Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty One.A Forlorn Hope.The Amberleys were really fond of each other. They were worldly little creatures, and had never been trained in high principles of any sort; but they clung together, as motherless, defenceless creatures will in their hour of peril. They had a queer feeling now that they were in some sort of danger, and the younger ones sympathised enormously with Fanchon.They did not of course dare to tell her what had happened on the previous night—how Nina had worn the bangle, the real eighteen carat gold bangle, the bangle with the turquoise of such size and elegance, of such an exquisite shade of colour, the bangle with that delicate tracery all over its gold rim. That bangle was so widely different from this, that there was no doubt whatever that the one had been substituted for the other. How had it been done? Mademoiselle? Oh, no, no. Nina looked at Josephine, and Josephine was afraid to meet Nina’s eyes, as the thoughts flashed quickly through each little brain.Mademoiselle had helped them to undress. Mademoiselle had herself put the precious bangle away. But no—she was kind—more than kind. It could not be in the heart of such a woman to do anything so shabby. Nevertheless, the thought of Mademoiselle’s past treachery had come to both the little sisters, and they hated themselves for it, and feared to glance at each other, and above all things dreaded what Fanchon might be thinking about. Fanchon was, however, far too miserable to worry herself with regard to her little sisters’ thoughts.“I cannot make it out,” she said. “Of course I shall have to speak to poor Brenda about it.”“Perhaps Brenda did it herself,” said Nina then. It was an audacious and very wicked thought which had come to the little girl, but she was really intensely anxious to shield Mademoiselle at that moment. The words she uttered bore some fruit, for Fanchon considered them very carefully, and said aloud:“If I really thought that—”“What would you do if you did think that?” asked Josephine.“I should go straight home to papa, and tell him everything—everything!” was Fanchon’s answer.“But have you a great deal to tell him?”“I have—oh, I have. I am a miserable girl! That odious—that vulgar—that detestable bangle—isthatwhat I am to have in the end? She probably didexchangeit for the real one, because she wanted to wear the real one herself. Oh, girls—how am I to endure it!”“Buck up, whatever you do,” said Nina; “and remember your promise.”“Oh—how I hate promises!” said Fanchon. “I want to fly at her now, horrid thing! and confront her with the truth.”“Well, you can’t anyhow for the present, on account of your promise,” said Josie.“Perhaps to-night you may talk to her, but certainly not before; and it’s time for us to be going down to the sands,” said Nina. “We’ll lose all our morning’s fun if we don’t. I want to get some of those buns from the little old woman who brings them round in her basket. I’ll get Brenda to buy them for us; I’m ever so hungry, and I’m not going to be afraid of Brenda to-day.”“You’ll have to take your notebook,” said Fanchon; and then she gave a half-laugh.“I!” exclaimed Nina. “Not I. I think the time of tyranny with Brenda is nearly over.”The girls put on their hats, and strolled down to the beach. Brenda was there looking quite happy and unconcerned. She called Fanchon a little aside, and desired the younger girls to amuse themselves building castles in the sand.“I am too old for that,” said Josephine.“Not a bit,” exclaimed Brenda. “How ridiculous you are! you are nothing but a baby. Anyhow, please yourselves, both of you, for I want to talk to Fanchon.”“It’s horrid, the way you make Fanchon grown-up, and make Nina and me quite little babies!” said Josie.But Brenda looked troubled, and was quite indifferent to her small pupil’s remarks with regard to her conduct.“I tell you what,” she said, after a pause. “You may do anything you like on the sands, only don’t wander too far.”“There’s Betty with her tray of cakes!” exclaimed Nina. “May we have a bun each, Brenda? Will you give us money to buy a bun each?”Curious to relate, Brenda complied. She gave Nina the necessary pence, and did not even refer to the obnoxious notebook. The moment the little girls were out of sight, she turned to her elder pupil.“I met Harry to-day; he was quite contrite and nice. I feel almost certain he’ll ask me to marry him. I mean to go out without you this evening, and I mean to wear the bangle. I think the bangle will quite clinch matters. Harry thinks I am poor; but I don’t want him to do so. Why, what’s the matter, Fanchon?”“Oh, nothing,” said Fanchon, making an effort to conceal her feelings.“Have you a headache, dear? are you ill?”“I am not ill,” said Fanchon, “but I have a little headache—the sun is very hot,” she added.“I shall take Penelope with me this evening—that’s a good idea,” said Brenda, suddenly. “I shall keep her for the night; I mean to force her to stay. She’s got a very stylish air about her, which you, poor Fanchon, don’t possess, and what with Penelope and the bangle—”“I thought you didn’t want Penelope to know about the bangle.”“No more I do; but I shall manage just to let him see a gleam of it when she is not looking. You haven’t the least idea how to arrange these sort of things, my dear child; but doubtless some day you will. However, now it’s almost time to hurry home. My little Fanchon shall have that beautiful bangle all for herself when the holidays are over.”Fanchon gave quite an audible sniff.“What a very unpleasant noise you make, dear Fanchon.”“Oh, I can’t help it,” replied Fanchon, and she stuck her head high in the air and looked so repellent that her governess wondered she had ever been bothered by her.When the girls returned to thepension, they found Penelope awaiting them. She wore a brown holland frock, quite neat, but very plain. Her soft, very fair hair was arranged tidily round her head, also with the least attempt at display. She was a singularly unobtrusive-looking girl, and, beside Brenda, she was, as the ladies of thepensionexclaimed, “nowhere.” They all criticised her, however, very deeply, for had she not come from Castle Beverley? By slow degrees, too, they began to discover virtues in her, the sort of virtues they could never aspire to. She was so gentle in conversation, and had such a low, sweet voice. She was very polite, also, and talked for a long time to Miss Price, seeming, by her manner, to enjoy this woman’s society. Mrs Simpkins looked her up and looked her down, and said to herself that although not pretty, she was “genteel,” and to be genteel, you had to possess something which money could not buy. The good woman made a further discovery—that pretty, showy Brenda was not genteel.Mademoiselle was also reading Penelope from quite a new point of view. She had already gauged to a great extent her pupil’s character, and what she saw to-day gave her pleasure rather than otherwise. She talked to her, however, very little, and put herself completely into the shade.When the meal was over, Brenda spoke to her sister.“I want you to stay for the night,” she said. “We can send a telegram to the Castle to say that I have kept you. I want you to stay a bit, Pen; you will, won’t you?”“I am afraid I can’t, for Honora wants me to go home.”“You call Castle Beverley home?”“Just for the present, and it is nice to feel that I can speak of it as such.”The other ladies lingered round for a minute or so, but having no excuse to listen to Brenda and Penelope, they retired, leaving the two sisters and the three Misses Amberley alone.“Children, you would like Pen to stay, wouldn’t you?”“Oh, yes, of course,” said Fanchon.“And you three could just for one night sleep all together.”“It wouldn’t be at all comfortable,” said Nina, “but I suppose we could.”“You would have to sleep at the foot, Nina,” said Fanchon.“All right,” said Nina, “I’d like that best, for I could kick you both if you were troublesome.”“I certainly can’t stay,” remarked Penelope. “I promised to come to you for part of a day, Brenda, and surely we can say all we want to say between now and nightfall.”“You are horribly disobliging,” said Brenda.“The carriage is coming for me too,” exclaimed Penelope; “I really must go back.”“You could send a note quite well, that is, if you were really nice.”The five girls had now gone upstairs, Mademoiselle had retired to her stifling attic. Mademoiselle was hiding her time. After a little further conversation Brenda perceived that it was quite useless to expect Penelope to remain for the night in the boarding-house, and accordingly, with extreme sulkiness, gave up her plan of impressing Harry with the elegant demeanour of her own sister that night. The next best thing, however, was to take Penelope for a walk. This she proceeded to do. The girls were told they might amuse themselves, which they did by locking themselves into their bedroom and examining the two brooches and the false bangle until they were fairly weary of the subject. Each girl in turn tried on the brooches, and each girl slipped the bangle on her wrist to shoot it off the next moment in horror and let it lie on the floor.“Ugly, coarse, common thing!” said Fanchon. “Oh! when I remember my beauty, you can’t even imagine, girls, what it was like.”“But it seems so ridiculous that Brenda could have given it to you,” said Nina. “Brenda might rise to a shilling thing, but as to the bangle you describe—”“Well, well—I know nothing about it,” exclaimed Fanchon. “I only know that she did give it to me. Perhaps she inherited it from a relation. She wanted me to be friends with her, anyhow, and so she gave it to me, although I was not to have it for my absolute very, very own until we return to Harroway.”“Well—I shouldn’t think you would much valuethatthing!” exclaimed Nina, kicking the false bangle across the room with her foot.Josie ran and picked it up.“It’s better than nothing,” she cried, “but of course it is common. Now of course our brooches—”“Your brooches are common too,” said Fanchon.“No, they’re not; they’re very, very elegant: any one would take them to be real.”“What—without the hall-mark?” queried Fanchon.“People as a rule don’t ask you to take your brooch off in order to see the hall-mark!” exclaimed Josie. “Don’t be silly, Fanchon, you can never wear that bangle, for it is too coarse for anything. But we can, andwill—wear our brooches. We’ll wear them every Sunday regularly, when we get home. And won’t the children at Sunday school be impressed! I can fancy I see all their eyes resting on mine—I think mine with the pearls is even more elegant than Nina’s with the turquoise.”“Well, come out now,” said Fanchon. “The whole thing is disgusting. Of course Brenda will discover very soon that the bangle is changed.”“She won’t be surprised, because she did it herself,” said Nina.“No—that she didn’t! I am certain sure she would not be quite so mean—I don’t believe it of her!” exclaimed Fanchon.The three little Amberleys walked and talked alone that afternoon, while Brenda and Penelope sat on the quay. Brenda earnestly hoped that the redoubtable Harry would pass that way and see her with her elegant sister.“I always did think you a fearfully plain girl, Penelope,” said her sister, “and of course you are plain. But you are mixing in such good society that it is beginning to affect you. You seem to me to have undergone a sort of transformation. You are—of course you’re quite ugly still; but you are—I can’t explain what it is—different from the rest of us.”“You don’t look too happy, Brenda,” was Penelope’s next remark.“I happy?” answered Brenda. “Oh—I’m well enough.”“We’re very happy at the Castle,” continued Penelope. “Honora is so sweet, and all the other children are nice, and—I wish you could know something of our life—it is a little bit higher than this, somehow.”Brenda kicked a pebble restlessly away with the toe of her smart shoe.“I am not suited for that sort of life,” she said. “I don’t care for your Castle, but all the same, I think you may as well get me invited there again. What day can we come?”“I don’t know: how can I get invitations for you?”“You’ll be perfectly horrid if you don’t—it is your duty to give your own, own sister a good time.”“Oh, Brenda—if only you’d be different!”“I don’t want to be different, thank you; I enjoy myself, on the whole, very well.”“You don’t look too happy: you seem sort of worried,” and Penelope gave a sigh and laid her hand on Brenda’s arm.