Sunday can be the most delightful or the most wretched day in the world. When the heart is at peace, when the sun shines brightly, and things are going well, how sweet are the golden hours; how joyful and tuneful does the church bell sound; how soothing and stimulating to the highest part of our nature are the hymns and the church services! There is rest all round, and we feel it through and through our natures.

But there are other Sundays, again, which are just as miserable. There is the terrible ache in the heart; there is gloom over everything, and the cessation of customary occupations but increases this tenfold.

Christian, although a comparative stranger in the school, was now the one object of interest. She was thought of so much that there was little or no time to remember anybody else, and but for Star both Susan and Maud would have been allowed to have been as miserable and as naughty as they liked without anyone remarking them.

But Star, as she expressed it afterwards, felt almost vindictive that day. All that had gone before, and the wretched consequence of her own act of folly and unkindness in believing that Christian was guilty of the most disgraceful conduct, now caused her sensitive conscience to accuse her loudly. The best way to relieve herself was to put Christian right. She could only do this by forcing Susan and also Maud to confess. Star knew very well that a special and very daring rebellion was to take place in the front attic on the following Wednesday. Its nature she had not the slightest idea of. She herself, as she said, would no longer be a Penwernian. She would not attend the secret meeting. But that did not prevent her from being intensely unhappy about it. It was on account of that that Christian had broken the rules. Christian had been sent to Tregellick and had spent her money at Dawson's shop, and she had brought in food, and paid a bill there. Susan and Maud and Mary Hillary and Janet Bouverie had incited her to this act of rebellion. They were the real culprits; Christian was little more than a tool. Ill as Christian now was the conspiracy had not ceased to exist. There was no doubt whatever on that point. Star did not intend to make any more fuss—she was too broken-down for that—only she saw Maud with her own eyes knock down the prayer-book in church. It had not been done by accident; Star's quick eyes had detected Maud in the act. The prayer-book had been deliberately dropped on the floor. This aroused the little girl's suspicions. She saw Maud stoop down, and she herself was obliged to leave the pew. She looked back. Maud had risen, and she was bending towards a vulgar, showy-looking girl, in the pew just in front of her, the very name of whom Star did not know; and she gave the girl something—something in the nature of a letter. There was no doubt of it.

"It is the clew to the mystery," thought Star. "Now I will be firm. Now I intend to be what they call cruel. It is the clew to the mystery. I will find out. Christian lies at death's door; she is dependent, perhaps, on me to save her life."

After dinner Star sped very quickly upstairs. She went on tiptoe. When she reached the neighborhood of the White Corridor she took off her shoes. Then she glided along towards the door of the sickroom. It was very slightly ajar. Star peeped in. It so happened that Miss Peacock, who had been up all night, and was now worn out with anxiety, lay sound asleep in the arm-chair by the fire. Jessie was downstairs having her dinner. Neither was the nurse present. Star could look in at Christian. And it so happened that Christian looked back at Star; and although her face was white as death, and there were startling great shadows under her eyes, and although that same little face was not only white but strangely pinched, she recognized Star, and it seemed to Star that her eyes brightened and her lips moved in a sort of voiceless appeal.

This was enough for the little girl. Silently, without making the least vestige of noise, she glided across the floor and up to the sick girl's bed.

"Darling!" said Star.

Now, in all the world there could never be a more thrilling voice than Star Lestrange could assume when she chose. And the love now in her voice, and the pity, and the longing to make reparation penetrated straight down to the heart of the girl who was slowly but surely drifting out on a nameless tide.

It seemed to Christian, as she floated and floated on that deep, deep sea, that a hand took her and passed round her and drew her back and back. She looked up at Star, and the faintest of faint smiles awoke in her eyes.

"I mean to put everything right," said Star again; and then she said "Darling!" once more, and then like a feather she brushed Christian's forehead with her lips, and then she left the room.

