The Wyndhams were out in the grounds when Anne Dodd’s handsome motor-car was seen whirling down the avenue.

Molly uttered an exclamation. “Dear me, who can be coming now?” she thought.

Jessie, however, who was far sharper than her sister, saw the colour of the car, and said, in a disgusted voice, “Why, if that isn’t the Dodds’ car! Well, really, I never knew anything so cheeky! They have certainly not lost time.”

“Did you invite them to come, Jess?” asked Molly.

“Oh, in a kind of general way,” replied Jessie. “I simply said that I knew mother would be glad to see them at Preston Manor during the holidays.”

“But what can you expect from those sort of people?” here interrupted Kitty, who, in her handsome crimson frock and smart little squirrel-cap and jacket, all of which she owed to the Dodds, was standing by. “Those kind of people haven’t the slightest idea how to behave themselves. Give them an inch and they take an ell.”

“Well, I suppose you are glad that one of the Dodds is coming,” said Peggy, who was also walking up and down before the drawing-room windows, and wondering eagerly when she could escape to the poultry-yard. “They are your friends, you know,” she added, “however low down you may consider them. Oh, wurra, then,” she continued, “and I like them, too; that Grace isn’t half bad, although——” She stopped and fixed her bright eyes on Kitty.

Kitty turned first red and then white. Oh how she hated Peggy Desmond!

“What were you going to say, Peggy?” asked Jessie, who saw that Kitty was annoyed; “you ought to finish your sentences, you know.”

“Glory be!” answered Peggy; “you ask Kitty if she’d like me to finish that sentence, bedad.”

“Don’t bother about her,” was Kitty’s indignant remark. She put a hand through Jessie’s and dragged her along. “Oh,” she said, “I know it’s wicked of me, but I almost hate your cousin.”

“And I tell you she’s not my cousin, Kitty.”

But Kitty was sharp enough; she was not going to be under the thumb of any one. She had got her entrÉe into Preston Manor, and now she meant to make the best of it. Hitherto she had been very subservient to Jessie Wyndham; but now she might as well get the girl a little bit under her power. Only a trifle, of course, but still it must be done.

“All I can say is this,” Kitty remarked now, “that whether Peggy is your cousin or not matters very little—less than nothing, in fact—when she’s so fussed over by your father. Did you see the welcome he gave her last night? Why, he took her in his arms and kissed her over and over, and inquired how she was—oh in such a loving voice! And then he—after dinner, you know—he took Peggy away with him into his smoking-room, and I heard them chattering like a pair of magpies and laughing like anything.”

“But how could you hear if you weren’t in the room?” said Jessie.

Kitty coloured faintly. “I hope I didn’t do wrong,” she said; “but I couldn’t sleep. I suppose I was too excited at coming to this heavenly place, so I thought I’d go down to the library and find a book, in order to read it to put me asleep, and the door of the smoking-room was a little open; that’s how I heard them laughing. They were talking about me, too, for I heard the word Kitty quite distinctly; but I’m far too honourable to listen, of course.”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Jessie, “of course, you’re too honourable to eavesdrop, Kitty; do you think if you did such a thing you’d be allowed to come here? But it was very funny about the smoking-room door being open, for daddy always shuts it, as mother can’t bear the smell of smoke.”

“Well, it was open,” said Kitty; “you don’t suppose I opened it?”

“Of course I don’t, Kitty.”

“Well, then, I think you needn’t speak to me in that tone; it isn’t very pleasant for me; and if you have any suspicions I’d better go to poor auntie; she’s breaking her heart about me; she was so looking forward to having me with her for Christmas.”

“Kitty, I don’t suspect you of anything. Of course the door was open, because you say so; but you really have a funny way of contradicting yourself, doubtless without meaning it, for when mother sent you an invitation to spend Christmas here, and I said that I was afraid your aunt would be disappointed, you said that, on the contrary, it would be the greatest possible godsend and relief to her, as she was going to visit some titled friends in the north who had forgotten to give you an invitation. You ought to remember these things, Kitty, for in this house we always say what we mean. Father and mother wouldn’t allow anything else.”

“Then, however do you get on with the Irish girl?”

“Get on with her!” cried Jessie. “We don’t get on with her, at least I don’t; but if she has a fault it is that she is too straight. She’s the opposite to you in every way, Kitty.”

Just then one of the footmen appeared. “If you please, miss,” he said to Jessie, “Miss Dodd has called from Hillside, and she hopes it isn’t too early, but she particularly wants to see Miss Merrydew for a few minutes.”

“Oh, then, she didn’t call on us,” said Jessie. “We’ll see her, of course, in a minute or two; but you had better have a chat with her first, Kit. I suppose it’s one of your innumerable secrets that you and she are always confabbing over.”