“Whenheproposes, it’ll be all right,” said Brenda. “It was on account of him that I wanted you to stay. I don’t want to be governess any more. I want to be married and to have my fun like other girls; and he is awfully rich—Oh—I do declare! Yes—it is—why, there is Mr Fred Hungerford and his brother!”Brenda bridled, and drew herself up. Young Hungerford approached. He took off his hat to both the girls, and presently he and his brother and Brenda and Penelope were chatting in the most amicable way together.While they were thus employed—Brenda’s face now radiant with smiles, her eyes bright with merriment, and even Penelope laughing and chatting in the most natural way in the world—who should pass by but Harry Jordan and his friend, Joe Burbery. Brenda felt that she would like to cut Harry Jordan at that moment. She contented herself, however, with the very stiffest inclination of her head. Fred followed her gaze, and favoured Joe with the slightest perceptible nod.“How is it you know that bounder?” he said, turning to Brenda as he spoke.Brenda coloured deeply.“I just know him slightly,” she said, “do you?”“Why, yes—of course. He is the son of a small draper in our town. I used to meet him when I was a schoolboy on my way to school every morning, and I think mother sometimes gets odds and ends at Jordan’s shop. They’re fifth-rate tradespeople, and I don’t believe their business is very extensive.”Brenda felt a coldness stealing round her heart. Was this the explanation—the true explanation—with regard to her merchant prince? After a minute, during which she thought swiftly, she said:“He has had the audacity to speak to me, but of course I shan’t notice him in future.”“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Fred. “He is in no sense of the word a gentleman. Well, I must be off. Penelope, I know the carriage is coming for you at seven o’clock. Will you be ready?”“Yes, quite,” answered Penelope.The two Hungerford boys disappeared, and the two Carlton girls sat side by side on the quay. People passed and repassed. Penelope was lost in thought. She was anxious about Brenda, and yet she did not know what to do for her sister. Brenda’s thoughts were so fast and furious that they need scarcely be described. After a minute, she said:“On the whole, you are doing right to go back to your Castle and your grand friends this evening.”“Of course I am doing right,” said Penelope.“And,” continued Brenda, “I shan’t be married just at present. Perhaps I may some day, for I suppose I am pretty.”“You are very, very pretty, Brenda.”“Yes, but not with your style, and not like the sort of folks you know.”“I only know them for a short time, Brenda. But I do hope that the time spent at Hazlitt Chase will enable me always to act as a lady; for we were born ladies, dear,” she added; and she touched Brenda on her arm.Brenda clutched Penelope’s arm in response to this greeting with a feverish grip.“You are all right,” she said; “but I can never go back.”“What do you mean?”“I am wrong from first to last. I made a great mistake and I can’t explain it. Let’s come home; don’t worry about me. You will do well in life.”“I love you fifty thousand times better than I have loved you since we met on break-up day,” was Penelope’s response. “When you talk like this, you seem like the sister I lost long ago; but when you are stuck up and proud and vainglorious, then my feelings for you alter. If you were in trouble, in real trouble, Brenda, and I could help you, I would.”“I daresay,” said Brenda. Then she gave a light laugh. “But I am not in trouble,” she said, “I’m as jolly as a sand-boy. Do let’s come back; it is so silly to pay for our tea out-of-doors when Mademoiselle makes the very nicest little confections for us to partake of at home.”There was a particularly nice afternoon tea that day in Mrs Dawson’s drawing-room. That drawing-room, until Mademoiselle had appeared on the scene, was truly a room to be avoided. The western sun used to flood it with its rays. The windows were seldom properly opened. What flowers there were lacked water and were half dead in their vases. The furniture wanted dusting and arranging. There were generally broken toys about, which the small Simpkinses used to leave behind them in their wake. As likely as not, when you sank into a chair, you found yourself annoyed by a baby’s rattle or a very objectionable india-rubber doll. In short, the drawing-room was never esteemed by the boarders. But lo, and behold! Since Mademoiselle had come to Palliser Gardens, this same drawing-room was transformed. Were there not green Venetian blinds to the windows? What so easy as to pull them down? Why should not the drooping withered flowers be replaced by fresh ones which, by a judicious management of leaves and grasses, could give a cool and airy effect? Then Mademoiselle had a knack of squirting the Venetian blinds with cold water, which gave a delicious dampness and fragrance at the same time in the room. The curtains, too, were sometimes slightly drawn, and the furniture was all neatly arranged; and the tea—that wasrecherchéitself—of such good flavour, so admirably made; then Mademoiselle was always fresh, always bright and presentable, standing by the little tea equipage, dispensing the very light, but really refreshing viands. Mademoiselle made one very gentle stipulation. It was this: that the small Simpkinses, the treasured babies of the establishment, should not come down to afternoon tea. Mrs Simpkins grumbled, but finally confessed that it was a comfort not to have Georgie tugging at her skirt, and Peter laying his hot head on her broad chest, and demanding “more, more,” incessantly. In short, the little party became in the very best of humours at the meal that was hitherto such a signal failure in Mrs Dawson’s drawing-room.They all met on this special day, and Mademoiselle cast more than one earnest glance at her late pupil, Penelope Carlton, and then, with a smile hovering round her lips, poured tea into the delicate cups and handed it round, always with a smile and a gentle compliment to each lady boarder. Mrs Dawson was not present at this delightful little repast, for Mademoiselle insisted on the poor tired woman having a cup of tea all by herself and then lying down and sleeping until supper time.Mrs Dawson was now completely in Mademoiselle’s clever hands, and did precisely what that good woman wished. When the meal was over, the party again dispersed, but not before Mademoiselle had stolen up to Penelope’s side and said quietly:“Mon enfant, when do you take your departure?”“I expect the wagonette at seven o’clock,” replied Penelope.“And you will be,peut-être, alone?”“I think so.”“That is good,” was Mademoiselle’s reply. Then she vanished to suggest some particularly soothing application for Peter Simpkins’ swollen gums.At last the hour arrived when Penelope was to go. She bade her sister good-bye, and also the three little Amberleys, who regretted her departure without quite knowing why. A moment later, she had stepped into the wagonette and was being driven out of the town in the direction of Castle Beverley. The carriage had borne her just outside the suburbs, when a neat-looking black-robed figure appeared in the very middle of the King’s highway, imperatively demanding that the coachman should stop his horses. This the man, in some surprise, did. Mademoiselle then approached Penelope’s side.“I have something to say to you,chérie,” she remarked, “something of the greatest importance. May I accompany you in your drive?”“But how will you get home?” asked Penelope, very much annoyed and not at all inclined to comply.“The homeward way signifies not,” responded Mademoiselle. “It is the drive with you, most dear one, and the so sacred confidences that form the essentials of this hour. You will not deny me, for in so doing, you will place yourself and your sister, the most adorable Brenda, in jeopardy.”“I suppose you have something unpleasant to say,” said Penelope, “and if you have, the sooner you get it over, the better.”“Then you do permit me to enter into the carriage?”“I cannot help myself, but I cannot take you further than to the gates of the Castle.”“That will be time sufficient. But we will desire—ah! I will myself speak to him.”Mademoiselle entered the wagonette, and stepping up to the coachman, asked him to drive slowly. She did this in such a very insinuating manner that he felt he could do all in the world to oblige her, and accordingly, let his horses drop into a walk. This the animals were not disinclined to do on so hot an evening.“Now,” said Penelope, absolutely unsuspicious, and turning her fair face—which owing to her recent happiness, was really becoming quite good-looking—in the direction of her governess. “What have you to say, Mademoiselle?”“This,mon enfant. I will tell it to you briefly. You know the story of thepetitesHungerfords—the little one called Nellie, thatenfantwho suffered with a suffering so severe for the loss of her inestimable trinket—the bangle of the purest gold set with a turquoise most exquisite.”“Yes, yes,” exclaimed Penelope, “I know all about it. The bangle was lost; has it been found?”“Softly—chérie—I am coming to that. It was lost, was it not, on the very day of thegrande fêteat Hazlitt Chase?”“Yes,” said Penelope, “I believe Mrs Hungerford thinks she lost it in the railway carriage in which she came to the Chase.”“Précisément: you have thehistoirein all its accuracy,” answered Mademoiselle. “And there was,mon enfant, was there not, an announcement of the loss in the newspapers, the so great newspapers of London, and thepetits journauxof the smaller towns? And was there not that announcement with the reward attached even inserted, for the sake of the more safety, in thejournalhere—thepetit journalof Marshlands-on-the-Sea?”“I daresay you are right,” said Penelope, “but I really am not specially interested, nor have I followed what the Hungerfords have done.”“Ah!ma chère—you say you are not interested once. But that will pass. That state of your mind will quickly arrive when you will be interested; for there is much to concern you in this matter. Behold,mon enfant, what I, your French governess, have discovered.”Mademoiselle thrust her hand into her pocket, took out a soft, cambric handkerchief, unfolded it, and revealed the missing bangle.“See!” she exclaimed. “Behold for yourself—I would convince myself, by visiting you at the beautiful Castle yesterday, and I remarked the bangle on the leetle Pauline’s slender wrist. I took a note of the fine engraving, and the pattern of it. Is not thisprécisémentthe same! See for yourself,” she added.“Why, it is—it must be!” exclaimed Penelope. “So it is found out; did you discover it? How delighted Nellie will be! Are you coming up to the Castle to give it back to her to-night and to claim the reward? I know it will be given to you at once. Poor, dear little Nellie—she will be pleased!”“Ah—ma chère!” said the French governess, “I act not so—I have not the heart so cruel!”“But what do you mean?” asked Penelope, in great astonishment.“You must listen to thehistoirethat I will tell to you. You must clearly first understand that this is the identical lost bangle—the bangle made of the eighteen carat gold—with the delicate engraving and the turquoise of the colour so pure, and of the form so rare and the size so marvellous. It is the identical one.”“It certainly seems like it,” said Penelope.“Itisthe same—rest assured.”As Mademoiselle spoke, she folded up the bangle and transferred it to her pocket.“I have something to say to you,chère enfant.”“What do you mean? Why don’t you give me the bangle to take to little Nellie? I don’t understand you.”“Ayez patience—you soon will be enlightened.” Mademoiselle bent close to Penelope; her voice dropped to a whisper. “They shall hear us not,” she said, “those men on the box. We can talk freely. Shall I tell you how I found it? I had my so true suspicions, and I followed them up. Now listen.”With this preamble, Mademoiselle poured into poor Penelope’s ears the story of Fanchon and the marvellous bangle she wore, of Nina, and her walk abroad with Mademoiselle wearing the said bangle on her wrist, of Brenda’s reprehensible doings when she took Fanchon out night after night, and, lastly, of the very clever way in which she, Mademoiselle, had managed to substitute the worthless bangle for the real one.“I talk not of myself as lofty in this matter,” was her final remark. “I am the poor governess who have here all to earn; but I am not so bad as thatméchante—your sister. There is no doubt that on the day of thegrande fêteat Hazlitt Chase she found the bangle and that she would keep it for her own purposes. It was doubtless not lost in any railway carriage, nor was there any official or traveller to blame. She was the one who put that idea into your head, was she not?”Penelope did not utter a word.“There is circumstantial evidence the most grave against your sister,” said Mademoiselle, in conclusion, “but I try her not by my judgment; I have mercy upon her, and bring the case to you; I lay it at your feet. What will you do for the sister—the only sister that you possess? You most assuredly will not allow her to be put into prison. What will you do?”