Christian lay motionless when Star had left her. What had happened? Was there, after all, anything to be very sorry about? Why did she drift and drift? The noise as of great waves was in her ears, and her heart beat with heavy throbs. What was the matter? After all, was it pleasant to drift out away from all the people on the shore who beckoned to her to return? Was not her father there? And did not his eyes, and his lips, and his whole strong presence say, "Come back to me—come back"? And mother? Mother was beside him, and mother also said, "Come back." And, oh, there were other friends, and they seemed to love the girl who was drifting away, and they all said, "Come back, Christian." But Christian said feebly—oh! so feebly that her words could scarcely be heard even by them—"I go out; it is better to go out." And then another voice said, "Darling!"

That voice, so piercing and strong, had a clarion note in it; and it seemed to Christian that she stopped drifting, and that she turned, and strong arms were stretched out, and she came back, but so slowly—so slowly.

Little knowing what she had done, and that she had in reality saved Christian's life, Star Lestrange ran downstairs. Her cheeks were burning; her heart was on fire. She went straight to the boudoir.

"Girls," she said to one or two of her friends, "may I have this room to myself for an hour if necessary?"

"Of course, Star, dear," they answered. They loved her, and would do anything for her.

One of the girls wanted to question her, but she refrained.

"Go away, then," said Star; "there's no time to be lost."

"How is Christian now?" asked a girl.

"Don't ask me," answered Star.

She entered the pretty little boudoir, placed a couple of chairs near the fire, and then waited.

"They will come; I know they'll come," she thought. "I will force them to come. I'll think of them until they must come.'"

She had never been so determined in the whole course of her life before. The fire in her eyes seemed to get brighter. After a time she heard footsteps—lingering footsteps. Then the curtain was pushed back and the face of Susan Marsh looked in. And Susan followed her own face into the room, and Maud came behind her.

"There's a door," said Star briefly; "you had best shut it."

Maud shut the door.

"Now then," said Star, "I'm going to get to the bottom of this, and I have got to be cruel if necessary. I don't mind about either of you, even if it means that you are expelled. I want to save Christian, and to put her into a position of honor, and I want you two to tell me just the very truth."

Susan gave a slow laugh. "You are rather ridiculous, Star," she said. "What do you accuse me of?"

"I accuse you," said Star briefly, "of having taken my purse when Christian was asleep, and of having opened it and taken out the little bill which Dawson gave Christian when she paid for the goods."

"And why, pray," said Susan, "do you accuse me of this crime?"

"Because I know you have done it," said Star.

"You are quite mistaken; I did not do it."

"Maud, do you know anything of this?" said Star.

"I know nothing," said Maud.

She did know, but she and Susan between them had resolved on no account to tell.

"Very well," said Star. "I thought perhaps you'd tell me. I thought it quite the best thing to do. We won't talk any more of this at present."

Susan looked at her now in some astonishment. This was a course of proceeding that she had not expected.

"I have another thing to talk of," continued Star. "You, Maud Thompson, went to church to-day, and you knocked down a prayer-book on purpose. I saw you take it and fling it on the floor, and then you gave a note to a girl—a showy-looking, black-eyed girl—who sat in the seat before you. You did it, because I saw you."

"I did not do it," said Maud.

"All right, then; I shall go and speak to the girl herself."

"Star!"

There was an amazed cry from both girls.

"I shall go and speak to the girl herself," repeated Star.

"You can't," said Maud, with a laugh, which in spite of herself was extremely nervous, "for you don't know her name."

"I shall find it out. I am going to her now; don't keep me."

Star brushed past the two and left the room. She was carried along on a wave of keen excitement. It did not matter to her any longer what anybody thought of her conduct. Susan, left behind, looked wildly at Maud for a minute.

"I must stop this at any cost," she said. "She mustn't—she daren't—she shan't go!"

Out of the boudoir flew Susan. In the passage she met Miss Forest.

"Oh, Miss Forest, dear, do you mind if we all go for a walk? I mean outside the grounds."

"What do you mean, Susan? Certainly not. There are no teachers to take you to-day. If you wish to walk, walk in the grounds. Now, don't worry me."

