When the story was over and the narrator had gone away, Miss Peacock also rose. She stood and faced the girls.

"There are here," she said, "about twenty in all. The school contains forty girls, reckoning Christian herself. Christian cannot appear, but I should like the remaining nineteen to come to me. Star Lestrange, my dear, will you fetch the entire school into the hall?"

Star rushed off. Once again Susan looked as though she wished to escape, but to do so she would have had to pass Miss Peacock, and she knew, therefore, that her effort would be useless.

Star was not long in collecting the school, and when they trooped in Miss Peacock remarked:

"Stand round me, my dears; I have something to say."

They collected in a group. Miss Peacock stood at one side of a wide circle.

"My dear girls, you all know how ill Christian Mitford has been. You know that from the brink of the grave she has been restored to us. Had she died, I can scarcely tell you what a fearful blow would have fallen upon us all. Not only should we have lost a dear pupil and a brave, delightful schoolfellow, but there are circumstances attending her illness which would have made her death a very terrible matter to us all; for I wish to tell you now, girls, that there are some in this school who have not acted kindly to Christian Mitford. Her illness has been largely caused by trouble of mind. She came here expecting sisterly affection, but from the very first she was treated with suspicion. There are some—I mention no names as yet—who behaved with cruelty to Christian. Had she died, those girls could scarcely know a happy moment again. My dear pupils, it has doubtless been whispered amongst you that Christian Mitford came to this school surrounded by a little mystery. That is perfectly true. Something happened just before she came to school which delayed her coming for a fortnight. Full particulars of the occurrence were sent to me, and I thought—unwisely, as it turns out—that it would be best not to acquaint the school with what, it appeared to me, did not concern it. As things happened, I was wrong. There are girls now standing before me who discovered this mystery—I do not know how—and who made a handle of it; who blackmailed Christian, a girl who had never before been at school, and made her thoroughly wretched. What they did I am not prepared to say, for a great deal has been concealed from me. But I wish to declare to you all who are now present that the mystery is cleared up. Twenty of you have heard Christian's story, and each of you twenty girls is permitted to tell that story to the girls who were not present to hear Rose Latimer's narrative. I shall have more to say by and by. For the present my wish is that every girl in Penwerne Manor should know the true reason why Christian Mitford was a fortnight late in coming to school."

Miss Peacock hastily made her way through the group of girls. As she passed Susan Marsh she stopped and looked at her.

"You can now prepare your exercise," she said, "and do as you think fit. I think your wings are clipped," she added. "I shall have more to say by and by."

Never before had Miss Peacock looked so dignified, and never before had she said such bitter words as those now addressed to Susan Marsh. She left the room and went straight to her private sitting room. There she rang her bell, and told the servant to ask Miss Jessie Jones to come to her at once.

Jessie appeared within a few minutes. Jessie had not been present in the hall when Rose Latimer told Christian's story. The minute she entered the room, however, she saw by Lavinia Peacock's face that something had happened.

"Now, Jessie," she said, "you and I have got to clear the horizon. Next we have got to rid the school of a most pernicious influence. We have got to get to the very bottom of a base conspiracy. My dear friend, this is not the hour for soft measures or kindness; this is the hour when true kindness must be severe. My school would cease to be the Penwerne Manor I like to think of if certain girls who have acted in a most disgraceful manner are not suitably punished."

"Oh, Lavinia! I see you are very angry, and I don't really understand," said Jessie. "Of course, it is fearfully hard about our poor dear Christian; but she is better now. God has saved her life."

"But if she had died, should you or I ever have held up our heads again? No, my dear. I will tell you what has happened. You know little Rose Latimer?"

"Yes; Mrs. Peach's little grand-niece—a bright, nice little girl."

"Little Rose, quite innocently, began to tell the story of Christian's adventure before she came to us to several of the girls assembled in the hall."

"But oh! you didn't let her——"

"Let me speak. Star Lestrange—I am really fond of dear Star—came to me at once and asked if I would be present. I went into the hall. To little Rose I am just an ordinary lady; she was not shy of me. I sent her up to ask Christian's permission. The story was told. It has now been spread throughout the entire school. Some of the girls are very miserable; one girl is very angry. Jessie, I take shame to myself for not having allowed the child's adventure to be known from the very first. But now, dear, I must, as I said, take measures. Sit down, Jessie, and tell me the exact truth with regard to the secret society in the midst of the school called the Penwernians."

Jessie's face turned very pink; tears filled her eyes.

"Come, Jessie; I must know everything. I gave you liberty in the past; I give you none now. Tell me everything."

What little Jessie told she did not know, nor how she told it, nor exactly what she said; but Miss Peacock listened calmly. After a time, going close to the little speaker, she held her hand. When this happened Jessie felt that she could tell better than ever. Courage came into her; she became certain that Miss Peacock was right. She had always adored Lavinia Peacock; now she knew that harshness in the real sense of the word could never come from those kind lips, nor proceed from that true and generous heart. At last Jessie stopped.