The Amberleys were really fond of each other. They were worldly little creatures, and had never been trained in high principles of any sort; but they clung together, as motherless, defenceless creatures will in their hour of peril. They had a queer feeling now that they were in some sort of danger, and the younger ones sympathised enormously with Fanchon.

They did not of course dare to tell her what had happened on the previous night—how Nina had worn the bangle, the real eighteen carat gold bangle, the bangle with the turquoise of such size and elegance, of such an exquisite shade of colour, the bangle with that delicate tracery all over its gold rim. That bangle was so widely different from this, that there was no doubt whatever that the one had been substituted for the other. How had it been done? Mademoiselle? Oh, no, no. Nina looked at Josephine, and Josephine was afraid to meet Nina’s eyes, as the thoughts flashed quickly through each little brain.

Mademoiselle had helped them to undress. Mademoiselle had herself put the precious bangle away. But no—she was kind—more than kind. It could not be in the heart of such a woman to do anything so shabby. Nevertheless, the thought of Mademoiselle’s past treachery had come to both the little sisters, and they hated themselves for it, and feared to glance at each other, and above all things dreaded what Fanchon might be thinking about. Fanchon was, however, far too miserable to worry herself with regard to her little sisters’ thoughts.

“I cannot make it out,” she said. “Of course I shall have to speak to poor Brenda about it.”

“Perhaps Brenda did it herself,” said Nina then. It was an audacious and very wicked thought which had come to the little girl, but she was really intensely anxious to shield Mademoiselle at that moment. The words she uttered bore some fruit, for Fanchon considered them very carefully, and said aloud:

“If I really thought that—”

“What would you do if you did think that?” asked Josephine.

“I should go straight home to papa, and tell him everything—everything!” was Fanchon’s answer.

“But have you a great deal to tell him?”

“I have—oh, I have. I am a miserable girl! That odious—that vulgar—that detestable bangle—isthatwhat I am to have in the end? She probably didexchangeit for the real one, because she wanted to wear the real one herself. Oh, girls—how am I to endure it!”

“Buck up, whatever you do,” said Nina; “and remember your promise.”

“Oh—how I hate promises!” said Fanchon. “I want to fly at her now, horrid thing! and confront her with the truth.”

“Well, you can’t anyhow for the present, on account of your promise,” said Josie.

“Perhaps to-night you may talk to her, but certainly not before; and it’s time for us to be going down to the sands,” said Nina. “We’ll lose all our morning’s fun if we don’t. I want to get some of those buns from the little old woman who brings them round in her basket. I’ll get Brenda to buy them for us; I’m ever so hungry, and I’m not going to be afraid of Brenda to-day.”

“You’ll have to take your notebook,” said Fanchon; and then she gave a half-laugh.

“I!” exclaimed Nina. “Not I. I think the time of tyranny with Brenda is nearly over.”

The girls put on their hats, and strolled down to the beach. Brenda was there looking quite happy and unconcerned. She called Fanchon a little aside, and desired the younger girls to amuse themselves building castles in the sand.

“I am too old for that,” said Josephine.

“Not a bit,” exclaimed Brenda. “How ridiculous you are! you are nothing but a baby. Anyhow, please yourselves, both of you, for I want to talk to Fanchon.”

“It’s horrid, the way you make Fanchon grown-up, and make Nina and me quite little babies!” said Josie.

But Brenda looked troubled, and was quite indifferent to her small pupil’s remarks with regard to her conduct.

“I tell you what,” she said, after a pause. “You may do anything you like on the sands, only don’t wander too far.”

“There’s Betty with her tray of cakes!” exclaimed Nina. “May we have a bun each, Brenda? Will you give us money to buy a bun each?”

Curious to relate, Brenda complied. She gave Nina the necessary pence, and did not even refer to the obnoxious notebook. The moment the little girls were out of sight, she turned to her elder pupil.

“I met Harry to-day; he was quite contrite and nice. I feel almost certain he’ll ask me to marry him. I mean to go out without you this evening, and I mean to wear the bangle. I think the bangle will quite clinch matters. Harry thinks I am poor; but I don’t want him to do so. Why, what’s the matter, Fanchon?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Fanchon, making an effort to conceal her feelings.

“Have you a headache, dear? are you ill?”

“I am not ill,” said Fanchon, “but I have a little headache—the sun is very hot,” she added.

“I shall take Penelope with me this evening—that’s a good idea,” said Brenda, suddenly. “I shall keep her for the night; I mean to force her to stay. She’s got a very stylish air about her, which you, poor Fanchon, don’t possess, and what with Penelope and the bangle—”

“I thought you didn’t want Penelope to know about the bangle.”

“No more I do; but I shall manage just to let him see a gleam of it when she is not looking. You haven’t the least idea how to arrange these sort of things, my dear child; but doubtless some day you will. However, now it’s almost time to hurry home. My little Fanchon shall have that beautiful bangle all for herself when the holidays are over.”

Fanchon gave quite an audible sniff.

“What a very unpleasant noise you make, dear Fanchon.”

“Oh, I can’t help it,” replied Fanchon, and she stuck her head high in the air and looked so repellent that her governess wondered she had ever been bothered by her.

When the girls returned to thepension, they found Penelope awaiting them. She wore a brown holland frock, quite neat, but very plain. Her soft, very fair hair was arranged tidily round her head, also with the least attempt at display. She was a singularly unobtrusive-looking girl, and, beside Brenda, she was, as the ladies of thepensionexclaimed, “nowhere.” They all criticised her, however, very deeply, for had she not come from Castle Beverley? By slow degrees, too, they began to discover virtues in her, the sort of virtues they could never aspire to. She was so gentle in conversation, and had such a low, sweet voice. She was very polite, also, and talked for a long time to Miss Price, seeming, by her manner, to enjoy this woman’s society. Mrs Simpkins looked her up and looked her down, and said to herself that although not pretty, she was “genteel,” and to be genteel, you had to possess something which money could not buy. The good woman made a further discovery—that pretty, showy Brenda was not genteel.

Mademoiselle was also reading Penelope from quite a new point of view. She had already gauged to a great extent her pupil’s character, and what she saw to-day gave her pleasure rather than otherwise. She talked to her, however, very little, and put herself completely into the shade.

When the meal was over, Brenda spoke to her sister.

“I want you to stay for the night,” she said. “We can send a telegram to the Castle to say that I have kept you. I want you to stay a bit, Pen; you will, won’t you?”

“I am afraid I can’t, for Honora wants me to go home.”

“You call Castle Beverley home?”

“Just for the present, and it is nice to feel that I can speak of it as such.”

The other ladies lingered round for a minute or so, but having no excuse to listen to Brenda and Penelope, they retired, leaving the two sisters and the three Misses Amberley alone.

“Children, you would like Pen to stay, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Fanchon.

“And you three could just for one night sleep all together.”

“It wouldn’t be at all comfortable,” said Nina, “but I suppose we could.”

“You would have to sleep at the foot, Nina,” said Fanchon.

“All right,” said Nina, “I’d like that best, for I could kick you both if you were troublesome.”

“I certainly can’t stay,” remarked Penelope. “I promised to come to you for part of a day, Brenda, and surely we can say all we want to say between now and nightfall.”

“You are horribly disobliging,” said Brenda.

“The carriage is coming for me too,” exclaimed Penelope; “I really must go back.”

“You could send a note quite well, that is, if you were really nice.”

The five girls had now gone upstairs, Mademoiselle had retired to her stifling attic. Mademoiselle was hiding her time. After a little further conversation Brenda perceived that it was quite useless to expect Penelope to remain for the night in the boarding-house, and accordingly, with extreme sulkiness, gave up her plan of impressing Harry with the elegant demeanour of her own sister that night. The next best thing, however, was to take Penelope for a walk. This she proceeded to do. The girls were told they might amuse themselves, which they did by locking themselves into their bedroom and examining the two brooches and the false bangle until they were fairly weary of the subject. Each girl in turn tried on the brooches, and each girl slipped the bangle on her wrist to shoot it off the next moment in horror and let it lie on the floor.

