The next day Christian was too ill to rise. She had tossed from side to side on her restless bed during the whole of that miserable night, and when Miss Jessie, who could scarcely sleep herself from anxiety, went to visit her at an early hour in the morning, she found the poor child with flushed cheeks, eyes so heavy that she could scarcely look at her, and a temperature far above the normal. The doctor was hastily summoned. He said that Christian had got a bad chill and must stay in bed for the day. He ordered medicines and absolute quiet, and when night brought no change for the better, and on the following morning the young girl was still very ill, with a further rise of temperature and pains and aches in all her bones, he went down to see Miss Peacock.

"What is the matter with Christian Mitford?" asked that good lady. "My right hand, as I always call Jessie Jones, is very anxious about her."

"I hope she will soon be well," said the doctor, "but at present her condition is not satisfactory. I thought yesterday that she had simply got a chill, and that by care and certain medicines we could get it under. But now I am afraid she has been subjected to some kind of shock. She refuses to eat, and looks utterly miserable. Another strange thing is that she has got two letters, Miss Jessie tells me; one is from her father in India, and the other from an old servant in London; and she won't open them, or let anyone read them to her. She is beyond doubt in a very nervous, highly-strung state. Miss Jessie tells me that during the night she rambled a little and was slightly delirious. During that time she talked a great deal about one of the other girls of the school."

"And what was her name?" asked Miss Peacock.

"Susan Marsh. She was asking Susan Marsh to do something, and Susan was refusing. She also mentioned Miss Lestrange."

"Then, doctor, if it is really your opinion that Christian Mitford is suffering from shock, what steps do you propose to take to relieve her mind?"

"If she has anything on her mind, Miss Peacock, the sooner she unburdens herself the better."

"I will do what I can, doctor. I am glad you have told me. Steps must certainly be instituted at once to relieve the poor child."

The doctor went away, promising to send certain medicines and to return again in the evening, or sooner if it were necessary.

He had scarcely left the house before the great gong in the central hall rang for prayers, and Miss Peacock a few minutes afterwards entered. All the girls were present, and also all the teachers, with the exception of little Jessie and Christian Mitford. Miss Peacock read a portion of the Bible, then uttered the usual prayer; and when the service was over as the girls were about to scatter to their different classrooms, she raised her hand.

"I have something to say," was her remark—"something which gives me a great deal of pain. As it concerns the entire school, I had better speak of it before the assembled school. Servants, you may leave the room; girls and teachers, please remain."

The servants filed out in their accustomed orderly manner. The door was closed behind them; the girls drew together in a group, and the teachers stood a little way off. Miss Peacock looked steadily at the assembled girls; she scarcely glanced at the teachers. Well she knew that the mischief, if mischief there were, was to be found in that group of bright-looking girls.

"I have always been very proud of my school," she began. "I have kept school here now for many years. I have been particular as to the sort of girls whom I have admitted to Penwerne Manor. No girl could ever come to this school without having a reference from the parents of a former pupil. By this means I have insured having in my midst girls of unimpeachable character, girls to whom the greater sins would at least be unknown. In all lives, my dear girls, there must come temptation; and such wrong-doing as worldliness, thoughtlessness, bad temper, and jealousies will disfigure and mar the peace of all communities. This must be the case as long as human nature is human nature. But there are other sins, which I have been proud—yes, proud—to think that my girls who live at Penwerne Manor would never commit. One of these sins is the sin of cruelty."

Miss Peacock paused. She looked at all the girls. In particular her eyes fastened themselves upon the face of Susan Marsh. Susan Marsh, Miss Peacock had to admit, was a little different from the other girls. She had been sent to the school under special conditions; for her mother was dead, and her father had pleaded that as a girl whom he knew very well had been educated at Penwerne Manor, and had in all ways fulfilled Miss Peacock's ideals, so his child—his motherless child—might have a chance. And Miss Peacock had accepted Susan, and hoped that Susan was at least following in the lead of girls higher in morals than herself.

To-day Susan's face looked dark. She did not meet the fixed gaze of her teacher; on the contrary, she shuffled her feet and her eyes sought the ground.

"The sin of cruelty," continued Miss Peacock, "I have at least not expected to find in your midst."

And now she looked past Susan and fixed her steadfast gaze on Star. Whatever Star's faults, there was nothing underhand about her. Her eyes, soft and bright—bright as a robin's—were raised full to her teacher. A flush of color did rise to her cheeks when Miss Peacock so steadfastly regarded her, but there was nothing underhand in those clear eyes, nor in that bright, vivacious face.

