There is an old saying that when a person begins to hesitate that person is lost. Certainly such was the case with Miss Weston—Miss Clarissa Weston, of the High Street, Gable End, called thus, doubtless, on account of its proximity to The Red Gables. The town was pretty and bright, and very nice people lived in the neighbourhood; and in consequence Clarissa Weston had quite a nice little business. She and a certain Miss King vied with each other in supplying the young ladies at The Red Gables with their dresses. Miss King was a much cheaper dressmaker than Miss Weston; and, in consequence, it was to her that several of the girls went for their odds and ends of clothing. The Wyndhams were supplied entirely from home; but Alison Maude employed Miss Weston, and so did Bridget O’Donnell; whereas Priscilla, Rufa, and Hannah got what small things they required at Miss King’s. But of all the young ladies who bought smart frocks at Gable End there were none to compare with the Misses Dodd—the Misses Dodd and Miss Kitty Merrydew. Whatever the school suspected, none of them knew that Kitty’s smart clothes were put down to the Dodds’ account. Kitty showed off her finery to such great advantage—whereas the Dodds, however expensively they were clothed, did not show it off at all—that Miss Weston would almost have dressed her for nothing. Had she not—by means of Kitty’s charming appearance in church, in her crimson frock and squirrel-fur jacket and cap—obtained the custom of two ladies of title who lived not far from Gable End; and did not the blue velvet, with its shady hat and long, long ostrich feather secure for Miss Weston the custom of another large family who lived about a mile away from Gable End at the other side? They were nouveaux riches, just the people Miss Weston delighted in; and when they saw Kitty at a bazaar in her blue costume they managed to find out who had dressed her, and went straight to Miss Weston to order four velvet frocks and four velvet hats for their own commonplace girls, to be made up exactly like Miss Kitty Merrydew’s. Yes, yes, Clarissa could not lose Miss Merrydew.

A couple of days later Miss Weston’s bill arrived at Hillside. Anne recognised the writing, and felt that her very heart stood still. They were all collected round the breakfast-table; the snow lay white and pure on the ground outside; to-morrow would be Christmas Day. The girls were going immediately after breakfast to motor down to the village church in order to help to decorate, but Anne could scarcely break her toast or crack her new-laid egg. Mrs. Dodd took the head of the table, and began to pour out tea and coffee; Dodd was in what he called his “rollicking humour,” fit to shout with laughter and to joke with and at everybody.

“Now, papa, here comes your precious letter,” said his wife.

“My precious letter? Why, what do you mean, duckydums?”

“Oh the one you’re hankering after, the full and detailed account of our girlies’ little bits of finery.”

“Oh that!” cried Mr. Dodd. “Remind me, Mary Anne, to send the dressmaker a cheque to-day; I hate to keep poor people waiting for their money, and it Christmas-time and all.”

“Well, then, John, you may as well take the letter at once,” said Mrs. Dodd. “It’s your account, after all, not mine.—Pass that letter along to your father, Anne, my darling. Anne, child, how cold your hand is! Aren’t you well?”

“It’s a very cold day, mums, but I’m quite well.”

Dodd looked up at Anne; his small, brown eyes fixed themselves on her face. He did not know why the memory returned to him at that moment, but he seemed to see again a girl with a scarlet face rushing out of the post-office. There was nothing whatever to connect that face and this letter; nevertheless he got, as he expressed it, “an attack of the fidgets.” He tore open the envelope and spread the sheet of items before him. The girls pretended to take no notice, and Grace, in particular, kept her mother talking on all kinds of matters. Suddenly Dodd, who had thrust out his lower lip and arranged his glasses over his eyes, looked up with a frown.

“I say, Mary Anne, how much used you to pay in the old days for a bit of a muslin rag?”

“A bit of a muslin rag, my dear? I don’t understand.”

“Well, a gown, my dear—a frock—whatever you like to call it.”