"Do you mean to say positively that no girl is to go outside the grounds to-day?"

"I do say it."

"No girl? Are there no exceptions?"

"None. What nonsense you talk! Any girl who goes outside the grounds to-day will be severely punished."

"Of what nature will the punishment be, dear Miss Forest?" asked Susan. "Please tell me, for sometimes I think a little punishment is worth enduring for the sake of the pleasure."

"Really," said Miss Forest, her eyes flashing, "the insubordination in this school must be put a stop to with a firm hand. You, I verily believe, are the ringleader, Susan Marsh. Notwithstanding our anxiety and the serious illness of Christian Mitford, I take it upon myself to say that the girls who disobeys and leaves the school this afternoon will be put into solitary confinement and not allowed to speak to her schoolfellows for at least twenty-four hours."

"Thank you," said Susan. She dropped a little mock courtesy and ran away.

Just at that moment Star, in her hat and jacket, appeared. Susan, who had gone down the whole length of the corridor, now stopped to watch what would happen. Miss Forest, terribly aroused, turned to Star.

"Where are you going?" she said.

"For a walk."

"In the grounds?"

"No," said Star. "Please—I wanted to ask your permission—please, I want to go into the town."

"You can't go, Stella. I have just said that no girl is to leave the grounds to-day."

"Oh, please, this is so important!"

"I can't help it. You girls think you are so wise, and you are nothing of the sort. Walk in the grounds, and please don't argue the point. The girl who ventures outside without permission shall have twenty-four hours of solitary confinement. There now! I am determined; I can't stand this spirit of insurrection any longer."

Star said nothing. She moved slowly down the corridor. At the corner she saw Susan.

"Ah! Yah!" said Susan. "I thought I'd take the wind out of your sails."

"You have done nothing of the sort," replied Star.

She continued to walk steadily along the corridor. Presently she reached the end. At the end was a door. She opened it and went out. It led into the garden. Star walked quickly. Susan came and planted herself at the door. Maud stood by Susan's side. They saw Star walk along the garden path, then stop short and turn abruptly to her left.

"She's going to defy Miss Forest. Who will believe her now?" said Susan. "Come, let us watch her, Maud; let us watch her."

They scampered down the path until they came to the place where Star had turned off. They now saw Star open the wicket-gate near the lodge and disappear on to the high-road.

"Ah, now we've caught her!" said Susan. "Now she's in for it."

Meanwhile Star, with the flame of fire which Christian's face had awakened in her heart still blazing brightly, pursued her way.

Wrong! Of course she had not done wrong. She had done the only right thing in all the world.

"I must bring it home to them," she thought. "The thing must be explained. There is a serpent in our midst. I must get the obnoxious creature out of the school."

She walked faster and faster. Presently she reached Tregellick. Then it suddenly occurred to her that she did not know the name of the girl to whom Maud had given the letter, so she could not get the information out of her. But, of course, the little sextoness could tell her the name.

As Star entered the straggling High Street of the small town she heard the bell in the gray church-tower begin to sound again. There was about to be a service. Star felt that she must go to church. This, of course, was also strictly against rules, for the girls were not allowed to go to church in the town unbidden or unaccompanied by an escort.

"As it is all disobedience, I may as well disobey thoroughly and find out what I want to find out," thought Star.

She entered the church. Just as she did so the bell stopped. The sextoness motioned to her to go up to her own pew, but Star shook her head.

"Put me in a pew close to the door; and I want to speak to you afterwards," she said to the woman.

The woman obeyed. She knew Star well by appearance, but she wondered to see a Penwerne Manor girl out alone.

The afternoon service was short. Star watched the worshipers with intentness. How relieved she was when she saw the black-haired, dark-eyed girl take possession of her pew! She came in on this occasion unaccompanied by the stout woman who had sat with her in the morning.

By and by the service came to an end. It is to be feared that Star did not much attend to her prayers. The worshipers filed out. Star fixed her eyes on the face of Florence Dixie. Florence was attracted by Star, although she did not know the reason, but she was surprised to see her, a Penwerne Manor girl, out alone. She longed to stop and speak to her, but of course she did not dare. Star, however, had made up her mind.