"I regret to have to tell you all," continued Miss Peacock, looking now at none of the girls in especial, "that such a case has taken place in this school. A girl—one of the forty who are numbered as my pupils—has been cruel to a young girl who belongs to us all. The girl so cruelly treated is Christian Mitford. She has not been here very long, and she has come to me as a very precious legacy. I knew Christian Mitford's grandmother, and she was quite the most upright woman I ever met. I owe a great deal to her influence. I also know Christian's father. There are few men who bear a more upright or braver character. He has been entrusted with a post which requires all the best energies of a man to carry out its duties. He has gone in the face of danger and banishment to fulfill those duties. He has gone to serve his country in a moment of great danger. I cannot exactly explain what his duties are, but any of you girls whose fathers are in the diplomatic service will understand me. Christian's father has left her behind, for she could not encounter the dangers of the climate of the country where he is now living. Christian's mother has gone with her husband. Her child has therefore come to me more or less as an orphan. I said to her father when he wrote to beg of me to take Christian, that she would be happy in my big family, that she would find her mÉtier, that she would thrive in body and spirit, that she would become an accomplished and Christian woman. Now, Christian is a particularly bright child, and particularly intelligent, and there is no reason whatsoever why she should not be happy here. That she is not happy there is not the slightest doubt. That she is so unhappy as to cause her to be ill is also, I regret to say, a fact. Dr. Webb saw her this morning, and he says that she has encountered a shock; he does not know of what sort, but he and I both feel that we must come to you girls for the explanation. He fears that she will not be better until the load on her mind is relieved. She is too ill to be worried; she is too ill even to be questioned. To treat her wisely and well we must know what to do. Now, girls, I ask your advice. How am I to treat Christian Mitford? We don't want her to become seriously ill, and she is in a fair way to be so unless her mind is completely relieved. What do you say girls? Have you anything to suggest?"

There was a dead silence amongst all the girls. The teachers looked immensely interested. Miss Forest opened her lips as though to speak. Mr. Fredericks, who had come in just before prayers, glanced at Miss Forest. Presently Miss Forest stepped forward.

"I am absolutely in the dark," she said, "with regard to Christian Mitford's trouble, but I do know that two nights ago Mr. Frederick and I were entertaining two of the Sixth Form Girls, Louisa Twining and Phillipa Dawson, at supper, when a hurried message came for them to visit Star Lestrange in her room. We were surprised at the time. This, of course, may have nothing to do with Christian Mitford, but I think it worth mentioning."

"And so do I think it worth mentioning," said Mr. Frederick. "I observed on Wednesday, when I gave Christian her last music lesson, that she was disturbed, not herself. The brilliancy which always characterized her playing had deserted her."

"She was unquestionably not herself on Wednesday," said Miss Forest. "She seemed much troubled all day. Did you not notice, Miss Peacock, when you were sent for to hear, her recite her portion from Milton's works, how badly she did it?"

"I certainly did. Then you think she was unhappy then?"

"In the light of subsequent events I very much fear she was," said Miss Forest.

"You have nothing further to say?"

"Nothing. I know nothing more with regard to her case."

"Has anyone anything more to say with regard to her case?"

Louisa Twining now held up her hand.

"What is it, Louisa, my dear?" said Miss Peacock, speaking with that respect which always characterized her when she addressed the head girl of the school.

"I have nothing to say personally," said Louisa; "I only wish I had. But I think Star, if she would, could tell you something."

"I would much, much rather not tell," said Star. She turned very white, then crimson. "I cannot—I will not tell. Please don't ask me."

"I must ask you, Star. My dear child, this makes me very unhappy. Go to my room at once, Star. I will join you presently. Are you certain, Louisa, that you have nothing more to say?"

"Except to repeat my words. Star Lestrange can tell you something if she will."

"Star, dear, go at once. You know I could never accuse you of unkindness. But go, dear; I will see you in my room immediately."

Miss Peacock's own private sitting room was much admired by the girls of Penwerne Manor. It was only on rare and most special occasions that she allowed the girls of the school to visit her there. When she did it was to each and all of those girls as though they had entered into paradise. The shackles of school life seemed to fall away from them; they felt at home. All their most brilliant and most refined instincts seemed to awaken and grow stronger in Miss Peacock's presence. She was a very literary woman, highly accomplished in every sense of the word. Her knowledge of foreign languages, her knowledge of art and the best English literature, made her conversation delightful. Then she had the knack of knowing how to speak. Without in the least uttering a sermon, she had the power of awaking the best in each of the young lives. The girls were enthusiastic about their head-mistress. They loved her almost with passion. Miss Peacock was fond of saying to them:

"I intend you to obey your teachers. I have made rules for your guidance, and those rules are not to be broken, but I have made no rule—not one—with regard to your conduct to me. I will leave that conduct to the love you bear me. If you don't love me, nothing I can do will make you; if you do, all will be easy—for those who love try hard to please the beloved."

