Straight forward; or, walking in the light
Date: 2024-09-16T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Schools -- Juvenile fiction; Girls -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Friendship -- Juvenile fiction; Boarding school students -- Juvenile fiction; Pride and vanity -- Juvenile fiction; Self-confidence -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Straight forward; or, walking in the light
a story for school girls of all ages

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: September 16, 2024 [eBook #74428]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Henry Hoyt, 1859

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74428

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STRAIGHT FORWARD; OR, WALKING IN THE LIGHT ***

Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

FRONTISPIECE.

STRAIGHT FORWARD;

OR,

Walking in the Light.

A STORY FOR SCHOOL GIRLS OF ALL AGES.

—————

BY LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF "IRISH AMY," "THE SIGN OF THE CROSS,"
"TABBY'S TRAVELS," "KITTY MAYNARD," "READY WORK," ETC., ETC.

—————

BOSTON:

HENRY HOYT

No. 9 Cornhill.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by

HENRY HOYT,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

CONTENTS.

—————

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

STRAIGHT FORWARD.

CHAPTER I.

"BUT this is such a little matter, Lucy,—only a dollar!"

"Whether it is little or much does not signify, so long as I cannot afford it," was the reply, and the speaker laid down the pretty set of tablets she held in her hands, and turned to look at something else.

"I think you are very foolish," continued the first speaker. "They are the prettiest I ever saw, and very cheap. Janet Graves paid twice as much for hers, and they are no better. Come, Lucy, be advised, and take a set."

"If you have no money with you, it is of no consequence," observed the polite shopman; "you can easily hand it to me another time; and, as the young lady observed, these are really superior articles."

Lucy's determination, however, was not to be moved, and her companion turned from her, and addressed herself to another young lady, who was also examining the tablets.

"Well, Emily, have you found a set to suit you?"

"I like these very well," replied Emily, in rather an undecided tone; "but I have no money with me."

"That need make no difference," said the person in attendance; "I can add it to the bill."

Emily hesitated, looked again, and finally decided to take the tablets. The party of school girls then proceeded to a dry-goods store, where Lucy inquired for gloves, and her companions for embroideries and laces. A splendid stock of the latter was soon displayed before their admiring eyes, and the girls began to turn them over, with many exclamations at their beauty. Even Emily admitted that the prices were wonderfully low, though she made no attempt to purchase.

"Come," said Delia Mason, after she had selected and paid for some articles for herself, "now is the time to supply yourselves with collars. You will allow, Lucy, that these are really worth having."

"They are very pretty, if one wants them," replied Lucy, smiling, "but I do not stand in need of anything of the sort at present."

"Just like her!" said Delia half aloud, as Lucy walked to the other end of the shop. "I should not like to be as stingy as she is. She has plenty of money, too, for I saw her purse yesterday when she was buying some oranges in the hall, and she had quite a roll of bills. She never thought whether or not she could afford that."

"She gave them to little Kitty Mastick, I know," said Emily, looking round to see that Lucy was not within hearing. "Lucy is careful of her money it is true, but I don't think you do right to call her stingy. She is always ready to assist poor people, or do anything of that sort, and she subscribed more for the reading room than you did, Delia."

"Oh, yes, because she knows it pays," sneered Delia. "The teachers always think well of any one who subscribes to the reading room."

"Oh, come Delia, that is hardly fair. You know you said yourself; that Lucy was very good-natured when she took care of Clarissa Crosby all that time when she had the toothache. I am sure she is always ready to do a good turn for any one that wants it."

"I don't deny that Lucy is a very good girl," replied Delia, apparently rather ashamed of what she had said, "and, of course, she knows her own affairs best. But come, don't you mean to have some of these collars? I am sure you need them, for yours are as old-fashioned as the days before the flood."

Emily again pleaded her want of money, and was again over-ruled, and the collars were folded up, and the price added to her account. The purchase was a beautiful one, and the price was certain sufficiently reasonable, yet it was with an uneasy feeling that she pursued her walk homeward with Delia, Lucy having dropped a little behind, with one of the day scholars, who had joined them as they issued from the store.

"I wish I had not bought those things," said she at last. "My old collars would have answered well enough, and I have spent four dollars since I came out, for things, which after all were not necessary."

"You have not exactly spent it," observed Delia.

"I have run in debt though, and that is even worse," replied Emily. "Father is so very particular about that. I believe he thinks it is as bad as stealing. I must contrive some way to pay my bills before he finds them out; I should think they would not come to much altogether! Let me see." And she began a mental calculation, which, however, she soon abandoned, for Emily was not one to look a disagreeable truth in the face, so long as she could help it, and she could not help seeing that the amount was likely, after all, to be very considerable.

Emily Arlington was the daughter of a rich merchant in the city. Her mother died when she was only five years old, and she was committed to the charge of a maiden aunt, residing in a quiet country village,—a lady actuated by Christian motives and principles, and, therefore, disposed to do everything in her power for the spiritual and temporal welfare of her young charge.

Miss Arlington, however, was not altogether fitted by nature for the charge she had undertaken. Though remarkably sweet tempered, she was rather weak-spirited; her will was by no means a match for Miss Emily's, and she was somewhat embarrassed by the restrictions imposed upon her by her brother's somewhat peculiar ideas upon the subject of female education. One of his favorite notions was, that young children, and above all girls, should never be allowed to associate with young people of their own age. Accordingly, the little Emily was secluded like a cloistered nun, with no companions or playmates, but her doll, her aunt and the servants. Moreover, Mr. Arlington had a great horror of feminine independence, and this feeling was fully shared by his sister, who accustomed Emily never to think for herself, but to ask for direction in even the smallest matters, so that, until she was fifteen, she had never bought a pair of gloves, or chosen a plaything for herself.

At this age, her aunt died; and her father finding, not long after, that business matters imperatively required his presence in Europe, decided, after much doubt and hesitation, to send his daughter to school. Emily was accordingly placed in the establishment, and under the especial care of Mrs. Pomeroy, whose school had for a quarter of a century enjoyed the enviable reputation of turning out more finished young ladies, and first rate scholars, than any other boarding school in the country.

Mr. Arlington did not leave his daughter without much good advice, and many charges to behave herself properly. He placed in her hand a purse containing what he considered a suitable amount of pocket money, informed her that Mrs. Pomeroy would supply her with clothes and other necessaries, and took an affectionate leave, intending to set out on his journey immediately.

Emily had seen very little of her father, and that little had induced her to fear rather more than she loved him; so that she may be pardoned if she parted from him without any very strong emotion. It was with a singular mixture of feeling that she followed Mrs. Pomeroy to the dining hall, where all the members of the family, some fifty in number, were now assembled, waiting the appearance of their principal to begin the evening meal.

"A new scholar, young ladies," said Mrs. Pomeroy, as they entered, "Miss Emily Arlington, Miss Spencer; will you take Miss Arlington next you at the French table?"

Emily was at first bewildered by the number of strange faces, and could hardly collect her thoughts sufficiently to reply to the polite remarks of her neighbors, who chatted merrily among themselves, though in subdued tones, and in French, supplying a missing word now and then with its Latin or German substitute. By degrees, however, she recovered her self-possession, and began to take an interest in observing the peculiarities of the little world by which she was surrounded. The scrutiny led her upon the whole to form a favorable opinion of her future companions.

They were indeed a remarkably pretty and well-dressed set of girls, and the manners of most of them appeared agreeable and lady-like. A good many things struck her as peculiar; she wondered at the consumption of bread and butter, and bread and syrup, going on around her, and she could not help staring a little to see the young ladies who had finished their meals, produce their books or their work, while waiting for their companions.

Tea was followed by prayers in the large school-room, and Emily was much impressed by the beauty of the responsive service and the singing.

"After all," she said to herself, while preparing for bed, "I don't see why I cannot be very happy here."

Emily was so unaccustomed to the society of girls of her own age, that for some days she was nervous and embarrassed, and shrunk from their friendly advances from sheer awkwardness; but this feeling soon wore off, and before the end of a fortnight, she was on familiar terms with most of the young ladies in the hall where she lodged, and had formed something like an intimacy with two or three of them.

The first one with whom she became particularly acquainted was Lucy Spencer, a very quiet, unpretending girl, a year or two older than herself. She had been an inmate of the school for four years, and expected to remain for some time longer, and her steady good principles and perfect truthfulness made her as much a favorite with Mrs. Pomeroy and the teachers, as did her sweet temper and gentle cheerfulness with her companions. We do not pretend to say that Lucy was perfectly faultless—such girls being found only in old-fashioned story books,—but she was blessed with a naturally sunny and equable disposition, and this happy temperament was strengthened by truly Christian principles—principles which were brought to bear upon every action of her everyday life.

No one felt any hesitation, at asking a favor of Lucy, for if she felt herself obliged to refuse, it was done so gently and sweetly that it was impossible to be offended, while whatever was in her power was sure to be granted. Being in point of residence the oldest scholar in the school, it often fell to her lot to take a kind of oversight of the new pupils, and induct them into the way of the family, and thus it happened that for the first few days, Emily saw more of her than of any other girl in the house.

Mr. Arlington had made it a particular request that his daughter might have a room to herself, but this Mrs. Pomeroy had been unable to promise. Her house was full, there was but one empty room, and she was expecting another young lady very soon, so Mr. Arlington was fain to acquiesce. It was not, however, till Emily had sole possession of her room for three weeks, that her room-mate made her appearance in the person of Miss Delia Mason, who has already been introduced to our readers.

Delia was a very handsome girl, about Lucy Spencer's age, but from her style of dress and manners, appearing much older. She had lost her own mother at the age of ten years, and, in three years' time, her father was married again to a very amiable and lovely woman, who was desirous of doing everything in her power to render her husband and his daughters happy.

But Delia was one of those independent young ladies, whom it is by no means easy to render happy. She at once made up her mind her father had offered her a great insult and been guilty of the most flagrant injustice to her, in marrying again; and she had resolved from the first, not only that she would never be obedient to a step-mother, but that she would do all in her power to make a residence in the house disagreeable to the new comer.

Now the resolution to be disagreeable is one easily kept by persons of the most limited capacity, and Delia's capacity in this respect, especially, was by no means limited. That grand resource of ill-natured people—tears—was hers in no measured quantity, and for the first few days after her mother's arrival, she cried incessantly, refusing to appear at table, and acting to perfection the part of a heart-broken damsel, consoling herself meanwhile by stolen visits to cupboard and store room, and by private repast in her own apartment.

Growing weary of this vein after a while, she condescended to mingle with the rest of the family, but she still preserved a manner of the utmost coldness and disrespect to the new comer, never speaking to her if she could help it, and always addressing her as Mrs. Mason, instead of the natural and endearing title of mother, which had been easily adopted by her little sisters of four and five years old, who had at once been won by the gentle and attractive face of their new mama.

Delia had been accustomed to tyrannise over these little ones to her heart's content, treating them alternately as playthings and slaves. She was by no means pleased to see that her empire over them was likely to be entirely destroyed, and she set herself strenuously to work to defeat her step-mother's designs for their benefit. Was any indulgence forbidden them, Delia would contrive some way to give it them secretly or openly, defending herself when reproved by saying, "their mother always let them have it, and I don't see why it should be refused them by a stranger." If Mrs. Mason refused them, Delia invariably took their part, and incited them to impertinent replies and open rebellion, telling them that she was not their own mother, and they ought not to submit to be ordered about by a step-mother. Mr. Mason was away from home a great deal, and, as his wife never made a complaint, he was for some time quite unconscious of the discomfort caused her by Delia's misconduct, as well as of the injury she was doing to Rose and Celia.

It chanced after a time, however, that a slight accident confined him to the sofa for a fortnight, during which he had ample time to satisfy himself in regard to the state of things in the household.

After vainly endeavoring to convince Delia of the folly and impropriety of her conduct, and receiving no answer but tears and hysterics, he informed her at last that the comforts of the household should no longer be sacrificed to her caprices, and bade her prepare to go to a boarding school at the end of a week.

Though Delia liked nothing better, in her heart, she pretended to be greatly grieved by this sentence of banishment, as she chose to call it, and spent the intervening time in lamenting to one and another, of the circle of her mother's relatives, that she should be driven from her own father's house by the influence of a stranger, adding pathetically that her father had changed entirely toward her since he had married that artful woman. The relatives of a first wife are not apt to be too indulgent towards a second, and Delia's insinuations had their intended effect upon the minds of her aunts who were not, at best, remarkable for sense or discernment; so that she had the satisfaction of knowing, before she left, that she had added another drop to the cup of discomfort and vexation, she had prepared for a person whose whole course to her had been one of uniform kindness.

The school to which she was first sent was, unfortunately, not one in which she was likely to gain much improvement in those moral qualities wherein she was most deficient. The Classical Gymnasium, for such was its high-sounding title, was conducted upon what somebody calls the high-pressure system. With a great array of names of officers and professors, the whole care of watching over the conduct and manners of some seventy or eighty girls was left to two or three overworked and under-paid female teachers, of the sort to be obtained "cheap for cash," who were only too glad to gain a little rest for themselves, by conniving at many irregularities, to call them by no worse name, and by winking pretty hard, or shutting their eyes altogether, when the young ladies contrived to meet their friends and admirers in the Saturday afternoon shopping excursions, which formed almost their only authorized recreation.

It may be imagined that, in such an establishment, Delia was not likely greatly to improve. At the end of two years, her father became thoroughly dissatisfied, and certain correspondences of Miss Delia's coming to light, which revealed anything but a desirable set of acquaintances for a young lady, she was removed from the Classical Gymnasium, and placed in the institution of Mrs. Pomeroy, which, during the twenty-five years of its existence, had never aspired beyond the simple title of a Female Seminary, and where the old-fashioned branches of reading, writing and arithmetic still continued to be reckoned among the necessary studies.

The mental and moral atmosphere of Mrs. Pomeroy's house, was as different as possible from that of the Classical Gymnasium. No one was crowded with studies; plenty of time was allowed for recreation; the play-room being abundantly furnished with incentives to cheerful and active exercise, and the work of instruction was fairly shared among a large body of efficient and well paid teachers. There was no scrimping about the establishment. Healthy, though plain food, well-warmed rooms, and plenty of playtime, conduced to the health of the inmates, and Delia could not help drawing a very favorable contrast between the troop of alert, rosy, and wide-awake girls, who came pouring into the school-room at the hour of evening study, fresh from an hour of active and merry exercise, and the pale waxen-faced, languid looking young ladies, who assembled at the same hour in the Classical Gymnasium aforesaid, nervous and spiritless, and ready to cry at the least provocation, from sheer exhaustion.