“Oh I don’t know,” said Mrs. Dodd; “it would depend, of course, on how it was made and how trimmed, and, of course, prices are very much higher now. Yes, I remember getting a very pretty muslin frock for three guineas, and you thought it a lot of money, old man, at the time, didn’t you?”

“Did I? Did I ever stint you in your clothes? But three guineas versus twelve guineas! Come, fashion or no fashion, that’s a pretty big jump.”

“Oh come, my dears,” said the mother, looking at the two girls, “Miss Weston cannot have charged twelve guineas apiece for those plain muslin frocks. It’s quite impossible, darlings!”

“Look for yourself, my dear, look for yourself. Seeing is believing,” and the angry Dodd flung the bill across the table. “There’s some green finery, which I haven’t seen yet, put down at thirteen guineas each. It makes me sick. And one dozen black silk stockings for each of you at fifteen shillings a pair!”

“We didn’t ask the price, daddy. I’m ever so sorry,” said Grace, in a tremulous voice.

“Then all I can tell you is this, Grace, you’re a fool, and don’t deserve a hard-working man as your father. Why, look at these items! I never saw anything like it. Robbery, sheer robbery! I don’t work to pay thieves. I must have this thing seen into.”

Anne suddenly burst out crying.

“There now, what’s the matter with you, girl? Mayn’t your father say a word when he’s robbed right and left?”

“It isn’t that, daddy; it isn’t that; it’s that I’m so—so dreadfully sorry.”

“There, now, poor little thing, we mustn’t make her unhappy on Christmas Eve, father. No bill is worth that.”

“You’re right, wife, of course, you’re right, but really such a thumping bill is enough to put any one into a fury. Well, now, you listen, girls. You’re a pair of young fools, and I’m very cross with you, but I’m not going to scold any more. What’s done is done, and spilt milk can’t get back into the jug. I’ll pay that thief’s confounded bill, but it will be the last thing I’ll ever get from her, and it will be the last thing you’ll ever get from her. You’d better tell her so, missis, when you’re writing. There; wait a minute till I get my cheque-book. I must have this off my mind, or I’ll be as cranky as a bear with a sore head during the whole of Christmas.” Dodd left the room.

Mrs. Dodd was looking over the enormous bill. “Really, girls,” she said, “it is scandalous, and you’ve got hardly anything to show for that money. Those muslin frocks are just pretty, no more; they haven’t a scrap of real lace on them. Of course one might pay any price for real lace, and I’ve a passion for it myself, but there isn’t a yard on those dresses, and I don’t like the green—crÊpe de chine, you call it. It’s a very poor quality; expensive crÊpe de chine is lovely stuff. Oh, and there are your little fur jackets; I don’t much care for them either. I think your father has a right to be angry, and as to those silk stockings, a dozen pairs each! Have you got as many black silk stockings, girls? I’d better speak to Dawson.”

“Oh don’t, mums, don’t!” whispered Grace; “we gave some of them away; only don’t tell daddy.”

Dodd re-entered at this moment with his cheque, which he tossed to his wife.

“How, Mary Anne,” he said, “get rid of that woman; that’s the very last straw of my money that she’ll see. ’Pon my word! ’pon my word!”

When the girls, an hour later, arrived at the parish church, they found the entire party from Preston Manor had also arrived. They made a gay and lively set of young people. Quantities of holly and ivy and white cotton-wool lay on the floor of the church, and the rector’s daughter, a tall, handsome girl of nineteen, took the lead, measuring out the work that each person was to do, and smiling in her pleasant, good-humoured way at the clumsy attempts of the beginners. She and her father—who was a widower and she was his only child—wanted the church to look specially beautiful this year, and Mr. Dodd had sent them a substantial cheque for the purpose, as well as a most liberal allowance of coal-tickets, grocery-tickets, blankets, pounds of tea and packets of groceries, and plum-puddings and joints of beef for the poor. Certainly Mr. Dodd was a godsend to the parish; never before had the Ladislaws known such liberality; and, in consequence, never before had the poor people been so happy. When the two Dodds arrived, Margaret Ladislaw went down the length of the aisle to greet them.