“Ugly, coarse, common thing!” said Fanchon. “Oh! when I remember my beauty, you can’t even imagine, girls, what it was like.”

“But it seems so ridiculous that Brenda could have given it to you,” said Nina. “Brenda might rise to a shilling thing, but as to the bangle you describe—”

“Well, well—I know nothing about it,” exclaimed Fanchon. “I only know that she did give it to me. Perhaps she inherited it from a relation. She wanted me to be friends with her, anyhow, and so she gave it to me, although I was not to have it for my absolute very, very own until we return to Harroway.”

“Well—I shouldn’t think you would much valuethatthing!” exclaimed Nina, kicking the false bangle across the room with her foot.

Josie ran and picked it up.

“It’s better than nothing,” she cried, “but of course it is common. Now of course our brooches—”

“Your brooches are common too,” said Fanchon.

“No, they’re not; they’re very, very elegant: any one would take them to be real.”

“What—without the hall-mark?” queried Fanchon.

“People as a rule don’t ask you to take your brooch off in order to see the hall-mark!” exclaimed Josie. “Don’t be silly, Fanchon, you can never wear that bangle, for it is too coarse for anything. But we can, andwill—wear our brooches. We’ll wear them every Sunday regularly, when we get home. And won’t the children at Sunday school be impressed! I can fancy I see all their eyes resting on mine—I think mine with the pearls is even more elegant than Nina’s with the turquoise.”

“Well, come out now,” said Fanchon. “The whole thing is disgusting. Of course Brenda will discover very soon that the bangle is changed.”

“She won’t be surprised, because she did it herself,” said Nina.

“No—that she didn’t! I am certain sure she would not be quite so mean—I don’t believe it of her!” exclaimed Fanchon.

The three little Amberleys walked and talked alone that afternoon, while Brenda and Penelope sat on the quay. Brenda earnestly hoped that the redoubtable Harry would pass that way and see her with her elegant sister.

“I always did think you a fearfully plain girl, Penelope,” said her sister, “and of course you are plain. But you are mixing in such good society that it is beginning to affect you. You seem to me to have undergone a sort of transformation. You are—of course you’re quite ugly still; but you are—I can’t explain what it is—different from the rest of us.”

“You don’t look too happy, Brenda,” was Penelope’s next remark.

“I happy?” answered Brenda. “Oh—I’m well enough.”

“We’re very happy at the Castle,” continued Penelope. “Honora is so sweet, and all the other children are nice, and—I wish you could know something of our life—it is a little bit higher than this, somehow.”

Brenda kicked a pebble restlessly away with the toe of her smart shoe.

“I am not suited for that sort of life,” she said. “I don’t care for your Castle, but all the same, I think you may as well get me invited there again. What day can we come?”

“I don’t know: how can I get invitations for you?”

“You’ll be perfectly horrid if you don’t—it is your duty to give your own, own sister a good time.”

“Oh, Brenda—if only you’d be different!”

“I don’t want to be different, thank you; I enjoy myself, on the whole, very well.”

“You don’t look too happy: you seem sort of worried,” and Penelope gave a sigh and laid her hand on Brenda’s arm.

“Whenheproposes, it’ll be all right,” said Brenda. “It was on account of him that I wanted you to stay. I don’t want to be governess any more. I want to be married and to have my fun like other girls; and he is awfully rich—Oh—I do declare! Yes—it is—why, there is Mr Fred Hungerford and his brother!”

Brenda bridled, and drew herself up. Young Hungerford approached. He took off his hat to both the girls, and presently he and his brother and Brenda and Penelope were chatting in the most amicable way together.

While they were thus employed—Brenda’s face now radiant with smiles, her eyes bright with merriment, and even Penelope laughing and chatting in the most natural way in the world—who should pass by but Harry Jordan and his friend, Joe Burbery. Brenda felt that she would like to cut Harry Jordan at that moment. She contented herself, however, with the very stiffest inclination of her head. Fred followed her gaze, and favoured Joe with the slightest perceptible nod.

“How is it you know that bounder?” he said, turning to Brenda as he spoke.

Brenda coloured deeply.

“I just know him slightly,” she said, “do you?”

“Why, yes—of course. He is the son of a small draper in our town. I used to meet him when I was a schoolboy on my way to school every morning, and I think mother sometimes gets odds and ends at Jordan’s shop. They’re fifth-rate tradespeople, and I don’t believe their business is very extensive.”

Brenda felt a coldness stealing round her heart. Was this the explanation—the true explanation—with regard to her merchant prince? After a minute, during which she thought swiftly, she said:

“He has had the audacity to speak to me, but of course I shan’t notice him in future.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Fred. “He is in no sense of the word a gentleman. Well, I must be off. Penelope, I know the carriage is coming for you at seven o’clock. Will you be ready?”

“Yes, quite,” answered Penelope.

The two Hungerford boys disappeared, and the two Carlton girls sat side by side on the quay. People passed and repassed. Penelope was lost in thought. She was anxious about Brenda, and yet she did not know what to do for her sister. Brenda’s thoughts were so fast and furious that they need scarcely be described. After a minute, she said:

“On the whole, you are doing right to go back to your Castle and your grand friends this evening.”

“Of course I am doing right,” said Penelope.

“And,” continued Brenda, “I shan’t be married just at present. Perhaps I may some day, for I suppose I am pretty.”

“You are very, very pretty, Brenda.”

“Yes, but not with your style, and not like the sort of folks you know.”

“I only know them for a short time, Brenda. But I do hope that the time spent at Hazlitt Chase will enable me always to act as a lady; for we were born ladies, dear,” she added; and she touched Brenda on her arm.

Brenda clutched Penelope’s arm in response to this greeting with a feverish grip.

“You are all right,” she said; “but I can never go back.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am wrong from first to last. I made a great mistake and I can’t explain it. Let’s come home; don’t worry about me. You will do well in life.”

“I love you fifty thousand times better than I have loved you since we met on break-up day,” was Penelope’s response. “When you talk like this, you seem like the sister I lost long ago; but when you are stuck up and proud and vainglorious, then my feelings for you alter. If you were in trouble, in real trouble, Brenda, and I could help you, I would.”

“I daresay,” said Brenda. Then she gave a light laugh. “But I am not in trouble,” she said, “I’m as jolly as a sand-boy. Do let’s come back; it is so silly to pay for our tea out-of-doors when Mademoiselle makes the very nicest little confections for us to partake of at home.”

There was a particularly nice afternoon tea that day in Mrs Dawson’s drawing-room. That drawing-room, until Mademoiselle had appeared on the scene, was truly a room to be avoided. The western sun used to flood it with its rays. The windows were seldom properly opened. What flowers there were lacked water and were half dead in their vases. The furniture wanted dusting and arranging. There were generally broken toys about, which the small Simpkinses used to leave behind them in their wake. As likely as not, when you sank into a chair, you found yourself annoyed by a baby’s rattle or a very objectionable india-rubber doll. In short, the drawing-room was never esteemed by the boarders. But lo, and behold! Since Mademoiselle had come to Palliser Gardens, this same drawing-room was transformed. Were there not green Venetian blinds to the windows? What so easy as to pull them down? Why should not the drooping withered flowers be replaced by fresh ones which, by a judicious management of leaves and grasses, could give a cool and airy effect? Then Mademoiselle had a knack of squirting the Venetian blinds with cold water, which gave a delicious dampness and fragrance at the same time in the room. The curtains, too, were sometimes slightly drawn, and the furniture was all neatly arranged; and the tea—that wasrecherchéitself—of such good flavour, so admirably made; then Mademoiselle was always fresh, always bright and presentable, standing by the little tea equipage, dispensing the very light, but really refreshing viands. Mademoiselle made one very gentle stipulation. It was this: that the small Simpkinses, the treasured babies of the establishment, should not come down to afternoon tea. Mrs Simpkins grumbled, but finally confessed that it was a comfort not to have Georgie tugging at her skirt, and Peter laying his hot head on her broad chest, and demanding “more, more,” incessantly. In short, the little party became in the very best of humours at the meal that was hitherto such a signal failure in Mrs Dawson’s drawing-room.

They all met on this special day, and Mademoiselle cast more than one earnest glance at her late pupil, Penelope Carlton, and then, with a smile hovering round her lips, poured tea into the delicate cups and handed it round, always with a smile and a gentle compliment to each lady boarder. Mrs Dawson was not present at this delightful little repast, for Mademoiselle insisted on the poor tired woman having a cup of tea all by herself and then lying down and sleeping until supper time.

Mrs Dawson was now completely in Mademoiselle’s clever hands, and did precisely what that good woman wished. When the meal was over, the party again dispersed, but not before Mademoiselle had stolen up to Penelope’s side and said quietly:

“Mon enfant, when do you take your departure?”

“I expect the wagonette at seven o’clock,” replied Penelope.

“And you will be,peut-être, alone?”

“I think so.”

“That is good,” was Mademoiselle’s reply. Then she vanished to suggest some particularly soothing application for Peter Simpkins’ swollen gums.

At last the hour arrived when Penelope was to go. She bade her sister good-bye, and also the three little Amberleys, who regretted her departure without quite knowing why. A moment later, she had stepped into the wagonette and was being driven out of the town in the direction of Castle Beverley. The carriage had borne her just outside the suburbs, when a neat-looking black-robed figure appeared in the very middle of the King’s highway, imperatively demanding that the coachman should stop his horses. This the man, in some surprise, did. Mademoiselle then approached Penelope’s side.

“I have something to say to you,chérie,” she remarked, “something of the greatest importance. May I accompany you in your drive?”

“But how will you get home?” asked Penelope, very much annoyed and not at all inclined to comply.

“The homeward way signifies not,” responded Mademoiselle. “It is the drive with you, most dear one, and the so sacred confidences that form the essentials of this hour. You will not deny me, for in so doing, you will place yourself and your sister, the most adorable Brenda, in jeopardy.”