Of course, Emily felt a good deal of curiosity about her new room-mate, and during the evening she took every opportunity of looking at her when she could do so unobserved. Delia was, as we have said, a handsome and graceful girl. Her dress, thanks to the care of her despised step-mother, was in good taste and in the latest fashion, and Emily felt rather painfully the contrast between them in this respect. Miss Arlington, her aunt, had latterly lived very much out of the world; she cared little for dress, and seldom noticed what other people wore, and consequently Emily's clothes, though good enough in quality, were two or three years behind the fashion. On the whole she was pretty well satisfied with the result of her scrutiny.

Delia on her part was no less anxious. She had her own plans and purposes to carry out. She knew that her success in some of these must depend not a little upon the character of her room-mate, and her attention was upon the alert to discover any little circumstance which might give her some insight in Emily's mind and habits.

She was not left long in the dark.

Emily had been religiously brought up, and she had been accustomed never to omit her prayers and Bible reading night and morning. The continuance of these most excellent habits had been easy enough, so long as she roomed alone, but now that she had a companion it was different. She was nervously afraid of being laughed at, and the mere suspicion that she had exposed herself to ridicule, was enough to make her miserable for a whole day. She had already made the discovery that Delia was inclined to be sarcastic, and she could not help doubting, as she caught several glimpses of her countenance during prayers, whether she had any special respect for the ordinances of religion.

The right way, of course, would have been for her to take a simple, straight-forward course, reading her Bible and saying her prayers just as usual, whereby not only would she have satisfied her own conscience, but she would also have gained the respect of her companion, for consistency is always respectable. She did no such thing, however. She could not make up her mind to face either the covert sneer or open ridicule of her room-mate, and almost for the first time in all her life, she went prayerless to bed. She tried, indeed, to snatch an opportunity of reading a few verses in her Bible when Delia was looking another way, but she shut the book hastily as she turned round, and restored it to its place, as though she had only taken it up by accident.

Delia noticed the action, and understood it perfectly.

"Pshaw!" said she to herself. "I shall have little trouble in managing her."

This might be said to be Emily's first false step in school, and she could not well have made a worse. Her situation was, at best, one of peculiar temptation and trials, coming as she did from such entire seclusion, into the midst of this busy and bustling little world, where all sorts of passions had their representatives, and thrown almost entirely upon her hitherto untried resources.

Her only safety would have been in the closest and most constant recourse to the Fountain of all strength and wisdom—strength and wisdom liberally imparted by Him who giveth and upbraideth not. From this Fountain of living waters, however, she had deliberately turned aside. She had broken her own staff, and thrown aside her only shield, and she had nothing left to protect her from the assaults of him who goeth about like a roaring lion.

In the course of a week, Emily was completely under the influence of her room-mate, with scarcely a pretense of having a mind of her own about anything. Nor was she the only one who felt the influence of the new comer. In a family of some forty girls, it may be conceived that not all were wise or well principled, and as birds of a feather proverbially flock together, Delia soon collected around her a circle of society nearly as much to her taste as that which she had left at the Classical Gymnasium. It was the height of her ambition to form a clique or party attached to her interest and governed by her influence, and in this she succeeded beyond her hopes.

These young ladies formed themselves into a secret society, as they were pleased to call it, and held their meetings with a great affectation of secrecy in each other's rooms. There the talk was mostly of beaux and dances, of successful evasions of rules, and the acquirement of forbidden indulgences, while teachers and masters, and even Mrs. Pomeroy herself, were the subject of unsparing ridicule. Emily could not help noticing, that though Delia rather encouraged this sort of talk in others, she seldom took an active part in it herself, and had once or twice put an end to it rather sharply, when it seemed to be going beyond the bounds of all propriety or decency. Indeed, she treated her constituents in all respects as subjects, and Emily often wondered at their bearing with it so patiently.

All this could hardly have escaped the vigilant eye and ear of Mrs. Pomeroy, had not her time been very much occupied by the illness of a favorite little scholar, an orphan and dependent, who, after a long time of delicate health, seemed now threatened with settled consumption.

If Kitty Mastick had never known a mother's care, she had never missed it, for Mrs. Pomeroy had been father and mother, teacher and friend to her, ever since she could remember. Her mother had been one of Mrs. Pomeroy's early pupils. She had married contrary to the wishes of her father, who had cast her off during his life, and finally died, refusing to the last to see his offending child, and positively forbidding her sister to see or hold any communication with her. Her husband was killed by an accident soon after, and the young widow was left without friends or refuge. Hearing of her desolate condition, Mrs. Pomeroy sent for her and offered her an asylum, which Mrs. Mastick thankfully accepted, hoping that she might after a while be able to be useful to her benefactress, in the capacity of a teacher of music. After the birth of little Kitty, she did indeed rally a little, but soon sunk, and died, leaving her daughter no inheritance except a remarkable talent for music, and great delicacy of constitution.

At the time our story commences, Kitty was twelve years old, but very small and slender for her age, and seemed likely soon to follow her mother to the grave. Mrs. Pomeroy, however, could not help hoping that by care and attention the predisposition to disease might be overcome, and she devoted to Kitty every moment of her spare time.

It is not to be supposed that the teachers were blind to the influence that Delia was exerting, but they saw no way of interfering with advantage, and could not help hoping that the evil would, in time, cure itself. Delia was a good scholar, she was remarkably neat and very systematic in her habits for a girl of her age, and took a certain pride in maintaining a good place in the school, so that she was in this respect rather an advantage to Emily than otherwise.

This increased Emily's dependence upon her, for she was unused to regular application, and having never been to school in her life, she found great difficulty in accommodating herself to the regular hours and exact punctuality of the establishment. This served to increase and maintain Delia's ascendancy over her. There was not, after all, however, so much difference between them as might have been imagined. Emily had religions feeling and habit, of both of which Delia was entirely destitute, but neither of them had any principle.

CHAPTER II.

AS we have before remarked, Emily had always been kept in a state of the most entire dependence, especially in money matters. She had hardly ever in her life known what it was to have fifty cents of her own, and it was not at all strange, that the four five dollar bills which her father had put into her hands at his departure, should appear an inexhaustible mine of wealth to her inexperienced eyes, or that this wealth should be spent very freely so long as it lasted.

The shops in M. were remarkably good for a place of the size, and the bookstores and confectioners' shops furnished irresistible temptations to Emily, who was equally fond of story books, and of bonbons, both of which she had been hitherto unable to procure, except by stealth, and in the most limited quantities.

Every one knows how soon a five dollar bill vanishes when it is once changed. Quarters seem to take to themselves wings, and dimes to vanish into thin air, and unless one is in the habit of keeping a cash account, it is very difficult to know what becomes of it all. So it was with Emily, especially after the advent of Miss Mason.

Delia was well supplied with money by her father, and her store was largely increased by her aunts, whose eyes were completely blinded to her true character by the prejudice they had conceived against her step-mother. She began her school career with some fifty dollars in her pocket, and a tolerable certainty that when that was gone, she should have little difficulty in obtaining more from the same source. She was therefore not apt to deny herself anything that she fancied, though it must be allowed that her purchases were usually made with considerable taste and judgment.

"Come, Emily, here is something that you want," she would often say, when they were out together. "This is just the thing for you."

And Emily, so long as the money lasted, was always ready to purchase. It was with great astonishment and dismay, that on taking out her purse one day to pay for something, she found that she had only a single dollar remaining. It was not more than half as much as she wanted, but the article was already cut off and put up. She thought she could not possibly refuse to take it, and thus was contracted her first debt,—the first link of a chain by which she was to be bound and led away, she knew not whither.

The first step being taken, the next was of course much easier; self-denial was a virtue she had never learned, and it was by no means easy to practice in the company of one who seemed to have no idea of it. She hardly ever went out without buying something, and thus at the time our story commences, she had run up two or three considerable bills.

Emily dropped her mental calculation of the amount of these bills, as she walked homeward, and tried to turn her thoughts to something else, but the uneasy feeling at her heart still remained, and she fully resolved that she would never buy another article till she could pay for it. But even if she had adhered to this resolution, it would not have discharged the debts already contracted, and as it happened, she was to be more than ever tempted by circumstances.

The school always broke up for the holidays three days before Christmas, and the day after its close, a grand Christmas tree was planted in the school-room, upon which were placed innumerable gifts, from teachers to scholars, from scholars to teachers, and from the girls to each other. This wonderful tree was lighted up in the evening, when the presents were distributed, and the boarders and day scholars were entertained by Mrs. Pomeroy.

Of course, all spare moments, and perhaps some that could not well be spared, were devoted by the girls to the preparation of their gifts. Great was the consumption of Chipland, Berlin and split zephyr, silver braid and embroidery silk, and all other working materials and numerous the enquiries for netting, knitting and crotchet needles, at old Mr. Barton's, who had kept a toy shop in M. from time immemorial, and who now filled his shelves with an immense variety of articles, useful, beautiful, and comical, each individual thing, according to his own account, being sold for just exactly what he gave for it.

Deeply did Emily regret the extravagance into which she had been betrayed, and which left her at this critical juncture, entirely without funds. Thanks to her aunt's training, she excelled in every species of work, both plain and ornamental, and she had made great calculations as to what she was going to do; but the best seamstress in the world cannot work without thread, nor the most expert knitter dispense with her wool and needles.

Emily saw no resource but to plunge deeper and deeper into debt, which she did with a recklessness which astonished herself, and induced Delia to give her a caution one day when she was more profuse than usual.

"You had better reckon up what you have bought already, Emily," said she, as her friend gave an order for a large quantity of Berlin wool. "Worsted amounts up faster than one thinks."

"I know it," said Emily, "but I must finish up what I have begun, and, as Almira says, I may as well die for a sheep as for a lamb."

"You are doing a great deal of work, Emily," remarked Mrs. Pomeroy to her the same evening, as she sat at work in the sitting room. "You seem to be especially fond of knitting."

"Yes, ma'am," said Emily. "It gets on so fast, and does not try my eyes in the evening like fine sewing. I think, too, it pays, when it is done, better than any other kind of work."

"As to that, I cannot say," replied Mrs. Pomeroy, smiling. "It is rather expensive, I think, though I must allow that yours is very beautiful. I should like to have you give Kitty some lessons, as it is work very well suited to her state of health."

"I like to do anything for Kitty," said Emily. "She is so good and patient, and it seems so hard for such a little thing to be shut up so, when all the rest are out at play. Do you think she will ever be quite well, Mrs. Pomeroy?"

"I cannot help hoping so," replied Mrs. Pomeroy. "She has improved very much of late, notwithstanding the unfavorable weather, and Dr. J. thinks that a very encouraging circumstance. Her patient and cheerful disposition is very much in her favor."

She returned to the book she was reading, but presently resumed the conversation by saying—"I hope, Emily, you pay for your materials as you buy them. You know I altogether disapprove of the young ladies making bills."

"Yes, ma'am," said Emily, hastily, glad that she was sitting so that Mrs. Pomeroy could not observe the blush which she felt mounting to her face. "I have indeed forbidden the merchants to trust them, without my own express permission," continued Mrs. Pomeroy, "so that they must look to the young ladies and their parents, and not to me for the payment of their accounts. It sometimes happens that a young lady's father gives her permission to purchase upon credit, and then I have nothing to say, but I dislike the plan, and was glad to find that your father agreed with me."

Emily could not command her voice to answer, and worked away in silence, while Mrs. Pomeroy continued. "There is another thing which I dislike very much, and which, though positively forbidden, I regret to say, I have never been able entirely to prevent. I allude to the girls borrowing money of each other. It leads to trouble and quarrels without end. If you are over tempted to do so, remember that I shall be most seriously displeased."

"I have never borrowed money since I have been here," said Emily, feeling that she must say something, and glad to be able to make the assertion with truth.

"I am glad to hear you say so," replied Mrs. Pomeroy. "I did not speak because I suspected you, but only that you might be warned. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure."

"It is, indeed!" thought Emily. "Especially when the pound of cure is not to be had at any price. Oh, how I wish I had never made a debt. But there is no use in wishing, the only way is to discover some method of paying, though I am sure I don't know where to look for it. At any rate, I will find out this week how much I do owe, and perhaps something may occur to me. If I only had an aunt like Delia's to send me money."

At this moment, a sudden light flashed upon her mind. She had a cousin, a very rich man, and a bachelor, who had sometimes made her Christmas presents of money—why should she not write to him and ask for what she wanted.

Two or three difficulties stood in the way of this scheme. In the first place, all the letters were carried to Mrs. Pomeroy's room before they were posted, as she was in the habit of looking at all the directions, and if anything struck her as suspicious, she was sure to make inquiry about it. Emily had no regular correspondent except her father, and if Mrs. Pomeroy should ask her a question, what could she say?

She must contrive to get her letter posted privately; but this she thought she might accomplish by means of one of the day scholars, who sometimes did such errands for the boarders. But what was she to do when the answer came? Leaving this difficulty to be met by some bright thought, she wrote her letter that very night. At first she was at some loss on what pretext to ask for what she wanted, but after some consideration she wrote as follows:

DEAR COUSIN DAVID:

The girls are going to subscribe and buy a handsome Christmas present for Mrs. Pomeroy, and I want to give as much as the rest, but I have no money with me, and there is no time to write to my father. I might ask Mrs. Pomeroy, but she would be sure to ask me what it was for, and the girls do not want her to know anything about it. I should be very much obliged to you, if you would send me a little money before Christmas.

This letter was copied in her very best hand upon a sheet of note paper, and committing it to the care of Miss Stone, she waited anxiously for the result of her experiment. It was true that a two shilling subscription was actually on foot among the girls, to procure a present for Mrs. Pomeroy, but it was also true that she had already paid her share of the said subscription, with an odd quarter which had escaped being spent, by dropping into a drawer, and cunningly taken refuge in the tops of a pair of folded stockings. It would be two or three days before she received an answer, and meantime she would collect all her bills and ascertain the amount of her indebtedness, which she thought could not exceed ten dollars.

"Cousin David will be sure to send me as much as that," she thought, "and then, if any one catches me in such a scrape again, I am resolved, that come what may, I will never buy another thing without paying for it. I mean to turn over a new leaf next year, about all sorts of things. I wish I were like Lucy. She never gets into any trouble, and everything goes smoothly with her." Emily heaved a deep sigh, and then brightened up as she repeated, "I mean to turn over a new leaf next year."