“I am pleased to see you,” she said, “and I think you will find some friends here. I don’t know how to thank your good father and mother for their generosity; they have just helped me in the very way I like best to be helped. There’s many and many a poor person who will eat a good Christmas dinner to-morrow who would go to bed hungry but for the liberality of your parents. Now, what would you like best to do, Miss Dodd? I don’t know which of you is Miss Dodd,” she continued, with a smile.

“I think you’d better call us by our Christian names at once,” said Grace, “for we are twins, you know. I am Grace and this is Anne, and I really don’t know which of us is the elder; anyhow, it’s a question of a minute or two.”

“I’d much rather call you Grace and Anne. You have a great look of each other too, and, what is more to the purpose, a look of your dear mother. What a sweet, kind face she has! it is a perfect comfort to talk about the poor to her; she seems to understand them so.”

“She does,” said Anne suddenly. “We are not a bit ashamed of it, you know, Miss Ladislaw; but long, long ago father and mother were very poor themselves. Father says that in those days he made a vow that if ever he came in for money the first thing he’d do would be to help his poorer brethren, and I’m sure he does.”

“He does; you are right!” said Miss Ladislaw; “it is grand of him. I wish there were more people in the world who had his spirit; then the poor would not suffer from neglect and want of thought as they do now.”

While the girls were talking, another girl was eagerly watching, eagerly and impatiently watching. This girl was Kitty Merrydew. She had been given some rather delicate work to do; she was to help to make a wreath of holly on a white ground to go round the edge of the pulpit. Now holly berries are fragile and require more or less delicate handling in order to prevent their being knocked off. Kitty was an extremely stupid worker. Peggy was standing not far from her.

“Oh you oughtn’t to do it like that,” said Peggy. “Let me show you. That’s not a bit the way; ye hold it so, and—and——”

“Nonsense!” said Kitty, in an angry voice; “I don’t want you to show me; you always pretend you know more than any of the rest of us.”

“I’m sure I don’t, Kitty; I couldn’t: but I used to help at home.”

“Oh! when you lived in that cabin.”

“When I lived at home.” Peggy’s little voice was very haughty, and she threw back her lovely head and looked at Kitty out of her indignant eyes. “I’m not ashamed of the cabin,” she said.—“Yes, Miss Ladislaw, do ye want anything?”

“You are our little Irish friend, and you say you have done work of this kind before; then there’s something very important I want you to do. Come with me and I will show you.”

Miss Ladislaw took Peggy’s hand and led her away.

“I’m glad I am with you,” said the girl.

“And I am glad to have you, Peggy; I have heard so much of you, dear.”

“I’m better than I was,” said Peggy “I don’t spake—speak, I mean—with the same colour that I did.”

“Colour, love?”

“No, ma’am; they don’t want colour in this cowld—cold—land. It seems strange to me like, but there, I suppose where you’re born that’s the way you like to go. It was a cruel twisht—twist—to me when I was brought over here; perhaps you can understand it, Miss Ladislaw?”

“I think I can, and I think that you—you look much happier than you were when I first saw you.”

“Ah, then, I am. That’s because of Mrs. Fleming; she’s the most beautiful lady entirely; never did ye clap eyes on her like, true and sweet and good she be, and for her sake I’m dropping the colour and all the quare—queer—ways that I have brought over along with me. But even for her I can’t be staying here for ever. When I’m growed up I’m going back again; yes, back again to Pat and Biddy O’Flynn. Ah, then, if ye could but see their cabin—cabin, indeed, they call it here!—but it is downright beautiful. Of a cold night we’d have the little hins in to sleep along with us—it kept them warm, poor things; and in the morning the first thing when I got up——But there, I’m chattering, to be sure, and you want the work. What is it you want me to do for you, miss, dear? I’ll do my best; you may be certain of that.”

Miss Ladislaw gave the girl some very important work to do, and Peggy’s deft little fingers were soon busily and happily employed. Mr. Ladislaw’s nephew, a handsome boy of about fifteen years of age, presently came up and offered to help Peggy.

