forrest to sleep in the hospital with her to-night, and will you, Henrietta dear, take her there at once now, and see that she goes to bed? Don’t leave her until Lucy Forrest has charge of her. Now, then, good-night, my Irish pickle.”

But when Peggy had gone, and Mrs. Fleming found herself alone, she sat for a long time lost in thought. She pressed her hand to her brow and a look of distress flitted across her eyes. This was quite unusual in her case, for she was such a very placid woman. There came a tap at her door in the course of the next hour, and Henrietta Greene entered.

“Henrietta, you are the woman of all others I want. Do you know, I am in a bit of a quandary?”

“What about, dear Mrs. Fleming?”

“About that Irish child.”

“I think she’s all right now,” answered Miss Greene. “I have left her playing a very merry game with Lucy Forrest and little Elisabeth and Chloe. I am sure she is all right.”

“I am sure she is all right at the present moment,” was Mrs. Fleming’s reply, “but that she is not all right always is equally the case. What is the reason that the poor child is disliked and treated unkindly? I could stand it and think nothing about it if it were only that intolerable girl Kitty Merrydew; but the thing seems to be growing in the school, and I must say it is like an evil weed and ought to be eradicated; it must be eradicated.” Here Mrs. Fleming stood up and put her hands behind her. “Henrietta,” she said, “advise me.”

“To the best of my power, dear friend. What advice do you want?”

“Well, things are like this. The child came down, having overheard through a mere accident some very unkind words spoken of her by one of her cousins.”

“Oh yes, I am sure of that,” replied Miss Greene. “She must have heard Jessie talking. I know Jessie doesn’t like her, but Molly does.”

“But Jessie’s not liking her will cause a great deal of mischief in the Upper School,” said Mrs. Fleming. “I have moved her into the Upper School before she is really quite, quite fit for the responsibilities and the life which the Upper School entails; but now, if one of her own cousins is her enemy, things will be almost as difficult for her in the Upper School as they were in the Lower.”

“What do you think ought to be done?” asked Miss Greene.

“I am very much puzzled to know. You see, I can’t let either of the Wyndham girls suppose that Peggy has spoken to me about them.”

“Of course not.”

“And that is what makes the difficulty,” continued Mrs. Fleming. “It is altogether most unpleasant. I little knew when I wrote to my dear friend Paul what a hornets’ nest I was bringing about my ears, and yet a sweeter child never lived, more generous, more loving, more true. How is it that the school has taken this extreme dislike to her?”

“Of course, her language——” began Miss Greene.

“Henrietta, dear, I didn’t think that you were so small-minded.”

“I don’t think I am, but you must remember we have to deal with schoolgirls who, whenever they get a chance, laugh at any one.”

“For my part,” said Mrs. Fleming, “I think her funny little words quite sweet; I assure you I watch for them. Of course, she must be broken off them, she mustn’t utter a word of that sort in a year’s time; but how girls can turn against her because she twists her tongue into the Irish style and speech beats me. I should have imagined that she would have been highly popular.”

Miss Greene sat and thought. “It is a very puzzling situation,” she said. “The child has got an enemy in both schools; but of course the worst enemy is in the Lower School, and there she is completely away from your supervision.”

“Yes, I thought of all that, and that is why I put her into the Upper School; but then I did think that her own cousins would look after her. I declare, Henrietta, this is more than I can stand. I will just send for those two children and speak to them.”

“Oh Mrs. Fleming! pardon me, dear, are you wise?”

“I won’t get Peggy into a scrape—no fear of that; but I must talk to them.”

“I will go and find them and ask them to come to you.”

“You may trust me, my dear; I will manage things all right.”

Miss Greene, in spite of herself, felt a little doubtful; but then Mrs. Fleming never did do anything wrong, although she had that extraordinary impulse which drew her so very close to little Peggy Desmond. Her character was also strong, warm, true, chivalrous. She sat for a long time thinking of that One who helped her through every trouble; she uttered a short, very fervent prayer, the sort of prayer that goes straight home, that never misses its mark. Then there came a tap at the door, and Molly Wyndham came in.

“Glad to see you, Molly; where is Jessie?”

“Jessie is practising hockey.”

“I should like to see Jessie as well as you, Molly; tell her to come at once.”

“I will, Mrs. Fleming.” The girl withdrew.

A little frown came between Mrs. Fleming’s brows. “I sent for them both,” she said to herself, “and Jessie disobeys me. This will never do.”

Two or three minutes later both the girls came in. Jessie was in her hockey costume, and looked very handsome. The colour was high in her cheeks, and her long, soft fair hair was tumbled partly over her face, partly over her neck and shoulders.

“I am sorry to interrupt your game, Jessie.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter at all, Mrs. Fleming.”

“Sit down, both of you; I want to have a little chat with you.”