"Miss Arlington is wanted in the library," said the monitress, putting her head in at the door.

Emily started. "Who wants me, Almira?" she asked, as a wild fancy that her father might have returned, came into her head and made her heart beat fast.

"Mrs. Pomeroy, of course," replied Almira, "and I advise you to make haste, for if you are in a scrape, you will not mend matters by keeping her waiting, I can tell you."

"I wonder if she can possibly have found out anything about those bills," thought Emily as she descended. "I almost wish she had, and then, at least, it would be off my mind. If I only dared tell her—but they say she is so strict about such things. But what is the use of borrowing trouble. It may, after all, only be something about my lessons."

Mrs. Pomeroy was sitting by her table with a letter in her hand, and Emily took courage on seeing her look just as usual.

"Here is a letter for you, Emily," said she, "I see it is a money letter, and I thought best to put it into your own hands. I believe, too, I must take the liberty of asking your correspondent's name?"

"It is from my cousin David, I daresay," said Emily, much relieved. "He often gives me money for my Christmas present. Yes, that is his hand," she added, as she looked at the superscription; "I should know it anywhere."

"Who is he?" asked Mrs. Pomeroy. "Is he a young gentleman?"

"Oh, no, ma'am," replied Emily, laughing. "He is older than my father. I have known him ever since I can remember."

"Very well," said Mrs. Pomeroy, "I dare say it is all right. Money is very acceptable at these times, and, by the by, my dear, I can let you have a little, if you wish it."

"How foolish I was not to ask her before," thought Emily, but she only said, "Thank you, Mrs. Pomeroy, I shall be very glad of some, because I have not quite finished my presents."

"I suppose three dollars will be enough," said Mrs. Pomeroy, taking out her purse. "Your father does not wish you to be extravagant, and you must remember that at such a time as this, you are always in danger of spending more than you intend."

Emily would gladly have asked for more if she had dared, but she always stood very much in awe of Mrs. Pomeroy, and the feelings were not lessened by the consciousness of concealing a secret from her; so she took the three dollars thankfully, and retired anxious to examine her cousin's letter. Greatly was she rejoiced to find that it contained a bright, new ten dollar bill; so delighted was she indeed, that she hardly paused to read the kind letter which accompanied the liberal gift.

"Thirteen dollars?" she said to herself. "I am sure that those bills cannot amount to more than that. Oh, how glad I shall be to get them off my mind."

That very afternoon she asked and received permission to go down town, proposing to get rid of her indebtedness at once. Her bill at the bookstore was only two dollars, and was easily disposed of; but that at the dry-goods store was nearly ten, and at Barton's, where she had purchased her working materials, and many other little matters, the bill amounted to about the same sum.

Emily could hardly believe her ears or eyes. She was sure there was some mistake, but the items were all regularly set down, and she could not help remembering them all. She felt sick at heart as she reflected that after all her pains, she had not half enough funds to meet them. She paid the first amount and received a receipt, but what to do with the other she could not tell. Mr. Barton looked rather grim, when she proposed to take it home and look it over, spoke of hard times and shortness of cash, and finally intimated that if it were not paid soon, he should be under the necessity of appealing to Mrs. Pomeroy.

Emily promised to attend to it immediately, and having succeeded in pacifying the old man, she put the bill in her pocket and walked toward home, with her heart heavy enough. She was not, after all, much better off than she had been in the morning. If Mrs. Pomeroy found out about this bill, she might about as well know of all the rest; and Emily was almost tempted to wish she had let matters take their course, and saved her cash for future exigencies.

She was walking slowly up the long gravel path which led to the side door, when her down-cast eyes fell upon a piece of paper lying at the foot of one of the trees. Almost mechanically she picked it up and looked at it. It was a ten dollar bill!

Emily's heart leaped for joy. Here was a windfall come to her in her utmost need, but the next moment her spirits fell again, as she reflected that the money was not hers, and that she ought to take immediate steps to find the rightful owner. Then came a thought—a wicked thought, which three months ago she would have rejected with horror,—she might say nothing about finding the bill, and appropriate it to the payment of the account which weighed her down like a nightmare.

Such was the temptation which had assailed her! She might have rejected it at once, and still have been without sin, for temptation is not sin. She might have yielded to her honest convictions, and taken measures to restore the money to its proper owner. But, alas she had learned to stifle the voice of conscience—she had ceased to pray for direction or strength—she had left off to watch and be sober, and now she was abandoned to her own miserable weakness and folly till she should drink of the cup which her own hands had prepared.

She turned and walked toward the gate again, as though she intended to retrace her steps, but the ringing of a bell warned her that she had already been out too long, and reluctantly she turned toward the house, putting the money in her pocket as she did so, with the half-formed resolution to institute an immediate inquiry respecting it. As she was putting away her bonnet and shawl, she put her hand in her pocket and pulled out Mr. Barton's bill.

"What is that?" asked Delia, who was writing at the table.

"It is that horrible bill of Mr. Barton's, Delia. Just see what an immense amount,—nine dollars and sixty cents. I believe he has overcharged me. I am sure I have never had all that worsted."

"Worsted mounts up very fast," observed Delia, looking over the bill, "and you have had a great deal lately. You know I told you, you were getting yourself into trouble. That shawl for Kitty took nearly a pound, and that is four dollars."

"What is the use of always saying, 'I told you so,'" interrupted Emily, fretfully.

"Here, then, is the morocco and velvet and the silver braid for two pairs of slippers, and the silk and card board for your handkerchief boxes, besides all the presents you bought," continued Delia, without heeding the interruption. "Yes, I should have expected it to be as much as that at least, for mine was seven, and I did not buy nearly as much as you."

"Have you paid yours?" asked Emily.

"Yes, indeed, two weeks ago. I could not let it go to Mrs. Pomeroy, for anything, she makes such a fuss about the girls' running in debt. She threatened to send Jenny Carpenter home for making a bill at the milliner's. Jenny wanted the woman to wait till she came back after holidays, but she said she had waited for several young ladies who never came back at all, and she meant to send it to Mrs. Pomeroy directly. Jenny did not believe she would dare do it, but she did, and Jenny was in trouble, I can tell you."

"I knew she was in disgrace that time that she did not come to the table," said Emily, "but I never heard exactly what the matter was. I don't know what would happen to me if she should send me home. To be sure I have a home to go to. But I should never dare to look my father in the face again."

"Is he so very particular?" asked Delia, who was folding her letter.

"Oh dear, yes; and so stern, if anything displeases him. Mrs. Pomeroy is nothing to him. The worst of it is, that only the other day Mrs. Pomeroy asked me in so many words whether I had made any bills, and almost without thinking, I told her no. Now if she gets hold of this one—"

"I would not be in your place for something," said Delia. "But hav'nt you money enough to pay it?"

"I have," replied Emily, looking steadfastly out of the window, "but—"

"But you want to spend it for something else, I suppose," said Delia, after waiting in vain for the conclusion of the sentence. "Now, Emily, if you will take my advice, you will pay this bill and have done with it, whether you ever have any money to spend again or not. Think how dreadful it would be to be sent home in disgrace, and have your name printed in the catalogue as expelled! Your father would never get over it."

"It would kill him, I do believe," said Emily, "and I am sure it would kill me. You are right, Delia. I must pay it at all risks."

"What risk would there be?" asked Delia, surprised. "I should think the risk was all the other way."

"I was thinking how I should get down there," answered Emily, seizing the first evasion that offered itself. "You see I have had permission to go out twice this week already, and I dare not ask again. She would not let me go, and she might suspect. I might send by Matilda Stone."

"I would not do that," said Delia, as Emily paused, apparently for a reply to her suggestion. "I made up my mind that I should not send by her again. I do not think she is honest."

"Oh, Delia!" exclaimed Emily, feeling the hot blood mantle in her cheeks.

"It is so," continued Delia. "I know she has several times charged me more than she has paid for things, because I have inquired the prices afterwards. Besides, she might threaten to tell, and that would give her a hold upon you which might be very inconvenient." She considered a little, and then said, "I think I see how we can manage it. You know we are to go to the dressmaker's before school, and Mrs. Pomeroy will have to give us permission for that, because Miss Sampson depends upon us. Then you know Barton's is only a few steps below, and we can easily run down there, and make it all straight. By the by, did you remember that little matter at the jeweler's—the beads and spangles, you know—"

"I never thought of them," replied Emily, clasping her hands with a feeling of desperation, at the idea of this new liability. "Oh, dear, what shall I do? Cannot you lend the money, Delia? I will pay you the very first minute I can."

"I suppose I might," said Delia, considering a little. "I would not do it for every one, because you know how strictly lending is forbidden, but rather than have you get into a scrape, I will run the risk for once."

"Oh, thank you, Delia," exclaimed Emily. "What a good girl you are."

"But if I do," continued Delia, "mind, I shall expect you to be equally ready to oblige me."

"Of course," replied Emily. "I shall pay you the very moment I get any money."

"I was not thinking about the money," Delia answered. "I might want you to do some thing else for me. If I run risks for you, you must be ready, if necessary, to run risks for me."

"I will do anything in the world for you, if you will only get me out of this scrape," said Emily.

Delia struck a light, for they had hitherto been talking in the dark, and took some money out of her desk. "How much do you need," she asked, as she counted it over.

"Three dollars," replied Emily. "It cannot possibly be more than that."

"Here are five," said Delia. "That will pay all your debts, and perhaps leave you something over. But remember what you have promised."

"Indeed I will, Delia. I never was so much obliged to any one in my life. Oh, how glad I shall be to get it all off my mind." Emily stopped suddenly.

What had become of her resolution to inquire for the owner of the money she had found. How could she appropriate it to her own use, without incurring the guilt of theft? Yet the bill must be paid at all hazards. The tea bell rung in the midst of her reflections, and she descended to the table looking so pale that two or three of the girls noticed it, and one of the teachers asked her if she were ill.

"My head aches, Miss Gilbert," Emily answered, with perfect truth, but she might have said that a heart-ache was worse to bear than a head-ache, and a pain in the conscience worst of all.

How she started when Mrs. Pomeroy tapped on the tea-urn with a spoon, which was her way of calling the attention of the young ladies, and how relieved she felt, when she heard that her remarks related only to a change in the breakfast hour.

But the dull, aching pain came back the next moment, with a still sharper pang accompanying it, as she remembered that by keeping the money so long, and saying nothing about it, she had already put a great difficulty in the way of returning it at all. What could she say if any one questioned her, and in what reasonable manner could she account for her delay? As she was passing out of the room after tea, Mrs. Pomeroy stopped her.

"Don't you feel well, my dear?" she asked. "You look very pale and tired. You can be excused from study this evening, if you wish it."

"I am tired," admitted Emily, hardly able to restrain her tears at the undeserved kindness, "but I don't care about being excused from study, thank you. It makes the evening seem so long."

"Just as you please, only don't make yourself sick," said Mrs. Pomeroy. "I shall be glad when this affair is over, for you are all wearying yourselves out with working for it. I have seen the knitting fever run pretty high before, but I do not think it has ever prevailed to quite such an alarming extent. Even Kitty has caught it, and I have every now and then to take her work away by main force to prevent her from tiring herself out altogether."

"How is Kitty, ma'am," asked Emily, more from the necessity of saying something, than because she felt any particular interest in the answer.

"She seems very much better," replied Mrs. Pomeroy, "and I cannot help being very much encouraged. She has been out of doors to-day, and I have promised that if she is no worse for it, she shall go down town to-morrow. One of her aunts has sent her some money, and she is enjoying very much the idea of purchasing her Christmas gifts herself. Well, good night, my dear, and remember to be careful of your health."

CHAPTER III.

IT was only by a strong effort that Emily was able, so far, to turn her thoughts from her pecuniary embarrassments, as to allude to her lessons for the evening, and it was not till Miss Gilbert, whose turn it was to preside in the school-room, had spoken to her once or twice, that she threw off her abstraction, sufficiently to hear and answer what was said to her. After they returned to their room, Delia rallied her a little upon her absence of mind.

"Any one would think you had all the cares of the nation upon your shoulders, Emily, instead of a little bill for worsted. People Will begin to suspect something presently, if you are not more careful. When Mrs. Pomeroy spoke to the girls at the table, you started as though you had been shot, and when she stopped you coming out of the room, you turned as pale as ashes. Why cannot you learn to put a good face upon matters."

"I never before had a secret to hide, Delia," said poor Emily, sighing heavily; "and I am sure I hope I shall never have another. Oh, I do think it is dreadful to live in such constant fear of being found out."

Delia looked rather annoyed. "When you have been at school as long as I have, you will not mind it," said she. "I think it rather good fun to have a secret, but, Emily, if you are so afraid of them, I do not see—"

"Do not see what?" added Emily, as Delia came to a full stop.

"I do not see how you are to help me as you promised," returned Delia. "I expected you would be so, or I should never have begun."

"Begun what?" asked Emily again. "You are so very mysterious, Delia, I don't know at all what to make of you. Ever since the day that we went down to Barton's after the braid, you have acted as if you had some wonderful secret upon your mind, which you were determined to keep all to yourself."

"And so I have," said Delia, "only I have no desire at all to keep it all to myself; but if you have such a great dread of knowing anything which you cannot talk about, I don't see but I must do so whether I wish it or not. I did not think you would fail me just when I needed you, especially after what you said this afternoon." And Delia seemed just ready to cry.

"But I have not failed you, Delia," said Emily, much disturbed at the implied accusation. "I am sure I never told anything that you asked me to keep, and it is my own secret that troubles me, not yours. That would be a very different matter. There is no one in the world that I would do more to oblige than yourself, for I am sure I don't know what would have become of me without you."

"Then you will promise solemnly not to betray me, if I let you into my secret," said Delia.

"Of course I will," returned Emily, confidently, but feeling nevertheless a little frightened. "I have promised already."

Delia paused and played with her chain, as though she did not exactly know where to begin. Emily was surprised at her embarrassment.

"Why, you are as bad as I am," she said, laughing, and really rejoiced at the prospect of hearing something which might divert her mind from her own troubles. "One would think you had a love affair upon your hands at the very least."

"I never said I had not," returned Delia abruptly. She paused a moment, and then went on, apparently recovering her confidence after the first step. "You were speaking of that day we went down to Barton's—do you remember the gentleman we met there?"