Peggy said, “Is it yerself has got thumbs instead of fingers?”

“Thumbs instead of fingers?”

“Yes; some people are all thumbs. Do ye see that little mite of a thing in the red frock yonder? She’s mighty pretty, but she’s all thumbs when it comes to work.”

“Well, I don’t think I am. Shall I sit down on this bench and help you with this long wreath?”

“To be sure, and it’s kind ye be. Do ye know Old Ireland?”

“No; I have never been there.”

“Ah, then, what a cruel loss for ye! Ye don’t know what beauty is. If ye was to shtretch and shtretch your eyes ye couldn’t see the beauty anywhere else, and that’s the truth I’m telling ye!”

While Peggy thus absorbed the one boy of the party, to the secret indignation of Kitty, who had wished to adopt him as her own squire of dames, the said Kitty managed to reach the Dodds at last. They had been given some work to do in the lower part of the church, and were standing knee-deep in holly and ivy, which they were cutting into lengths and preparing to make a great broad wreath to go round and round two pillars that supported the lower part of the church. It was a lovely old church, built long, long ago; one of the oldest churches in England. It had lately been restored, but required more to be done to it, and it was rumoured in the parish that Mr. Dodd intended to make the restoration of the old parish church one of his special gifts to Almighty God for His goodness to him. But this was not known to the public at present.

“Here I am,” said Kitty. “I can’t stay with either of you for a minute. I just want to know if it has come.”

“Don’t talk quite so loudly,” said Grace.

“Well, I don’t see why I should whisper; no one could guess what it means. Has it come?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“I have nothing to say,” remarked Grace.

“You have nothing to say! You are not thankful to me for getting you out of a scrape?”

“You have done a horrid thing, Kitty—a horrid, horrid thing!”

“A very clever thing, I think.” Kitty began to laugh; she laughed louder than ever, and presently peals of mirth echoed through the church.

Miss Ladislaw walked quietly down. “Forgive me, girls,” she said, “but you know where we are?”

Kitty looked at her out of her saucy eyes.

“We mustn’t forget,” continued Miss Ladislaw, “even while we are working, that we are in God’s house.”

“Oh I beg your pardon,” said Kitty; she did not wish to offend Miss Ladislaw. Anne and Grace evidently intended to be cross to her, but, beyond doubt, they had got out of their scrape; why should she hear the disagreeable particulars? She had her frocks, her silk stockings, her handkerchiefs, all her endless and lovely finery, and Mr. Dodd had paid for them. Oh it was beyond a joke! What a clever girl she was! What fun it would be talking the thing over by-and-by with Miss Weston! She went back again to join her own party.

By this time she was thoroughly at home at Preston Manor. On the whole she liked Jessie, who was the person instrumental in bringing her there, and had, of course, to do her very best to give Kitty a good time, and Kitty knew exactly how much to flatter and how far to go. She saw that it was essential that she should become very friendly with Mrs. Wyndham, for Mrs. Wyndham really ruled the house. Accordingly, in the course of the day, when her little fingers smarted a great deal, owing to the rough work of putting holly and ivy together, when she discovered in very truth that Peggy was right, and that her fingers were all thumbs, she went up to Jessie. “Jess, I do hope you won’t mind.”

“What am I not to mind?” asked Jessie, who was exceedingly busy, and just glanced up at Kitty and then resumed her work.

“Well, this. Your mother—I thought she would like me to go back and have lunch with her; she’s not very well, and she told me last night that she often felt so lonely. Don’t you think I might go back?”

“It’s two miles and more away; are you prepared to walk the distance?” asked Jessie.

“But the Dodds’ motor-car is outside, and I could use that to go back to Preston Manor.”

“Oh, by the way, I have a message from mother to the Dodds. I will go and give it now, and then you can ask if they’ll lend you the motor. But, really and truly, Kitty, if you like being here, mother, I am sure, would not wish to take you from your fun.”

