"Why have you sent for us, Star?" said Lucy Norris.

Star was in her own room. It was the prettiest room in the White Corridor. She had it to herself, her parents paying a little extra to secure her this privilege. Round the fireplace were arranged two or three chairs, a little writing-table, and a couple of footstools. Star had a fire whenever she particularly wished for it. It was blazing brightly that evening. The electric light made the room as bright as possible. Star was standing by the fireplace.

"Why have you sent for us?" said Lucy Norris. "Here we all are, but what is the matter?"

"All" consisted of Lucy Norris herself, Angela Goring, Jane Price, Philippa Dawson, and Louisa Twining. The two Sixth Form girls appeared last. Star did not answer. When Philippa entered the room she just nodded to her to close the door. Star as a rule was the gayest of the gay; her laugh was the merriest in the whole school. She was about the most popular girl at Penwerne Manor. She always had a little following of girls, and although she herself was not yet promoted to the Fifth Form, she led girls even of the Sixth. Louisa Twining and Philippa Dawson both looked anxious as they came into the room.

"Here, Louisa," said Star, pointing to what might be considered the place of honor; "will you seat yourself here? And will you, Philippa, take the other chair exactly opposite? Now, girls of the Fourth, establish yourselves where you like. I have something important to say—something that I must say now or forever after hold my peace."

"This is all very dramatic," said Philippa; "but I really want to know what it means. We have your very best interests at heart, Star; and I am sure I can say, both for myself and Louisa, that we would follow you to the world's end. But why were we disturbed just when we were enjoying a special supper with Miss Forest and Mr. Frederick? Mr. Frederick had promised to play Beethoven's Sonata Pathetique for us after supper. Well, what is it?"

"Of course, the occasion is important," said Star. "I have something to say—something dreadful, which hurts me," said the little girl, and her lips trembled. "I have a complaint to make, and I must make it to you. I wish to say in the presence of you all that I want to have nothing whatever to do in the future with Christian Mitford."

Now, Louisa knew very little of Christian. It is true she had taken her in hand during her first day at school, but being very far removed from her in class and at play, she had more or less forgotten her existence.

Philippa, however, raised her dark brows and looked full at Star.

"I have noticed Christian," she said. "She seemed to me to be a particularly nice and well-behaved girl—the sort of girl that you would be sure to take up, Star, for you always know a thoroughly nice girl when you see her."

"I did think I had that penetration," said Star; "but it seems I was wrong. I took a fancy to Christian; I repent of my fancy. I was mistaken; I wish to say it now in the presence of you all."

"It seems an extraordinary thing to send for us to consider," said Louisa, speaking again.

"And I wish further to say," continued Star, "that I believe you, Lucy; you, Angela; you, Jane; and I myself are all doing wrong to have anything to do with the Penwernians. I know, Louisa, that you and Philippa have not joined our great secret society; but of course you have heard of it."

"Oh, yes," said Philippa; "I am quite aware of its existence. I think everyone in the school knows about it."

"Even Miss Peacock herself," said Louisa.

"Yes, even Miss Peacock herself," continued Philippa. "But Miss Peacock sees no harm in it. If she did she would put a stop to it. She once said to me:

"'I don't consider it part of the duty of a head mistress to interfere with the girls as long as they do no wrong. A little secret and mystery is as the breath of life to a schoolgirl, and I shall not interfere as long as nothing wrong is done.'"

"Ah!" said Star, "that is just it. I used to adore mystery," she continued, with a sigh. "I used to think it quite delicious, but I have changed my mind; I no longer think it delicious. I hate and loathe mystery as much," she continued, speaking with vehemence—"as much as I hate and loathe Christian Mitford."

"But what has the poor child done?" said Louisa Twining. "It must be something very bad, Star, for you to behave in this peculiar way. Are you going to tell us?"

"No, I won't tell you, for you would not be interested, and you need not know. She had better beware, however, for if she goes on with her evil practices I shall tell Miss Peacock."

"Perhaps you forget," said Louisa, speaking a little sternly, "that the poor child is practically an orphan, both her parents being at the other side of the world."

"I don't forget it," said Star; "I remember it quite well. I know Miss Peacock is interested in her; she has spoken about her several times. But Miss Peacock does not know her. She does not belong to Miss Peacock's set in this school. I shall watch her. I thought I would tell you about her, but I won't; I will give her another chance. But if she goes on as she has been doing lately I shall certainly tell. I don't mind what she thinks; she belongs to the Susan Marsh set."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Philippa, "I am amazed at that."

"It is true; I have sent for you to let you clearly understand that Christian Mitford belongs to one set of girls in the school, and that I belong to the other; and I don't care whether you think me right or wrong. And I have given up the Penwernians. Lucy, Angela, and Jane, you must represent the committee in future, for I have given up the Penwernians."

"Well," said Lucy, "I will have nothing to do with it if you don't."

"I am glad to hear that."

"Nor I," said Angela Goring.

"Nor I," said Jane Price.

"Very well; I believe you all are right. They are going to have a meeting in a few nights, and we will attend and give in our resignations. After that we shall have nothing whatever to do with the society."

Louisa rose. "I consider this meeting rather unprecedented and, if I may add it, uncalled for," she said. "No girl has a right to accuse her schoolfellow, as you have accused Christian Mitford to-night, without the gravest reason. If you will tell me, and allow me as the head girl of the school to give you a little advice, I shall consider what you say absolutely sacred; but as it is you bewilder me."