The girls seated themselves.

“Quite confidential, you know,” said Mrs. Fleming, with her sweet smile. Molly felt as though she longed to rush to her and kiss her, but Jessie sat very cold and still. The colour had faded now from her cheeks; she was annoyed at her game being interrupted, and she showed it by her manner.

“I want to talk to you both about your cousin.”

“Our—I beg your pardon—our what?” said Jessie.

“Your cousin, Peggy Desmond.”

“She isn’t our cousin,” said Jessie.

“Oh, I didn’t know, I thought she was.”

“She isn’t our cousin really,” said Molly; “although, of course, I wish the dear little thing were; but she is no relation, although father says that we are to consider her our cousin. Father was simply devoted to her father; they were boys together at school at Rugby, and afterwards they were in the same college at Oxford, and all their lives they seem to have been together until, well, until the last few years. Father was just devoted to ‘Peter,’ as he called Peggy’s father; he used to tell us Irish story after Irish story about him, and when he died father was in a dreadful state. He went at once over to Ireland to fetch Peggy.”

“Yes,” said Jessie, “that’s the case. You see, she’s no relation; there is no particular reason why we should be fond of her, is there, Mrs. Fleming?”

“Every reason, I should have imagined, my dear.”

Jessie looked down, and pushed her little foot in and out. There was impatience in her attitude, impatience in her face, impatience in her manner. Molly looked at her sister and was silent.

“Well,” said Mrs. Fleming, “of course you clearly understand that Peggy, being the daughter of Peter Desmond, captain in his Majesty’s Second Punjab Border Regiment, and having won his V. C., which he did, I understand, in a most glorious way, by carrying a brother-officer away from under the fire of the enemy and thus saving his life, receiving himself a bullet-wound through the shoulder which crippled him for the remainder of his days—this gallant fellow was indeed a father that any child might be proud of.”

“I am not saying anything about Peggy’s father,” said Jessie, looking up again; “but the question is, as far as we are concerned, have we any reason to be proud of Peggy?”

“Assuredly yes,” was Mrs. Fleming’s reply.

“Proud of Peggy?” repeated Jessie.

“Yes, Jessie, I should say so. You have great reason to be proud of her.”

“But why, please, Mrs. Fleming?”

“First of all, my dear, will you answer me a question?”

“Of course I will, with pleasure.”

“Jessie, you have a regard for me?”

“Oh, of course, Mrs. Fleming.”

“I mean by that, dear, you—you respect me, you consider that I am a fair judge of character?”

“I think so indeed, Mrs. Fleming.”

“Well, that being the case, my dear child, don’t you think that if I see good in Peggy Desmond you ought to believe me and see good in her too?”

“I wish I could,” said Jessie; “but, you see, you haven’t seen her at home.”

“I have seen her where you have not seen her, on her sickbed, tortured with acute pain and never murmuring, bearing it with the patience of a martyr, never once betraying those cruel, cruel girls who very nearly sacrificed her life.”

“Oh, surely, Mrs. Fleming, surely,” exclaimed Jessie, “you don’t really think any girl did such a dreadful thing!”

“I was wrong to speak as I did,” said Mrs. Fleming, “and I hope, girls, you won’t let it go any further. But I may as well tell you now, plainly and absolutely and from the bottom of my heart, that I don’t believe in the pony theory; that was not the way Peggy’s leg was broken.”

“She might have jumped over a stile,” interrupted Jessie, “or there may be fifty other ways of accounting for the accident.”

“No, beyond doubt the fracture was caused by a severe kick or a blow from some instrument.”

“How could a girl do that, Mrs. Fleming?”

“Jessie, I am not going to enter upon the subject with you, I can only say that some one did it, who that person was I do not know, but I hope ere long to find out. However, we will drop that. I don’t wish Peggy to remain any longer in the Lower School; I have, therefore, brought her into the Upper School, and I hope that you, whether you are cousins or not, will take a cousin’s part and be kind to her. Anyhow, I expect you both to be kind to her, both of you.”

Jessie turned very white; she did not speak at all for a minute. Molly, on the contrary, felt extremely red, hot, and uncomfortable.

“My dears, I have sent for you, and I will tell you why. Simply because you are supposed in this school to be Peggy’s cousins, and if you take her part the rest of the school will follow suit; if, on the contrary, you go against her, the rest of the school beyond any doubt whatsoever will follow in your steps and make her life miserable. You, I know, Molly, don’t wish that.”

“Indeed, I don’t; indeed, I am very fond of her.”

“And you, Jessie?”

“I suppose I will do my best, Mrs. Fleming. I can’t say honestly that I feel with Molly in this matter. I am not fond of Peggy; her vulgar ways disgust me, she is a very rude, rough, ungovernable peasant child. I never thought that father would expect us to associate with such.”