“Oh I think it is only right that children should think of their elders,” said Kitty.

The two girls walked down the aisle. Jessie held out her hand to Anne Dodd.

“How do you do?” she said. “Grace, how are you? Mother has sent a message. She wants to know if you will both come up to our place to-morrow to see the charades; I think they’ll be quite amusing. Would your father mind—your father and mother I mean—mind your coming?”

“I don’t know; I will ask them,” said Anne.

“Can you let us have a message back by to-morrow morning?”

“Yes, we’ll send a messenger round,” said Anne. “I expect father and mother will be pleased,” she added, “and if so we’ll come.”

“Anne, duckie,” said Kitty at that moment. Anne pretended not to hear. “Now, I declare, I’ll have to talk to ye in Irish,” said Kitty, who observed that Peggy was approaching; “to be sure now, alannah!—Peggy, Peggy, how do they say it in Irish? I want to ask a great big favour.”

“Ye couldn’t say it in Irish if ye talked yerself blue,” said Peggy. She turned her back on Kitty and went on talking to Ralph Ladislaw.

“Look at her; how she’s flirting with that handsome boy!” said Kitty. “Well, I’m sure I don’t care; he must have a funny taste to like her.”

“I don’t agree with you,” said Anne; “she is remarkably handsome, and has, in addition, the most sweet face.”

“Well, anyhow, we needn’t bother about her face now,” said Kitty. “I feel wonderfully happy; I feel somehow that I ought, being happy myself, to help others. There’s some one at Preston Manor whom I want to help, and might I have your motor-car just to go down to Preston Manor? You won’t be returning to your home for some time.”

“Oh yes, of course, you may have the motor,” said Grace; “but don’t keep it, please, and send it back to us at once.”

“I will. Thank you a thousand times. You will be sure to come to-morrow; I shall want to show you the lovely Christmas presents I am getting. By the way, it’s the time for giving presents all round. Do you know what I want more than anything? I want a dozen pairs of the very best kid gloves—or suÈde, I think—some with four buttons and some with ten. It’s only a hint, but hints are useful. Ta-ta, girls, never forget how clever Kitty is.”

Kitty left the church, the motor-car was at her service, and she was soon bowled over the roads, and arrived at Preston Manor just as the great luncheon-gong was sounded. Mr. Wyndham and his wife were seated at table when Kitty poked in her charming little face. They had been talking about her and had the manner that people generally have when they are caught in the act. Kitty guessed at once that she had broken up a conversation of interest to herself.

“Aren’t you well, Kitty? I didn’t know you would be back until tea-time,” said Mrs. Wyndham. “I have sent luncheon for you all to take in the parish room adjoining the church.”

“It wasn’t that,” said Kitty; “I didn’t think about lunch at all. I—I thought I’d like to stay with you a little, if you don’t mind.”

“With me, my dear child?”

“Yes, perhaps I have made a great mistake; in that case I can—I can”—she coloured—“walk back; it is only two miles.”

“But what do you mean, Kitty?”

“Well, you know, you said yesterday that you often felt lonely, and somehow I thought of it last night when I was in my darling snug bed, and I thought that the girls would be absent all day long with their friends, you know, and that you would have no one——But perhaps I have made a mistake, perhaps you don’t want me; in that case—I am sorry—I can go back.”

“It was really very kind of you, Kitty, very kind. As a matter of fact, I don’t mind being alone; but, as you have come, my dear child, of course, I must give you a welcome. Have you had lunch yet?”

“No, but that doesn’t matter at all, and if you’d really rather——”

“Oh nonsense, Kitty; now that you have come, of course, you will stay. Ring the bell, will you, my dear?”

Kitty did so. Mrs. Wyndham gave some directions; Kitty sat down to the table, and Wyndham left the room. As soon as he had gone, Kitty took her plate, knife, and fork, and put herself close to Mrs. Wyndham.

“You will forgive me, won’t you?” she said, looking up at her with her appealing dark eyes.

“Yes, of course.”