"The one with the black whiskers who spoke with such a French accent—yes, what of him?"

"He is come to teach French and Italian at the academy," pursued Delia, "and he hopes that Mrs. Pomeroy will employ him, as Mademoiselle is going away at holidays."

"Mademoiselle going away—how sorry I am!" exclaimed Emily.

"So am not I," said Delia; "nor will you be either, when you know all about it. Mr. Hugo used to teach at the Gymnasium and all the girls there worshipped him."

"And so you want him to come here," said Emily, as Delia stopped again. "But, Delia, I don't think I like reciting to a gentleman as well as to a lady."

"I thought you liked Mr. Fletcher?" said Delia.

"Yes, because he is so patient and makes one understand so well, but I am afraid of him, if I don't have my lesson. His eyes flash so, and his voice sounds so deep when he is displeased, it is quite awful. That is why the girls call him Jupiter Touans."

"Pshaw, Emily, cannot you be serious?" said Delia sharply. "I tell you I am in earnest. If Mr. Hugo can only come here in Mademoiselle's place, I shall be perfectly happy."

Emily stopped laughing, and looked grave enough. She did not yet see the whole of Delia's meaning, but a light began to dawn upon her understanding. "And so you want him to come here," she repeated; "did you like him so very much?"

"Like him!" said Delia—the tone was expressive. "He liked me at any rate. You know that beautiful bracelet I showed you?"

Emily nodded.

"He gave it to me. I never wear it at home for fear Mrs. Mason should notice it, and make inquiries about it, for as for my father, I might wear the Koh-i-Noor diamond in a ring, and he would never see it."

"But how could you accept such a present from a gentleman, Delia? Aunt always said it was very improper to put ourselves under such obligations," she stopped for Delia began to look vexed again.

"I wonder you did not think of that, when you wrote to ask your cousin for money," said she. "I should think that was about as bad as accepting a bracelet when it was offered."

It was now Emily's turn to color. "I think that was different," said she. "There was no harm in that."

"If there was no harm in it, why did you send it down by Miss Stone, instead of in the regular way?"

Emily had no answer ready, and Delia continued, "But there is no use in going on so. All I wanted to say was, that if you happen, during holidays, to hear anything said about Mr. Hugo, you must not let any one think that you have ever known anything about him before. He told me that Mr. Glover gave him a very high recommendation, and that he had little doubt of succeeding in engaging himself here."

"But if Mrs. Pomeroy knows that he came from L., and of course she must, she will be sure to ask me if I have heard you say anything about him," said Emily. "What then?"

"Then you can simply say that I thought him a very good teacher," replied Delia. "I can say that with a safe conscience, for he really does teach admirably, though he is sharp sometimes."

"But I don't understand it yet," said Emily. "Why are you so very anxious to have him here?"

"I am not going to tell you any more at present," said Delia, "you will see for yourself after a while. Only remember your promise."

Emily promised again, and the conversation was ended by the ringing of the night bell, after which all talking was forbidden. But she felt nervous and excited and could not sleep soundly. The wind, too, was awake, and moaned drearily round the corners of the building, rattling the doors and the windows as though trying to find some place to get in.

Their room looked out on a narrow street or alley, seldom used in winter, but Emily felt sure that she more than once heard some one walking under the window. She raised her head to listen. She certainly heard footsteps. They passed on, came back and paused, and then there was a low whistle.

"Delia! Delia!" she whispered. "Wake up and listen. What can that be?"

"I am awake," returned Delia, in the same low tone. "Don't make any noise, Emily, it is all right." She rose from her bed as a second whistle was heard and softly raised the window.

Emily uttered a terrified exclamation, for she was always a coward, and the present state of her mind did not tend to increase her courage.

"Hush, you little goose; you will raise the house!" said Delia in a low but energetic tone. "It is all right, I tell you."

She dropped out something white through the blind as she spoke, and lowered the sash again, but not before some one was heard stirring in the hall.

"There, you have roused Miss Thomas by your noise," said Delia. "Now to put a good face on the matter!"

Candle in hand, Miss Thomas entered as she spoke.

"What are you about, girls?" she said in her sharp way, and looking suspiciously round the room. "I heard some one open the window."

"I opened it, Miss Thomas," replied Delia, with perfect calmness, settling herself in bed once more. "The blinds rattled in the wind, and I got up to try and fix them. Then Emily waked, and seeing me standing there, she was frightened and made a noise."

The explanation seemed probable enough, and Miss Thomas was not inclined to keep up in the cold longer than was necessary. "The blinds are noisy," she remarked. "I wish they might be put in order a little. Good night, and don't let me hear any talking."

"Good night, Miss Thomas!" returned Delia, politely. "And a new pair of spectacles to you," she added, as the door was closed. "Did I not carry it off nicely, Emily?"

Emily made no reply. She did not, indeed, know what to say.

"What a verdant old soul she is, for all her suspicions!" continued Delia. "She is always smelling a rat, as the boys say, but she never can contrive to see one. She is more than half blind, if she would only confess it, but I suppose she would die before she would confess it."

"Oh, Delia, how could you do so? I am sure it is very wrong," exclaimed Emily, finding her voice at last. "What would your father say?"

"What does this mean?" asked Delia in surprise. "How long do you mean to have it last this time—till you want me to run away with you to-morrow, I suppose, to pay a debt which you had no business to make, and about which you have told two or three lies, already. Well, I must say, consistency is a jewel! Perhaps your next fit of it may lead you to betray me to Mrs. Pomeroy."

"For shame, Delia," said Emily, who was now crying bitterly, "you know I would not betray you for anything in the world."

"Well, I hope not, I am sure, but when you begin to talk in that way, I don't know what to make of you, nor what you will take it into your head to do next. But come, don't cry! There is no use in that, and you will only make yourself sick. Only have confidence in me, and I will bring everything out right for you and myself too."

Emily suffered herself to be persuaded, and tried to check her tears, but without success, for her spirits had been deeply burdened for several days, and this was the first time she had given way. She cried herself to sleep, and awoke unrefreshed, miserable with the consciousness of deception and disobedience.

The first thing she thought of was the walk to the dressmakers, and having obtained the desired permission, they set off directly after breakfast that they might have time for their stolen expedition, and still be back before school. As they closed the gate, they saw little Kitty Mastick wrapped in a large shawl and hood coming timidly down the steps.

Kitty Mastick.

"How very imprudent in Kitty to come out so early!" observed Delia. "I wonder if Mrs. Pomeroy knows it?"

"If it were any one else, I should think she had gone without permission," said Emily. "But, hurry Delia, we have no time to lose."

Their plan was perfectly successful. Miss Sampson kept them only a few minutes, and they almost ran down to the shops, happy at meeting no one by the way. Mr. Barton's face looked unpromising as they entered, but relaxed when Emily took out her purse.

"So you have come to pay the bill!" said he.

"Yes," replied Delia. "You need not have been so dreadful afraid of being cheated, Mr. Barton."

"Well, Miss Mason, when you have been in the fancy business as long as I have, you may learn to be suspicious too," returned Mr. Barton, making change with his usual deliberation. "You see it is an irregular thing for me to allow any of Mrs. Pomeroy's young ladies to make a bill at all, and more than once it has happened that a young lady has gone home for the holidays, promising to pay me when she came back, and that has been the last I have ever heard of it. However, all's well that ends well. There is your bill receipted, Miss, and what goods shall I show this morning?"

"Nothing!" replied Emily, who felt at this moment as though no shop would ever offer any temptations to her again. "Come, Delia, you know we have another errand."

"There is something wrong about that girl," said the shrewd old man, as he watched them out of the shop. "I wonder where she got the money to pay me, for I am sure she did not have it last night. However, that is no business of mine."

Her jeweler's bill turned out less than two dollars, which was considerably below what Emily had expected.

"How thankful I am to have them all off my hands," said she as they walked rapidly back to school, "I never felt so relieved in my life. If any one ever catches me in such a scrape again! There are the other three dollars, Delia, and I am much obliged to you. I shall never forget your kindness as long as I live."

"Keep it," said Delia, putting back the bill which Emily proffered. "You might want some money in holiday time very much, and I can wait for it as well as not! Indeed you had better keep it," she continued, as Emily still held the money in her hand. "You might not like to ask Mrs. Pomeroy for money so soon again. Your father will be sure to send you a supply one of these days, and then you can repay me. There is the first bell; we have saved our distance wisely. I think you must acknowledge Emily, that a friend in need is a friend indeed."

"Yes, that she is!" replied Emily with earnestness. "I would do anything in the world for you Delia!"

"We shall see," said Delia rather coldly, "You know I think much more of practice than of professions. Now don't go into a taking, but put away your things and get ready for school."

As they entered the school-room, they observed that both boarders and day scholars were gathered into groups, talking of something with a great appearance of interest.

"Only think, girls!" began Lucy Spencer, who seemed roused quite beyond her usually quiet manner—but the ringing of the bell on Mrs. Pomeroy's table put a stop to her intended disclosures, and they were obliged to take their seats.

When prayers were over, the girls were to disperse to their daily occupations as usual, when another touch of the bell warned all to resume their seats.

"I have an important matter to mention to you, young ladies," said the principal with more than usual gravity. "Kitty Mastick has lost a ten dollar bill. She very carelessly put it loosely into her pocket when she went out to exercise upon the long walk yesterday, and she supposes she must have dropped it there. What are you doing, Miss Arlington? I wish the attention of all the young ladies."

"I stooped to pick up my handkerchief, Mrs. Pomeroy," replied Emily with a burning blush, telling the first story that came into her mind.

Mrs. Pomeroy noticed the additional color, but supposing it to be caused by the suddenness of her question, she went on,—

"I am very much afraid she will never see it again, as the wind was so high last night, but I hope you will all keep watch, and if any one is so fortunate as to find it, she will bring it directly to me."

Mrs. Pomeroy then made some general remarks upon the evil effect of carelessness, and having dismissed the young ladies to their several employments, she returned to her own room to comfort Kitty, whom she considered to have been already sufficiently punished by the loss of her treasure.

"I should not mind it so much," said the poor little thing amid her sobs, "though I did want to give some presents this Christmas, if I had not been so naughty about it. You told me to put it away carefully, but I was in such a hurry to go out—"

A fresh burst of sobs brought on a terrible fit of coughing, which lasted so long that Mrs. Pomeroy became seriously alarmed and almost feared she would never breathe again. When at last the paroxysm had worn itself out, she was so much exhausted that the only thing to be done was to put her to bed, and keep her as quiet as possible. Such was the termination of the day to which Kitty had looked forward with so much pleasure only the night before.

But Kitty was a docile little creature, and had a wonderfully patient spirit, and before long, she was amusing herself placidly with a story book, and with her dear friends the old cat and her two kittens, which she was allowed as a special favor to have on the bed; while only an occasional quiver of the lip, and a sigh which seemed to come from the very depths of her heart, showed when the loss of her treasure returned to her mind.

Recess came at last to unloose the tongues in the school-room. Of course Kitty's misfortune was the subject of general conversation.

"Mrs. Pomeroy has often told Kitty that it would take some sharp lesson to cure her carelessness," remarked one of the girls; "and she has certainly got it now. I don't believe she will ever do such a thing again."

"I am afraid she will not live to do much more of any thing," said Lucy Spencer, sadly. "She looks so like my little sister that it seems sometimes as if it must be Anne herself. She had just such a cough for a year before she died, and her skin had that clear, waxy look that Kitty's has. I do not believe she will ever live to grow up."

"After all, perhaps it will be as well for her if she does not," remarked one of the elder scholars, a sad and depressed looking girl. "It is a miserable thing for a girl to be dependent upon strangers."

"Mrs. Pomeroy can hardly be called a stranger," replied Lucy. "She knew Mrs. Mastick long before Kitty was born, and besides Alice," she added with a little hesitation, "I do not think any girl need be dependent who has her health and a good education."

"I think you don't know much about it, Lucy," said Miss Parker. She seemed as if she were about to add more, but checked herself abruptly and walked to the other end of the room.

"I wonder why she is always so sad," said Lucy. "As to being dependent, I am sure with her splendid musical talent, she might support herself as she pleased."

"I suppose she thinks herself bound by the wishes of her friends," said Janet Graves, who knew Alice at home. "She was the daughter of a poor relation of Mrs. Williams, who adopted her when she was about ten years old, and agreed to give her the best possible education, upon condition that she should see her own mother only once a year. It seems rather singular that a mother should consent to part with her daughter upon such terms, but no doubt she put aside her own feelings under the idea that she was acting for the good of the child. From what I know of Mrs. Williams, however, I should imagine that Alice might be happier with almost any one else, and a great deal of that vulgar sort of pride which considers poverty a degradation. But for this sort of feeling on the part of Mrs. Williams, Alice would willingly support herself, but she feels herself to be under obligation to the person who has brought her up."

"Kitty will not suffer in that way, at all events," remarked Delia Mason. "I have no doubt Mrs. Pomeroy will be perfectly willing to allow her to work for a living, particularly if she works for her."

"For shame, Delia!" said Lucy, much more sharply than usual with her, "I am sure Mrs. Pomeroy does everything in the world for Kitty, as much as if she was her own daughter."

"Who said she didn't?" asked Delia, laughing. "Were not you saying just now, that it was a wonderful privilege to work for one's living?"

"I said I should prefer to be independent, if that is what you mean."

"Well, then, according to your view, would it not be the greatest kindness Mrs. Pomeroy could do, Kitty, to allow her to be independent as you call it. And would not Kitty herself, naturally prefer living with Mrs. Pomeroy to working for strangers?"

"I never know how to answer you, Delia," replied Lucy, "because I never know whether you are in jest or in earnest."

"It does not greatly matter in this case," returned Delia, carelessly. "However, I hope the poor little thing will find her money. So many people are constantly passing over that walk, that it is very curious it should not have been picked up."

She happened to look at Emily as she spoke, and all at once a light flashed upon her mind. She was very quick witted, and a dozen circumstances at once crowded to her mind, all pointing unmistakably to the same conclusion. Emily had found the money, and had spent it to pay her debts! She went on talking, however, in the same half careless tone.

"But then a stranger, or one of the servants, might have picked it up, in which case, of course, we should hear no more of it."

"I don't quite think it is right to say that, Delia," observed Emily, who had hitherto been very silent, but who now felt the necessity of urging herself to speak. "It is never right to suspect people without reason, and Mrs. Pomeroy thinks all the servants are honest."

