Susan now, with quick, deft movements, removed the candles from their places by the wall, and placed them round the wooden bowl, which no longer contained any fondants, for they had all been devoured by the greedy Penwernians. The candles were arranged in a circle, and the girls were invited to seat themselves in a wider circle just beyond. Christian alone was so placed that the light from the candles should fall on her face.

"Now begin, please," said Susan; "all about your unavoidable detention first. And don't prevaricate; the soul of truth is the leading motive of our society. We scorn to conceal anything; we just speak the simple truth on all occasions."

There was a pause. For a minute it seemed to Christian as though she heard the beating of her own heart. She was quite still, and it was not until a small sharp voice sounded at the back of her ear: "It is the first step that costs"—that she found her voice.

Really Star was too trying, but she had the effect of stimulating the young girl into a terrible effort to control herself.

"I am very much obliged to you all for being so anxious to know about me," said Christian, "and I will tell you about my past life from time to time if you really desire it; but I don't intend to mention why I was kept from school. That is my own secret, and I intend to keep it."

"Naughty new member; that will never do," cried several gay voices.

"Hush!" said Susan in an imperative tone. "We all know what happens when members of this society refuse to obey the committee. But we will speak of that later on. Tell us just what you wish to tell us now, Christian."

"I will tell you a story," said Christian suddenly, "and it's all about myself."

"A story—that's good!" cried Agnes Temple, a look of satisfaction crossing her commonplace little face. "I love stories about people." Then, fixing her eyes on her companion's face, she said, "I like Christian Mitford—don't you?"

"Please don't talk any more in that whisper," suddenly exclaimed Star. "Now then, Christian, we will not compel your confidence to-night. It might have been," she continued, glancing round at her fellows, "anything. It might mean an accident to the head or to the heart, in which case it would be extremely dangerous to press for an explanation. You shall tell us just what you like, Christian," she continued, "only don't draw on your imagination if you can help it."

"What I tell you will be true," answered Christian, "only I don't suppose any of you will believe me. I am an only child. All my days I should have been terribly lonely but for my attic."

"Oh, dear!" cried Maud Thompson; "perhaps she has belonged to other secret societies. She would have been very lonely but for her attic. Please tell us all about your attic."

"I will," said Christian, "if you won't interrupt."

She then proceeded to give a vivid picture of her early days. She described her life so that the girls who listened no longer interrupted with silly words or sarcastic remarks; they were so interested that they forgot themselves. Christian spoke of her doll days, then of her fairy-story days, and last of her heroic days. When she got to the subject of Joan of Arc it seemed to the girls that no history had ever been so thrilling.

"It was one dreadful dark day," she continued, suddenly rising to her feet and forgetting about everything but that picture of the past which was rising up in her mind. "There was snow outside, and I thought and I thought, and it seemed to me that I was Joan and in prison. I thought I would put on the armor which was to be my undoing. I saw myself in it, and I was glad and not at all afraid. And then—and then—there came the trial. Oh! it lasted so long, and I seemed to live through it all. I was condemned to death. I saw myself; I was there. I was burnt, and I did go through it all."

"Oh, nonsense!" here cried Mary Hillary. "Your head must be affected."

"No, no; I did go through it all in imagination," said Christian. "I made it, too, as realistic as possible. There was an old, old bedstead, and one of the posts was broken. I bound myself to the post—yes, with real chains, too; they belonged to a dog we used to keep in a kennel. They were rusty, but that did not matter. And I piled up papers round me, all torn up in great pieces; and I had some red paper to imitate the color of the flames. I made the paper come higher and higher, and I fancied I saw a crowd, and I was burned."

"Oh, dear! you are an extraordinary girl," said Angela Goring. "Don't you think that sort of thing is very bad for you?"

The others were silent. Christian dropped down again on her seat.

"I have no more to tell you to-night," she said. "It takes it out of me to feel like that. I wouldn't tell you, but if we are Penwernians that means that we are comrades—and comrades must understand each other. If you all will be friends with me I will be your friend. Oh, I hope you will; I was a little afraid of you to-day, but I don't really think I will be afraid any longer."

"I, as a member of the committee, declare our meeting is now dissolved," said Star Lestrange suddenly. "It is time for us to go to our bedrooms. Go softly, everyone. Jessie wouldn't tell, but the other mistresses are no end of tell-tale-tits. Good-night, Christian."

"Christian," said Janet Bouverie suddenly, "I'm glad you have come to the school, and I hope you will be friends with me."

A great many other girls came up and shook hands with Christian. She had scored a success. One by one, like little frightened shadows, the Penwernians stole to their separate rooms. Fortunately for Christian, hers was not far off, as the White Corridor was the nearest to the celebrated front attic.

She was glad to see a bright fire burning in the grate, but she started very violently when she saw standing by the fire no less a person than Miss Jessie herself.