Amongst the girls who most adored Miss Lavinia Peacock was Star. Star had naturally a most vivacious, brilliant, and affectionate nature. All that was good and beautiful in her character was drawn out by Miss Peacock, and the idea of going to her private room now filled her with the strangest sensations.

"Under ordinary circumstances I should love it," thought the girl. "As it is——"

She trembled exceedingly as she turned the handle of the door and entered. The room, with its bright fire, its beautiful decorations, its lovely pictures, its still more beautiful flowers, soothed Star as it always did; but then the memory of Christian—Christian ill, very ill—Christian treated, as it seemed to the girl herself now, with great cruelty, came over her, and flinging herself into a chair, she wept.

"Why have I been dragged into this?" she thought. "What am I to do? No, I won't tell what I know. If I couldn't tell last night, still less can I tell now. Oh, poor Christian! poor Christian!"

It was just then when Miss Peacock entered. She noticed at a swift glance Star's attitude of utter despair. She did not make any remark, however, but going to her accustomed chair near the fire, she took up her knitting and began to knit. Her whole attitude was the very essence of peace. Star, who had been sobbing so violently that she could not altogether restrain herself, soon ceased her tears. Presently, with wet eyes and flushed face, she glanced at her teacher. Miss Peacock, to all appearance, was in a dream. She was knitting, but her eyes were gazing straight before her. Sometimes her lips moved. Her face was pale; her eyes were full of trouble.

"Oh, Miss Peacock!" said the child at last.

Then Miss Peacock dropped her knitting; over her whole face there came an alert, watchful, and yet affectionate expression. She held out both her arms to Star, and the next instant the weeping child was clasped to her breast. Miss Peacock was one of those women who are mothers without ever having had children, and Star knew as those firm arms clasped her, and those lips kissed her on the brow, that she was to all intents and purposes in the presence of a mother.

By and by Miss Peacock loosened her clasp, and motioned Star to a chair by her side. She took one of the girl's hands, pressed it gently, and said:

"Now, darling, you will tell me."

"But I can't," said Star in a choking voice.

"You can't, Stella? You can't tell me about that which I have spoken of, and yet you know?"

"I may not know. I know something; I certainly don't know all; I am distressed, I am unhappy; but if you banish me from the school even, I shall not tell."

Star's voice gained courage as she proceeded. She looked full up at Miss Peacock now.

"Star," said her teacher, "I am the last to force anyone to act against her conscience. Is it a matter of conscience with you to keep this thing to yourself?"

"It would injure Christian if I were to tell; it would be unfair."

"Can you not give me some hint, Star? Think of my position: a child—the child of a valued friend—very, very ill, and I am unable to cope with her malady. You can cope with it. Will you?"

Star rose. "I will go and see her if you like," she said. "The other day I was angry; you would have been angry if you were in my place. I would not speak to her nor look at her. Oh! don't ask me to say any more; it is unfair to her."

"Of course, I must not question you, but your words alarm me. In spite of your efforts to conceal something, you are driving me to the conclusion that Christian has done something very wrong."

Star was silent.

"Is that so, Star? Please speak."

"I cannot tell you anything; I must not. There is one perhaps who could——"

"Ah! you allude to Susan Marsh. It is an extraordinary thing," continued Miss Lavinia, "that from the very first entrance of Christian into this school, Susan Marsh seems to have had a most pernicious influence on her. That such a girl as Susan could affect such a girl as Christian is a puzzle to me. Do you agree with me, Star, that Susan is at the bottom of this?"

"I ought not to say anything against Susan, but will you question her?"

"I will do so."

"And may I go and see Christian?"

"She is very ill, but it may do her good to see you. Go, my child; and God bless you. I am intensely unhappy about this. I want to act with justice to everyone—to everyone—and I confess I cannot see my way."

Miss Peacock's large gray eyes were full of tears. Star saw them, and the next instant the impulsive child had dropped on her knees.

"Oh, I love you—I love you!" she said. "We all love you. There is nothing I wouldn't do for you, but if you knew all you would counsel me not to tell what has happened with regard to Christian. I will go to her; I will go at once."