"Mrs. Pomeroy always thinks all her own geese, swans," replied Delia. "I fancy servants are pretty much alike about such matters."

"In this case, the wind seems to be the suspected one," said one of the girls. "It blew hard enough last night to carry away a gold piece, let alone a bill."

"The wind did not begin to blow till about nine o'clock," replied Delia, "and the bill was dropped before four. However, that is nothing. It will all come to light, sooner or later."

"I am sorry for the thief, if any one has really stolen it," said Bella Faushane, who had just come in from assisting in the vain search for the missing money; "I should not like to be the one to rob an orphan child! I should never expect to prosper afterwards."

"Ill-gotten gain never prospers," said Lucy.

"Well, I often hear people say so, but I am not so sure about it," said Annette Flower, rather doubtfully. "There was Capt. Brown, of our place—he made a great fortune by all sorts of wickedness—people said he had even been a pirate. I don't know how that was, but there was no doubt at all that he was a very bad man, yet he seemed to be prosperous enough, and he died very rich. Such cases as that seem to contradict your idea, don't it?"

"Perhaps they might, if this life were all," replied Lucy, seriously, "I don't think we could decide the matter, unless we could look beyond the grave, and see how we prospered there."

"Of course," agreed Annette. "He had to leave all his wealth behind him, but so does every one else."

"And he might have carried away with him something which he would have been very glad to leave behind," continued Lucy.

"Yes, if he had to carry all his sins, his money would not do him much good," replied Annette, thoughtfully: "because I suppose, even if he had enjoyed life ever so much, it would seem as nothing to look back upon from the other world. And so it will be with the person who has got Kitty's money."

"Yes, unless he repents and makes restitution," said Lucy.

"We will not suppose that any one has taken it, until we know something about the matter," said Delia, seeing that Emily was in danger of losing her self-control, and anxious for several reasons to prevent any one from coming to the same conclusion as herself. "As Lucy says, it is not fair to suspect any one on such slight grounds, and a hundred things might have happened. You know Grip, Mr. Fletcher's little dog, always tears to pieces every bit of waste paper he finds. Kitty was playing with him at the time she lost it, and he might easily have picked it up and gnawed it all to bits, before any one saw what he was about."

"To be sure," said Bella, "I never thought of that."

"Nor I, till this moment," replied Delia, "though I have often given him bits of paper on purpose to see him play with them. But now, girls, instead of conjecturing any farther as to the money which seems to be hopelessly gone; suppose we set on foot a contribution to replace it. There are so many of us that we can easily make up that sum among ourselves without any one's feeling it, and it would do her so much good. Poor child, she does not have too many pleasures at the best."

"Oh, thank you, Delia, how good-natured of you to think of such a thing," said Lucy, already repenting of having done her companion injustice, even in her thoughts. "But do you think we can raise it? Ten dollars is a good deal of money."

"We can raise as much as we can, at any rate," replied Delia. "You see here are forty boarders, to say nothing of day scholars whom we might include or not as we pleased. If we each give a quarter, there are over ten dollars at once. If the day scholars come into it—"

"Come into what?" asked two or three of the day scholars coming up as she spoke.

Delia unfolded her plan which was received with universal approbation, for the gentle, patient little Kitty was a favorite with all. Delia was appointed treasurer of the fund, and all the girls promised to bring their money in the afternoon.

"How wretchedly Emily Arlington looks lately," remarked Annette, as they were standing round the dinner table, waiting as usual for Mrs. Pomeroy to come in, before taking their seats. "She does not look like the same girl that she was when she first came here. I don't believe school life agrees with her."

"She has been working very hard for the Christmas tree," replied her companion, "and then I dare say she feels the confinement, for she was never at school before in her life. I believe Mrs. Pomeroy thinks she works too hard, for I heard her tell her that she might be excused from study last night."

"She is a good girl," said Annette. "Do you know, she cried this morning, when Mrs. Pomeroy told us about Kitty's losing her money? I saw the tears in her eyes several times."

"Yes, she has a great deal of feeling. But then every one is sorry for Kitty. I think Delia showed her sympathy in the best way by proposing the contribution."

Not one of the girls forgot to bring her money. Delia's little leather bag was quite filled with dimes and quarters, and when she came to count her money, there were twelve dollars instead of ten. Louisa proposed returning the surplus, but none of the girls were willing to take back what they had given, and finally Emily suggested that they should buy a present for Kitty with the extra two dollars, and hang it on the Christmas tree. Her idea was received with great applause, and Bella Faushane and one of the day scholars were appointed a committee to select the present. Emily was placed on the committee but she declined, and could not be prevailed upon to have any thing more to do with the matter, and Delia was put in her place.

"What in the world ails you, Emily?" asked Delia, as she went to her room to put on her bonnet. "It is a new thing for you to decline an opportunity of going out."

"If you had any idea how tired I am and how my head aches, you would not wonder that I am glad to keep quiet," said Emily. "I should wish I were dead, only I am not sure that I should be any better off. Oh dear, I would give all I ever had in the world, if I had never seen the inside of this school."

Delia was touched by the tone of utter despondency, and wretchedness in which Emily spoke. She had fully made up her mind as to the cause of all this misery, but it was no part of her plan to have Emily guess how much she knew, and she answered soothingly, "Oh, don't give way so, Emily. You are only tired and nervous. You will feel better to-morrow."

"I shall never feel better," said Emily, half to herself.

"You will feel better to-morrow," pursued Delia, without appearing to heed the interruption. "You have never been used to school, and you feel everything more upon that account. Take off your dress and lie down, and I will ask Mrs. Pomeroy to let me bring your tea. You will feel refreshed after a good long rest. The girls are all out of doors or in the school-room, so you will have a quiet time."

She busied herself in unfastening Emily's dress and settling her comfortably as she spoke, and Emily submitted passively, thankful for any kindness, too weary to resist, and above all glad to be left alone, that she might throw off the mask of constraint which she had been obliged to wear all day, and which seemed crushing her very life out. Poor Emily.

CHAPTER IV.

THE money which had been collected to repair Kitty's loss, being put into Mr. Fletcher's hands, was by him transmuted into ten bright little gold dollars, after which they were put into Mrs. Pomeroy's hands to be presented to Kitty, who received them with a delight that was almost painful.

"I don't see how the girls came to think of such a thing," she said to Mrs. Pomeroy. "I don't understand why they should care so much for me. They are always doing kind things for me, though I never can make any return. I don't see why it is."

"Because you are a good, patient little girl," replied Mrs. Pomeroy, "and you have so few amusements, that your schoolmates like to do all in their power to make you happy. They know it is not very pleasant for you to sit by the fire or lie on the sofa when they are out at play."

"It is very tiresome," admitted poor Kitty with a sigh. "Sometimes I think I shall never be strong and well as they are, and then I feel as though I didn't want to live at all. Do you think that is wrong?" she asked, rather anxiously, seeing that Mrs. Pomeroy looked grave.

"It is a very natural feeling," said Mrs. Pomeroy, "but I would not indulge it if I were in your place, because it might tear you to be impatient. You know that God appoints the sort of life, he thinks best for you, and you must try to be willing that everything should be as he pleases."

"I know it," replied Kitty. "It is only when I am very tired indeed that I feel so, because after all, I do enjoy myself very much sometimes. Do you think I shall be able to go out and buy my presents to-morrow, aunty?" she continued, turning her money over in her hand. "It seems as though I should enjoy giving them a great deal more if I bought them myself."

"If it should be pleasant to-morrow, and you should sleep well to-night, I think you will be able to do so," replied Mrs. Pomeroy. "If not, you will be obliged to trust to my judgment."

"But I want to get something for you, too," said Kitty anxiously; "and I don't see how I shall manage it."

Mrs. Pomeroy smiled. "You might ask Miss Gilbert or Mr. Fletcher to select something for you," said she. "You know you have great confidence in Mr. Fletcher's taste."

"I do hope I can go," said Kitty, but she coughed as she spoke and put her hand to her side, as though it hurt her very much. Even after the fit of coughing was over, she seemed to breathe with pain and difficulty.

"You must have taken cold yesterday," said Mrs. Pomeroy, "and I do not see how you could have done so, for you were very warm when you came in."

Kitty colored. "I got cold this morning, aunt. I went out directly after breakfast to look for my money, before I told you that I had lost it. I could not help hoping that I should find it."

"That was very naughty, Kitty," said Mrs. Pomeroy, looking seriously displeased. "You know. I positively forbade your going out without especial permission."

"I know it," replied Kitty through her tears; "but I did want to find it so much."

"You see how one wrong doing leads to another," Mrs. Pomeroy continued. "First you were disobedient about the money, which was the cause of your losing it, and then you were tempted to another act of disobedience to conceal the first. You might have been led still farther. If you had found what you lost, and I had asked you how you took cold, you might have been tempted to tell a lie about it. If you had told me of your loss the moment you discovered it, the bill might very possibly have been found. But do not cry, my dear," she added, kindly, "you will make your cough worse, and I want you to sleep to-night. The girls will be very much disappointed if you are unable to be down to-morrow evening."

But it was by no means easy for Kitty to compose herself. Her conscience was almost morbidly tender, and this little act of disobedience gave her more pain than Delia Mason had ever felt for all her sins put together. Moreover, she had taken a severe cold, and both these causes together produced such a degree of fever, that Mrs. Pomeroy became seriously alarmed. She was very ill all night, and even delirious at times, and the morning made it plain that she would be not only unable to participate in the festivities of the day, but even to sit up at all.

"She is very ill," was Mrs. Pomeroy's reply to the questions of the girls at breakfast time. "I have never known her to pass a worse night."

"You don't think her in any danger, do you," asked Annette.

"I cannot say," answered Mrs. Pomeroy. "I always fear that every fresh attack may be the last, and I have never seen her suffer more. She has so little strength to spare."

"Do you think it was crying about her money that brought it on?" asked Delia, who was standing with her arm round Emily's waist.

"Not entirely, though no doubt it helped. I discovered last night that she was out in the morning looking for it, and did not come in till she was thoroughly chilled. It was one of her very few acts of wilful disobedience."

"I recollect now, that we saw her coming down the steps, just as we set out to go to Miss Sampson's," said Delia. "Don't you remember, Emily, that I remarked at the time that I did not believe Mrs. Pomeroy knew it."

"Some people's sins do seem to go to judgment beforehand," remarked Miss Gilbert. "I suppose there are not half a dozen girls in the school so habitually obedient as Kitty. It seems strange that she should be the one to suffer."

"I have sometimes wished that every act of disobedience might be discovered at once," said Mrs. Pomeroy. "One concealed sin is so apt to lead to another."

"How true that is!" thought Emily. "I was terribly afraid that Mrs. Pomeroy would find out that I was in debt at Barton's, and yet if she had, how much wickedness and misery it would have saved me. What is to become of me now is more than I can tell, but I suppose I must face it out. Nobody shall know how I feel, not even Delia. Nobody knows or suspects it, that is one comfort."

Ah, Emily, was not that a terrible mistake? Was there not one who knew every thought and action? Was there not an eye which had followed every wandering step, from the first omission of that evening prayer, to the present time? Was there not one voice that whispered constantly in your ear, "Return, wanderer, while there is time! Repent, confess, and be forgiven?"

Yes the voice was there, but its whispers were fainter and fainter, hour and hour, or rather she had closed her ears that she might not hear, and hardened her heart that she might not feel, but she should hear with her ears, and understand with her heart, and consent to be healed.

Pursuing her miserable resolution, however, she hardened her heart more and more, and by way of diverting her thoughts, she threw herself into whatever was going on, with an energy and gaiety which surprised all her friends, among whom she had hitherto passed for a quiet, retiring, and rather indolent person.

"How Emily has come out," remarked Lucy to Alice Parker, as they were finishing the trimming of the school-room, "she accomplished as much as any two in the room. I am glad to see her in such good spirits, for she has not seemed at all well lately. Most girls feel rather badly at not going home for the holidays, but she does not seem to mind it at all."

"Perhaps her home is not a pleasant one," said Alice.

"I believe she can hardly be said to have any home at present," said Lucy, "for her father is in Europe, and her mother is dead. I thought she would perhaps go home with Delia, but it seems she is expecting to stay."

"Do you take any one home with you?" asked Miss Parker.

"No," replied Lucy, "mother does not care about having me do so, and really I do not wish it myself. I think I enjoy myself more to have no one but our own family, and it is so pleasant at home that I grudge every evening that I am obliged to spend anywhere else. I never go out in holiday time, if I can help it."

"You must have a delightful home," remarked Miss Parker. "Ah, Lucy, you know very little of the trials of life."

"Perhaps you are not the very best judge of that, Alice," replied Lucy. "You remember the old story of the exchange of burdens. We know the weight of our own crosses but not the weight of those our neighbors carry. Only He who sends the cross knows that."

"Then you do have some trials," said Alice, interrogatively.

"Every one has them, I suppose," said Lucy, "but Alice, I do not believe it is best to talk of them, or even think of them too much. I believe that talking of them especially, has a tendency to make them appear much larger than they really are."

"But you say God sends them," persisted Alice, "and if so—"

"He sends them for our good no doubt, but I don't believe he means that we should exaggerate them. You know you can shut out the view of all this beautiful world with a bit of black cloth not so large as your hand, if you only hold it close enough to your eye; and so, by dwelling on one single trouble, we may keep out of view all the mercies of our lot."

"But what if some one persists in holding the black cloth close to your eyes, and would not let you look at any thing else."

"Then I would make the most of every peep of sunshine I could get," said Lucy, smiling.

Alice sighed and turned away. She could not appreciate Lucy's philosophy, or religion rather, and she could not help repeating to herself that Lucy could know very little of the trials of life, or she would not be so cheerful.

Notwithstanding Alice's conclusion, Lucy had seen something of trouble. Two of her sisters had died of consumption, her mother was wasting slowly, but surely by the same disease; they were not rich, and Lucy had no other prospect when her school education should be finished, than that of going out into the world to earn her daily bread as a teacher. Yet with all this, she could be cheerful and even merry, not only seeming to enjoy but actually enjoying every pleasant circumstance in her lot.

Why? Because she had early learned to acquaint herself with God, and be at peace. Because she had cultivated habits of thankfulness, referring every enjoyment however small, to God as the giver. Because she had asked and received grace, fully to accept the meaning of that most precious and wonderful promise—

"All things work together for good to them that love God."