“I suppose you have something unpleasant to say,” said Penelope, “and if you have, the sooner you get it over, the better.”

“Then you do permit me to enter into the carriage?”

“I cannot help myself, but I cannot take you further than to the gates of the Castle.”

“That will be time sufficient. But we will desire—ah! I will myself speak to him.”

Mademoiselle entered the wagonette, and stepping up to the coachman, asked him to drive slowly. She did this in such a very insinuating manner that he felt he could do all in the world to oblige her, and accordingly, let his horses drop into a walk. This the animals were not disinclined to do on so hot an evening.

“Now,” said Penelope, absolutely unsuspicious, and turning her fair face—which owing to her recent happiness, was really becoming quite good-looking—in the direction of her governess. “What have you to say, Mademoiselle?”

“This,mon enfant. I will tell it to you briefly. You know the story of thepetitesHungerfords—the little one called Nellie, thatenfantwho suffered with a suffering so severe for the loss of her inestimable trinket—the bangle of the purest gold set with a turquoise most exquisite.”

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed Penelope, “I know all about it. The bangle was lost; has it been found?”

“Softly—chérie—I am coming to that. It was lost, was it not, on the very day of thegrande fêteat Hazlitt Chase?”

“Yes,” said Penelope, “I believe Mrs Hungerford thinks she lost it in the railway carriage in which she came to the Chase.”

“Précisément: you have thehistoirein all its accuracy,” answered Mademoiselle. “And there was,mon enfant, was there not, an announcement of the loss in the newspapers, the so great newspapers of London, and thepetits journauxof the smaller towns? And was there not that announcement with the reward attached even inserted, for the sake of the more safety, in thejournalhere—thepetit journalof Marshlands-on-the-Sea?”

“I daresay you are right,” said Penelope, “but I really am not specially interested, nor have I followed what the Hungerfords have done.”

“Ah!ma chère—you say you are not interested once. But that will pass. That state of your mind will quickly arrive when you will be interested; for there is much to concern you in this matter. Behold,mon enfant, what I, your French governess, have discovered.”

Mademoiselle thrust her hand into her pocket, took out a soft, cambric handkerchief, unfolded it, and revealed the missing bangle.

“See!” she exclaimed. “Behold for yourself—I would convince myself, by visiting you at the beautiful Castle yesterday, and I remarked the bangle on the leetle Pauline’s slender wrist. I took a note of the fine engraving, and the pattern of it. Is not thisprécisémentthe same! See for yourself,” she added.

“Why, it is—it must be!” exclaimed Penelope. “So it is found out; did you discover it? How delighted Nellie will be! Are you coming up to the Castle to give it back to her to-night and to claim the reward? I know it will be given to you at once. Poor, dear little Nellie—she will be pleased!”

“Ah—ma chère!” said the French governess, “I act not so—I have not the heart so cruel!”

“But what do you mean?” asked Penelope, in great astonishment.

“You must listen to thehistoirethat I will tell to you. You must clearly first understand that this is the identical lost bangle—the bangle made of the eighteen carat gold—with the delicate engraving and the turquoise of the colour so pure, and of the form so rare and the size so marvellous. It is the identical one.”

“It certainly seems like it,” said Penelope.

“Itisthe same—rest assured.”

As Mademoiselle spoke, she folded up the bangle and transferred it to her pocket.

“I have something to say to you,chère enfant.”

“What do you mean? Why don’t you give me the bangle to take to little Nellie? I don’t understand you.”

“Ayez patience—you soon will be enlightened.” Mademoiselle bent close to Penelope; her voice dropped to a whisper. “They shall hear us not,” she said, “those men on the box. We can talk freely. Shall I tell you how I found it? I had my so true suspicions, and I followed them up. Now listen.”

With this preamble, Mademoiselle poured into poor Penelope’s ears the story of Fanchon and the marvellous bangle she wore, of Nina, and her walk abroad with Mademoiselle wearing the said bangle on her wrist, of Brenda’s reprehensible doings when she took Fanchon out night after night, and, lastly, of the very clever way in which she, Mademoiselle, had managed to substitute the worthless bangle for the real one.

“I talk not of myself as lofty in this matter,” was her final remark. “I am the poor governess who have here all to earn; but I am not so bad as thatméchante—your sister. There is no doubt that on the day of thegrande fêteat Hazlitt Chase she found the bangle and that she would keep it for her own purposes. It was doubtless not lost in any railway carriage, nor was there any official or traveller to blame. She was the one who put that idea into your head, was she not?”

Penelope did not utter a word.

“There is circumstantial evidence the most grave against your sister,” said Mademoiselle, in conclusion, “but I try her not by my judgment; I have mercy upon her, and bring the case to you; I lay it at your feet. What will you do for the sister—the only sister that you possess? You most assuredly will not allow her to be put into prison. What will you do?”