Quick as thought she followed the black-eyed girl out of church. The girl looked back when she heard footsteps coming after her. When she saw Star she stopped.

"What is the matter?" she said.

"I want to know your name," said Star in a polite voice. "I hope you won't think me very rude, but I should be greatly obliged to you if you would tell me your name."

"My name!" said the girl, with a slight laugh. "Well, I'm not ashamed of my name; it's Florence Dixie."

Star now came up to her side.

"Where do you live?" she asked. "I am so awfully obliged to you for telling me your name; but where do you live?"

"You must be a very ignorant girl," replied Florence, "not to know where I live and who I am. Father is the only lawyer in the place. His house is the big brown house that you see yonder at the top of the High Street. May I ask your name, Miss—Miss——"

"My name is Lestrange," said Stella. "I live at the Manor; I am one of the schoolgirls."

"Oh, of course, Miss Lestrange; I know you by appearance quite well. You often come to church. I was surprised to see you there this afternoon alone."

"Yes; I came out this afternoon alone. I am tired," said Star.

Quickly a thought flashed into Florence's brain; what a tremendous triumph it would be for her to bring this charming, aristocratic-looking young lady home to tea.

"I wonder now," she said, dropping her voice and suiting her pace to that of Star, "if you'd honor us, Miss—Miss Lestrange. We are having tea at home just now—high tea. And my brothers, Rufus and Jasper—they're such pleasant boys—they're always at home to tea on Sundays. You say you are tired. It's a good long walk back to the Manor; would you honor us by having a cup of tea with us?"

"I should be very much obliged," said Star.

At another time such a request would have horrified her, but it seemed to her now the only means to a desirable end.

"I am glad; mother will be so pleased," said Florence. "We all think a great deal of Miss Peacock and her wonderful school, Miss—Lestrange."

Florence always made a slight pause between "Miss" and "Lestrange," and at another time Star would have used her ventriloquist voice and have said just above Florence's startled ear, "A little faster, please;" but she was not in the mood to be funny at this moment, and walked in silence by her companion's side.

"I know I must get her to tell me just by guile," thought the little girl; "and it's so difficult, and it seems to get more difficult each minute."

Presently they reached the house. Florence pulled the bell, and the door was opened by a rough-looking, red-headed boy, who shouted when he saw Florence; and then, as he beheld Star's beautiful, refined little face, his own features subsided into a startled grin.

"I have brought home a young lady from the Manor," said Florence in her most affected and mincing way. "Are they all at tea, Rufus?"

"Of course we are, Flo. And mother's ever so cross, I can tell you. You had better take the lady upstairs."

"Well, perhaps," said Florence dubiously, looking at Star.

"Oh, please don't!" said Star; "I can't wait a minute. I can't really. I'll just have a cup of tea, as you were so very obliging as to ask me, and then perhaps afterwards you would walk a little of the way home with me."

"Oh, as to that, I'm sure I'll be delighted," said Florence. "You don't know how I have been longing to know you."

Just then the dining room door opened and Mrs. Dixie put her head out.

"Florence, you naughty girl——" she began, but then she saw Star and changed her manner. "Oh, my dear child! you are late. And who is your nice little friend? Welcome, my dear—welcome."

"Mother," said Florence, "this is Miss Lestrange, one of the young ladies from the Manor. She was at church, and I have invited her home to have a cup of tea."

"Honored, I'm sure," said Mrs. Dixie. "Come this way, miss."

She threw the dining room door open and ushered Star into a noisy scene. Mr. Dixie was certainly not a refined-looking man. He was sitting far back in a deep arm-chair, with one rough, spoilt-looking little girl on his knee, and another perched upon the arm of the chair.

"Now, dad," said one of his small daughters, "I'm going to pull your right whisker."

"And I'm going to pull your left," said the other.