Alice was religious too, and very conscientious about many things, but she had never learned to apply her conscience in this direction, and truth to tell, she took a certain pleasure in brooding over her troubles, making the worst of them, and above all talking of them to any one who would listen to her.

The work of arranging and decorating the school-room went on merrily and rapidly. And now, nothing remained to do, but to hang the presents each with its ribbon and label upon the Christmas tree, a task which was entrusted to the younger teachers, and from which not only the girls, but the great magnates of the house, Mrs. Pomeroy, Mr. Fletcher and Miss Gilbert were entirely shut out.

Great was the contriving and managing, and deep the schemes to prevent any teacher from getting a premature sight of her own present, and much was the merriment excited by some of the gifts.

Bella Faushane had constructed: a dog of brown cotton flannel, supposed to be an accurate likeness of Mr. Fletcher's terrier Cornelius Agrippa, a quadruped of wonderful sagacity and amiable manners, but so ugly that as Belle declared, he was afraid to sleep alone; and a cat of white plush intended to represent Mrs. Pomeroy's cat Posy, between whom and Cornelius Agrippa there raged continual war. These effigies were intended respectively for Mrs. Pomeroy and Mr. Fletcher.

A wonderfully elaborate smoking cap, and a pipe of inordinate dimensions for good old Mr. Holz, the German music master, who had been in the house as long as Mrs. Pomeroy herself, without improving in the least in his English or his habits of smoking.

A miniature dust pan and feather duster awaited Miss Thomas, who was famous for finding dirt where nobody else could see any.

While hundreds of other gifts, many pretty and valuable, crowded the Christmas tree, whose glittering and many colored fruits were expected to show to still greater advantages when illuminated by the rays of the multitudes of wax tapers liberally scattered among them.

Up stairs in the hall, as it was always styled, par excellence, all were equally occupied. The girls who were not busy with their packing, were arranging their dresses for the evening, or putting the last touches to some of their gifts, and all were talking over plans for the holidays.

"There!" said Annette, emphatically, as she held up her hand, and arranged upon it a silken net which she had just finished. "That is the last piece of work I am going to do. I never could have believed that I should be so tired of fancy work."

"After all, you have not done as much as some others," remarked Bella Faushane, who having finished trimming her own gloves, was now benevolently engaged in ornamenting those of several of her companions. "There is Emily Arlington, for instance; I never saw any one accomplish as much."

"I should think you would hate the very sight of it, Em!" said Annette, turning to Emily.

"I do!" said Emily emphatically. "I will never touch another bit as long as I live, unless I lose my senses first!"

Emily's energy raised a laugh, in which she herself joined. Two or three of the girls had remarked how much she had laughed that day.

"I don't say as much as that," said Annette, when the merriment had subsided. "I dare say I shall like it as well as ever after a while, and so will you."

"Never!" returned Emily. She spoke with an energy and bitterness which made the girls look at her with surprise.

And Bella said, "I am sure, Emily, you have no reason to be dissatisfied. You work better than any of us, and those of your presents that I have seen are almost the prettiest of all. You must have spent a good deal of money, as well as time, upon them."

Emily winced almost as if some one had struck her, but she made no reply.

"Isn't it a pity that Kitty won't be able to come down?" said Annette, after a moment's silence. "She has thought so much about it, and worked so hard."

"Cannot she come down?" asked some one.

"Oh, no! I saw Mrs. Pomeroy after dinner, and she told me that Kitty could not even sit up long enough to mark her presents. Lucy is doing it for her. Well I know one thing! I should not like to be the person that got her money!"

"There it is again, Manny?" said Emily sharply. "You are always harping on that string. I thought we all agreed to believe that the money was not stolen, but lost by accident. The next we know, you will be accusing some one of having taken it."

Gentle Annette looked surprised and hurt. "I am sure I did not mean any such thing, Emily. I have accused no one."

"No one in particular," returned Emily, "but every one in general, which is quite as bad. There is no proof that it was taken at all, and I do not think any one in this house would steal from—" the words seemed to choke her, but she went bravely on, "from an orphan child."

"I think Emily is right, Manny, though there was no need of speaking so sharply," remarked Bella. "That will be the next thing, if we allow that it is stolen at all. I dare say that before vacation is over, the story will be going in the village that some one of the young ladies took it out of Kitty's pocket, and if any one of the boarders should happen not to return, it will be said that she was the thief, and that Mrs. Pomeroy forbade her coming back."

Poor Annette began to look quite alarmed at the amount of responsibility which seemed to be thrown upon her. "I am sure I did not mean any thing," she repeated again. "I hope I have not done any harm."

Bella was going to reply, but Delia interrupted her. "Pray Bella, don't say any more, or you will have Manny going to Mrs. Pomeroy, and confessing that she did the deed herself, by way of averting suspicion from any one else. No Manny, you have done no harm to any one, and I don't believe you ever did in your life."

"I am sure I never meant any," said Annette.

"I believe that," said Bella. "You are a dear good little soul, though I don't believe you will ever set the river on fire, unless by accident."

"I hope not," replied Manny, with the direct simplicity, which made her at once the laughing stock, and the favorite of her companions.

"You are not angry, are you, Emily?"

"No, of course not!" returned Emily rather shortly. "You have done nothing to ma. Do let the matter drop? I have heard of it till I am fairly sick. Cannot some one think of something else to talk about beside that everlasting ten dollar bill?"

"I can," said Bella. "Do you know that we are to have a new French teacher after holidays?"

"I supposed so, because I knew that Mademoiselle was not coming back," replied Delia quietly. "Have you heard any thing decided, Bella?"

"Miss Gilbert told me that Mrs. Pomeroy had determined to employ the same person that they have at the Academy—a Mr. Hugo, who is very highly recommended."

"Then we shall have no resident French teacher, and of course no French table," said Almira Crosby, who was notoriously lazy about her French, as indeed she was about most things. "What a blessing that will be."

"Well I like the French table well enough," said Bella, laying down a finished glove and taking up another, "and so would you, if you would take any pains to learn. I am sorry that Mademoiselle is going away. I like her better than any teacher in the house, except Mr. Fletcher."

"So don't I!" said Almira. "She is so cross and over particular."

"Oh, you think any teacher over particular, who wont let you keep your dirty shoes and clean collars in the same drawer, and who wont let you talk about pang and dang-dongs," replied Bella. "You did not like it, because she sent you back from walking, for having a great piece of molasses candy sticking to your fur cape, like a new kind of bullion trimming."

"Hush girls, stop quarrelling," said Delia impatiently, as Almira was about to reply. "Not another word Almira, or I will mark you, for I am monitress to-day, and I mean to make the most of my authority while it lasts. I wonder if this can be the same Mr. Hugo who used to teach at the Gymnasium, when I was there. If he is, you will have to mind your p's and q's, I can tell you, for he is as much more particular than Mademoiselle, as Mademoiselle is more particular than Almira!"

"Oh Delia! The force of exaggeration could no farther go," exclaimed Janet Graves laughing.

Emily meanwhile looked at her room-mate with a feeling of perfect amazement. "Well," was her thought, "I should like to know what she is made of; that is all. Here she has been scheming and planning for ten days past to get this man into the house, and yet she speaks of him as coolly as though he were a perfect stranger."

But Delia was going on in answer to some questions from Annette who was a dunce in French, because she was too timid ever to trust herself to speak.

"I believe he would expire of horror if he should hear some of the French that is spoken at our table. He told Bessy Gardiner that her language was worthy of an assassin, because she would persist in putting pas after pouvoir."

"Then you don't like him, Delia," said Bella.

"Oh, yes well enough," said Delia carelessly. "I never had any trouble with him, and then after all, it may not be the same person. Hugo is a very common French name."

"Well you will have an opportunity of seeing him here to-night," said Bella. "Miss Gilbert told me that Mrs. Pomeroy had invited him. You must brush up your French, Annette, for Mrs. Pomeroy will be sure to introduce him to all the French scholars."

Annette looked overcome with consternation at the very idea. "If I thought so, I would not go down—I declare I would not," said she half crying. "I would make some excuse and stay up stairs all the evening."

"That would be really worth while," said Delia rising; "after you have been working all this time, to lose the sight of the tree because you are afraid some one will ask you a question in French. I think I see you giving such a reason to Mrs. Pomeroy." She went into her room as she concluded the sentence, and Emily followed, shutting the door after her.

"Well Delia," said she, "I suppose you are satisfied now that you have gained your point."

"Pretty well satisfied," said Delia. "I thought he would live in the house, but after all perhaps it is just as well as it is."

"I don't know what you mean by 'after all,'" continued Emily, looking very much perplexed and very uncomfortable. "I don't know where you expect it to end."

"I am not aware that there is any need of your knowing," returned Delia, rather drily; "and besides it will be time enough to think about the end when it comes."

"It may be too late then," said Emily.

"Leave me to take care of that. I know what I am about as well as you, and perhaps better, and I am able to take care of myself. Now don't be offended!" she continued, seeing Emily's color rise. "All I mean to say is, that you must trust me to bring everything out right. I am older than you, you know, and have seen more of the world."

"I have seen as much of the world as I want to, and more!" said Emily, sighing. "I think I should like to go into a convent, and be out of the way of it altogether."

"What difference would that make so long as you yourself are the same person?" asked Delia. "I dare say you used to do as many naughty things when you lived at home with your aunt, as you do now."

"I don't think I did," said Emily. "I used do wrong things I know, but I was a very different girl then. Sometimes when I think about it, it hardly seems possible that I can be the same person."

"Well, don't fret about it," said Delia kindly. "Only have a little spirit, and things will turn out well enough. You have got rid of the worst part of your troubles,—your debts—so you need not have much to worry you."

"I owe you something yet," suggested Emily. "And I don't see how I am ever to pay you, unless father sends me some money."

"That is nothing. I don't care if you never pay it," replied Delia, kissing Emily affectionately. "I am sure a true friend is worth more than five dollars, any day."

Emily was soothed by the flattery and the caress, and she dropped the subject, endeavoring to concentrate all her thoughts upon the preparation for the evening.

Seven o'clock came at last. The large school-room, which had been locked all day was now brilliantly lighted, and the girls all in their best, began to gather in the parlors. When all were assembled, the day scholars and boarders together amounting to nearly a hundred, Mrs. Pomeroy herself appeared, splendid in black satin and diamonds, and a new lace cap, and led the way to the school-room.

A universal exclamation of delight was heard as they entered. There stood the tall green tree, bright with a hundred tapers, and glittering with spangles, glass balls, and sugar ornaments. Vain would be the attempt to enumerate the gifts which adorned its fruitful branches. There were dolls and picture books—hoods and scarfs, mittens and slippers, bags, baskets and boxes knitted, netted and crocheted, and manufactured in all other imaginable ways—pen knives, fruit knives, drinking cups and inkstands—every thing pretty, useful and convenient, which could be devised by the imagination, wrought with the fingers, or purchased with the pocket money of Mrs. Pomeroy's young ladies.

Good Mr. Holz was in extacies, and declared in his most emphatic manner that it was worthy of the Fatherland. And Mrs. Pomeroy thought as she sat upon the platform, and looked on, that she had never seen a prettier sight. The pleased young faces and merry voices were indeed delightful to the eye and ear, and pleasanter still were the universal good humor and kind feeling that prevailed.

"How sorry I am, that Kitty cannot come down," she said to Miss Gilbert as she stood near her. "She would enjoy it so much. I have been hoping all day, that she would be able to make her appearance at least for a few minutes, but she is too weak."

"Her aunt's present has turned out any thing but a benefit to her," remarked Miss Gilbert.

"Yes in one sense it has proved a great misfortune. I only hope it may not be the cause of her death."

Emily Arlington was standing within hearing, and Mrs. Pomeroy's eye happening to rest upon her as she spoke, she was astonished to see her turn as pale as ashes.

"Why, my dear, what is the matter?" she exclaimed, rising in alarm, for she thought her about to faint. "Are you not well?"

"I feel a little giddy," replied Emily, glad to take the proffered seat, for her heart throbbed so that she could not stand, "but it is nothing of any consequence. I have had the same feeling several times to-day. I think I must have taken cold."

A sort of faint shadow of a suspicion darted through Mrs. Pomeroy's mind at the moment, but it was gone before she fairly recognised it. Emily soon recovered her color, and in a few moments, she was laughing and chatting as gaily as ever, but the watchful and motherly eye still followed her, and Mrs. Pomeroy could not help thinking that much of her merriment was forced and unnatural.

"I must watch that child," she said to herself. "I fancy she studies too hard. I think she must drop something after holidays, if she is not better. Poor child, she has never been in school before, and I dare say she finds it hard to keep up."

Her mind was diverted from these reflections, by seeing Mr. Fletcher approaching with the new French teacher. Mr. Hugo was so much like other Frenchmen that it would be difficult to describe him particularly. He had black hair and black eyes, he had a large mustache and no whiskers, and he was dressed elegantly but plainly in black. His manners were polished and his address unexceptionable, though there was an expression of constant watchfulness about him, which was not always pleasant, as it gave one the idea that he was always suspecting the approach of an enemy.

On the whole, however, Mrs. Pomeroy felt very well pleased with the new master, especially as his accent was undeniably perfect, as even Mademoiselle allowed. As Bella had prophecied, nearly all the French pupils were presented to him. On being introduced to Delia, he bowed, said he had the pleasure of numbering her among his former pupils, and inquired after her family and her studies in a half paternal way which might well have removed Mrs. Pomeroy's suspicions, had she happened to entertain any. Delia on her part was quite composed and placid, and Emily's wonder was renewed by the calm, half indifferent manner in which she answered Mrs. Pomeroy's inquiries as to her former acquaintance with Mr. Hugo.

The French pupils were unanimous in his praise, all but poor Annette, who had kept most carefully out of his sight all the evening, and who declared that she should never dare to open her mouth before him.

"So much the better," said Bella Faushane. "You can keep it shut and talk through your nose. Don't you know how often Mademoiselle tells us that a correct rendering of the nasal sounds, is essential to the beauty of French pronunciation?"

"For shame, Bella," said Lucy. "You ought not to tease the poor girl so. I dare say she will speak French as well as any of us, after a while."

"Ah, well, Lucy, there is nothing like having faith," returned Bella. "But Annette does not mind my laughing at her a little, do you dear?"

"No, no," said Annette slowly, "because you are so good to me in other ways; but really and truly, Bella, I don't think you would like it yourself, sometimes."

