It was well into April before Louis came back to school, looking a trifle thin and pale, but otherwise not impaired by his serious accident. Carol and Sue traveled back and forth with him on the trolley several times, but never once picked up courage to ask him the question, the answer to which they were burning to know,—why had he been afraid of the strange portrait in Monsieur's room?

It was not till one evening when he had come over to see Dave that the subject was broached. Dave was detained out in the barn, helping his father with a sick farm-horse, and while they were waiting for him in the living-room the talk drifted to Monsieur and his devoted kindness during Louis's illness.

"He simply couldn't do enough for me," the boy asserted. "Beginning with his insisting on my having his room, he loaded me with delicacies and attentions of every sort the whole time. I began by quite despising him, but he's been so jolly good to me that I've just got to like him, whether or no! Honestly, it's almost pathetic sometimes, he tries so hard. I feel like a brute if I don't respond in just the way he wants me to. He's stopped talking about all the things he knows I don't care for, and even stands for my talking about mechanical engineering and that sort of thing. And that's going some for him!"

"Louis," ventured Sue, a little timidly, "do you mind telling us now why you hated and were afraid of that portrait? You were going to tell me that day, if you remember, when we were interrupted."

The boy looked hesitant for a moment. Then he replied:

"I believe I might as well. It can't hurt any one that I can see. I've had the most peculiar feeling about that picture ever since my accident. Before that I'd seen it, of course, but had never thought much about it, and those two others that are covered I only thought were just another eccentricity of Monsieur's. He's awfully eccentric, anyway, about a number of things. But after I landed in that room with my chopped foot, and had to stay there when I didn't want to and lie staring day and night at that picture at the foot of my bed, first I began to hate it and then I actually became afraid of it. You'll hardly believe me, girls, when I tell you that I covered up my head with the bedclothes at times, when I was alone in the room, so that I wouldn't have to look at it."

"But why?" interrupted Carol. "What was strange about it?"

"Well," Louis answered, "it's not so much that there's anything strange about the picture itself; it's more the way it made me feel and the way Monsieur acted about it and—well, a dream I had about it one night."

"A dream?" the girls exclaimed. "What was it?"

"I'll get to that presently," he said. "But first I want to tell you what Monsieur said about it. A day or two after I was taken to that room I asked him whose portrait it was. He said he would tell me all about it some time, but that all he could say at present was that the child had been one of the world's heroic martyrs. That, of course, didn't give me much information, but it made me a little more interested, and I used to lie and stare at it by the hour, wondering how in the world a youngster of six or seven could have been what he said.

"Then came the time when I took that turn for the worse, and they thought it was all up with me. I had a terrible fever and was delirious, too, I guess. And that wretched picture haunted me the whole time. Sometimes it seemed to be coming toward me rapidly, growing larger and larger, and the eyes would glow like balls of fire. I used to scream out loud, because it somehow seemed as if it would wrap itself round me and crush me. Then it would seem to retreat way off where I could hardly see it, and almost disappear through the wall. At other times it would turn over, hang upside down, and cut up all sorts of antics. And all the time I couldn't seem to take my eyes from it.

"The last night that I was so very ill I had an awful dream about it. I thought that suddenly I looked at it, and a queer change had happened to the whole thing. Instead of the youngster being dressed up in that natty little silk coat with lace frills at his neck and wrists and the jewelled star on his chest and the little riding-whip, his clothes were all queer and ragged. He had a bright red cap of some kind on his head, and his hair was matted and tangled. Instead of being plump and smiling, he was thin and half-starved looking, and the tears were running down his cheeks. And while I looked, he suddenly held out his arms to me, as if for help. I felt as if I must get right out of bed and give him some assistance,—I simply must. And I guess I tried, too, for I remember the nurses held me down. Even after I was much better, I couldn't seem to get over the horror of that dream. I hated to look at the picture after that, for fear I'd see it again the same way."

"But you also said," Sue reminded him, "that Monsieur acted queerly about the picture, too. What did he do?"

"Oh, yes, that's another thing," added Louis. "He used to stand in front of it the longest time, gazing at it as steadily as if it were the most wonderful thing on earth. Next he would turn and stare at me, and then look back again at the picture, till I could have yelled, it made me so nervous. It was mostly when he thought I was asleep or in a stupor, but I wasn't either one of those things half as much as they thought I was. Once he came and stood over me, after I had had my eyes shut for a long time, and I heard him muttering something about 'the temple look,' whatever he could have meant by that. It all seemed horribly uncanny. I didn't like it at all. I never was so glad of anything in my life as to get out of that place and back to my own room at last."