"Do, Star; and on your way through the schoolroom, tell Susan Marsh to come to me immediately."

Star left the room. The momentary weakness which had made her sob so bitterly was over. It seemed to her that all of a sudden her contempt for Christian, her dislike to her, had vanished. She had a sort of misgiving that, after all, Christian might be innocent. If such was the case, she, Star, was the one who had treated Christian with such rare cruelty.

She entered the central hall, where the greater number of the girls had their classes during the morning. It was in this room she would be certain to find Susan Marsh. Yes, there she was, her large face slightly flushed, her eyes suspicious and eager. She was pretending to copy a theme into one of her exercise books, but Star saw at once that she was not thinking about her work.

The moment Star entered the room several of the girls looked up at her, and all with more or less curiosity. Had she relieved the tension? Had she confessed whatever she had to confess to Miss Peacock? Was Christian innocent or guilty? The whole school was in a state of great excitement with regard to Christian, and different opinions were hotly argued amongst the girls with regard to the why and wherefore of her present condition. Never before at Penwerne Manor had there been such an interesting and remarkable case under discussion. Susan, however, had refused to say anything about Christian.

"Oh, I am sick of her!" she had exclaimed when Janet Bouverie and another girl came and spoke to her on the subject. "Do let her alone, Florence. I don't want the subject mentioned in my hearing. I can only say that it was a very bad day for the school when she entered it."

Lessons began, and the girls were forced to keep their opinions to themselves. It was in the midst of the history lesson that Star walked up the room. The history mistress paused and looked at Star. Star went up to her.

"I have a message from Miss Peacock. She wants to see Susan Marsh at once."

"At once, Star? Does that mean now or after school?"

"Now," said Star briefly.

"Susan," said Miss Forest, glancing at the girl, "go at once to your head-mistress in her private room."

Susan gave Star a very venomous look. Her face turned white. She wondered if Star had really told what she knew; but then she reflected that by no possibility could Star know the truth. She could not know who had stolen the bill out of her purse. She could not possibly guess in what way Susan Marsh had become possessed of Christian's secret. Above all things, she had not the most remote idea that strangers were to be admitted into the attic on the following Wednesday to partake of the Penwernian feast. Any one of these things, if known, would have insured Susan's removal from the school under the most bitter and disgraceful circumstances. But no one could know, and Susan tossed her head in the air, walked down the corridor, entered the central hall, quickly traversed another passage, and knocked at Miss Peacock's door. Miss Peacock said, "Come in," and Susan entered.

"Ah, Susan!" said her mistress, glancing at the girl, and treating her altogether in a different manner from what her conduct had been to Star; "come and stand before me. I have something to say to you."

Susan considered this an indignity. She augured the worst from Miss Peacock's somewhat stern manner. "What is it, Miss Peacock?" she asked.

"Stand quiet, Susan; I want to ask you a question."

Susan made no remark, but she shut her lips and looked full into the face of her mistress.

"I want to ask you a direct question," said Miss Peacock; "and I want to ask it now that we two are alone—not really alone, Susan, for there is One present, mighty, all-powerful, all-knowing. Here in His presence, therefore—the presence of our God, Susan—I ask you if you can throw any light on the very unhappy condition of my dear pupil, Christian Mitford?"

"I can thrown no light," answered Susan.

She spoke calmly enough, although her heart was beating almost to suffocation.

"Are you certain, Susan? If you could see the One who is always present, would you make such an answer?"

"I can throw no light on it," repeated Susan; but now her eyes sought the ground and her lips trembled.

Miss Peacock uttered a sigh.

"Star Lestrange says you can."

"That's just like Star Lestrange," replied Susan. "She does know something—of that I am certain—but she won't tell, and throws the thing on me. I hate her. She's the worst, most deceitful girl in the school. I hate her more than I hate Christian. But I hate them both."

"Susan," said Miss Peacock after a pause, "do you know the exact circumstances under which you came to this school?"

Susan raised her brows in some surprise.

"I suppose as a pupil, and because my father paid for me," she said after a pause.

"You certainly came as a pupil, and most certainly also your father pays your school expenses. But in a select school of this sort there is generally a very strict inquiry instituted with regard to each girl who comes here. You were at another school before you came. You were at a school at Margate."

"How do you know that?" said Susan, and her voice became sharp with anxiety.