"You are a dear good girl, and I wont tease you another bit, till after holidays. Do see what heaps of things Mrs. Pomeroy has got for Kitty. I don't believe there is another person who has as many, unless it is Mr. Fletcher. See, he has got his dog tied into his button hole. The Queen of Sheba has fared pretty well, too. How handsome she looks in that pretty red scarf; but her things are nothing to Kitty's."

Kitty had indeed been bountifully remembered, and there seemed some fears lest she should be thrown into serious embarrassment, how to bestow her goods. Emily's present of a warm knitted shawl, was particularly admired, and it was indeed beautiful both in material and workmanship.

"Ah!" thought poor Emily. "How differently they would all feel about it if they knew how it had been paid for."

All evenings, whether merry or sad, come to an end sooner or later. The presents were all distributed, the lights on the Christmas tree burned out, the guests departed, and the house was left to such a degree of quiet and repose as is to be found in a large boarding school the night before breaking up.

Many of the girls were to leave early, and had not finished their packing, others felt little inclined to go to bed, and very much inclined to talk over the events of the day. Even Miss Thomas did not feel disposed to excessive strictness in enforcing rules, but she roused herself at last, and absolutely commanded every young lady to seek her room and her pillow. There was nothing for it but to obey, and for a few hours at least, silence and repose reigned supreme over the halls and dormitories of Mrs. Pomeroy's seminary.

CHAPTER V.

EVERYBODY knows that holidays at schools are not usually very interesting or lively affairs. Mrs. Pomeroy had always been accustomed to do a good deal to make them pass pleasantly to those who stayed, and when some dozen girls remained together, they often found the time fly quite quickly enough.

It happened this year that nearly all the girls went home, and Emily was left with no companions but Alice Parker and Janet Graves, who had already graduated, and was staying at the seminary another year, in order to perfect herself in music and painting. Passionately fond of both pursuits, and rejoicing in the fact of having the best light in the painting room, and the best piano in the house all to herself, Janet kept herself busy from morning till night, and Emily scarcely saw her except at meals. And Alice was at no time a very enlivening companion.

Thus Emily was thrown very much upon her own resources. She had no lessons, except that she read a little with Mr. Fletcher. She had plenty of books to be sure, but she could not read all the time; she hated the very idea of fancy work, and plain sewing did not furnish sufficient employment for her thoughts to keep them from dwelling upon all sorts of disagreeable things. Indeed, she was in a manner obliged to think, whether she would or no.

None of the teachers remained at the seminary except Mr. Fletcher, who never went away, except to take a long journey on foot or on horseback, during the summer vacation. Mr. Fletcher had been with Mrs. Pomeroy a great many years, and had taught mathematics to a dozen generations of girls, yet he never seemed to grow any older, nor could any one remember that he had ever looked younger. He was small and slight of stature, with very black hair and whiskers, with eyes which were grey when he was quiet, black when he was excited, and the color of burning coals when he was angry, an event which did not occur very often, for he was unusually even-tempered. His manners were remarkably kind and gentle, and his voice, though deep, was the softest in the world. Yet no one in the establishment, not even Mrs. Pomeroy herself, was regarded with so much respect, and even awe. Though he often jested with the girls and was particularly fond of playing with children, there was that about him which effectually repressed anything like taking a liberty. Bold indeed was the rebel who dared confront him, and the boldest never tried the experiment a second time.

Mr. Fletcher taught the Bible classes, which all the boarders were obliged to join, so that the whole family of girls came more or less under his influence. He was eminently calculated for the post of religious instructor to the young, not only because his own piety was so deep and fervent, but also because he never employed a false or weak argument to support a just cause—an example which all religious teachers of the young would do well to follow. His knowledge, especially of the manners and customs of Biblical nations, was something wonderful. He had himself travelled in Palestine, in Egypt, and in Assyria, and it was a common remark, that in narrating events and transactions recorded in Sacred History, he spoke almost as if he himself had been an eye witness of the scenes he described, so vivid were the pictures he presented to the minds of his auditors.

Emily had entered one of Mr. Fletcher's classes immediately on her arrival in the school, and for a time had shown much interest in her lessons, taking great pains in preparing them, and often going to Mr. Fletcher during the week for the answer to a difficult question. As we have before remarked, she had been carefully brought up in this respect, and her religious feelings, if not her principles, were very strong, so that she found great pleasure in listening to Mr. Fletcher's earnest and practical lessons; and he had begun to think her one of his most hopeful scholars, when Delia Mason arrived.

It was not long before the influence Delia gained over her room-mate showed itself very perceptibly. She ceased to ask instructions out of the class, lost her interest in her lessons, and contented herself with spending only as much time upon them as would save her from downright disgrace in the class. Mr. Fletcher was not slow in perceiving the change, or in attributing it to the right cause. He soon saw through Delia, and made up his mind as to her true character, but he was habitually reserved and cautious in his speech, and never expressed an opinion of a scholar, unless he was particularly requested to do so by Mrs. Pomeroy herself. So he said nothing, but contented himself with watching the course of events, hoping that a time might come when he should be able to interfere to advantage.

On the Sunday afternoon after Christmas, Emily was in the sitting room, rather listlessly turning over the book she had taken from the library. Mrs. Pomeroy was with Kitty, who, though better, was not yet able to leave her room. Alice Parker had gone to bed with a head-ache, and Janet, wrapped in furs, was walking up and down the long path in the garden, enjoying the fine mild air and the lovely prospect, sometimes reading in the Bible she carried, sometimes looking above and around her.

The house was so still that the ticking of the old clock in the hall below was distinctly heard. Even the animals seemed to feel the quiet influence of the hour, and Grip, Mr. Fletcher's dog,—short for Cornelius Agrippa,—and Posey, Mrs. Pomeroy's cat, intermitted their usual feud, and lay quietly sleeping together on one side of the grate, while Grip's master occupied the other, seated in a luxurious chair, and apparently absorbed in the contents of a great old-fashioned volume with brass clasps and corners, which, from its size and venerable appearance, might have passed for a book of magic, if such things were supposed to exist now-a-days.

Emily turned over her book and tried to read, and then looked out of the window at Janet studying her Bible, and wondered how she could be interested in a book that she must know by heart, and a prospect that she had seen almost every day for two years. Then she thought of Delia, and wondered whether she were enjoying her holidays, and how she got on with her step-mother; and then she remembered her dead aunt, and the thought came into her mind how she was passing these same holidays.

Last Christmas she had been in her own house, dispensing quiet hospitalities to her neighbors, especially the poorer ones among them, happy herself in her silent and subdued way, and making all happy about her, with every prospect of a long continuance in the same sphere. Now she was in heaven—Emily could not doubt that, remembering Mrs. Arlington's consistent Christian life and humble trust in her Redeemer—enjoying the society of angels and of friends gone before, and rejoicing in the visible presence of her God and Saviour.

The time had been when Emily would have delighted in following out the train of thought, or rather of reverie, and in picturing to herself the condition of the blessed in that glorious invisible world. Now she turned hastily from these ideas, perhaps because they suggested too vividly to her mind the contrast between her own spiritual condition a year ago, and the state in which she now found herself. With a deep sigh she turned again to her book, and as she did so, she became aware that Mr. Fletcher was observing her.

Emily turned over her book.

"You do not seem very much interested in your book," he remarked kindly. "Perhaps you would like to return it, and try something else."

"I don't care about it," she replied, pettishly enough. "The Sunday books are all stupid alike, I think. Perhaps the limit is in me," she added, rather frightened after she had spoken, as she remembered hearing that Mr. Fletcher had selected most of the books himself.

"Possibly," returned Mr. Fletcher, a little drily.

"Perhaps if I could read your book, I might be interested in that," continued Emily. "You seem to find it so very entertaining."

"You can look at it if you please," said Mr. Fletcher, spreading it on the table, which it pretty nearly covered. "Can you read black letter?"

"A little," replied Emily.

He turned to the curiously illuminated title page, with its quaint illuminated border of angels, and palm trees, and Scripture characters, all very much mixed up with each other, and Emily saw with surprise that the book was neither more nor less than a Bible!

"What a curious Bible," said she. "It must be very old."

"It is one of the oldest specimens of the printed English Scriptures," replied Mr. Fletcher, pointing to the date, which showed that the volume was printed in the reign of King Edward the Sixth. "I suppose this may have been a church Bible, in the days when the parish was obliged to have a copy of the sacred Scriptures chained to the church desk, to be read to the people at proper times. We can imagine the bluff country gentleman, and the gentle dames, with their maids and children, and a few of the common people, gathered round to hear the reading of the Holy Word, of which most of them had hitherto known only by report, and by the brief snatches read in the church service. Perhaps some of the martyrs who suffered for the truth in the next unhappy reign, may have gathered strength and patience from these very pages."

"How interesting it must have been to them," said Emily, roused from her listlessness, and turning over the pages with a feeling almost of reverence for a book which had outlived so many changes. "It seems strange to think of thus hearing, for the first time, of Joseph and his brothers, and Moses in the ark of bulrushes, and all those stories that one has known ever since one can remember."

"And the baby in the manger at Bethlehem, and the appearance of the angels to the shepherd, and all the wonderful history," continued Mr. Fletcher. "Some unhappy sinner straying in, and shrinking into a corner away from the noble and virtuous dames who sat near the chancel, may have first wept and then repented at hearing of her who anointed Jesus's feet, and wiped them with the hairs of her head, and those very ladies may have felt more inclined to stretch out a helping hand to their erring fellow creature, as they listened to his declaration. 'Her sins, which are many, are forgiven for she loved much.'

"Or some old father and mother, whose gallant and goodly son, who should have been the stay of their declining years, had gone down in the Mary Rose, King Henry's great ship which was sunk at Plymouth with hundreds of sailors and gentlemen of England's best blood on board,—such a father and mother may have listened with tears which were not wholly sorrowful to that story of the grave at Bethany which was a cave, and of which Jesus said, 'Take ye away the stone.'"

"It must seem strange to read the Bible for the first time," said Emily, after a pause. She stopped again, and added rather timidly, "I don't see how it is Mr. Fletcher, that you who are such a scholar, and have studied so much, can take such pleasure in reading the Bible. I should think you must have learned it all by heart long ago."

"I suppose, Emily," said Mr. Fletcher, "that the very wisest man living could not read the Bible in the right spirit, without learning something from its pages. The most accomplished scholar I ever met,—a man who knew more languages than I can tell you, and who had read more deeply in the great book of nature than falls to the lot of most men—was never weary of studying the Holy Scriptures. It is a mine which can never be exhausted—a spring which will never run dry."

Emily sighed. "I used to like to read it when I lived at home," said she, "but it is different here."

"Why," asked her companion.

"I don't know exactly. I suppose it is because I have so much to do, and my head is so taken up with other studies."

"But for the first three or four weeks of school, you seemed very much interested in your Bible lessons," remarked Mr. Fletcher. "I think you found much more difficulty then than now in keeping up with your other classes; yet you always found time to study your Bible lesson during the week, and you often came to me with questions which I was very happy to answer. What is it that makes the difference?"

Emily was silent. She did not know exactly what to say.

"Is it not that you have allowed your head to be taken up with other things than your lessons—things which burden your conscience more than your mind?" continued Mr. Fletcher gravely but kindly. "Is it not that you have left off some things without which no reading of God's word is of much avail? I think when you first came here, you would hardly have been willing to spend the time of morning prayer in reading a story book, even if you had been quite certain of not being found out."

Emily's eye fell, and her color rose under the penetrating look which was fixed upon her. She well knew to what he alluded, and that it was not the only time she had sinned in the same way.

"I do not wish to press into your confidence, my child," continued Mr. Fletcher kindly, "but I feel a deep interest in you, as in all my scholars, and I very much fear that you are not walking in the way of wisdom which is the path of peace. Tell me, are you as happy now, as when you were more attentive to your religious duties?"

"I am not as happy as I was before I came to school," said Emily with bitterness, "and I wish with all my heart, that I had never been sent here."

"Yet you liked it very much at first!"

"I did not know much about it," returned Emily. "It was all new; and beside, things were different them."

"I admit that," said Mr. Fletcher. "There was a very different spirit in the school at that time from the one that prevails now. A little leaven leaveneth the whole lump."

He seemed speaking more to himself than to her, and she dared not ask him what he meant.

"But however that may be," he continued, "it makes no difference to you. If you are living in habitual neglect of your religious duties—God not being in all your thoughts—you cannot be good or happy any where—no, not if you were in heaven itself, and the sooner you return to the right path, the better it will be to you, and the more easily you will find it. Be warned in time, my child! You may wander so far from that plain and narrow way, as never to find it again."

"Oh, if I dared tell him every thing!" thought Emily.

She looked up as this thought crossed her mind, and saw the Professor's dark eyes fastened upon her, as though he would read her very soul. She waited almost in terror for his next word, but he only repeated,—

"Be warned in time!" and returned to his reading.

If he had any idea of the true state of the case, he had evidently no idea of forcing her to the confession which she was almost ready to make of her own accord. Happy had it been for her if she had done so! But as she was deliberating, came Shame, and cowardly Fear, picturing to her mind the disgrace, the loss of her high position in school, the displeasure of her father and Mrs. Pomeroy's anger. She listened to the tempter, and locked her guilty secret in her heart again.

After a little silence she said—

"If I wanted to be like what I was before, I should not know how."

"Return to God and He will return to you," said Mr. Fletcher, briefly.

"That is just the very point," said Emily, impatiently. "I don't know how to go to work to return."

"The only way of going to God is in prayer," said Mr. Fletcher. "You know that as well as I do. If you have left off prayer, you must begin it again, and if you are indulging in sin, you must forsake it."

"I never feel like praying now," said Emily. "It was different when I was at home. Everything was so quiet and peaceful there."

"Pray whether you feel like it or not," was the answer. "Your feelings are not of so very much consequence. Act rightly, and you will soon feel rightly. The best, and indeed the only way to bring one's mind and heart to a proper state, is to perform one's known duty."

This was new and not very acceptable doctrine to Emily, who had, been taught by her aunt's precepts, and perhaps a little by her example, to attach altogether too much importance to states of feeling and mental impressions. She would gladly have gone on talking about herself for an hour longer, but Mr. Fletcher gave her no encouragement to do so. He had returned to his book, and when Emily complained that her prayers now never seemed to have any wings, he only answered rather sternly, "If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me."