"But, Louis," began Carol, in an awed tone, "whatever do you suppose caused you to have that queer dream? It's one of the queerest things I ever heard. Did Monsieur ever say anything to you about the picture that would make you think of a thing like that?"

"Not a single thing," declared the boy stoutly, "except what he said about the 'heroic martyr' business, and I can't believe I would have made up the rest out of my head. It's singular—"

At this moment, however, Dave came in, and the conversation shifted to other topics.

April 8. Carol and I debated a long while as to whether it would be a good idea to tell the Imp what Louis had told us last night. At first Carol was shocked at the idea of such a thing, and she looked at me as though I'd proposed to dynamite her house. But I reminded her that the Imp had been awfully amiable to us of late, and really it mightn't be such a bad scheme to let her into this, especially as she had some inside information of her own that some time she might be able to give us the benefit of. This settled Carol's doubts, so to-day we told the Imp.

When we came to the part about Louis's dream, she grabbed my arm and said:

"Are you making this up, or is it really true?" I never saw her so excited before.

"Of course it's true!" I said. "It's just exactly what Louis told us."

"Then it's the queerest thing I ever heard of," she exclaimed. "O girls, I wish I could tell you what I know! You'd be so startled that you'd jump out of your boots. If only Monsieur hadn't asked me not to mention it to any one!"

"Haven't you even told Louis?" I asked.

"No. Monsieur particularly asked me not to speak of it to Louis. He asked me to promise him that I would not, and he seemed so upset about it. But I think I know why now. I've tracked down a whole heap of things lately. Some time I'll let you two in on it, if I can do so without breaking any promises."

The Imp can be a trump when she wants to be. I wonder if we have permanently got on the right side of her at last?

To-day I persuaded Carol to show her poem, "The Mysterious Portrait," to Miss Cullingford. She only agreed to do so for this reason. Our paper, The Argus, is offering a prize of five dollars for the best poem handed in by any member of the freshman class. I don't believe there's another one who can write as well as Carol, and this is her best piece of work. So at last she consented to let Miss Cullingford criticize it for her, before she submits it to the contest committee. I'm just crazy to have Carol get the prize.

She says Miss Cullingford took it and read it over,—it's not very long,—and then began to ask her some questions about it. They were principally about where she'd seen this portrait. Carol told her it was in the house of a friend, but didn't say anything that would give Miss Cullingford any clue as to where it really was. Miss Cullingford told her that the poem was very good, and asked her to describe the portrait to her a little more in detail. Carol did this as well as she could from memory. At last Miss Cullingford told Carol to leave the verses with her for a day or two, as she would like to consider them at her leisure. It looks rather promising for Carol, I think.

April 9. Another awfully strange thing happened to-day. Our last hour for the day was English literature, and when it was over Miss Cullingford asked Carol to come to her after dismissal, as she wanted to talk to her a while about her poem. So Carol went to her room, but I didn't wait, because I was anxious to get home and help Mother with a new dress she's been making for me. I told Carol that I'd watch out for her when she came home, and run out to the gate to hear what Miss Cullingford had said about the poem. Carol said she wouldn't have but a minute to spare, because her mother and her Aunt Agatha were going to take her to dinner with some friends at Bridgeton, and so would be anxious for her to hurry and dress so they could catch the four o'clock trolley.

I went home by myself and sewed hard for an hour or so. About five minutes of four Carol came rushing up the road and dashed in at her gate, late as usual. I grabbed up my coat, and hurried out to catch her before she went into the house. She was breathless with running, and her eyes had the wildest look. I thought it was because she was so late, but she panted out:

"O Susette! I'd give anything if I only had the time to talk, but Mother and Aunt Agatha will be wild at me, as it is. I'm so late! But what do you think? You'll never guess. I've found out whose portrait that is in Monsieur's room!"

I was simply stunned.

"I don't believe you!" I cried. "This is just a trick. You can't catch me that way."

"No, no! It isn't a trick. It's true!" she panted. "You'll have to wait till to-morrow. I'll tell you all about it then." And she was gone into the house without another word.

This is simply horrible. Can I ever wait till to-morrow?