"Jessie," said Miss Lavinia Peacock, turning to her little friend, "I want you to sit here, to make yourself thoroughly comfortable, and allow me to question you freely."

"But, please, dear Miss Peacock——"

"I gave you leave to call me Lavinia."

"Please, dear Lavinia——"

"You would rather not be questioned?"

"I would much, much rather not. You understand that in my position. Oh, yes, you gave me permission, as you expressed it, to be eyes behind your back, to do what I could to make comfort and happiness in the school, and yet to allow a certain amount of liberty. You gave me to understand—you really did, Lavinia—that I might shut my eyes when there was no real mischief ahead."

"I certainly did do so," replied Miss Lavinia gravely; "and I have no intention of going back on my word. Amongst so many girls one must expect differences of disposition. There will always be the girl of varieties; there will always be the thoughtless, heedless, mischievous girl. Now, I have sympathy with the variety girl, and with the daring, the ambitious, the frolicsome, the mischievous girl; but I have no sympathy—none whatever—with the wicked girl. And if such a girl is in this school, and is exercising her malign influence upon my pupils, out she goes. You must clearly understand that you allow no liberty when the wicked girl appears on the scene."

"But I am certain—I am quite positive—that there is no such girl in the school," said poor Miss Jessie, who, although she did not like Susan Marsh, could not be brought to think her anything but just a thoughtless, rather daring specimen of humanity; not exactly a nice girl, but as to being wicked!—oh no, poor little Miss Jessie could not even entertain the idea.

"I promise you," she said after a pause, "that if there is anything wrong I will let you know. For the rest you must trust me."

"What about the front attic?" said Miss Peacock suddenly.

"You allowed me liberty with regard to that. Nothing goes on that I don't know of. If there is anything distinctly disobedient, any act of open rebellion, I promise that you shall be told at once."

"All right, Jessie," said Miss Peacock with a sigh. She rose as she spoke, and going up to the glowing fire, put a pretty pointed foot on the brass fender and warmed it luxuriously.

"I cannot exactly tell you why," she said at last slowly, "but since that young girl, Christian Mitford, came to the school—it is nearly a month now since she arrived—I have not felt quite at my ease. There is something about the child that haunts me quite uncomfortably. Are you sure she is happy?"

"I am not," said Miss Jessie.

"But why should she be unhappy?"

"I can't exactly tell you, except——" Miss Jessie sat very still for a minute. "I do hope one thing, and that is that you will strongly dissuade Christian from telling the school at large about her adventure before she came here."

Miss Peacock was silent.

"I am absolutely sure," continued Miss Jessie, "that you would be doing the child irretrievable mischief and injury by allowing the story to get abroad in the school. Schoolgirls are only schoolgirls; they cannot read motives, and they cannot judge of the depth of repentance. To these carefully nurtured, carefully brought-up children the story of Christian's running away and of losing herself, if only for a few hours, in the slums of London would seem altogether horrible. Her repentance would quite fade from their view in comparison with the enormity of her sin. The fact is this, dear Miss Peacock, and I know I am right"—here Miss Jessie's eyes filled with tears—"the good girls of the school would turn away from Christian, and the naughty and troublesome ones would render her life a burden to her. She would never hear the last of her sin. You oughtn't to do it. I am sure—I am certain I am right."

"You go a little too far, Miss Jones," said Miss Peacock. Over her face there swept a wave of resolution, mixed with pain.

Jessie looked as though someone had struck her. To be called "Miss Jones," and by that beloved voice!

"You make a mistake in counseling me. I yield to you in a great deal, but in matters of conduct I am paramount. It is my intention to counsel Christian Mitford to tell, and for that reason I am going to see her to-night."

"Oh, it will be cruel! I cannot help saying it," continued Miss Jessie, and she burst into tears.

Miss Peacock laid her hand on the other's shoulder.

"Dear," she said, "I don't wish to be unkind, but is this your school or mine?"

"Oh, yours, of course. Oh, I mustn't say a word, but I think every teacher in the place would agree with me."

"Have you talked this matter over with the teachers?"

"No, indeed; not a soul knows at present except myself. Poor Christian! she often looks so pale and distressed. She is practically an orphan; her parents are so far off."