When Star came in she saw Mr. Dixie having his fiery whiskers violently pulled by the firm, somewhat dirty hands of the small girls.

"Oh, I say! let me alone and behave yourselves," he said, dropping them to the ground.

They both set up shrieks of indignation, and Star was motioned to a chair at the table.

"Here, Robert," said Mrs. Dixie; "this is one of Miss Peacock's young ladies. Rufus, do clear a place; brush away those crumbs, and then go out to Maria and tell her to bring in fresh tea."

"She's out, mother," said Rufus, not attempting to stir and not removing the crumbs.

"Oh, dear, I'm so sorry!" said Mrs. Dixie. "We look upon it as such an honor having you here, miss. We think an immensity of any of the Manor young ladies."

"Miss Peacock is one of the finest, proudest, grandest women I have ever met," said Mr. Dixie. "Have a seat, miss. Here, Rufus; go out and bring in some more tea."

"I say Maria is out," said Rufus. "Who's to make the tea?"

"Make it yourself, and be quick about it."

Rufus caught up the family teapot and disappeared from the room, banging the door after him.

"How is it, dear," said Mr. Dixie, turning to his spouse, "that we always have ditch-water instead of tea on Sunday evenings?"

"Don't blame me, Robert," said the good lady. "It isn't to be wondered at. When eight spoilt children each want the strongest and the best, what can be left for a stranger? Florence, you might have told us that you were going to honor us with Miss Lestrange's company."

Poor Star! she had been trying to do her best, but it seemed to her that she was getting deeper and deeper into hot water each moment. What madness had seized her when she had hinted to Florence Dixie that she would like to go home with her? Already she had broken a rule of the school—a rule just expressed when they were all in trouble, and Miss Peacock was specially to be cared for and loved and honored. Oh, if she might only go home again!

After a great deal of squabbling and difficulty, and a great many words passing between one Dixie and another, a cup of tea which had been made in the kitchen was brought in and placed before Star. Scalding hot as it was, she drank it off, and then rose hastily to say good-by.

"I am very much obliged to you," she said to Mrs. Dixie.

Mr. Dixie accompanied her to the door; and Florence, feeling intensely important, went with her into the street.

"I'll walk all the way back with you if you like, Miss Lestrange."

But Star by no means wished for this.

"Surely you would not be allowed to be out so late," she said.

"Oh, mother wouldn't mind. I mean, under ordinary circumstances she'd mind very much; but I can assure you she is exceedingly proud that I should know you. I know one or two of the girls as it is——"

Here Florence paused and bit her lips. She knew that she ought not to have admitted that.

"I know one girl you happen to know," said Star, looking at her intently. "Her name is Maud Thompson. She handed you a note to-day after church."

"Oh, no, indeed she didn't!" said Florence, instantly on the defensive, and determined, as she said afterwards to Maud, to guard her at any expense.

"I saw her do it. I thought perhaps—— Oh, I must confide in you a little bit. I came to church on purpose. I wanted to see you on purpose. Please don't say what isn't true. We are in great trouble at the Manor just now."

"Are you?" said Florence. "And do you mean to tell me? I can't tell you how I love exciting stories. I have always pined to go to a first-class school. Over and over again I've said to father, 'If only you would send me to Miss Peacock's!' But father thinks Miss Peacock too much of a fine lady; he says she's affected."

"No, she isn't," said Star. "She is a lady, that is all."

"What a nice way you have of talking, Miss Lestrange! And you are so pretty, too! Oh, I am interested in you and your school! I don't mind a bit what father says. He is just eaten up with jealousy; that's a fact. If Miss Peacock would employ him as her lawyer, father would think her the most delightful woman in the world. As it is, of course, he is jealous. He'd give his eyes to have me admitted into the school. He said so once; he said he'd pay double fees if Miss Peacock would have me. Oh, I should so love it! All the other girls would be mad with jealousy. Now, there are the Manners girls. You don't know them, do you, Miss Lestrange?"

"No."