“I’ve shown Miss Dodd into the blue drawing-room,” said the servant.

Kitty, feeling extremely cross, shook out her crimson skirts, tossed back her mane of black hair, and walked in the direction of the blue drawing-room. It was a large room facing north, a beautiful room in summer, because it opened onto a great expanse of flower-garden; but dreary at this time of year, notwithstanding the fact that it was heated with hot pipes.

Anne was standing, feeling very restless and nervous, by one of the windows. She knew she ought to have asked for one of the Wyndhams as well as Kitty, but in her agitation had forgotten this until it was too late. She glanced apprehensively round the room; she was accustomed to wealth and show, and this room bore traces of wealth; but there was no attempt at show; it was essentially quiet, restful, and refined. The paper on the walls was of a delicate shade of blue, the paint one or two shades darker. There was one lovely landscape over the mantelpiece, and no other picture in the room; but that landscape was a gem, done by one of our greatest landscape painters, and was worth thousands of pounds. Anne knew nothing about art, but the whole effect of the room depressed her. She knew she could never live up to such a room.

Just then the door was opened and Kitty flashed in; wearing the finery which Anne had bought for her, she looked at once radiant and very cross. “Now, what have you come about? Don’t you know you oughtn’t to do it?”

“Oughtn’t to do what?” asked Anne.

“To come here like this the first morning of the holidays, although you were asked in a kind of way.”

“Oh, don’t scold me, Kitty; I’ve come about you, to save you. After all, it doesn’t matter so vitally to Grace and me. At the worst we’ll only get a bad scolding; but you—it will ruin you, Kitty, and it must be stopped.”

“What are you talking about, Anne? Oh dear!”

But just then the door was opened, and Molly, looking very pretty and sweet, entered.

“Mother sends her compliments to you, Anne, and hopes now that you have come that you’ll stay to lunch. Mother is sorry she is not down to receive you; but she seldom comes down until lunch-time. Would you like to come round and see the greenhouses? We have some lovely orchids in bloom.”

“Yes, of course, you’d like that,” said Kitty. She was really now on thorns to be alone with Anne, but knew better than to show her fear. The three girls went from one orchid-house to another, and by-and-by the great luncheon-bell rang, and Anne was taken upstairs by Molly in order to wash her hands and brush her hair. Molly acted the part of a very charming little hostess, and Kitty could not get a word alone with Anne. She was inclined to tear her hair, her brain was in a perfect whirl. Molly and Jessie were under the impression that they were doing their guest a great kindness by ridding her of Anne’s society, and Anne herself was dimly wondering how she could accomplish the object of her visit. Kitty, however, was not The Imp for nothing. Imps can squeeze their way into round and square holes alike.

As lunch was drawing to an end, Kitty looked up suddenly. “Oh Molly,” she said, “I’ve got such a good idea!”

“What is that?” asked Molly.

“Well, you know the charades that we are to act on Christmas Eve in the hall for the benefit of the servants. I can drive into Downton with Anne when she’s going back, and choose some bright-coloured cheap sort of stuffs to make up for our costumes. If you will trust me with a pound or so I can make the money go a long way, and we ought to begin to-night, if we are to have anything effective.”

“But how are you to get back from Downton?” inquired Molly, “for I’m ever so sorry, but all our carriages will be out this afternoon. Mother has to pay calls, and she wants us both to go with her, and the motor-car and the omnibus are going to the train to meet our cousins, the Franklins and the Arbuthnots.”

Kitty did not know anything about these arrivals.

Anne now came to her aid. “I can have the use of the car for the greater part of the day,” she said, “so I can drive you back from Downton to the lodge-gates, after you have made your purchases, Kitty.”

“How kind of you, Miss Dodd!” said Mrs. Wyndham, in her stately tones. “Yes, that would be a real help. I am very much obliged.” She spoke cordially to the girl, who, plain as she was, rather took her fancy.

Thus it came to pass that Kitty and Anne found themselves alone.

“Kitty, you are clever!” exclaimed Anne, as the smooth-rolling car took them quickly over the king’s highway. “I was puzzling my brains to know how I could possibly manage to be alone with you; of course, I came over for no other purpose. Even I know that it was a little forward, a little pushing of me to call at the Wyndhams’ to-day; but there was no help for it. I had to see you, and alone. Oh Kitty, you are clever! I believe if any one in the world can get us all out of this scrape, you are the girl.”

Kitty gave a profound sigh. “Sometimes,” she said—a queer, unexpected look of pathos visiting her handsome little face—“sometimes,” she continued, “I almost wish I were not so clever. I tell you what it is, Anne, it’s an awful mistake for a poor girl, a poor girl like me, to be in a school with rich girls like most of the rest of you.”

