Neighbour Bessie had got a new thought!

Not that this was an unusual occurrence, her brain being pretty prolific, but this was of special importance and gave her special delight.

She was a member of a certain young woman's Bible class which happened just then to be without a teacher. The inspiring thought was, "Why should not Mrs. Waring become the teacher?" Hurrah! And she should become the teacher, too, if Bessie could by any possible manoeuvres bring it about.

That her own personal invitation was not sufficient she knew well enough, and was quite sure Mrs. Waring would never offer her services, though "coaxed like anything." "I know what I'll do!" she exclaimed to herself. "I'll get up a petition. See if I don't;" and she did, for when once Bessie willed she did, and there was "an end on't," as the Lancashire women say.

She drew up the heading herself, one sentence being, "And we shall ever be grateful," which she thought would be especially "fetching." "None of your 'Kathleen Mavourneen' style about that: 'may be for years or may be for ever.'" Truth to tell, there was never much of the "Kathleen Mavourneen style" about any of Bessie's doings, her character being cast in too decided a mould for that.

The following Sunday twelve out of twenty members were present, and all willingly signed the petition, somewhat tickled with the fun of it and Bessie's tragic manner. The other eight she visited at their homes, and thus the full number of signatures was obtained.

Then came the formidable task of presenting the petition. "When a subject presents a petition to the Queen"—that was how she began her speech on the very first opportunity—"I suppose the proper thing is to drop down on the knees something like this," straightway kneeling down in front of Phebe.

"Are you thinking of interviewing the Queen yourself, then? Is that your next adventure?"

"I am already interviewing the queen of my heart, and would beseech her gracious majesty to carefully read this petition," spreading the paper out on Phebe's knee.

"What nonsense are you up to now, Bessie?" asked Nanna, coming into the room just at that minute.

"No nonsense at all, but real serious business, such as you would delight in yourself. Come and help me to persuade Mrs. Waring to say 'Yes.'"

"But ought she to say 'Yes'?"

"I am sure you will say so when you know all about it."

Phebe at once, with a smile, handed Nanna the paper, and Nanna, with spectacles on nose, began to read with a face as solemn as the countenances of two judges photographed on to one negative. But sunshine soon conquered solemnity.

"Well done, Bessie! It does you credit," was the instantaneous verdict. "I can see it's you that's been at the top and bottom of it all. Of course you'll say 'Yes'?" turning to Phebe.

"It's very good of the girls, and it is just what I should like to do; but there is one thing they have forgotten to do."

"What is that?" quickly questioned Bessie.

"You have never asked the permission of the superintendent."

"Never thought of that," exclaimed Bessie; "but there will be no difficulty in that quarter. Why should there be? Then you do really say 'Yes'?"

"I will certainly try what I can do, but understand, the invitation must also come from the superintendent."

"You are a dear," and impulsive Bessie flung her arms round her neck and kissed her. "Do you know I feel so good and virtuous I don't think I shall sleep to-night."

Certainly Phebe did not go to sleep quickly that night, the idea of partly mothering twenty girls quite taking possession of her. If only she could get them to rise up to the full dignity of Christian womanhood what a splendid piece of work that would be! And there and then she began shaping her introductory talk to them. She looked upon Bessie's scheme as another means sent by God to fill the void left in her heart and life.

The following Sunday afternoon she quite expected that Bessie would come in to tea, bringing with her the more formal invitation. The meal was even kept waiting, but no Bessie came.

"She will come in after tea," said Phebe—still no Bessie.

"She will be here at supper-time, sure enough," said Mrs. Colston. Supper-time came, but no Bessie.

"She must be unwell, surely," thought Phebe; but Bessie's high voice overheard on Monday morning proved that to be quite a mistake.

All Monday passed, but no Bessie came. On Tuesday morning Mrs. Colston sent her a message: "Why do you not come in? Have you forgotten what we are expecting?" To Phebe she said: "No doubt the superintendent was not present on Sunday, but at least she ought to have come in and told us so. I don't hold with girls being so thoughtless."

Bessie's answer was: "I'll come in this evening."

Poor Bessie! When she did come—and she made it as late as ever she could—she looked as if she had just made the acquaintance of the ducking-stool.

"I know you wanted to hear what that superintendent said, and that's just why I didn't want to come in," she blurted out.

"Poor old Bessie!" said Phebe, quite pained to see the change in her, "but don't fret about it, whatever it was."

"But I can't help it! It is a downright big shame."

"What dreadful thing did he say?"

"He's going to take the class himself, but I can't stay any longer, mother will want me."

"Bessie," said Phebe, laying her hand firmly on her arm, "there is something else troubling you."

"The girls don't want a man to teach them—but I really must be going."

"Bessie," Phebe forced her into a chair, and stood over her, "you are to tell me right out what is troubling you. Surely there are to be no secrets between us! Tell me just what the superintendent said."

"'BESSIE, YOU ARE TO TELL ME RIGHT OUT WHAT IS TROUBLING YOU.'"

"That he should take it himself"—putting her hands over her face to hide the tears.

"What else?"

"That you were not suitable."