"Well, they're not really in our class of life at all. I sometimes think it rather trying that I should be expected to know them. They are the daughters of that greengrocer who owns the huge shop just round the corner. Oh, and here they are coming to meet us! They'll want me to introduce you. Do you mind?"

Star said she did not mind. In her heart of hearts she felt that she could scarcely know a more vulgar or common girl than Florence.

"If you will only tell them the truth, that I came to church because I wished to speak to you, I don't mind what else you do," said Star.

The Manners girls came up slowly. They were thin, with straw-colored hair, very pale complexions, and small, weak-looking eyes. They were showily dressed, and in some ways looked even more commonplace than Florence. When they saw her they made a rush towards her. Then the younger one drew back a little, and it was the elder Miss Manners who came trippingly up to the two little girls.

"I have come in person to answer you, Florence. As you have got the note—I mean the one Miss Thompson gave you——"

"Oh, hush, hush!" said Florence. She could not have grown any paler than she did at that moment.

Star moved a step or two away from her.

"You told me just now——" she began.

"I did—I did! Don't speak to me for a minute, Miss Lestrange. I must walk on with you just to explain myself."

"Can I endure it?" thought Star. "And yet I must, for I must find out what has really happened."

"Of course I got the note," said Florence the minute they were alone; "but I was not going to tell, for poor Maudie didn't wish it. Now you know, however, you will take her back a message. Will you say to her that I am going to speak to the Mannerses, and if we can we will comply with her wishes? You may tell her at the same time that we don't like people who blow both hot and cold. The sort of friends we appreciate are those who say a thing and do it whatever the consequences. You will tell her. Oh, I know you despise me. Some day you will understand that a girl of my sort hasn't a chance with a girl of your sort. But, all the same, there's some good in me. I like you just awfully, for instance. I think you are sweetly pretty; and you have got such—oh, such an air about you! You might be anyone. I know I'll dream of you to-night; I quite love you. You are fifty times nicer than Susan Marsh—although the Mannerses and I thought a lot of her—or than Maud Thompson, or than—— Oh, dear me! Miss Lestrange, I do wish you could get me into your school. You don't know how fine you'd polish me up; you'd show me that I ought always to speak the truth and everything else. Can't you try?"

Florence's bold face looked wonderfully soft at that moment, and there were actually tears in her black eyes. Star wondered she could speak to her, and yet when she looked again she felt touched by the expression on Florence's face.

"I am sorry for you, but I can't promise to—to help you to get into the school. All the same, I am sorry. You could not, I suppose, let me have that note. I wouldn't read it; I'd just give it back to Maud Thompson."

"My dear child," replied Florence, her manner instantly altering, and a hard, flippant tone coming into her voice, "I have not told you anything about the note. You asked me if I had got one, and I said 'No.' The Manners girls gave me away, and I was forced to confess that I had told a little white lie. White lies are allowable, aren't they?"

"They are not," said Star stoutly.

"Well, anyhow, they are amongst my set. As to the note itself, it was of such small consequence that I tore it up. Well, good-by. Glad to see you another day when you come to church and want a cup of tea."

Star looked back for a moment to where the Manners girls were standing; then she put wings to her feet and ran the rest of the way back to Penwerne Manor.

"What did she want? How is it you have got so chummy with her?" said Ethel Manners, turning to Florence. "You did look upset when we met you! And didn't you blaze up as crimson as anything when we spoke of the note! Did we do wrong to speak of it?"

"You were just horribly nasty, Ethel," said Florence. "You might have known that when I was walking with a strange girl you two ought not to intrude. You don't know your places, and that's a fact."

"We're every bit as good as you are, Florry," said Emma. "It was only yesterday father said that your father and he used to chum together at the same school, but that he had pennies in his pocket and your father had none. Don't be a goose, Florry. Let's walk arm-in-arm. Wouldn't you like to come in and have a bit of supper? Aunt Phoebe said if we met you we might ask you. And there are sweetbreads for supper, and fried liver and bacon. You know how fond you are of those things."