“I can’t help, you know, being awfully fond of you,” said Kitty.

“My dear little girl, I haven’t seen a great deal of you.”

“But one can get fond of a person without seeing a great deal of her, cannot one?”

“I suppose one can, but, to tell you the truth, Kitty, I am not a very impulsive person myself, so I don’t quite see how you can be fond of me.”

“But you don’t mind if I am?”

“Oh no, no, I don’t mind at all, Kitty. That is a very pretty frock of yours, and a remarkably nice jacket and cap. You gave me to understand, my dear child, that you and your aunt were not well off. Those clothes must have cost a good penny.”

“Well, shall I tell you how I got them?”

“Oh no, dear, don’t; pray don’t; I am really not in the least interested. I just admire them, and I thought they must have cost a good deal; but don’t tell me your secrets, my love; I am quite prepared to be satisfied with all your dress.”

Kitty was silent. She had a very neat little untruth ready; but, after all, if it wasn’t required, why tell it? She sat, looking thoughtfully and sadly out of the window.

“It isn’t very nice being an orphan, is it?” she said suddenly.

“I think it must be nice for any girl to be at The Red Gables School,” was Mrs. Wyndham’s answer. She had no wish to have a sentimental Kitty flung upon her for the afternoon. “And now, my dear,” she added, “finish your lunch. When you have done you will find me in the inner drawing-room. I shall be lying down, and it is possible I may be asleep, in which case you can sit in a cosy chair by the fire and read one of several books which I shall leave ready for you.”

“And then, when you awake, will you let me give you your tea; will you let me pour it out for you? You will let me wait on you, you will let me be a little daughter to you?”

“Yes, dear, I shall be quite willing.”

“Poor, dear, sweet Mrs. Wyndham!” said Kitty.

Mrs. Wyndham smiled rather vaguely. She left the room.

“There’s something nice about that child,” she said to herself. “I wonder why it is that Paul doesn’t seem really to take to her. I can’t understand it. She is worth fifty of Peggy, and yet he does nothing but praise Peggy, and whenever I speak of Kitty he runs her down; but there, whatever he may say to the contrary, Peggy would not have given up her pleasure in decorating the church to-day to come back and sit with a lonely old woman.”

Kitty, meanwhile, finished a most luxurious and tasty lunch, and then went up to her bedroom. Here a fire blazed all day; here was every imaginable comfort. She sat down in an easy-chair, took off her cap and coat, and stared into the blaze.

Yes, she had done right; she had been really very clever. There was no doubt the Dodds were angry; the Dodds would not be as nice as usual at the beginning of term; but she’d soon bring them round, and there was that affair of the stockings. Yes, it wasn’t such a great thing, after all; but if Mr. Dodd knew it! She sat and thought.

“I mustn’t tell him; I promised faithfully I wouldn’t,” she said to herself. “There is something about me that I think is, after all, quite straight, for I could get an invitation to Hillside if I said what I know; but there, I have promised. If I told it would shatter our friendship for ever. Here’s a brilliant thought. Why did I never think of it before? I’ll work it during the holidays. I’ll put it into Grace’s head and into Anne’s that they should ask their father for an allowance; thus they could buy their own dresses, or, rather, they could buy my dresses without anybody knowing anything about it. Let me see, now, how much ought they to ask—how much could I do with? That’s the question. I have taken the school by storm with my handsome dresses, and it would not do to come down a peg—never, never! I wonder if auntie would help me? I might write to her; there’s one good thing about Aunt Gloriana; she’s nearly as fond of clothes as I am. I might write to her. I wonder, too, if Mrs. Wyndham would help me. I might confide in Mrs. Wyndham to-day. I know they’re not coming in to tea; they won’t be home until it’s time to dress for late dinner. No, not one of them will be home sooner, and afterwards we’ve got to rehearse. How sick I am of those charades! But I might tell Mrs. Wyndham how dreadfully ill-off I am just now for money. I don’t want fine clothes; I’ve plenty for the present; but I do want money. It gives a girl such power! Then, if I only could get Mr. Dodd to invite me to Hillside! I wish I could. I must think of a way. I’m generally rather clever at that sort of thing; but it was so unlucky his seeing me that day! Oh I could have bitten my tongue out! Oh it was dreadful, dreadful!”