“Oh but a lot of us aren’t rich,” interrupted Anne. “Priscilla, I know, isn’t, and I don’t think Rufa is, and Hannah is poor, and so—so is Sophy.”

“Don’t talk to me about either Hannah or Sophy; they’re a pair of cads, both of them.”

“I don’t think so,” faltered Anne; “I think, on the contrary, they’re very courageous.”

“Courageous!” echoed Kitty. “I wonder if you will believe in their courage when you feel yourself in that scrape which sooner or later must happen? But, as I said, I am often sorry that I am clever; I should not have done half the things I have done but for my cleverness. Mother wasn’t a bit like that. I don’t remember her very well, but I have a few of the letters which she left, not to me but to father. Perhaps I take after father; I never saw him, you know, but I do know one thing, and that is that Auntie Gloriana is very like me, only not a quarter as sharp and smart and knowing. Oh dear; oh dear! When a girl is handsome, as I know I am, and is put in a school with a whole lot of rich girls—for most of you are rather rich, whatever you may like to say to the contrary—she is in a nest of temptation, nothing less. And then, when I see, as I do see, how easily I can get the upper hand of you all, why, I just get the upper hand, and there I am. But now, my dear Anne, what is the mystery? It must be pretty bad or you wouldn’t have come tootling along here this morning.”

“It is pretty bad. You know Miss Weston?”

“The dressmaker? Rather. That reminds me that I really think, after a time, we ought to go to a more stylish person. I was looking last night at Mrs. Wyndham’s dress, and though, of course, what suits an elderly lady is not suitable for a schoolgirl; nevertheless there is a cut about them that Miss Weston, with all her trying, could never aspire to. Yes, I really do think we ought to go to a better class of dressmaker by-and-by.”

“Kitty!” said Anne, “Kitty!”

“Oh my dear Anne, what a doleful note! Well, here’s Kitty, Kitty.”

“Don’t laugh at me, Kitty, for goodness’ sake! Do you really suppose that Grace and I are always to dress you, to provide you with your smart things?”

“I don’t know what you feel about it,” was Kitty’s rejoinder; “but for the present I look upon you both as the people who clothe me. It’s very funny, isn’t it?” Kitty gave a merry laugh. “And very nice too,” she added; “and your father is doing a lot of good without knowing it. What’s that verse in the Bible which says, ‘Let not your right hand know what your left hand doeth.’ Well, that’s what your father is doing for me.”

“Oh Kitty, I wish you wouldn’t talk like that! Do you know, it’s dreadful!”

“Is it dreadful, poor little Anne, poor little Anne?” Kitty stroked Anne’s arm as she spoke; but Anne pulled it away with almost violence.

“No,” she said, “I can’t stand it—I can’t, Kitty. I have something dreadful to say to you, and I must say it. Do you know that father is awfully angry about our account being so large at Miss Weston’s? Now you know perfectly well that the account wouldn’t be large at all but for you, Kitty. It’s that frock you’re wearing now, and the blue velvet with the real lace—oh surely you might have done with imitation lace!—and that primrose evening dress, and those two white muslins, besides lots of odds and ends—those black silk stockings, for instance, and those nice little shoes. Oh dear! oh dear! and that hat you have on your head now, with that great big ostrich feather in it! It’s those things which have run up the bill.”

“Very likely, my dear—very likely, but what of that?”

“Only this, Kitty, that father intends to see the items; he intends to see: ‘One crimson cashmere dress, to Miss Katherine Merrydew; one blue velvet dress with real lace, to Miss Katherine Merrydew,’ &c. And when he sees those items, do you know what will happen?”

Kitty was very pale now, and very silent. She did not speak at all for a minute.

Anne looked at her. “The letter with the items will arrive any day now,” she continued. “What are we to say about Miss Katherine Merrydew?”

“I suppose you are too timid to tell your father that you made poor little Kitty Merrydew a couple of trifling presents?”

“A couple of trifling presents, Kitty! Why, they have cost pounds and pounds. That red dress that you are wearing came to over five pounds, and the blue velvet to more than eight, and the—— Oh I can’t count them all; but I know that the very few dresses we got last term came to hardly anything, for we stinted ourselves in order to clothe you.”

“And didn’t I tell you, Anne—didn’t I tell both you and Grace—that you were to be sure to make Miss Weston put ‘To account rendered.’ That would make it so easy. What was the difficulty? Why didn’t you do it?”

“We did do it, Kitty—we did; but father saw the total, and he immediately desired mother to write to Miss Weston and get the items from her, and mother has written. And oh, oh, oh Kitty! what is to be done?”

Kitty sat very quiet.