"So I am," said Florence; "and I had such a wretched tea. It's awfully uncomfortable at home on Sunday; the kids make such a row all over the house. Our servant is out, and there's no one to look after anything."

"Well," said Emma, "Aunt Phoebe looks after things for us, and she loves something hot for supper. She's going to make pancakes, too; and we can have toasted cheese afterwards if we like."

"Oh, yes, and we can make coffee," said Ethel. "We are going to have a real jolly time. Will you come?—for if you don't, we'll ask Mary Ann Pomfret."

Mary Ann Pomfret was the one girl in the whole of Tregellick whom Florence detested.

"You can please yourself," she said. "I won't come near you if you have Mary, but I'd love to come to you alone. Your place always seems so comfy on Sundays."

"Then let's walk arm-in-arm," said Emma; and she ran round to Florence's left side, and Ethel took hold of her other arm, and in this fashion they walked up the High Street.

"I call it specially mean," said Ethel, "after we have made those lovely cakes and prepared all those things to give Susan and the other girls a right good time. There can be no earthly excuse in their not having us. Just because a girl—and a new girl—happens to be a bit ill."

"But they say she is very ill," said Florence. "She was prayed for in church twice to-day. What do you mean to do, Ethel?"

"Go, of course," said Ethel.

"Do you really mean it?"

"Certainly I do. I'm going. Aren't you, Emma?"

"I'll do whatever you do, Ethel," replied the younger sister.

"Then I have a good mind to join you," said Florence. "You know, to tell the truth, I'm not specially taken with Susan Marsh. I don't think she's a bit better than we are, only she just puts on airs because she's a Manor girl. Perhaps Maud Thompson is a wee bit better. But what a beautiful girl that was I walked with to-day—Miss Lestrange! She must be quite the beauty of the school. Hasn't she eyes like stars? And such a refined, sweet little face! She's very pretty; and oh, she's fetching!"

"She's a perfect beauty," said Emma.

"I don't say she's as good-looking as all that;" said Ethel; "but she is handsome, and has what I call an air about her."

"She's very different from Susan Marsh," said Florence. "I could be good to please a girl like that. I am sure she would hate our going to the school on Wednesday."

"Did she say anything about it?"

"Not a word; only she was awfully bothered about that note. I can't imagine why she should come sneaking round after it, as it were; but she did, and she looked so piteous when she asked me to give it back to her, and I had it snug in my pocket all the time. But of course I couldn't give it to her; it would be hard on poor Maud."

"So it would," said Ethel. "Well, here we are at home now. Aunt Phoebe will soon begin to fry the supper. I do feel starving!"

Ethel let herself and her companions into the house with a latchkey. They passed the great shop where the vegetables were sold, and the huge appleroom where the fruits were kept from Saturday night to Monday morning. Up the narrow stairs they went, until at last they found themselves in a broad, low, cheerful sort of room—a nondescript room, with a thick red felt carpet on the floor, and heavy red curtains to the windows, and a laughing, cheerful, blazing fire in the grate. Florence gave a sigh of relief.

"It is peaceful here," she said. "I wish we had a room of this sort at home."

After the girls had eaten their supper, they put their heads together and had a long and earnest consultation as to what they were to do with regard to the girls at Penwerne Manor. There was little doubt that they were all intensely disappointed. The Manor had seemed to them, ever since they could remember anything, as a sort of earthly paradise; the girls who walked in twos up and down the sheltered, cloister-like enclosures, the girls who came to church at Tregellick Sunday after Sunday, the girls who occasionally rode over the neighboring moors, the girls who went to the seashore in the summer and enjoyed themselves bathing or in little boats in the harbor, were all girls of a superior degree to those commonplace children in the town of Tregellick. They adored them; they envied them. The chance of getting into their midst was a golden and dazzling prospect, and they were intensely loath to give it up. It was Emma at last who seemed to come to a satisfactory decision.

"I tell you what," she said; "Susan has bound herself to receive us. We have put money into this thing; we have arranged to bring a good deal of the feast ourselves. Susan owes me seven and six——"

"And me five shillings," said Florence.