"You are not more bewildered than I am," said Star; "not more bewildered nor more disappointed. But as to telling you, there is no use, Louisa. I would if I thought it would make any difference, but it won't; she is past curing."

"No one is past curing," said Louisa. "I am extremely sorry for you, Star. I think you have taken up a wrong notion altogether."

Star said nothing. Philippa and Louisa a few minutes afterwards left the room, and the four girls who had considered themselves Christian's bodyguard were alone.

"Why shouldn't you tell us?" said Angela. "It is very odd to call us together like this, and to draw two of the Sixth Form girls into the matter, and then not to confide in us."

"If I told you, you could not live in the same school with her, so I won't tell you," said Star. "I will give her just a chance, although I will have nothing to do with her; but if she goes on with her bad ways I shall certainly tell Miss Peacock."

Meanwhile a pale girl was walking swiftly down the corridor. The white chamber where Christian slept was near Star's room. Angela Goring slept in the room next to Christian's; Star's room came next, and then Jane Price's. Christian entered her room now and shut the door. It felt cold and desolate. The fog had been followed by a cold night; there was a slight frost. Christian did not even trouble to turn on the electric light; she went straight across the icy-cold chamber and flung herself, dressed as she was, on the bed. There was a warm eider-down quilt on the bed, but she did not trouble to wrap herself in it. She lay still, and the cold pierced through her body, and the iron of adversity entered into her soul. She was too much stunned, too miserable, too frightened to care. She felt as though someone had tied her up in chains that she could never get rid of again; she could never extricate herself.

There come times when such trouble visits the human heart that it can scarcely realize what has befallen it. Such a time had come to-night to Christian. Susan had got her into her trap, and those girls whom she had believed to be her friends had turned against her. She had seen Star in the distance when the girls entered the refectory for supper, and the look on Star's face, as her bright eyes fixed themselves for one moment on Christian was one which the poor child could never forget. It was impossible for Christian to eat. She could not attend to her lessons; the headache which she had endured during the early part of the day was so bad that she was glad to ask Jessie's permission to retire earlier than usual.

As she lay on her bed she heard a sound, and looking up, she noticed that she had not fastened her door properly when she entered, and that it was now a little ajar. There was a rustle of dresses as the girls went by, and then she heard the well-known, beautiful voice of Angela Goring saying:

"I never should have thought it of her, and if anyone else except Star had told me, I should not have believed her."

"But Star, with all her wildness, never exaggerates," said Lucy Norris. "Dear, dear! who would have thought it?"

"They are speaking of me," thought Christian. "I can't live through this; I can't endure it. What is to be done?"

They had scarcely gone to their own rooms before the door was opened and little Jessie entered. In a twinkling there was a change of scene. She turned on the electric light. She glanced toward the bed, and the flushed face and tear-stained eyes of the girl she loved best in the entire school met her gaze.

"This will never do," thought Jessie.

She put a match to the fire, which was already laid in the grate, and soon the crackling of the wood and the cheerful light of the blaze transformed the room. Then she went up to the bed.

"My child," she said, "how cold you are! Let me just put this eider-down over you."

She wrapped it around Christian, who shivered with a sort of forlorn sense of comfort.

"My poor, dear child, you are ill."

"My head aches," said Christian. "It has been aching all day."

"What can be wrong, darling?"

"Everything, Miss Jessie."

"Oh, we often feel like that when we have headaches. But come; you must get into bed. I will undress you; then I will bring you a cup of something hot, and after that you will sleep."

Christian was so thoroughly miserable that Miss Jessie's ministrations were gratefully received. She allowed the little woman to take off her things and to lay her between the sheets, to wrap the eider-down over her, and then put her cool, firm hand on the burning forehead.

"I'll be back in a minute, darling," she said. "You took no supper this evening. That is the worst way in the world to treat a headache of your sort. I'll be back immediately."

In a very short time Miss Jessie returned with a little tray containing a cup of hot coffee and some bread and butter.

"Now you must eat, Christian," she said; "you must eat and drink. Afterwards you shall sleep."

Christian did eat and drink. It was wonderful how the food revived her, how altogether less miserable the world seemed when she had finished her little meal.

"And now you won't guess what I have got for you," said Miss Jessie.

"No, Jessie, I can't. And you can't have brought me anything—anything at all that I should care for."

"Yes, but I have. What do you say to two letters?"

"Letters?" said Christian, the color rising to her cheeks.

"A foreign letter—I think it must come from your father or mother—and a letter from London. Here they are. Put them under your pillow. It is too late for you to read them to-night; or if you would really rather——"

"Give them to me," said Christian. She looked at the writing. "Yes, from father," she said; "and from my dear old nurse. I won't read them to-night," she continued. "I don't think I could understand them. Jessie, the most dreadful thing has happened, and I can never, never be happy again. I don't deserve anything good, for I have been a naughty, bad girl, and I am, oh, so miserable and unhappy!"

"I tell you what it is, Christian," said Miss Jessie: "if you don't go to sleep, and in the morning tell me all about it, I will take you straight to Miss Peacock. That I will, for though I am an easy-going woman, when my blood is up I can be as despotic as the greatest virago in the land."