“Jessie, you amaze me; and now I wish to tell you that I don’t agree with you at all. I don’t consider Peggy in any sense of the word vulgar; I don’t consider her in any sense of the word a common, everyday child, she is very much out of the common. She has unquestionably a way of expressing herself which is not usual in our class of life; but even now her accent is most sweet, most charming. She will very soon drop these little peculiarities, and when she does—I regret it—she will also drop a little bit of her charm. Yes, I must say it. Then look at her charming, exquisite face, think of those glorious eyes, that sweet, enchanting smile! Jessie, you ought to be very proud of your little cousin—your little friend, anyhow. Your father loves her, he intends to adopt her as a daughter, and you have no right to be unkind to her.”

“I will do my best,” said Jessie.

“Then that is all right, my dear Jessie, I believe in your best.”

Jessie started and looked attentively at her mistress, and a queer stab went through her heart. “But,” she said, “I must be honest. I must tell you that, notwithstanding every wish to the contrary, I don’t like her.”

“And I do,” said Molly, “and I’ll help Jessie all I can to be kind to her, and I will try and influence the Upper School in her favour.”

“Thank you, Molly; my child, you are a real comfort to me. And now let us talk a little bit about this lovely prize. I hope you two are going to compete for it.”

Jessie was silent. After a minute she said: “I don’t know that I shall.”

“I am going to,” said Molly.

“That’s right, Molly, it will be a splendid incentive to work.”

“But ought girls who are extremely well off to compete for a prize of that sort?” interrupted Jessie. “Now, the girl in the whole school whom I should like best to get it would be that poor, exceedingly pretty, dear little Kitty Merrydew.”

“Oh, I don’t think she’s at all likely to get it,” said Mrs. Fleming.

Jessie looked at her, contracting her light brows and giving the head mistress a puzzled, reflective, and by no means amiable glance. “Teachers aren’t perfect any more than other people,” thought the girl to herself.

“We shall know in a few days who is and who is not going to compete for the prize,” said Mrs. Fleming. “Of course, sometimes it may fall to the lot of a girl who doesn’t value it for its intrinsic merits; but to such a one it will be always a very valuable reminder of a very happy life, a memento of a very noble woman, and there is no saying in futurity, my dear Jessie, whether your grandchildren may not be glad of the Howard Prize to help one of them out of a difficulty.”

“Well, I can’t help that,” said Jessie. “I don’t think I will try. I suppose one in a family is enough.”

“Certainly, and it gives a better chance to the others. Now good-night, my dears.—Jessie, don’t forget, I hold you to your word.”

Jessie said nothing. A minute or two later they were out in the quadrangle. On this night the two schools met. In a minute’s time Kitty had rushed to Jessie’s side.

“Well, what did the old thing want?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you—I can’t tell you. Don’t ask me.”

“I can guess, though. You look very cross, Jessie.”

“If I am cross it’s because of you, Kitty.”

“What about me?”

“You know perfectly well what a rage I’m in, and you know the reason.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to be in the Upper School; why, it would be perfectly heavenly! And do you know?—it’s the final straw—they have put her into the room next to us, and you’d have got that room! Think of it, isn’t it dreadful?”

“I don’t think I have a chance of going into the Upper School yet, and I do call it abominably unfair; but then, everything’s unfair in this world!” said Kitty.

“Kitty darling, there’s one thing—I hope you will try for the Howard Prize.”

“Rather!” said Kitty. “I mean to try, and, what’s more, I mean to get it; and when I get it I shall instantly write to those blessed trustees, or whoever they are, and get all the money and all the other things I can. I’m full of ambition. I’m just wild to have a lot of things that I haven’t got. I’ve got a little aunt who will be delighted when I tell her about this prize.”

“Kitty, I tell you what.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think your aunt would let you come to us for a week or ten days at Christmas?”

Kitty looked full at Jessie. Beside Kitty’s peculiar, dark Spanish beauty, Jessie looked extremely pale and washed-out. After a minute Kitty said, in a tremulous voice: “Wouldn’t I love it! Is it true, do you think they’d ask me?”

“I’m going to write to mother to-morrow to beg of her to do so; but you must write to your aunt and get permission.”

“Oh, she’ll give it fast enough, poor old thing! But I haven’t any grand frocks, you know, Jessie, and I suppose your house is magnificent? I suppose you have no end of parties, no end of gay times? You always look so handsome yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t think dress much matters,” said Jessie in a slightly abstracted way.

The girls walked quietly side by side for a few minutes longer. Molly was talking to Hannah Joyce. The one subject of conversation on every side was the prize—the great prize, the startling, amazing prize, the Howard miniature. Oh who would get it, who would be the lucky individual to possess such an inestimable treasure?