Chapter Twenty Two.Do the Right Thing.Penelope was quite silent, not replying by a single word to Mademoiselle’s insinuations until they reached the gates of Castle Beverley. Then she said in a quiet voice:“You have told me something most terrible, and of course—I will do—I will do something—”“But you will not expose thatpauvresister—you will not ruin her for all her life; and she so young and so fair.”“Please, Mademoiselle, promise me something,” said Penelope. “You have told me the story, and I am obliged to you. I will let you know what I myself mean to do to-morrow morning.”“But that will be far too late,mon enfant; for remember, I have found the missing bangle, and for this so great discovery there is a reward offered, and that reward, althoughtrès petite, is nevertheless of consequence to one so poor as myself. I will claim that reward; but I want to claim more. If I keep this thing dark—quite dark, I claim a big reward.”“What?” asked Penelope.Her whole tone changed. The coachman, by her directions, had drawn up at the avenue gates. Penelope and Mademoiselle had both alighted.“Drive on,” said Penelope to the man. “Say that I am following.”He obeyed. When the sound of the horses’ hoofs had died away, Penelope turned again to Mademoiselle.“You have told me the story,” she said; “and now I want to know exactly what you do expect. You have, of course, told me the story not out of any kindness to me or to my sister. Please don’t waste your breath denying this fact, Mademoiselle d’Etienne. You have told it, hoping to profit by it.”“C’est vrai,” replied the Frenchwoman. “I am of the poor; I am of the needy; I have not the wherewithal to support the most precious life. I am dismissed from being your teacher through no fault of mine. The wide world—it lies around me; if I have not the money, I will starve!” She held up her right hand dramatically. “Does it seem to you of the reasonable that I should starve, Mademoiselle Penelope? Why should I not feather my own nest? I wish for the reward; but it matters not from whom it comes, if it come from you, your sister is saved; if it come from Mrs Hungerford, your sister and you—think of the position,ma chère—”“I do think of it,” said Penelope.“You will consider it yet more deeply. I give you a little time. I tell you plainly that I want from you what you have already done for your sister. I know that you did collect from your school friends—those maidens so rich, so distinguished—the money—a great sum. I demand that you make a collection again, and that you give it to me. Twenty pound is my price; give me twenty sovereigns of the gold, and no person know notting of the lost bangle. If you will not—I tell what I know.”“Mademoiselle, do you think, do you really think that I am made like that?”“I know not,ma chère; I only do know that once you got money from your school friends. You would like not that story to be known; but it can be spread all over the school at Hazlitt Chase, and Honora Beverley, that most saintly and esteemed young lady, can hear of it. She will not wish to have you any longer a visitor at her beautiful home; for she is of the lofty sort that stoop not to the ways of the wicked. Think what it will mean. And your sister—she will be, oh, in peril of grave imprisonment. Think of the public trial and the so great disgrace. Madame at the Chase will not receive you back; she would not dare to receive the sister of a thief!Oh, fi donc! She could not it endure. That is your position. But I deliver you therefrom if you once again exercise that spell which you possess; and get from your companions—it matters not which—the leetle, leetle sum of twenty pound. That is the whole, you understand.”“I understand,” said Penelope. She spoke in a low voice; her face was white as death.“I give you until the morning. You are puzzled,pauvre petite, and most truly do I you pity. But never mind; it isnécessairethat the poor governess be helped in her hour of so great need. To her it is equal about the disgrace to you and yours; in one way or the other she, the poor French Mademoiselle, makes agrand coupin this matter! And now, I wish you ‘adieu’ for the night. Communicate with me before twelve o’clock to-morrow. If at that hour I have no news from you, I take my own steps.Adieu, chérie. Pauvre enfant, dormez tranquille.”Mademoiselle turned away. She walked quickly down the dusty road. She had done her evil deed; she had exploded her bomb. Her wicked heart felt no sense of shame or sorrow for the innocent girl whom she had put in so cruel a position.As to Penelope, she stayed for a little time just where Mademoiselle d’Etienne had left her. Then she turned and walked up the drive. She was stunned. She had not walked half-way up the avenue before a gay young voice sounded in her ears; and, of all people in the world, those she least wished to see at this juncture, rushed up to her and flung their arms round her neck and wrist.“You have come back!” said Nellie Hungerford.“We aresodelighted!” said Pauline. “We have missed you just dreadfully. But we have had a good day. We went to the sands at Carlin Bay. Uncle Beverley took us, and we did enjoy ourselves! But still it isn’t half so much fun when you’re away. You’re so splendid at telling stories, you know. But come along now; you’re just in time for supper, and after supper we mean to have a grand game at hide-and-seek before we all go to bed. Honora! Nora dear, here is Penelope—she is come back!”Honora ran down the grassy sward to meet her friend.“Why, surely,” she said, “you didn’t walk home?”“No, no—I left the carriage at the gate.”“But why did you do that?”“I thought I’d like to walk up the avenue.”“You look dead tired; is anything the matter?”“I have a—a—headache,” said Penelope, taking refuge in this time-honoured excuse for low spirits.“Poor thing! I expect you found the sun very hot at Marshlands. As to Nellie and Pauline—I call them a pair of salamanders; they can stand any amount of heat. They would insist on father taking them to Carlin sands to-day; and they came back fresher than ever. The rest of us stayed more or less in the shade, for I never remember the sun being so hot.”“Come in, and have some supper, Pen; that’ll do you good,” said Pauline.Penelope said she would. They had now reached the house. She ran up to her own room. She bathed her face, washed her hands, and brushed back her hair. She tried to believe that the dreadful thing that had happened in the wagonette was a dream, that there was no such horror surrounding her, lying in wait for her, clutching at her very vitals. She would keep up at any cost for the evening. When the night came, she would be alone. Then she could think.Honora’s voice was heard calling her. She ran downstairs. They all went into the long, cool supper-room. There a cold collation was spread on the table.“I won’t let you go to Marshlands again,” said Nora, looking critically at Penelope. “You’re just as white as a sheet. It is much too tiring this hot weather. Your sister must come to us instead.”Poor Penelope gave a little inward shiver. Pauline Hungerford nestled close to her.“I’ve something to whisper to you,” she said.“Oh, no—not now,” said Penelope.“Yes, but I must. They don’t mind what we do at supper—we’re all quite free at supper. It is this: listen. Mother’s coming here early to-morrow—think of that!—And I do believe she is bringing a bangle, the same as mine, for Nellie! She didn’tsayso in so many words, but I think she is. Then we’ll be perfectly happy! Aren’t you glad? I know I am. I’ve never half enjoyed my darling bangle at the thought of Nellie’s sorrow. But Nellie has been very good lately, and hasn’t talked about it a bit, or even once asked to look at mine. She wouldn’t do that at first; she used to shut her eyes whenever she found herself forced to see it, just as though it gave her the greatest pain. I hate—andhatewearing it. Mother said I must, for it would be so bad for Nellie if she didn’t bear a thing of this sort well. But now, it’s all right, and darling Nellie will be as happy as a sand-boy. Oh, Iamdelighted!”“Paulie, you mustn’t whisper any more,” said Fred Hungerford at that moment. “Hullo, Pen!” he added, “I am glad to see you back. Did you and your sister stay much longer on the quay? and did you meet that low-down fellow, Jordan, again? I can’t imagine how your pretty sister got to know him.”“We didn’t meet him any more,” said Penelope, “and we went back to thepensionsoon after.”Supper came to an end. Pauline asked wildly, her bright eyes gleaming, when the grand game of hide-and-seek in the moonlit garden was to begin.Here Penelope’s fortitude failed her.“I have had a tiring day,” she said. “Do you mind, Nora, if I go to my room?”“Is your head aching badly?” asked Honora.“Yes, I’m afraid it is.”“Then of course you must go. And, children, we won’t shout too loudly under Pen’s window. Good-night, dear. Would you like me to come and see you before I go to bed myself?”“Oh, no, please; not to-night, Nora.”“Very well—good-night. You really don’t look at all well.”Penelope felt a brief sense of relief when she was all alone in her room. She took off her dress and put on a light dressing-gown. Then she flung the window wide open and sat down by it, resting her elbow on the deep window ledge. Her pale, despairing face gazed out into the night. How happy she had been at Castle Beverley! What a joyful, glad, delightful sort of place it was! How merry the voices of the children sounded! She could hear shrieks of mirth in the distance. Oh, yes; Castle Beverley was a delightful home. She knew quite well why. It seemed to her that night that the whole secret of its gladness, of its goodness, of its beauty, was revealed. Castle Beverley was delightful, not because its owner was a rich man and well born; not because the children who came there were ladies and gentlemen by birth; but simply because the laws that governed that household were the laws of truth and love and unselfishness and righteousness. It was impossible to be mean in that home, for here the highest things were practised more than preached. There were no ostensible lessons in religion, but the religious life was led here, by Honora, by all the children, and, most of all, by the father and mother.“That accounts for it,” thought Penelope. “It is because they are so good without being priggishly good, that I have been so happy. They always think nice thoughts of every one; and they are unselfish, and each gives up to the other. I don’t belong to them—I belong to Brenda. Brenda and I have the same mother, and the same father. We are two sisters. Brenda has fallen very low indeed, and I suppose I shall fall too; for how can I endure, even for a moment, what Mademoiselle contemplates doing—what Mademoiselle will do? It will mean Brenda’s ruin, Brenda’s public disgrace, and my disgrace! Oh, to think that I should be living here, and that the children—Nellie and Pauline—should love me, and confide in me, and all the time my sister—mine! has stolen Nellie’s bangle! Oh, Brenda, Brenda!”Poor Penelope did not cry: she was past tears. She sat and gazed out into the night. Her perplexities were extreme; she could not rest. What was she to do? Mademoiselle had put her, indeed, into a cleft stick; whichever way she turned there seemed to be nothing but despair.“I was so happy; but that doesn’t matter,” she thought. “The thing now to do is to know how to save Brenda. Can I save her by—by—trying to get money for her? But then I couldn’t get money. Oh, yes, I could, though—or at least perhaps I could, I don’t know. I wouldn’t ask the girls again for all the world—but there’s the squire; he might—might lend it to me. I’d have to tell him a lot of lies—and I shouldn’t like that. I must sink down to Brenda’s level in order to save her! Oh, Brenda, I can’t, I just can’t! Brenda, why did you do it? And I had got that twenty pounds for you. Whydidyou steal the bangle and put every one on the wrong scent and get us into the power of that terrible, unscrupulous Mademoiselle! She’ll do what she said she would—there’s no sort of hope from her. Oh, what am I—what am I to do!”“Do right,” whispered a voice in her ear. This voice spoke light and clear from the conscience of Penelope Carlton, and it was so startling in its tone that it seemed to her that some one spoke to her. She started and looked out, gazing to right and left. As she did this, some one who was walking below, saw her. That some one was Honora. She observed the white, very white face of the girl and noticed its agony. All of a sudden, Honora came to a resolve.“There is something wrong,” she thought to herself. “It’s not an ordinary headache. I don’t like that sister of hers a bit—we none of us do. She has done something to make poor little Pen unhappy. I just think that I’ll force myself on her this very night. She is too miserable to be left alone; of that I am sure.”Mary L’Estrange and Cara Burt, walking arm in arm, came now into view.“What is the matter, Honora?” said Mary.“Why do you ask?” questioned Nora.Mary gave a laugh.“You look something like what you did that evening when you refused to take the part of Helen of Troy.”“Oh, we needn’t bother about that now,” said Honora, a slight tone of vexation in her voice. Then she added, suddenly: “I am not quite happy about Pen; I don’t think she is well. I am going to her.”“But she has only a headache,” said Cara, “and no wonder, out all this hot day in the sun.”“I feel somehow that it’s more than a headache,” said Honora. “I saw her just now looking out of her window, and somehow, I feel she may want me: in any case, I am going to her. Will you, Cara, and you, Mary, just lead the games, and don’t let the children stay out very much longer; it’s time for the young ones, at least, to go to bed.”Cara and Mary promised, and immediately turned away.“I,” said Cara, addressing her companion, “also thought there was something queer about Penelope to-night. It is odd that Honora should have worn the expression she did when she refused to act as Helen of Troy.”“And another thing is also odd.”“What do you mean?” asked Cara.“Why, at supper to-night, it seemed to me that Penelope looked as she did when she made that extraordinary request of us, asking us to give her five pounds apiece for her to take the part.”“I didn’t notice that expression,” exclaimed Mary. “But it was very queer of her to want the money. I didn’t like her a bit then, did you, Cara?”“Of course not,” said Cara. “I despised her utterly.”“So did I, until she acted Helen, and then I could not help admiring her—she was quite, quite splendid.”“And since she has come here,” continued Cara, “she has been very, very nice. Honora is wonderfully taken with her. Honora told me to-day that she loves her dearly and means to help her after she has left school. Honora says she’s such a lady, and so different from her elder sister.”“Oh,she’squite an impossible person,” said Mary. “But here come some of the stragglers. Now we must resume our play. Hullo! Nellie; is it my turn to be blindfolded?”The elder girls, the boys, and the little girls continued their play, Honora ran up to Penelope’s room and tapped at the door. Penelope started, and at first did not reply. But the tap was repeated, and she was forced to say, “Who’s there?”“It is I—Honora,” called a voice.“Oh, Nora—I am just going to bed,” answered Penelope.“No, you’re not, dear. Let me in, please.”There was another moment of hesitation. Then the door was unlocked, and Honora entered. The room was full of moonlight, for Penelope had not lighted any candle.“What is it, Nora?” she said.“I thought I’d come and sit with you for a little, for—you naughty thing—you’ve not gone to bed; I happened to see you from the garden below. What is the matter, Pen?”“I want to be alone to-night so very badly,” said Penelope.“You’re very unhappy, Pen—I want to know what is the matter.”“I am unhappy—but I can’t tell you, Honora.”“What is the good of a friend if you can’t confide in her?” said Honora.“If,” said Penelope, speaking very slowly, “I do what I ought to do, you will never be my friend again; you will never wish even to have my name mentioned. And if I do what I ought not to do, then perhaps, you will be my friend—but I shall be unworthy of you.”“I don’t know anything whatever about that,” said Honora; “but I do know one thing. If you are in any sort of trouble (and perhaps your sister has got you into some trouble—for, to tell you the truth, Penelope, I do not greatly care for your sister, and I must say so just now), you will, of course do what is right.”“That is the dreadful thing my conscience said just now,” said Penelope.“Then you really are in great trouble, dear?”“Don’t call me dear,” said Penelope. “I am in great trouble.”“On your own account?”“Practically. I did wrong a little time ago, and it is reflecting on me; and anyhow, of course itismy trouble—and it’s—Oh, Nora—don’t touch me—don’t look at of! Go away, please—I’m not fit for you to look at me. I belong to—to—the wicked people! Go away, Nora—you’re so pure, and so—so—sort of—holy. I am frightened when I see you—let me be alone to-night!”“It’s your sister Brenda, it’s not you!” said Honora, startled.“Oh, don’t blame her too much—please, please! She is my only sister. Oh, what shall I do!”Penelope flung herself on her bed and burst into a tempest of weeping. Perhaps those tears really saved her brain, for the poor girl was absolutely distracted. While she wept, and wept, and wept, Honora knelt by her, now and then patting her shoulder gently, now and then uttering a word of prayer to God. For this was the sort of occasion when Honora’s real religious training came strongly to the fore. She knew that her friend was tempted, that something had happened which could scarcely by any possibility come into her own life, and that if she did not stand by her now, she might fall.“But I won’t let her,” thought the girl. “I’ll stick by her through thick and thin. I love her—I didn’t when I was at school, but I do now.”After a time, however, poor Penelope’s tears ceased. Honora bent down and put her arm round her neck.“I want to whisper something to you,” she said. “I want to confide something. I was not nice to you at school. I thought you, somehow, not a bit the sort of girl that I could ever care for. Then, when I saw you act as Helen of Troy and look so transformed, it seemed to me that my eyes were opened about you, and I wanted to have you here much more badly than I wished to have any other girl here; and since you came, I have learned to love you. Now I don’t love very, very easily—I mean I don’t give my deepest love. Having given it, however, I cannot possibly take it back—it is yours for what it is worth. I know something terrible has happened, and I want you to do right, not wrong, for it is never worth while to do wrong. I want you to try and understand that here, and to-night—it is always worth while to do right, and never worth while to do wrong. So choose the right, darling; I will ask God to help you.”“But you don’t know—you can’t even guess!” sobbed Penelope.“Do you think you could bring yourself to tell me? We are all alone here, in this dark room, for even the moon will soon set, and I am your true friend. Don’t you think you could just tell me everything?”“Oh, I don’t know—no, I couldn’t—I couldn’t!” Penelope rose. “I have no words to thank you,” she continued. “You have comforted me, and perhaps—anyhow, I must have until the morning to think.”“Very well,” said Honora, “I will go away to my own room and think of you all night, and pray for you, and in the morning, at seven o’clock, I will come back to you. Then, perhaps you will tell me—for you have got something todo, have you not?”“I have to do something, or not to do something.”“If you do that something, what will happen?”“Apparently nothing, only I—”“I understand,” said Honora. “The thing you have got to do is wrong. Suppose you don’t do it—”“Then—then—oh, Honora—I could wish to-night that I had never lived to grow up to my present age. I’m nearly mad with misery!”“I will come to you in the morning,” said Honora. “But before I go, I wish to say something—that of course you won’t do whatever the thing is; for if you keep yourself right, other things must come right somehow.”Then Honora kissed Penelope, and left the room.