"And what else? Why was I not suitable?"

But Bessie could not answer for crying.

"Tell me this"—and Phebe's voice was very strained—"was it because my husband had left me?"

Bessie looked up at her with her tear-stained face; words would not come, but a little nod told all that was needed.

The blow Phebe had feared so long had come. It was a fact, then, that her good name was tarnished. She went over to the fire, standing with her back to Bessie, to try to calm herself, to pray for strength to bear such a cruel blow. The sound of Bessie's sobbing was very painful to hear, but at last the girl roused herself, and coming and standing by Phebe she whispered, "I would have given anything to have kept it from you. You do believe me, don't you?"

"Of course I do. Do not fret, dear; all will come right"—her breath was caught—"in time."

"To think that I should have brought this on you."

"But you did not—it is better for me to know how—people regard me. Now, go home, dear, and do what you have to do. I shall be feeling all right in the morning."

It was a comfort when Phebe reached her own room to be alone, save for the sleeping child—and the unseen angels.

And Bessie, too, was glad to be alone. She was thankful the whole affair had come out, having felt assured it was bound to do so, but her whole being was filled with indignation at the thought of the indignity her friend had been made to suffer. "If only I had never asked her till it was all settled it wouldn't have been so bad! What can I tell the girls? I shan't let out all the reason, but he will, I dare say. Wish I could be upsides down with him, that I do! What a mess I do make of everything, to be sure. If mother knew she'd say it was just like me. I feel perfectly wretched. I wonder how I could pay that man out for his meanness!"

And then another bright idea struck Neighbour Bessie, and by the time she had worked her plan out she was fast asleep.

The next day, during the minutes she could snatch from work, twenty dainty little notes were written, addressed to the twenty girls who had signed the petition. Each was supposed to be a private note, inviting the receiver to accompany Bessie next Sunday afternoon to some special meeting going on in the town, and to meet her at 2.45 by the market-pump.

Not being very flush with pocket-money—she never was—the notes could not be posted, but during the next three evenings were all delivered by hand. Twelve favourable replies were received, some of the girls expressing appreciation of this marked token of Bessie's favour, Bessie being really a very popular member; four declined on the plea of colds or previous engagements; and four were blanks, but Bessie found out, in some way or other, that these were away from home.

"That's just splendid," she said to herself, surveying the pile of assorted notepaper, "perfect."

"I say, Bess, are you going to give a party?" asked her brother, happening to catch sight of the notes.

"Yes."

"When?"

"I'll tell you when it's all over."

At 2.45 on Sunday afternoon twelve girls met round the market-pump, each greatly surprised to see all the others.

"I came here to meet Bessie Marchant," said one.

"And so did I," said another.

"And so did I," said they all; and then they all laughed, for they were a good-natured set of girls.

"We'll make her answer for this when she turns up," said some of them.

"What do you mean by this, Miss Bessie Marchant?" three or four called out all at once when at last she made her appearance puffing and blowing through hurrying.

"Dreadfully sorry, girls, to be so late; really couldn't help it. Mean?" looking ever so solemnly sweet, "mean? You were all such dears I couldn't leave one of you out," and taking hold of the two girls she had the least confidence in marched off, all the others following.

She told the whole story the same evening to Nanna, alone. "You would have died of laughing if you'd seen the faces of those girls as they cuddled round that pump, that you would. Some were hanging on to the handle, they felt that took back like. But I got them all to the meeting."

"But what did you do it for?"

"That's just what they wanted to know, and not one guessed. I told them after they came out, though."

"Well, what was your reason?"

"To pay that man out, of course. He pretended he wanted the class for himself, and I thought at least for one Sunday he shouldn't have that pleasure. It was splendid fun just to picture how he would look when he went into the room and found no one there. It did tickle the girls, I can tell you."

"But you don't mean to say you told them all that!"

"Of course I did. I was obliged to tell them how he had refused Mrs. Waring's offer, and so I explained to them how just for once I had paid him out."

"And don't you suppose they will go and tell him what you have said?"

"Some will, no doubt; but others are as cross as I am about it."

"Oh, Bessie, Bessie, when will you learn wisdom!" exclaimed Mrs. Colston, in a very troubled voice.

"What have I done wrong now, I should like to know? You don't mean to say you're cross with me?"

"You have made that man more than ever the mistress's enemy. You have thrown a stone into the waters; you can never tell where its ripples will reach to. He may be a Christian. I don't know, but after the trick you have paid him he will dislike and mistrust Mrs. Waring more than ever. You may have done your dear friend a great unkindness, for if he's got any unsubdued malice in him he'll show it some day towards her; you'll see."

"Mrs. Colston!" exclaimed Bessie, "you fairly take away my breath. I declare life is too much for me!"

"It's too much for any of us—alone. With all your fun and nonsense you need a lot of prayer, that the Lord would keep you from doing anything that's against the Golden Rule."

"I don't know what'll become of me, I'm sure. It's always my luck to do the wrong thing. There, I wish I were dead, that I do! But don't you go and tell Mrs. Waring what I've done, will you?"

"No, I'll not tell her. Trust me for that."