"Come in, dear," said Miss Jessie. "I know all about it, of course. If I were a teacher I should be obliged to tell; but I am not a teacher, and dear Lavinia gives me a good deal of liberty. I do not feel that I am obliged to make mischief. As long as you girls keep up your little mystery and don't do anything wrong, I don't feel called upon to make you unhappy. Don't tell me, dear, what has happened; I'd much rather not know. But come to the fire; you look quite blue and cold."

"Oh, in some ways I have had a splendid time," said Christian.

"I am relieved to hear it, my love. To tell the truth, I have been a little anxious about you, Christian."

"Why?" asked Christian.

"Because your face has a strange expression—just as though you felt things too much."

"I am naughtier than most girls; that is why," said Christian.

"My dear child, let me assure you that you are nothing of the kind. I know a lot about girls, living here as I do. Even dear Lavinia can't see them as I do, for they are always on their best behavior with her, and they don't mind little Jessie in the very least. But now, dear, I came to your room on purpose to tell you that your real life here begins to-morrow. You will, like everyone else, have your hardships; you will also have your period of discipline, and I earnestly beg of you, Christian, not for the sake of a purely quixotic motive to get yourself into hot water by telling something which never happened in the school. In regard to this remember, my dear, it is your duty to be guided by the superior judgment of dear Lavinia Peacock."

Christian made no answer. Miss Jessie looked into her eyes.

"You are over-anxious, dear. I trust you will sleep. Is your fire all right? Ah! I see it is. I wish I could give you this little luxury every night, but it is against our rules. We have a fire once a week in each bedroom, just to keep it warm and aired, but that is all. Now I will put on two additional lumps of coal. You will be quite happy, dear. The great gong will wake you at seven o'clock to-morrow morning; you are expected to be down at half-past seven. At eight we have breakfast, and then prayers. You will soon know all the routine. And now, love, good-night."

Christian stood for a few minutes by the fire. It certainly was cheerful, and the little room snug. She felt that she might soon be happy at school. As to being interested, she had never felt so intensely interested before. The girls were so naÏve, so fresh. Even those who terrified her aroused her interest. She did not like Susan Marsh, but even Susan had something fascinating about her. Then, as to Star, was anybody ever before so gay, so bright, so willful?

"And she was good to me," thought the child—"really good. She helped me when I was frightened. She showed me how I might take a proper place in the school. I love her already. I shall love her well. How strange it is that I should be supplied with a sort of bodyguard! Star and Lucy and Jane and Angela. I can't say that they did much for me while I was going through the initiation, but still they were there. I suppose they acted rightly in not making their presence too much felt. Star said they were to be a sort of invisible bodyguard, ready to help me in times of real difficulty and danger, but as a rule allowing me to get out of my own scrapes, when I don't absolutely require their assistance."

Christian removed her dress and looked at her arm. It still smarted a little from the initial ceremony.

"How ridiculous all this is!" she said to herself. "Father and mother would smile over it; and yet it didn't seem ridiculous up there."

She wondered what her father would say if he ever heard of that evening's event. Then, having knelt for a minute or two in prayer, she got into bed.

But Christian's adventures for that night were by no means over; for, just as she was getting drowsy and was dropping off to sleep, the door of her room glided open noiselessly, and Susan Marsh stood before her.

"I have come," said Susan, "to say something. I shan't take up much of your time, but I think it only right that you should know. You are sleepy, but you must not go to sleep until I have had my talk out. By the way, what a snug room! And a fire, too. Dear me! do you think you deserve all these luxuries?"

"Certainly, if my parents choose to pay for them," replied Christian.

She found herself speaking in a pert voice, but her heart was beating and the old terrors were returning.

"How grand we are!" said Susan mockingly. "I wonder if the parents know what the dear young only girl is up to. Now, Christian, please note that I am in the position to assure you calmly, simply, but at the same time firmly, that you are in my power."

"I in your power?" said Christian. "What do you mean?"

"This: I happen to know all about that unavoidable detention. I know what it consisted of. I know the full particulars. I know all about that wicked, wicked running away from home, and the name of the little girl who went with you, and the slum where you went, and the room that you slept in, and the reason why you were not allowed to return to the school for ten days. I can tell that story to the whole school; and I will, too, if you don't make it worth my while to be silent."

"I will never make it worth your while to be silent," said Christian. "I can't imagine how you learnt it, but you have learnt it by dishonorable means. Anyhow, I am not going to be afraid of you."

"Aren't you?" said Susan. "There is plenty of firelight; that is a good thing. A fire is nice, and we are quite alone—absolutely safe and comfortable—so we will just argue this matter."

"You may say anything you like," replied Christian very stoutly, "but I am not going to be afraid of you."

Her attitude and manner, and even the look on her face, impressed Susan. She was evidently astonished.

"Why does Miss Peacock say that you were unavoidably detained?" was her next remark.