Penelope was quite silent, not replying by a single word to Mademoiselle’s insinuations until they reached the gates of Castle Beverley. Then she said in a quiet voice:

“You have told me something most terrible, and of course—I will do—I will do something—”

“But you will not expose thatpauvresister—you will not ruin her for all her life; and she so young and so fair.”

“Please, Mademoiselle, promise me something,” said Penelope. “You have told me the story, and I am obliged to you. I will let you know what I myself mean to do to-morrow morning.”

“But that will be far too late,mon enfant; for remember, I have found the missing bangle, and for this so great discovery there is a reward offered, and that reward, althoughtrès petite, is nevertheless of consequence to one so poor as myself. I will claim that reward; but I want to claim more. If I keep this thing dark—quite dark, I claim a big reward.”

“What?” asked Penelope.

Her whole tone changed. The coachman, by her directions, had drawn up at the avenue gates. Penelope and Mademoiselle had both alighted.

“Drive on,” said Penelope to the man. “Say that I am following.”

He obeyed. When the sound of the horses’ hoofs had died away, Penelope turned again to Mademoiselle.

“You have told me the story,” she said; “and now I want to know exactly what you do expect. You have, of course, told me the story not out of any kindness to me or to my sister. Please don’t waste your breath denying this fact, Mademoiselle d’Etienne. You have told it, hoping to profit by it.”

“C’est vrai,” replied the Frenchwoman. “I am of the poor; I am of the needy; I have not the wherewithal to support the most precious life. I am dismissed from being your teacher through no fault of mine. The wide world—it lies around me; if I have not the money, I will starve!” She held up her right hand dramatically. “Does it seem to you of the reasonable that I should starve, Mademoiselle Penelope? Why should I not feather my own nest? I wish for the reward; but it matters not from whom it comes, if it come from you, your sister is saved; if it come from Mrs Hungerford, your sister and you—think of the position,ma chère—”

“I do think of it,” said Penelope.

“You will consider it yet more deeply. I give you a little time. I tell you plainly that I want from you what you have already done for your sister. I know that you did collect from your school friends—those maidens so rich, so distinguished—the money—a great sum. I demand that you make a collection again, and that you give it to me. Twenty pound is my price; give me twenty sovereigns of the gold, and no person know notting of the lost bangle. If you will not—I tell what I know.”

“Mademoiselle, do you think, do you really think that I am made like that?”

“I know not,ma chère; I only do know that once you got money from your school friends. You would like not that story to be known; but it can be spread all over the school at Hazlitt Chase, and Honora Beverley, that most saintly and esteemed young lady, can hear of it. She will not wish to have you any longer a visitor at her beautiful home; for she is of the lofty sort that stoop not to the ways of the wicked. Think what it will mean. And your sister—she will be, oh, in peril of grave imprisonment. Think of the public trial and the so great disgrace. Madame at the Chase will not receive you back; she would not dare to receive the sister of a thief!Oh, fi donc! She could not it endure. That is your position. But I deliver you therefrom if you once again exercise that spell which you possess; and get from your companions—it matters not which—the leetle, leetle sum of twenty pound. That is the whole, you understand.”

“I understand,” said Penelope. She spoke in a low voice; her face was white as death.

“I give you until the morning. You are puzzled,pauvre petite, and most truly do I you pity. But never mind; it isnécessairethat the poor governess be helped in her hour of so great need. To her it is equal about the disgrace to you and yours; in one way or the other she, the poor French Mademoiselle, makes agrand coupin this matter! And now, I wish you ‘adieu’ for the night. Communicate with me before twelve o’clock to-morrow. If at that hour I have no news from you, I take my own steps.Adieu, chérie. Pauvre enfant, dormez tranquille.”

Mademoiselle turned away. She walked quickly down the dusty road. She had done her evil deed; she had exploded her bomb. Her wicked heart felt no sense of shame or sorrow for the innocent girl whom she had put in so cruel a position.

As to Penelope, she stayed for a little time just where Mademoiselle d’Etienne had left her. Then she turned and walked up the drive. She was stunned. She had not walked half-way up the avenue before a gay young voice sounded in her ears; and, of all people in the world, those she least wished to see at this juncture, rushed up to her and flung their arms round her neck and wrist.

“You have come back!” said Nellie Hungerford.

“We aresodelighted!” said Pauline. “We have missed you just dreadfully. But we have had a good day. We went to the sands at Carlin Bay. Uncle Beverley took us, and we did enjoy ourselves! But still it isn’t half so much fun when you’re away. You’re so splendid at telling stories, you know. But come along now; you’re just in time for supper, and after supper we mean to have a grand game at hide-and-seek before we all go to bed. Honora! Nora dear, here is Penelope—she is come back!”

Honora ran down the grassy sward to meet her friend.

“Why, surely,” she said, “you didn’t walk home?”

“No, no—I left the carriage at the gate.”

“But why did you do that?”

“I thought I’d like to walk up the avenue.”

“You look dead tired; is anything the matter?”

“I have a—a—headache,” said Penelope, taking refuge in this time-honoured excuse for low spirits.

“Poor thing! I expect you found the sun very hot at Marshlands. As to Nellie and Pauline—I call them a pair of salamanders; they can stand any amount of heat. They would insist on father taking them to Carlin sands to-day; and they came back fresher than ever. The rest of us stayed more or less in the shade, for I never remember the sun being so hot.”

“Come in, and have some supper, Pen; that’ll do you good,” said Pauline.

Penelope said she would. They had now reached the house. She ran up to her own room. She bathed her face, washed her hands, and brushed back her hair. She tried to believe that the dreadful thing that had happened in the wagonette was a dream, that there was no such horror surrounding her, lying in wait for her, clutching at her very vitals. She would keep up at any cost for the evening. When the night came, she would be alone. Then she could think.

Honora’s voice was heard calling her. She ran downstairs. They all went into the long, cool supper-room. There a cold collation was spread on the table.

“I won’t let you go to Marshlands again,” said Nora, looking critically at Penelope. “You’re just as white as a sheet. It is much too tiring this hot weather. Your sister must come to us instead.”

Poor Penelope gave a little inward shiver. Pauline Hungerford nestled close to her.

“I’ve something to whisper to you,” she said.

“Oh, no—not now,” said Penelope.

“Yes, but I must. They don’t mind what we do at supper—we’re all quite free at supper. It is this: listen. Mother’s coming here early to-morrow—think of that!—And I do believe she is bringing a bangle, the same as mine, for Nellie! She didn’tsayso in so many words, but I think she is. Then we’ll be perfectly happy! Aren’t you glad? I know I am. I’ve never half enjoyed my darling bangle at the thought of Nellie’s sorrow. But Nellie has been very good lately, and hasn’t talked about it a bit, or even once asked to look at mine. She wouldn’t do that at first; she used to shut her eyes whenever she found herself forced to see it, just as though it gave her the greatest pain. I hate—andhatewearing it. Mother said I must, for it would be so bad for Nellie if she didn’t bear a thing of this sort well. But now, it’s all right, and darling Nellie will be as happy as a sand-boy. Oh, Iamdelighted!”

“Paulie, you mustn’t whisper any more,” said Fred Hungerford at that moment. “Hullo, Pen!” he added, “I am glad to see you back. Did you and your sister stay much longer on the quay? and did you meet that low-down fellow, Jordan, again? I can’t imagine how your pretty sister got to know him.”

“We didn’t meet him any more,” said Penelope, “and we went back to thepensionsoon after.”

Supper came to an end. Pauline asked wildly, her bright eyes gleaming, when the grand game of hide-and-seek in the moonlit garden was to begin.

Here Penelope’s fortitude failed her.

“I have had a tiring day,” she said. “Do you mind, Nora, if I go to my room?”

“Is your head aching badly?” asked Honora.