"I did wrong," said Miss Peacock when all was finished. "I love you, Jessie; you are the greatest comfort I have, but a mistress in my position ought to know everything. In the future, dear, we will have just as happy a time—nay, a happier time—at Penwerne Manor, but we can never allow things to come to such a pass that an innocent girl can be willfully tortured by her companions."

"And what about to-night?" said Jessie.

"At what hour is the feast generally held?"

"They go to bed, you know, Lavinia, apparently just as usual, and then they slip away from their rooms. Oh, you needn't think, dear, that I go to bed on those nights. Not I! I wait about, just hovering near, to be certain that there is no real mischief; and when they are snug in their beds, then I retire."

"You, dear little, patient Jessie! You have tried to act the guardian angel; but the post is too much for you, dear. To-night I, Lavinia Peacock, will take your place."

"Oh, Lavinia, they would be so frightened—so terrified—if they saw you!"

"It is your impression that there is going to be a very special feast to-night?"

"I did think so, but I am not so sure now. Some provisions were got in, but for the last two or three days all has been quiet."

"Well, dear, to-night I will mount guard. Say nothing to anyone."

Jessie soon afterwards left Miss Peacock's presence. She felt so upset, so terrified, at what she considered her betrayal of her darling girl that she had to retire to her own room, and did not even appear at tea time. The girls, however, were all too excited to notice her absence. Christian was the heroine of the hour.

Next to Christian, Rose took the highest place. Wasn't she pretty? And wasn't she stanch and true and faithful? And wasn't the adventure itself quite a grand sort of affair? And wasn't Christian really brave?

"To think that I should ever have doubted her bravery!" thought Star.

As Star thought in a very penitent way of her own conduct in the past, a hand was put on her arm, and looking up, she saw Maud Thompson by her side.

"Star, I do wish you'd come and speak to her. She's in the bowling-alley, and she's crying just like anything. She wouldn't come in to tea. She says she hates everyone in the place."

"Do you mean Susan?" asked Star.

"Yes—oh, yes! Do come to her! I think she respects you if she respects anyone."

Star thought for a minute. The rain was still pouring. To get to the bowling-alley she had to run down a sidewalk which was dripping with moisture. Turning her skirt over her head, she ran quickly, followed by Maud. Susan was standing where an eave from a neighboring tool-house slightly protected her. Her handkerchief was pressed to her eyes; she was bending forward. As Star drew near she heard her very audible sobs.

"Are you sorry, Susan?" said Star.

"I sorry? No. Go away; don't torture me."

"Oh, Susan! I said I would bring her, and you said you'd listen to her. Here's the key of the tool-house. Let's open it and go in. We must say something to comfort you, Susan. I am an awfully bad girl, but I am sorry for you."

"No one is sorry for me," said Susan.

"Oh, yes, someone is. I am, and so is Star."

"If she is going to repent, I'll try and be sorry," said Star. "Are you going to repent, Susan?"

"No, I can't—I won't. There's nothing to be done. I must go to those girls to-night, and you must come with me. I am crying so because everyone has forsaken me, for Maud doesn't wish to come."

"Of course you are not going, Maud," said Star. "You will just stay with me; yes, you will."

"No, no; I won't forsake her," said Maud. "Everyone else has. I told you, Susy, that if you went I would go with you; but I wish you'd give it up. We are certain to be discovered."

"I suppose we are," said Susan, suddenly stopping her tears and looking full at Star. "I suppose you have told. I always knew you would."

"I have not told yet."

"Then, you mean to tell?"

"Yes, I mean to tell."

"You are certain?"

"Yes, I am; I do mean to tell."

"When?"

"Before you go out at midnight and disgrace us all. I shall certainly tell."

"Then you won't, so there!" said Susan.

She suddenly pushed Star forward. There was a step, down which the little girl tumbled. Before she could recover herself she was firmly locked into the tool-house, and Susan and Maud were running back to the house.

"It was awfully mean of you," began Maud. "I didn't think, bad as you are, that you'd do it."

"Yes, I did it. You have promised to come with me. She is locked safely in now. She may scream as loud as she can and not a soul will hear her there. I will let her out again if I come back. Perhaps I'll never come back. Perhaps I'll stay with Florence Dixie. I could write from there to my father. I couldn't get into greater disgrace."

"Then if you stay I'll stay too," said Maud "But, oh, Susan, I do think you are wicked!"

"Never mind now; come upstairs. Let us keep out of the way of all the others. We'll have one last fling—one last bit of fun."

A few of the Penwernians were scattered about. One of them came up and spoke to Susan.

"Do you know where Star is? I want her."

"I am not her keeper," said Susan roughly.

"But what about our feast to-night? Are we to have it?"

"I was going to speak about that," said Susan, recollecting herself. "As that precious Christian Mitford, about whom everyone is making such a ridiculous fuss, is still very ill, we had best not risk matters. The feast is therefore postponed for another week."

"I am glad," said the girl. "I begin to hate the Penwernians."

Susan walked away.

"Now then, Maud, buck up and be cheerful once again. We will account for Star's absence, and you and I will have a jolly time."