"I happen to know it. What is more, I had a letter from the head-mistress of that school telling me certain things about you. Oh, no, my dear, you need not turn so white; I have not the slightest wish to injure you with your schoolfellows; but after receiving that letter I wrote to your father declining to receive you as one of my pupils. He was much distressed. He is a good man. He came to see me, and he spoke of you as his orphan child; your mother was not long dead."

"No; mother died very suddenly," said Susan. Her words came out falteringly; in her unattractive eyes tears swam.

"Your father gave a pitiful picture with regard to his motherless girl, and after due reflection and consulting Jessie Jones, I decided to admit you to the school. Any girl who arrived at a school like this labeled as a black sheep might far better never come. I was therefore most anxious not to tell your schoolfellows anything whatever about you. Nor, shall I tell them now, Susan. No, I will not injure you to that extent; but unless Christian Mitford is happy and well by the end of the present term, and unless no further stories of your misdoings reach me, I shall expect your school life at Penwerne Manor to terminate at Easter. Have you anything to say, my dear?"

"I think you are awfully unkind. I hate you all. I wish I might go."

"You don't realize what it means, Susan. To have been already dismissed for want of honesty and truthfulness from school at Margate, and to be again dismissed—or practically dismissed—from Penwerne Manor, would injure you for life, my poor child. Be certain of this: nothing would induce me to make you so unhappy if it were not absolutely essential. It rests with yourself, Susan. A little courage and determination to cease to do evil, and to learn to do well, will make all things possible even for you. Now go. You leave a very anxious and unhappy head-mistress behind you; but when you can come to me and confess, I will certainly be as lenient as circumstances can permit."

"I will never, never confess," said Susan. "I have nothing to confess," she added sullenly, and she left the room, hanging her head, a scowl between her brows.

Meanwhile Star had gone straight upstairs to the White Corridor. She paused for a moment outside Christian's door. The door was slightly ajar. The blinds were down at the windows; the fire burned low, and yet with a bright gleam in the grate. Little Jessie was seated by the fire, bending forward and stirring something from time to time that simmered in a saucepan.

Star tapped with her knuckles on the door. Jessie rose at once.

"Oh, my dear!" said the little woman when she saw Star, "you must on no account come in; you would trouble her dreadfully. Go away, dear; leave her to me. She mustn't see anyone now. I have the doctor's orders."

"But I wish you would let me see her. I think—I am sure—that I won't do her any harm. I may do her good. I told Miss Peacock, and Miss Peacock is willing. Please let me come in for a minute or two, Jessie. And, please, when I go in, go out, Jessie. What I say to her I must say to her alone. No one must be present when I talk to her."

"I can't permit you to enter, Star, until I get Miss Peacock's authority from herself. If you like to stand here just within call, I will run down to Miss Lavinia and find out what she wishes."

Miss Jessie departed at once, and Star stood outside the door. All was still in the room. The sick girl must be asleep. By and by Miss Jessie, her eyes full of tears, reappeared.

"You can go in, Star," she said. "But don't stay long. And do—do be guided by wisdom; and do—do be kind."

"I will, Jessie," said Star in a voice of great affection; "if for no other reason, for your sake."

Miss Jessie went away, and Star on tiptoe entered the room.

Christian was asleep. She was lying on her back. Her arms were flung outside the bedclothes; the heavy, dark lashes swept her pale cheeks; her fair hair was pushed back from her broad forehead. She looked wonderfully sweet and wonderfully intellectual. Star noticed this first of all; then she saw the real, the latent nobility in the face. Whatever its faults, deceit—real deceit—could have nothing to do with it.

Star felt her heart beat. She would not wake the sick girl. She must wait quietly until Christian opened her eyes. Star sank down on the chair by the fire. The little saucepan stood on the hob. Now and then Star bent forward and stirred the chicken broth which Miss Jessie was making. What was she to do? What was she to believe?

Star had never come face to face with any really complicated case of wrong-doing. She had been attracted to Christian from the first; then she had been repelled by her; then she had been very much puzzled by her extraordinary allegiance to Susan Marsh and her set. When she saw the grocery bill in Christian's history-book she had been astonished, but scarcely inclined to blame Christian very severely. Christian did not know, she had argued, and Susan was clever and full of resources, and was absolutely sure to force the girls who were under her power to carry out her will. Yes, Star was terribly vexed, but she scarcely blamed Christian for this. She almost took Christian's part when she went up to the front attic and spoke about what she had discovered. But when on the following evening she went to the bowling-alley, and opening her purse, found that the little tell-tale bill had been removed, and when she further remembered that the purse had been in Christian's possession for over an hour, her lingering liking for the girl vanished on the spot.