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

“Then of course you must go. And, children, we won’t shout too loudly under Pen’s window. Good-night, dear. Would you like me to come and see you before I go to bed myself?”

“Oh, no, please; not to-night, Nora.”

“Very well—good-night. You really don’t look at all well.”

Penelope felt a brief sense of relief when she was all alone in her room. She took off her dress and put on a light dressing-gown. Then she flung the window wide open and sat down by it, resting her elbow on the deep window ledge. Her pale, despairing face gazed out into the night. How happy she had been at Castle Beverley! What a joyful, glad, delightful sort of place it was! How merry the voices of the children sounded! She could hear shrieks of mirth in the distance. Oh, yes; Castle Beverley was a delightful home. She knew quite well why. It seemed to her that night that the whole secret of its gladness, of its goodness, of its beauty, was revealed. Castle Beverley was delightful, not because its owner was a rich man and well born; not because the children who came there were ladies and gentlemen by birth; but simply because the laws that governed that household were the laws of truth and love and unselfishness and righteousness. It was impossible to be mean in that home, for here the highest things were practised more than preached. There were no ostensible lessons in religion, but the religious life was led here, by Honora, by all the children, and, most of all, by the father and mother.

“That accounts for it,” thought Penelope. “It is because they are so good without being priggishly good, that I have been so happy. They always think nice thoughts of every one; and they are unselfish, and each gives up to the other. I don’t belong to them—I belong to Brenda. Brenda and I have the same mother, and the same father. We are two sisters. Brenda has fallen very low indeed, and I suppose I shall fall too; for how can I endure, even for a moment, what Mademoiselle contemplates doing—what Mademoiselle will do? It will mean Brenda’s ruin, Brenda’s public disgrace, and my disgrace! Oh, to think that I should be living here, and that the children—Nellie and Pauline—should love me, and confide in me, and all the time my sister—mine! has stolen Nellie’s bangle! Oh, Brenda, Brenda!”

Poor Penelope did not cry: she was past tears. She sat and gazed out into the night. Her perplexities were extreme; she could not rest. What was she to do? Mademoiselle had put her, indeed, into a cleft stick; whichever way she turned there seemed to be nothing but despair.

“I was so happy; but that doesn’t matter,” she thought. “The thing now to do is to know how to save Brenda. Can I save her by—by—trying to get money for her? But then I couldn’t get money. Oh, yes, I could, though—or at least perhaps I could, I don’t know. I wouldn’t ask the girls again for all the world—but there’s the squire; he might—might lend it to me. I’d have to tell him a lot of lies—and I shouldn’t like that. I must sink down to Brenda’s level in order to save her! Oh, Brenda, I can’t, I just can’t! Brenda, why did you do it? And I had got that twenty pounds for you. Whydidyou steal the bangle and put every one on the wrong scent and get us into the power of that terrible, unscrupulous Mademoiselle! She’ll do what she said she would—there’s no sort of hope from her. Oh, what am I—what am I to do!”

“Do right,” whispered a voice in her ear. This voice spoke light and clear from the conscience of Penelope Carlton, and it was so startling in its tone that it seemed to her that some one spoke to her. She started and looked out, gazing to right and left. As she did this, some one who was walking below, saw her. That some one was Honora. She observed the white, very white face of the girl and noticed its agony. All of a sudden, Honora came to a resolve.

“There is something wrong,” she thought to herself. “It’s not an ordinary headache. I don’t like that sister of hers a bit—we none of us do. She has done something to make poor little Pen unhappy. I just think that I’ll force myself on her this very night. She is too miserable to be left alone; of that I am sure.”

Mary L’Estrange and Cara Burt, walking arm in arm, came now into view.

“What is the matter, Honora?” said Mary.

“Why do you ask?” questioned Nora.

Mary gave a laugh.

“You look something like what you did that evening when you refused to take the part of Helen of Troy.”

“Oh, we needn’t bother about that now,” said Honora, a slight tone of vexation in her voice. Then she added, suddenly: “I am not quite happy about Pen; I don’t think she is well. I am going to her.”

“But she has only a headache,” said Cara, “and no wonder, out all this hot day in the sun.”

“I feel somehow that it’s more than a headache,” said Honora. “I saw her just now looking out of her window, and somehow, I feel she may want me: in any case, I am going to her. Will you, Cara, and you, Mary, just lead the games, and don’t let the children stay out very much longer; it’s time for the young ones, at least, to go to bed.”

Cara and Mary promised, and immediately turned away.

“I,” said Cara, addressing her companion, “also thought there was something queer about Penelope to-night. It is odd that Honora should have worn the expression she did when she refused to act as Helen of Troy.”

“And another thing is also odd.”

“What do you mean?” asked Cara.

“Why, at supper to-night, it seemed to me that Penelope looked as she did when she made that extraordinary request of us, asking us to give her five pounds apiece for her to take the part.”

“I didn’t notice that expression,” exclaimed Mary. “But it was very queer of her to want the money. I didn’t like her a bit then, did you, Cara?”

“Of course not,” said Cara. “I despised her utterly.”

“So did I, until she acted Helen, and then I could not help admiring her—she was quite, quite splendid.”

“And since she has come here,” continued Cara, “she has been very, very nice. Honora is wonderfully taken with her. Honora told me to-day that she loves her dearly and means to help her after she has left school. Honora says she’s such a lady, and so different from her elder sister.”

“Oh,she’squite an impossible person,” said Mary. “But here come some of the stragglers. Now we must resume our play. Hullo! Nellie; is it my turn to be blindfolded?”

The elder girls, the boys, and the little girls continued their play, Honora ran up to Penelope’s room and tapped at the door. Penelope started, and at first did not reply. But the tap was repeated, and she was forced to say, “Who’s there?”

“It is I—Honora,” called a voice.

“Oh, Nora—I am just going to bed,” answered Penelope.

“No, you’re not, dear. Let me in, please.”

There was another moment of hesitation. Then the door was unlocked, and Honora entered. The room was full of moonlight, for Penelope had not lighted any candle.

“What is it, Nora?” she said.

“I thought I’d come and sit with you for a little, for—you naughty thing—you’ve not gone to bed; I happened to see you from the garden below. What is the matter, Pen?”

“I want to be alone to-night so very badly,” said Penelope.

“You’re very unhappy, Pen—I want to know what is the matter.”

“I am unhappy—but I can’t tell you, Honora.”

“What is the good of a friend if you can’t confide in her?” said Honora.

“If,” said Penelope, speaking very slowly, “I do what I ought to do, you will never be my friend again; you will never wish even to have my name mentioned. And if I do what I ought not to do, then perhaps, you will be my friend—but I shall be unworthy of you.”

“I don’t know anything whatever about that,” said Honora; “but I do know one thing. If you are in any sort of trouble (and perhaps your sister has got you into some trouble—for, to tell you the truth, Penelope, I do not greatly care for your sister, and I must say so just now), you will, of course do what is right.”

“That is the dreadful thing my conscience said just now,” said Penelope.

“Then you really are in great trouble, dear?”

“Don’t call me dear,” said Penelope. “I am in great trouble.”

“On your own account?”

“Practically. I did wrong a little time ago, and it is reflecting on me; and anyhow, of course itismy trouble—and it’s—Oh, Nora—don’t touch me—don’t look at of! Go away, please—I’m not fit for you to look at me. I belong to—to—the wicked people! Go away, Nora—you’re so pure, and so—so—sort of—holy. I am frightened when I see you—let me be alone to-night!”

“It’s your sister Brenda, it’s not you!” said Honora, startled.

“Oh, don’t blame her too much—please, please! She is my only sister. Oh, what shall I do!”

Penelope flung herself on her bed and burst into a tempest of weeping. Perhaps those tears really saved her brain, for the poor girl was absolutely distracted. While she wept, and wept, and wept, Honora knelt by her, now and then patting her shoulder gently, now and then uttering a word of prayer to God. For this was the sort of occasion when Honora’s real religious training came strongly to the fore. She knew that her friend was tempted, that something had happened which could scarcely by any possibility come into her own life, and that if she did not stand by her now, she might fall.

“But I won’t let her,” thought the girl. “I’ll stick by her through thick and thin. I love her—I didn’t when I was at school, but I do now.”

After a time, however, poor Penelope’s tears ceased. Honora bent down and put her arm round her neck.

“I want to whisper something to you,” she said. “I want to confide something. I was not nice to you at school. I thought you, somehow, not a bit the sort of girl that I could ever care for. Then, when I saw you act as Helen of Troy and look so transformed, it seemed to me that my eyes were opened about you, and I wanted to have you here much more badly than I wished to have any other girl here; and since you came, I have learned to love you. Now I don’t love very, very easily—I mean I don’t give my deepest love. Having given it, however, I cannot possibly take it back—it is yours for what it is worth. I know something terrible has happened, and I want you to do right, not wrong, for it is never worth while to do wrong. I want you to try and understand that here, and to-night—it is always worth while to do right, and never worth while to do wrong. So choose the right, darling; I will ask God to help you.”

“But you don’t know—you can’t even guess!” sobbed Penelope.

“Do you think you could bring yourself to tell me? We are all alone here, in this dark room, for even the moon will soon set, and I am your true friend. Don’t you think you could just tell me everything?”

“Oh, I don’t know—no, I couldn’t—I couldn’t!” Penelope rose. “I have no words to thank you,” she continued. “You have comforted me, and perhaps—anyhow, I must have until the morning to think.”

“Very well,” said Honora, “I will go away to my own room and think of you all night, and pray for you, and in the morning, at seven o’clock, I will come back to you. Then, perhaps you will tell me—for you have got something todo, have you not?”

“I have to do something, or not to do something.”

“If you do that something, what will happen?”

“Apparently nothing, only I—”

“I understand,” said Honora. “The thing you have got to do is wrong. Suppose you don’t do it—”

“Then—then—oh, Honora—I could wish to-night that I had never lived to grow up to my present age. I’m nearly mad with misery!”

“I will come to you in the morning,” said Honora. “But before I go, I wish to say something—that of course you won’t do whatever the thing is; for if you keep yourself right, other things must come right somehow.”

Then Honora kissed Penelope, and left the room.

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