Kitty sat back in the easy-chair. The day in question rose before her mental vision. What a favourite she had been then! How Mr. Dodd—“Old Daddy Doddy,” as she called him under her breath—how fond he was of her! How often she made him laugh, how liberal he was with his presents to her, as well as to his own girls! And then, then there came the blow! It happened on the very day before she left. She had had her pleasant visit, and she had just gone too far. She wanted some money very badly; when did not Kitty Merrydew want money? She wanted to send two pounds to a girl from whom she had borrowed it. The girl had been plaguing her with letters on the subject, and when several letters came from the same person it was the rule of the school that the letters were brought to Mrs. Fleming in order that she might see what they were about. She never interfered with a letter from a mother, a father, an aunt, or an uncle. But other letters, the silly letters that schoolgirls might write, letters from strangers—she did not want to be overprying, but when letters came over and over in the same handwriting she always insisted at last on seeing such letters.

Now Kitty had received a letter from a girl whose friendship she had made during the last holidays, which she had spent with Aunt Gloriana. The girl had lent her two pounds; Kitty had promised to return the money in a week, then in a fortnight, then in a month, then in two months. But time went on and there was no sign of the money being returned, for the simple reason that Kitty had not got it to send back. Whenever Kitty received money it seemed to fly; it had a process of melting through her fingers, of disappearing. She might go out with a couple of pounds, but she invariably came in again with nothing. This was the case, and on the present occasion, just at the end of the summer holidays, she had got a frantic letter from Miriam Dobell, the girl to whom she owed the money. This girl had threatened to write to Mrs. Fleming on the subject if it were not paid to her before school began. Kitty was in an agony. She wrote a frantic letter, imploring and imploring of Miriam to have mercy, and then she suddenly found that she wanted an envelope to put her letter into. She ran quickly downstairs and entered Mr. Dodd’s study. She had no intention when she went into the room of touching any of his money, but lying on the table was a great pile of gold and of notes. In one swift, flashing minute the deed was done. Kitty had secured two of those precious sovereigns, had thrust them into her pocket, and had left the room. As she was leaving the room she came face to face with Mr. Dodd, who was entering.

Oh why had she coloured? If she could only have looked calm! But she had coloured up crimson, crimson, and he had glanced at her in some wonder, and then he had looked at the money on the table; but, even so, his voice was kind and pleasant.

“Did you want anything, Kitty?” he said.

“I wanted an envelope,” she answered. He asked her no more questions and she left the room. He said to himself, “It is impossible, but what a queer colour she got! Then he began to count the money; it was money he had just drawn from the bank to pay the different servants in the house and outside as well. There were two sovereigns missing!”

He did not say a word to any one, not to a soul, but he knew just as distinctly as if he had seen her take the gold that Kitty was the culprit. She had taken the money. He made up his mind not to tell any one, although his first furious thought was to denounce her. But there was something about the expression of her eyes, something about her little face, which made him refrain from ruining her.

“She’ll tell me, she’ll confess, of course. I’ll give her the chance. Poor child, I used to know myself the pinch of not having a sovereign to my name. Yes, I’ll give her a chance, and if she tells me I’ll forgive her.”

He watched anxiously all that evening; he even gave Kitty a chance himself in the course of the evening, for he took her into his study to show her some new books which he had purchased, and which were very beautiful and exquisitely bound; but Kitty had not spoken. She went away the next day to The Red Gables School in the company of his daughters, and it was with the utmost difficulty that he could refrain from telling, from speaking his mind to Mrs. Fleming, but even then he said to himself, “I’ll give her a chance; she’ll write to me, perhaps. It would be a dreadful thing to ruin her, and, of course, it would ruin her.”

But Kitty did not write.