"I will deal with her, Jessie; but when a girl has common sense and also a brave and noble thought, I will not have it crushed because of any possible tyranny on the part of the schoolgirls. Send Christian to me now, and believe that I will act for the best."

Miss Jessie went out of the room. She walked very slowly; she felt thoroughly unhappy. She certainly did not agree with Miss Peacock. Christian's manner, the expression on her face, her want of appetite, and her lack of interest in her daily life had been remarked on with great fear and distress by Miss Jessie. She could not guess at the truth, however, for she little suspected that Susan Marsh knew poor Christian's story.

Christian was sitting by herself in the boudoir belonging to the fourth class. She was sitting by a table, a book open before her. Whether she was reading it or not Miss Jessie could not guess. But when she said, "Christian, you are wanted," the young girl jumped up, and then Miss Jessie saw, with a start, that the story-book was upside down.

Christian must indeed be in trouble.

"Oh, my darling!" said Miss Jessie.

Before the girl could prevent her, she ran up to Christian, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her impulsively several times.

"Christian, I am with you in everything. Be brave, dear; keep up your courage."

"What does this mean?" said Christian. "Has anything happened? Oh, Miss Jessie, you are good to me."

"I try to be, darling, for I love you. The fact is—don't be frightened, but Miss Peacock wants you. You are to go to her at once, I hope and trust this may—— I mustn't—I daren't say any more."

"I am very glad that I can see Miss Peacock," said Christian.

Her tone was bright. She did not wait to say another word to Miss Jessie, but left the room.

Christian's tap at Miss Peacock's door was answered immediately by that good lady.

"Come in," she said; and when she saw the young girl, and noticed her pale face, she said in a particularly kind tone:

"Come here, Christian dear. You and I must have a cozy chat. I like to know all I possibly can of my pupils. Sit in that easy-chair. Is it too near the fire? Well, here is a screen. Now I will take this chair, and we shall enjoy ourselves."

Christian smiled. "Your room reminds me of mother's boudoir at home."

"Ah! I should like to know about your mother. You love her very, very much?"

"I feel being parted from her," said Christian somewhat evasively.

"And your father? What sort of man is he?"

"I think he is very noble," answered Christian; and now her eyes brightened and the color came into her cheeks.

"I rather guessed he must be, Christian. I felt certain that your people must be of the very best. Your father ought to have the highest morals, for he has inherited them. You have a wonderful likeness to your grandmother. Whenever I see you I seem to be back in the old days when I loved her so truly."

Christian gave a restless sigh.

"I shall never be like my grandmother," she said after a pause.

"But why so, dear? Why shouldn't you be just as great and noble? Believe me, Christian," continued Miss Peacock, "these days are the grandest days women ever lived in. The woman of to-day can be anything; she can dare anything. She has splendid opportunities; all doors to the highest and best work are flung open to her. Riches need not retard her, nor poverty. The girl of the present day ought to be educated right nobly in order to meet that grand future."

"I do not care for the girls of the present day," said Christian.

"But do you know many of them?"

"I know some of the girls here."

Miss Peacock looked very attentively at her young pupil; then she stretched out her hand and rang the bell. A servant appeared.

"Bring tea, Agnes—tea for two—and those special cakes that I like."

The maid withdrew, and returned in a few minutes to lay on the little table a lovely silver tea-equipage and the most charming, dainty china Christian had ever seen. By and by the tea itself appeared. Miss Peacock poured out a cup for her pupil and another for herself. Christian ate the cakes and drank the hot, fragrant tea, and, it must be owned, felt comforted.

"You like coming to tea with me, do you not dear?"

"Oh, very, very much!"

"I think you and I could be good friends, Christian."

"If I knew I was worthy we could be good friends—at least I could love you," said Christian.

Her eyes brightened perceptibly and the color deepened in her cheeks.

"Well, now, my dear," said Miss Peacock, "I want you and I to be friends. There are some girls here who seem to be specially in touch with me. There are others, again, most excellent girls—splendid, brave, devoted to their work and their duties—with whom I have nothing in common. That is always the way in life: certain characters appeal to us; others, again, fail to do so. You and I are beyond doubt in touch."

"Oh, thank you!" said Christian in a fervent voice.