"You must ask Miss Peacock that yourself," replied Christian.

"Very well; I must now tell you the simple truth, Christian Mitford. You can take whatever attitude you please on this occasion. You may pretend to be indifferent, but you don't know what it means. It lies in your power to tell the school or not."

"That is what I intend to do," said Christian.

"Is it? Well, we'll see. If you do it you will imagine yourself a sort of heroine, no doubt; you will think yourself extremely brave. But wait for the result. How do you think your schoolfellows will take it? You spent the night, for instance, in the slums. We don't any of us—we lady girls who live in this school—know what the slums mean, but you do. Then you were fearfully wicked and disobedient. The girls who are not wicked and who are not disobedient will be afraid of you. In short, I may as well assure you, Christian, if you tell this thing, if it is known in the school, you will be sent to Coventry. Do you know what Coventry means?"

"I have heard of it, but I should like to have your version," said Christian.

"You are very smart and courageous in your conversation now, but you won't be when you feel the full pinch of Coventry life. Just picture to yourself what it will feel like never to be spoken to by your companions, to be without friends in the midst of a lot of girls, to be publicly expelled from the Penwernians."

"Oh, I don't mind that," said Christian.

"You haven't the remotest idea what it means or you wouldn't say so. Your mistresses may continue to like you, but there isn't a good, nice girl in the school who will dare to be seen speaking to you. You will live on here year after year, and not until all the present girls leave the school will you have any chance of becoming popular. Now, naturally you would be popular; you are just the sort of girl. That power of yours of telling stories is an immense attraction. It might win the heart of nearly every girl in the place. But after your sin is known no one will listen to you. And why, do you think? Because the committee of the Penwernians will forbid it. Now, of course, the mistresses have great power in the school; but, although they would not like to own it, their power is nothing at all compared to the power of our secret society. If you, who have just been made a member of it, were at once expelled because of conduct which makes it impossible for us to have anything to do with you, you would be in a sorry position. You can think the thing over. I don't want to press you, but my advice to you is to take advantage of Miss Lavinia Peacock's kindness and not to tell what you have done."

Susan's words came out slowly. She made a pause now and then, and these pauses were very effective. Her ugly face was full of deep shadows in the firelight. Her eyes were scarcely visible at all. It was only her white teeth that gleamed now and then. As she stood she herself made a great shadow, and it seemed to Christian that Susan was a bad girl, and that she hated and, alas! feared her.

"If I could only speak to Star," she thought. "What am I to do?"

"What I say to you is in absolute confidence," continued Susan, who knew that she was at last making an impression. "For your own sake you ought really not to tell. It doesn't matter to me. If you do tell you will find it distinctly—yes, dreadfully—unpleasant. Miss Peacock must have known that fact when she so wisely resolved not to acquaint the girls with the truth."

"But I don't care to live under a lie or to sail under false colors," said Christian slowly.

"You are a little goose," replied Susan; and now she changed both her attitude and manner, and coming close, she laid her hand upon the bed. Christian's hand was lying outside the counterpane, and Susan caught it and held it firmly.

"You are one of us," she said, "and of course we all want to like you. I for one feel that I could adore you. It is because I pity you that I speak."

"But how did you know? It is a secret from the whole school. How did you manage to get possession of it?" said Christian.

"Ah! that is my affair. I can only say now that I am in possession of it, and can give you full particulars of your great adventure. The name of your little runaway friend is Rose Latimer; and another horrid girl called Judith Ford was implicated in the affair. Now, are you satisfied?"

"I see that you know, but I can't make out how you know."

"Be satisfied with that knowledge, for more you will not be told. Now, you have almost made up your mind, have you not, that you will not tell?"

"You have frightened me very much. I will think it over."

"Do, and to-morrow we will meet again. I won't stay with you now, for I know you are sleepy. Of course you will pay me."

"For what?"

"For my silence, dear—my silence. What you give me I shall spend on fondants for the next meeting of the Penwernians. Have you got any money handy?"

Poor Christian! A bright new sovereign lay on the dressing-table. At that very moment Susan's eyes fell upon it.

"Why, here's the very thing," she said. "It will keep me silent for a while. You will be happy and have a right good time, for I can see to that. Thank you so much! Good-night."

She snatched up the money and put it into her pocket.

"No, no; come back, please—come back!" called Christian.

But Susan gave a low laugh and a gesture of warning, and disappeared from the room.

It was long before Christian could sleep. After the relief that the meeting had given her, to come face to face with such a terrible obstacle as Susan Marsh made her feel almost wild with apprehension. She had no one to turn to, for she did not dare to betray Susan. What was to be done?

"If I do the right thing," thought the poor girl, "Susan Marsh will be my enemy, and I dare not tell the mistresses. Oh, I wish—I wish father and mother had never sent me to this terrible school!"