When Star ceased speaking she took out her purse, opened it, and produced the bill. It was folded into very minute compass, but it was there, thin and aggravating, with its items quite perceptible even in the somewhat dim light of the attic.

As she turned to go she put the bill back into her purse, and slipped the purse into her pocket; then she left the room. Christian followed her, feeling very much as though she were beaten all over. When they arrived in the corridor which led to the white rooms, Star turned and spoke.

"I believe," she said—and there was a kind tone in her voice—"that I have misunderstood you. I shall know better to-morrow night. You made a vast mistake in confiding your secret, whatever it may happen to be, to those girls. You should have told me. I am not immaculate, and I can understand even if a girl has got into a little scrape. Don't cry, Christian; I won't be hard on you—I promise that—only don't take up with that lot; they are, I assure you, beneath you. If I were a girl like you, and had a father such as I hear yours is, to say nothing of your pretty mother—for I have heard of her too—I wouldn't touch that sort of girl; I'd let her go by; I'd say to myself, 'She's not for me; she's not the sort I want to know.' Now go to bed and to sleep. Good-night."

Christian said nothing; she felt absolutely tongue-tied. She entered her little room. It was late—very late; the whole school was supposed to be sunk in slumber. She did not even dare to light her candle. She slipped off her clothes and got into bed. A chink of light from the moon came through the curtain of the window. The light lay in two very bright bars on the bed, and as the solitary moon went on her majestic way the bars of light moved, until presently they reached the young girl's shoulder, and then her ear, and then fell across her face. She gave a smothered cry, for once in her home she had read about a woman who was supposed to go mad when the moonlight covered her. Christian felt almost mad that night. She could not sleep; she lay and tossed from side to side until the morning.

The next day happened to be very wet; the sky was covered with a heavy curtain of cloud. There was a sea-fog, too, so that even the beautiful, fresh, sparkling Atlantic could not be seen. But the muffled roar of the waves broke on the stillness; otherwise there was no sound.

As Christian dressed she noticed people, looking large and indistinct in the fog, coming to the house and leaving it. Life at Penwerne Manor would go on just the same whether the outside world was foggy or full of sunshine, and whether young girls were happy or miserable. The school was a strict one, and the hours were rigorously employed; the rules were insisted on no matter whether Christian had a headache or not. Nothing short of absolute illness could excuse lessons not being performed.

She rose and went downstairs, feeling as though the weight of centuries were resting on her shoulders. She entered the long preparation-hall where the girls usually assembled when they first went downstairs. There she stood disconsolately near the door. Presently Star, looking bright and breezy and independent, passed her. She went up to Angela Goring, and standing near her, took her hand with an affectionate squeeze. Susan Marsh had not put in appearance.

Presently a teacher entered, looking sleepy and somewhat depressed. She went through the roll-call. Susan Marsh came in at the last moment, just in time to save herself from a bad mark.

The girls then went into the wide, pleasant-looking refectory, where a wholesome breakfast was provided for them. After breakfast came prayers, and then the usual lessons of the day.

Christian felt all the time as though she were living in a dream. So occupied was her mind, and so absolutely miserable and bewildered did she feel, that for the first time since her appearance in the school she disappointed her teachers. There was a special professor who always came on Wednesdays to give the girls recitation and reading lessons. He was a very irascible person, and could not stand any inattention on the part of his pupils. To find a girl like Christian, so intelligent, so full of soul and true appreciation, was like honey and ambrosia to the poor professor. To hear her read, with her pure Saxon accent and her perfect pronunciation, soothed him, he was fond of saying, as though it were the sweetest music.

He desired her to stand up now and read one of the most celebrated and magnificent passages from Milton's Paradise Lost. She had left off at a certain stanza at the previous lesson, and he desired her to proceed from the line she had last read. Christian took her accustomed place.

Now, it so happened that Miss Peacock herself came into the classroom on this occasion. Mr. Penrose had described to Miss Peacock how splendidly Christian Mitford read, how in all respects she was unlike the ordinary schoolgirl of her age. He was so enthusiastic about her that Miss Peacock decided to hear the young girl herself.

"You must not spoil her by too much praise," she had said to the professor. "I am much interested in Christian Mitford, and will do all in my power for her, but I have to think of more than just the making of a brilliant elocutionist."

"But she will be far better than that," said the professor. "I am convinced she has a beautiful soul. The girl is a sort of genius, although all is more or less in embryo at present."

Now, just as Christian stood up with the open book in her hand and most eyes were fixed on her, the door opened at the farther end of the room and Miss Peacock came slowly forward. Star, who was in the same class, raised her bright eyes and fixed them first on Miss Peacock and then on Christian.

Christian had been looking pale—pale as death—but now a warm wave of color passed over her young cheeks and mounted to her smooth brow. She looked up at Miss Peacock, and even that lady, accustomed as she was to all phases of girl character, was startled at the anguish in Christian's gaze.

"Begin, Miss Mitford," said the professor—"begin." He stamped his foot with some impatience. He murmured a word or two of the opening lines, and Christian read.