"I take an immense interest in your career, Christian. You seem to me, after a fashion, to be left to me as a sort of legacy. I should like you to confide in me; I see plainly that you are unhappy."

Christian bent her head.

"Will you tell me all about it?"

The bent head was slightly shaken.

"You cannot?"

"I cannot."

"Noblesse oblige forbids?"

"Yes, yes; perhaps so. Anyhow, I cannot tell you. Don't notice me, please, Miss Peacock. Let me be happy during my short time with you."

"I want you to be happy, and in the best possible way, by removing the cause of your trouble; for I can see, and so can Jessie—and so, I fancy, can many of your companions—that you are not happy, Christian. I am about to write to your father, and I should like to be able to tell him with truth that his dear daughter feels at home with me, and is preparing for that noble womanhood which he has set his heart on her possessing."

The expression of Christian's face changed; the softness went out of it. She kept staring straight before her.

"We agreed, did we not, Christian," said Miss Peacock, "not to say anything with regard to the special trouble which took place before you came to Penwerne Manor?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Before you came, I must own that I was as much distressed at the thought of the other girls knowing as at the grave misdemeanor itself. I resolved not to tell the girls. To my astonishment, you, Christian, begged of me to allow you to tell all the school exactly what had happened. Neither Jessie nor I approved of the plan, knowing, as we do, what schoolgirls are—how they love to tease, to torment and worry, sometimes even to bully. I can scarcely think that any girl in my school would willfully bully another, but of course I am not sure."

Miss Peacock looked hard at Christian as she spoke; but Christian's face, now absolutely pale, revealed nothing.

"The final arrangement was that you were to tell, if you still wished it, at the end of a month. The month has expired; you are now at liberty to stand with me before the entire school and tell your story. And when your story is finished, I am at liberty to tell the school why I counseled you to keep it a secret, and how much I admire your bravery in revealing it. Thus I stand between you and the school as a shield. I put the school on its honor not to worry you, not to reproach you, not to bring up the past. That is the present position. Are you still of the same mind, Christian? Do you wish to take the bull by the horns—to once and for all explain to the school what you have done? Would not this, after all, be the best way out of your troubles? To each noble heart in the school your conduct must appeal, and each girl worth anything must love you all the better for your courage."

When Miss Peacock had finished speaking, Christian rose and stood before her mistress, and said in a low voice:

"And you now counsel me to tell?"

Miss Peacock looked at her thoughtfully.

"I do," she said. "Yes, on the whole, I emphatically do."

Christian did not speak at all for a minute; then she said:

"When do you wish me to tell?"

"Ah, my dear, you do not take a right tone," said her governess. "This is not a question of when; it is a question of your own desire. Is it your own desire?"

"I will be—guided by you."

"But is it your desire?"

"It is not my desire any longer."

"Then, Christian, something has happened."

Christian was silent.

"You would rather keep this thing to yourself?"

"Yes."

"But why this change in your views?"

"I was brave—yes, I think I was; now I am afraid."

"Afraid! You have not the face of a coward."

"I am afraid," continued Christian.

"You would rather the thing was unknown, buried, forgotten?"

"You told the school that I was unavoidably detained: let them continue to believe this."

"But you are not happy."

"Cowards are never happy. May I say good-night now, Miss Peacock?"

Miss Peacock drew the young girl towards her.

"What am I to do with you, Christian? You make me unhappy by your present attitude. Is it possible that you will not confide in me? What can I do to make you give me your confidence?"

"I can never give you my confidence. The only thing you can do—the only really kind thing—is to let me alone. I am not a good girl any longer, and I am a coward; and I will not tell, for it isn't in me to do anything brave or noble."

"Then you are very unlike your grandmother."

"I am sorry for poor—father. Miss Peacock, I daren't stay another minute."

Christian struggled to get away, but Miss Peacock drew her still closer.

"Some day," she said, "you may feel like telling me. When that day comes I will give you my careful attention—my undivided attention—and my most lenient judgment. Do you understand?"

"Yes; you are good."

"If your trouble becomes unbearable you will know, therefore, whom to appeal to."

"Oh, you are very good!"

"I see you will say no more now. Well, good-night, dear; I can at least pray for you."

Christian left the room.