“I know quite well what will happen,” pursued Anne. “It will be dreadful for us; but it will be ten times worse for you, poor Kitty, because, for some extraordinary reason, father has taken a great dislike to you. What did you do to turn him against you, Kitty? Why, this time last year he’d have given you those frocks and not said a word, and he’d have given you a lot more, and he’d have invited you to spend all the holidays with us. What have you done to turn him?”

“Never mind,” said Kitty.

“You know what you have done?”

“I guess it.”

“Kitty, won’t you tell me?”

“No, no; you had much better not know. He has never told you, has he?”

“No, he hasn’t, and he hasn’t told mother either. We both asked mother last night, and she says she hasn’t the least idea, not the slightest. We can’t make out what it is; we can’t make out what is the matter.”

Kitty breathed a short, sharp sigh of relief.

“And,” continued Anne; “oh dear! we’re nearly in the town now, and we haven’t done anything at all yet. I tell you what I have done, Kitty, I tell you what I have done, dear. I am sorry for you; I am sorry from the very bottom of my heart, and this morning I sent a telegram to Miss Weston telling her on no account to forward the items until she heard from me again.”

“Did you really do that for me, Anne? Well, you are a brick!” Kitty bent forward and suddenly kissed her companion. “I have despised you sometimes, Anne; but you are a brick,” she repeated. “That was a very, very good thing to do—I—that helps me; yes, that helps me.”

“Well, I wish you’d tell me how it will help you, for, of course, if Miss Weston doesn’t send the bill in at once father will write a stormy letter himself. You know one of his fads is every last day of the year to look round at us all and say, ‘Here I am, and I don’t owe a farthing to any one in the wide world.’ He prides himself on that; he’d no more allow Miss Weston’s bill to remain unpaid before the New Year than he’d fly. It will be Christmas Day in three days from now, and you know how quickly New Year will come round. We have no time to lose, and father is harping and harping on the matter. He spoke to us both about it before we were five minutes in the house. Oh Kitty, what is to be done?”

“Suppose nothing is done, what will happen?” said Kitty.

“Well, I tell you what will happen. Father will go straight to see Mrs. Fleming.”

“But isn’t Mrs. Fleming away?”

“You know she’s not; she’s staying at The Red Gables the whole of these holidays to watch the building of the new wing. Father will go and see her, and he will tell about you, and you will be expelled. Oh Kitty, Kitty, it is true! There’s a feeling against you in the school. I can’t really make out why, but there is; and, Kitty, I don’t believe Mrs. Fleming would be very sorry to expel you.”

“I dare say not,” said Kitty. Her hand trembled a little. After a minute she said, “Can we go to the post-office when we get to Downton?”

“Why, of course.”

“I want to write to Miss Weston, and I want to post the letter, and when the reply comes, will you and Grace promise me one thing?”

“What is that?”

“To make no remark of any sort. You will see when the account comes in what I have done, and you’re not to make any comment. It is the only thing to be done; if you do anything else I’ll tell about the black silk stockings. You know what I mean.”

“Oh, you couldn’t—you couldn’t!” said Anne, turning crimson.

“My dear, when I am desperate I can and will. A person who is drowning catches at straws, and if I am expelled from The Red Gables it is much the same as if I were drowned. There will be no mercy in me towards you unless you show mercy to me now.”

“Kitty, you can’t accuse us of not showing mercy. I’m sure all our days we were doing everything for you.”

“Well, all you have to do now is to be silent when Miss Weston’s account comes in.”

“Oh dear, I wish you’d tell me what you are doing about it.”

“No, no; I should not think of doing such a thing. However, I shall require from you and from Grace twenty pounds when we return to The Red Gables. Can you manage to get that for me?”

“I don’t know. I feel afraid to promise anything.”

“You can easily do it. You have but to sell one of your jewels. I can manage that for you.”

“Oh I don’t think we need sell our jewels. I will see what I can do. Well, I do feel pretty miserable!”

“It will be all right. You will be blamed a little, but the worst will be avoided. Now then, shall we drive to the post-office?”

The girls did so. There Kitty spent some time writing a letter to Miss Weston.

This letter was received by the dressmaker on the following morning. She read it in great amazement, she pondered over it for some time, she said to herself, “No, no, no, I won’t do that; no, I won’t do that.” Then she went out and took a walk. She came in after a long walk, still murmuring to herself, “No, I won’t do it.”

As the day wore on, she began to feel a certain weakening of her resolution, and she murmured once, “Poor child; after all, it would be a frightful thing for her, and she’s very pretty; and, after all, twenty pounds would be a great help to me. People think that dressmakers make no end of money; but if they knew the expenses they have, and what a long, long time they’re left out of their money, they’d say differently. Anyhow, it would be an awful thing to lose Mr. Dodd’s custom, and he does pay so sharp to the very day; although people say that he was a poor man, as I am a poor woman, yet he does pay up, I will say that.”