"Her looks belie her," she thought. "She is bad, deceitful, unworthy of any good girl's affection. I'll give her up."

So angry was she that she had acted on impulse. She had sent for her chosen friends and for two of the most important girls in the school, and had told them that she had given Christian up. She had further said that she wished to resign her post on the committee of the secret society of the Penwernians. She had spoken with great heat and bitterness.

Then came the news of Christian's illness, and Star's interview with Miss Peacock. During that interview it seemed to the girl that she was once more forced to change her point of view. There were even yet possibilities that Christian might be innocent. Beyond doubt she was suffering. The very worst characters don't suffer when they commit sin. Christian was suffering so badly that the doctor was anxious about her. He said she was suffering from a shock. Now, what had shocked her? If her character was all that Star had imagined it to be two days ago, why should the shock of what she had done make her ill? Star determined now at any cost to keep Christian's secret.

"I don't understand things," thought the child, "but if there is a way out I will try to find it; and if there is any sort of doubt I will give Christian the benefit of it."

As she thought this she glanced again toward the bed; then she gave a start and stood up, for Christian's eyes were wide open and were fixed on her face.

Now Christian's young face was very pale. She did not look at all surprised at seeing Star. Star went up to her.

"How are you, Christian?" she said in a low voice. "Are you better?"

"I am quite well," replied Christian.

Her words came out with a sort of indifference. She looked at Star, and then she smiled.

"Oh, I am quite well," said the young girl.

"If you are well you will get up, won't you?"

"It doesn't matter," said Christian.

"But you needn't stay in bed if you are well, need you?"

"It doesn't matter," said Christian again.

Then the thankfulness which had filled Star's heart just for a moment left it, and in its place came a queer sensation of pain and fear. Although Christian said she was quite well, her face belied her; and still more her words belied her.

"Do you know me, Chris?" said Star, bending towards her.

"Yes," replied Christian; "you are Star Lestrange."

"We have always been friends, haven't we, Christian?"

"No," said Christian, still speaking in that level, indifferent voice; "you were never my friend."

"Oh, Christian! but I tried to be."

"No," said Christian again.

She gazed straight before her. Her voice was never raised; it never altered its level, indifferent tones. It seemed to Star as she listened that Christian did not care whether they were friends or foes. For a minute the little girl was absolutely silent.

"I wish to tell you something," she then said gravely. "Can you listen to me, Christian?"

Christian's eyes were fixed on Star's face. She did not speak.

"I wish to tell you that I am very sorry for what happened a couple of days ago. I don't mean only about not finding Dawson's bill in my purse after you had it in your lap for an hour or more; I don't mean only that, but I mean what I did afterwards. For I was so hurt, and so frightened, and so angry that I scarcely knew what I was doing. I forgot myself, Christian, and I sent for all my friends and told them that I had given you up."

"Yes," said Christian.

"Did you know it, Chris? You look as though you knew it."

"I heard you—at least I heard something about it. The girls passed the door, and they spoke to each other. I knew you had given me up."

"And weren't you shocked?"

"Shocked? No."

"Didn't you care?"

"No."

"Christian, that is unlike you."

"Perhaps; but everything is unlike me. Everything has been unlike me since I came to Penwerne Manor."

"Christian, tell me the truth. Lying as you are there, looking as you now look, I am certain—positive—that you would not tell a lie."

"Perhaps not," said Christian.

"You never, never took that bill out of my purse?"

"No."

"You are certain?"

"Yes. I didn't open your purse. But it doesn't matter whether you believe me or not. You think I did; it doesn't matter.

"Christian, tell me what you know."

"Alice gave me your purse to keep for you. She threw it into my lap. I fell asleep. I slept for an hour. When I awoke it was still in my lap. I never gave it to anybody else. I don't know how the bill was taken out of your purse. But that is all as far as I am concerned."

Steps were heard in the corridor. Miss Jessie was coming back. Miss Jessie would certainly be impatient. Christian, looking more dead than alive, was lying prone on her bed, and Star had not fulfilled her mission. Suddenly an idea came to her.

"I am going to take both your hands," she said. Christian made no movement whatever to put her hands into Star's clasp. Star took them.

"Now listen to me, Christian Mitford. I have done wrong, and I confess it. I hated you, but I hate you no longer. I did love you—well, I love you back again. Listen to me, Christian. I love you back again; and I know, Christian, that you didn't take the bill out of my purse. I know that you are innocent. Now get well, Chris—get well, for I love you."