But where was the enthusiasm, where the go, the fire, the pathos, of her delivery a week ago? Her voice shook with emotion then; she forgot herself in the grandeur of the scene. Now she thought only of herself—or rather she thought only of that awful hour to-night when all would be known, and she would be disgraced and made miserable forever.

The book suddenly dropped from her hand; she burst into tears.

"I'm not well; I can't do it," she said.

By this frank admission she saved herself from censure. The professor muttered an apology, looked at Miss Peacock as much as to say, "Don't judge her by this ignominious failure," and went on with the lesson.

Star Lestrange was then asked to read the page aloud, and she did so with as much fire and interest as she was capable of.

Christian resumed her seat in the class, and buried her head in her hands. When the professor's hour was over Miss Peacock went up to her and asked if she would like to rest in the library.

"You are not fit for lessons," she said; "you have a bad headache. What can be the matter?"

"My head does ache, but I am quite well. I did not sleep last night; that is the reason. There is really nothing the matter. I would rather go on with my lessons please."

"You are not fit for them, dear. Obey me. There is perfect quiet in the library at present; go there and sleep. If you go, I promise that you shall not be disturbed until dinner-time."

Christian went away at once. The library was a very pleasant apartment, given over partly to the use of the elder girls and partly to the teachers. Christian entered it, sought a chair by the fire, and lay back in it, soothed for the time being by the stillness and the sleepy crackle of the flames. She was just dozing off into real sleep when a girl entered and said:

"Do you know where Star Lestrange is?"

"No," said Christian, "I don't. What is it, Alice?"

"How bad you look, Christian! What is the matter?"

"What do you want Star for?" repeated Christian.

"I wanted to give her her purse. She sent me upstairs to fetch it. She wanted it in a great hurry for some reason or other. Oh, dear! I have to go into Tregellick at once with my music-mistress. What is to be done?"

"Give it to me," said Christian; "I'll see that she gets it."

"Thank you so much!" said Alice. "Give it to her as soon as you see her, please; she wanted it at once."

"Yes," replied Christian.

Alice dropped the purse into Christian's lap and ran out of the library. She was a merry, lively girl, and did not give another thought to the purse. Christian let it lie in her lap and also forgot it; all her thoughts were centered round the evening, and round what would happen then. What was to be done? How could she live through her life in the school when all was known?

"I could run away again," she thought. "Oh, what a mistake I made to run away the last time! What an awful, awful thing it is for any girl to do the sort of wrong I did then! I should be so happy but for that. I should never take the slightest notice of a girl like Susan Marsh; and I should be very fond of Star, and Angela, and Lucy, and Louisa, and even of Jane. Jane is quite a good sort of girl. They are all of them nice—all except Susan, and perhaps Maud Thompson. Oh, what is to be done?"

She writhed in her misery, but once again the absolute stillness soothed her, and she was dozing off to sleep when she heard a door open at the far end of the room. A girl's voice said "Hush!" and then there was silence. Christian turned her head.

"Is there anybody there?" she called out; but there was no answer, only she fancied that she heard a rustle.

She was half-disposed to rise and go down the long room to find out who was hiding; but after all, she thought, it did not matter. She was yielding more and more each moment to the influence of her comfortable seat, the pleasant fire, and the feeling of warmth and rest. Her troubles did not press her so close; they seemed to go away from her, to recede in the distance. It seemed to her that she did not greatly care what happened. She could not help herself. How sleepy she was! How pleasant the flames looked! When she shut her eyes she saw pictures. They were pictures of her old life—her mother's boudoir, and the nest of all nests behind the curtains—the softness of those pillows on which her head had once rested. Then she was in the attic with her dreams of past and future glory, her romances, her spells of idealism. Or she was with her father, and he was telling her about her grandmother, and what he hoped she herself would be. Then, again, she was in those awful slums near Paddington, and Mrs. Carter was looking in at the window. Christian cried out in her sleep:

"Go away! Don't touch me."

She started up as she spoke, and was wide awake again. A girl was walking down the room. Star's purse still lay in Christian's lap.

"What is it? What are you doing? You frightened me," said Christian.

"Sorry," replied Susan in a nonchalant voice. "I came to look for a book—the 'Heir of Redclyffe.' Don't you like it? Don't you think it a beautiful story?"

"I read it a couple of years ago; I forgot it now," replied Christian.

"Are you better for your sleep?"

"Yes, thank you."

Susan opened the door. Christian suddenly seemed to remember something. She started up, clasped Star's purse in her hand, and ran towards the open door.

"What are you going to do about—about to-night?" she said.

Susan laughed. "Nothing at all," she said.

Just at that moment Star came in.

"Oh, Christian," she said, "you have got my purse! What a search I have had for it! I sent Alice up to my room for it."

"She gave it to me," said Christian quite calmly. "She had to hurry out to her music lesson at Tregellick. She could not find you."

"I was in the bowling-alley. I want it."

Star snatched up her purse and slipped it into her pocket. She then left the room, and Christian returned to her place by the fire. Her sleep had wonderfully soothed her.

After all, nothing mattered—that is, nothing mattered much. Seven o'clock in the bowling-alley seemed a long way off. Her headache was better—nearly gone; she could endure life once more.