"And she has borrowed my best sash," said Ethel. "She said she would be very careful of it, and let me have it back at the first opportunity."

"I wonder you lent it to her," said Emma.

"She had such a coaxing way, and she said she wanted it so badly. In short, she made it a sort of condition with regard to giving us this pleasure."

"Oh, never mind that sort of thing now," said Florence impatiently. "I'll have to go back home very shortly or Rufus will be coming thundering round, making no end of a fuss. What shall we do, girls? That is the question. This is Sunday night; Wednesday is no way off at all. Are we to go and enjoy ourselves, or are we to meekly sit down and give up our bit of fun?"

"What do you think?" said Emma.

"I think we ought to go. I shouldn't hesitate a moment, only that poor Miss Lestrange looked so pleading, and she seems really fond of the sick girl. And if father found out by any chance that we'd been kicking up a rumpus in a house where a girl was dangerously ill, why, he'd never forgive me."

It was at that moment that Emma Manners came to the rescue with her dazzling suggestion.

"Well, don't let us go," she said. "Let us invite Susan Marsh, Maud Thompson, and the dear Miss Lestrange to have supper with us. Wouldn't that be jolly, girls? Let us give up all idea of the attic, and invite them to have supper with us here, and keep it a secret from everybody. We could have a gay time."

"But I couldn't come," said Florence. "How could I manage it?"

"Easily, for we'll ask you here to spend the night. Bless you! there'd be nothing secret about our supper. Father would be as pleased as Punch; and Aunt Phoebe will prepare such a meal! Then we'll be able to reflect all the remainder of our days on the delightful fact that we invited three of the Manor girls to supper, and were, in short, hail fellows well met."

"It does seem rather brilliant, and a good way out of the difficulty," said Florence. "Of course, it isn't as thrilling as creeping up by the garden wall, and getting down by a ladder at the other side, and then sneaking up by a ladder again just under the attic window, and creeping in, and finding the girls waiting for us and delighted to welcome us; but it is better than no fun at all."

"What I say is this," continued Emma: "when we have succeeded in bringing these girls here, Miss Peacock may be inclined to relax her rule, and to allow us to join the Penwerne Manor girls at their lessons."

"Don't you imagine that for a single instant," said Florence. "When I talked to-day to Star—oh, bless you! I don't call her Star to her face—she said we hadn't a chance. No, there's no chance of that; but it would be fun to know them. Now I must be off. How is the note to get there?"

"They always send to father's shop for vegetables," said Emma. "We'll give a note to Joseph, and tell him to bribe their man, Edwards, to give it into Susan's hands somehow to-morrow. Now then, who'll write the note?"

"You'd better write it," said Florence; "you've got a better scribble than I have."

Emma, feeling very conceited and important, seated herself by a table and wrote the following words:

"Dear Susan Marsh, Maud Thompson, and Star Lestrange" ["Don't I feel grand, talking to them by their Christian names?" thought the girl as she finished this portion of her letter, bending forward and squiggling her tongue into her cheek as she proceeded]:

"We are awfully sorry we can't have our fun, but sickness has to be respected. We'll agree to say nothing about it if you three will come and have supper with us on Wednesday night. You can easily manage, and we'll manage to get you home without any trouble. You see, the ladder that you were placing for us will do for yourselves, and you can get in by the attic window and creep to bed. Anyhow, that's your affair. Our affair is that you have got to come or my father and Florence's father will make a shindy, and then there will be—oh, yes, I can't help being vulgar—the fat in the fire. You will come, all three of you, and have supper with us here; and won't we give you a right jolly feast! Your affectionate friend,

Emma Manners.

"P. S.—If you come, we'll do everything in our power to help you three girls to hide up the fact that you were out once in a while in the middle of the night."

Emma's letter was much commented on and approved of by her companions. Finally, Florence went back to her own house, feeling that, on the whole, supper at the Mannerses' might be as amusing and instructive and fascinating as even the stolen feast in the front attic.