Janet came in at this moment with her hands full of bright-colored rose berries and cedar leaves, which she had arranged into a bouquet for Kitty, and Emily slipped out and escaped to her own room. Her conscience troubled her more than ever, and again and again she wished she had had the courage to open her mind to Mr. Fletcher, whom she could not help suspecting of knowing already more of her affairs than he chose to tell. "If I had not been so foolish at first," she said to herself, "if I had kept on reading my Bible and praying, as I knew I ought to do, I should never have been drawn into the matter, and I don't believe but that Delia would have had more real regard for me. I believe she loves me well enough now, and she was certainly very kind in helping me about those bills; but I don't think she respects me as she does Lucy and Janet, or even Annette. I heard her say once, 'You all laugh at Annette, and yet she has more sense about some things than any of you. You will never see her laughed into doing anything wrong.'

"Those miserable bills! They were the beginning of all the trouble—no, the first trouble was in being afraid to say my prayers, for fear Delia would laugh at me. And now, here is this affair of hers with Mr. Hugo, and no one knows how it will end, and I dare not say a word for fear of her telling Mrs. Pomeroy of me. I am thankful for one thing—that she does not know anything about the money I found; if she did, I should be her slave in good earnest. But, oh dear, if I only knew what to do!"

Emily burst into tears and cried a long time. That night she read her Bible carefully, and tried to pray; but as she said, her prayers had no wings, and left her feeling more wretched and heavy laden than before, while the sentence with which Mr. Fletcher had concluded their conversation seemed to ring in her ears, and to be repeated again and again, "If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me."

She knew the right way. She knew that she should find neither rest nor peace till she had confessed her sin, not only to God, but also to the fellow creature she had wronged, and made all the reparation in her power. But whenever she thought of this, the vivid image of the dreaded consequences of her faults rose up before her, and she dared not proceed.

Still she persevered in her devotions, though she found little or no benefit from them, unless might be the constantly increasing conviction that she could never be happy with such a load of concealed guilt upon her conscience.

It happened, that a day or two after the conversation we have recorded, she was invited by one of the day scholars to spend some time with her. Mrs. Pomeroy saw no objection to her accepting the invitation, and Emily was only too happy to snatch at anything which promised her some little diversion. Abby Carson was a lively, merry girl, of about her own age, and she expected a good deal of pleasure from her society. The day passed very pleasantly in various employments and diversions; but when the hours began to draw toward bed-time, a struggle arose in Emily's heart. She knew that she was to sleep with Abby—should she put her resolution to the test by kneeling down and saying her prayers, or should she act as she had done before in Delia's case? She knew what she ought to do well enough, but what she should do was another question.

Abby's frankness, however, removed her difficulties. She was delaying and fidgeting about undressing, when her companion said—

"If you want to read and say your prayers, Emily, don't let me hinder you. There is a Bible on the table."

"Thank you," said Emily, relieved, and blushing for herself. "Here I will do just as if I were in my own room."

She sat down and found her place as she spoke, and, at Abby's request, read her chapter aloud. She could not help feeling a little self-righteous, as she observed that Abby lay down without even the semblance of a prayer. "After all," she thought, "I am not the worst person in the world."

"Don't you say your prayers, Abby?" she asked, after they were both in bed and the light was put out.

"Not very often," replied Abby. "I used to say them when I slept in the nursery, but since I have had a room to myself, I have got out of the habit of it; and besides, to tell you the truth, I do so many wrong things, every day, I am ashamed to say them."

"That is not the way to be any better," said Emily. "It is only adding sin to sin."

"I know it, and I wish with all my heart that I were a Christian, but I am not, and there is the end of it. I mean to be different some day."

"Some day may never come," said Emily.

"Well, I know that too. I think about these things, Emily, though I am so wild and careless sometimes. But I am going to turn over a new leaf after holidays, and you will see how much better I shall be. There will be some comfort in saying my prayers, when I am not in a scrape every day of my life."

"Mr. Fletcher would say that was like curing one's self and then sending for the doctor," observed Emily. "How do you expect to get strength to do so much better if you do not pray for it?"

"I don't know!" said Abby, sighing. "I only know that I hav'nt got it now. But, Emily, I should not think that your ways and Delia's would suit very well. She seems to be anything but a religious character."

"Delia is not so much worse than any body else," said Emily. "I know she is not what she ought to be about such things, but she has a great deal of sense and feeling, and I cannot help thinking that she will come round after a while. One thing is, that her step-mother professes to be very pious, and Delia dislikes her so much, that I think it sets her against the whole subject."

"I wonder at that, too," said Abby. "Mother has known Mrs. Mason from a child, and she thinks all the world of her. I was telling her one day, what Delia said about her step-mother, and she said if Delia had any trouble, it must be all her own fault, for there was never a better temper, or better principles than hers."

"Delia thinks it is all artfulness and hypocrisy in her," observed Emily, "but I don't believe any one else would have suited her any better. She was angry at having a step-mother at all, just as I should be. I believe I should hate the best woman that ever lived, if she was my father's second wife."

"Then I think you would do very wrong," said Abby with spirit; "I don't believe any girl ever loved her mother better than I did mine, and she had only been dead a year and a half, when my father married again. But as soon as I heard of it, I made up my mind to make the very best of her, however she might turn out, and to do every thing in my power to make her comfortable in the house. So the day she was coming, I put her room in the neatest order I could, and arranged flowers in the vases, although I could not help crying every now and then, when I thought how my dear mother had used these very things. It did seem hard thus to have a stranger come into her place so soon, but as I said, I had determined to make the very best of it, and the minute she came into the house, though it seemed as though I should choke, I went and kissed her, and called her mother."

"What did she say?" asked Emily, much interested.

"She did not say much, only kissed me and called me her dear child, but I heard her tell father afterwards that she felt as though a thousand pounds was lifted off her mind when I called her mother. So, you see, I had my reward that time. If one has a difficult thing before one, it is so much easier to do it the very minute one has a chance, than it is if one puts it off, and then while you are delaying very likely something happens which makes it almost impossible for you to do it at all."

Emily thought of the money, and gave an unqualified assent. "But how have you got on since?" she asked.

"Oh, nicely!" replied Abby. "She takes such good care of the children, and makes father so happy, that I could not help liking her, though we do not agree about some things exactly. But then I know, of course, it is my place to give way, and as it takes two to make a dispute, we never have any. She is really very kind to me, too, so that it is no great matter if she is a little fussy sometimes. But if I had begun by quarreling, or even by crying and fretting, I dare say I should have ended by disliking her as much as Delia does Mrs. Mason."

"You don't do Delia justice, Abby. It is harder for her than it would be for many people, she has such strong feelings."

"Fiddle-de-dee!" said Abby, not very elegantly. "What is the use of strong feelings, or deep feelings, if they don't make people act rightly? If feeling was all, I could be as good a Christian as any body, but it is when it comes to action that I find the trouble. I am no believer in that sort of Christianity. However, as far as Delia is concerned, I don't mean to judge her. She may be quite different from what I have thought her—indeed, I think she must be, or you and she would not agree so well."

Emily sighed and blushed, as she remembered how little opportunity she had given Delia of commenting upon her religion, either in principle or in practice. She was somewhat uplifted in her own esteem, however, by what had passed that evening, forgetting how near she had come to yielding, and that she had been saved from it more by Abby's frankness than by any courage of her own; and she resolved that on the very first evening of Delia's return, she would show her that she did not fear her ridicule, when the cause of religion was concerned.

She spent several days very pleasantly at Mrs. Carson's, becoming more and more attached to Abby, as she saw how much she did to render home happy. With a great many excellent and lovable qualities, and a sincere desire to do her duty, Mrs. Carson was, as Abby said, a little fussy, and she sometimes interfered unnecessarily in Abby's plans and projects, in a way which would have been very vexatious to most girls of her age, but Abby took every thing pleasantly, contriving to avoid collisions, and giving up when it was irresistible with a perfect good grace.

"She is better than I am," thought Emily upon one of these occasions, "though she does not make any pretensions to piety, but I am resolved that I will turn over a new leaf. Delia shall see that I am determined to do right in the future, whatever I may have done in the past. I have been very wicked, I know, but I hope I have repented, and, as to making restitution, that is just impossible, and no one is called upon to do what is impossible."

So did Emily reason, and so did she resolve. What her reasonings and resolutions amounted to, we shall perhaps see in future.

CHAPTER VI.

EMILY'S good resolution lasted at least a week after school commenced. It opened on Wednesday, and Delia did not return till the following Monday, so that she had her room to herself for that time. She had succeeded in lulling her conscience into a certain degree of quietness, and the exact performance of the routine of religious observances which she had imposed upon herself, gave her a feeling of self-righteousness, so that she found herself, upon the whole, more comfortable than she had been for a long time back. Still there was all the time, at the bottom of her heart, an uneasy consciousness that all was not as it should be.

Her lesson upon Sunday was thoroughly learned and well recited, which was not the case generally in the class, and Emily rather expected some particular commendation, but Mr. Fletcher only said, "Very well, Emily," and she could not help thinking that his tone and manner were both sad and severe.

"If he knows anything about the matter, why don't he tell of it and have done?" she thought, rather impatiently. "I believe I should be almost glad to have it come out by accident. Almost anything would be better than to have it hanging over one's head forever."

Several of the girls noticed how serious Emily seemed, and, after they returned to their rooms, one of them remarked upon it, adding, "I wonder how long it will last?"

"Till Delia Mason comes back, and no longer," said Bella Faushane. "Delia can twist Emily round her finger, and she does it too."

"Perhaps Emily may have more stability about her than you think," remarked Lucy, who had always a kind word for every one. "She is very persevering about some things."

"That is true," said Bella, "and I may do her injustice; but I have noticed that there is nothing Emily dreads so much as ridicule. The mere making a little blunder in class, if it is noticed, seems to render her miserable for all day. I do not believe she will have the courage to say her prayers once if Delia laughs at her, and laugh at her she will, unless I am very much mistaken. Now here is Annette, who was afraid to go down the other night, lest Mr. Hugo should ask her a question in French, and who cries if she happens to make a mistake in repeating her text at the table. Yet, if it were a case of conscience, I believe she would be no more afraid of the den of lions than Daniel himself."

"Oh, well! That is different," said Annette. "Saying one's prayers is a thing one ought to do, and so one has to do it, whether one is afraid or not."

"A grand sentiment, awkwardly expressed, my dear child, as Mr. Fletcher would remark," said Bella, who was very fond of Annette, though she laughed, as all the girls did, at her simplicity. "But, tell me, Annette, is it not also a duty to improve in French, so long as our parents send us here especially for that purpose?"

"I suppose it is," said Annette, after some consideration.

"But in order to improve, is it not necessary to practice speaking at every proper opportunity?"

Annette assented after a little more thought.

"Well then," continued Bella, pursuing her Souatic method of reasoning, "does it not plainly follow that it is your duty to speak French, whether you are afraid or not, or whether you like it or not?"

"I believe it is," said Annette, "but I never thought of it in that way before. Thank you, Bella."

"Annette has a new idea," said Janet Graves, as Annette left them, and went to her own room.

"And she will practice upon it, too," said Bella. "Notice her at the breakfast table, and see if she does not speak French."

Contrary to the expectation of the girls, that unpopular institution, the French table, had not been abolished, and the rule remained in force. Even as Bella had predicted, Annette made a heroic effort, and not only asked for all she wanted in French, but actually came out with several sentences of original conversation in that language, which had evidently been carefully meditated beforehand. The girls who had been present at the conversation the day before, looked at each other and smiled; but there was no expression of ridicule in the smile, for they respected the strength of principle which prompted Annette to do bravely that which she so much disliked, so soon as she was convinced that it was her duty.

Delia returned on Monday, full of spirits, boasting of the "grand times she had had," and pitying Emily for her dull holidays.

"What did you do with yourself all the time?" she asked.

"Oh, I read and walked, and helped take care of Kitty," said Emily; "and then I spent four days with Abby Carson, which I enjoyed very much. On the whole, it was not so tiresome as I expected."

"Did you have any lessons?" asked Delia.

"Only reading Latin with Mr. Fletcher. He says I improve very fast, and I never took so much interest in it before. What an excellent teacher he is!"

"He is well enough," said Delia. "I never could discover any of the extraordinary things about him that the other girls see or imagine; but I confess to being a little afraid of those black eyes of his. But how do the girls like Mr. Hugo?"

"We have not had a recitation yet," replied Emily.

She had been dreading the introduction of this topic, for she had fully made up her mind that she ought to tell Delia that she would have nothing more to do with the matter. Unlike Annette, however, to acknowledge an obligation and to fulfil it were with Emily two very different things. To do her justice, she did make an effort, but instead of speaking boldly at once, she began by saying,—

"I wish you would not go on with that, Delia. I am sure you will be sorry some day, and then it will be too late."

"I will be the judge of that, my dear," returned Delia. "You know I told you that, before."

"But your father—"

"My father knows nothing about it, and need not know. It may very likely never come to anything, and then there will be no harm done. Moreover, my father has not been so very careful of my comfort or interest, that I should submit all my affairs implicitly to his will. He need not have brought a strange woman into the house to tyrannise over me, if he had wanted me to stay at home. She has trained Ron and Alice so that I cannot do anything with them, and Alice had the impudence to tell me that I had no business to speak so to my mother. Mother, indeed!"

"Mrs. Carson said she used to know your mother, and always thought her a very nice woman," remarked Emily.

"Mrs. Carson is a step-mother herself, and of course she is bound to stand up for the whole tribe," returned Delia. "But, now tell me, who has come back, and whether there are any new scholars? I have not seen any as yet. And how is Kitty? I have brought her some beautiful preserved strawberries from home. Mrs. Mason is an excellent housekeeper. I will say that much for her. I don't know but I might get to like her after all, if it were not for the pride of the thing."

Emily answered these questions and a batch of others, such as always come up at such times, and the tea bell rang before any further allusion was made to Mr. Hugo.

Delia might have been excused from evening study, it being the custom of the house to require no duties from new comers on the first day, but she asked particularly about the lessons, and was soon apparently busily engaged in writing her exercise. Not far off sat Annette, working with grammar, dictionary, and phrase book, as laboriously as though her daily bread depended upon it. The outward actions of the two girls were very much alike, and even an acute observer might have seen nothing to choose between them, but how different did they appear in the eyes of Him who seeth the mind and the heart!

Emily did not feel at all satisfied with herself. After all her resolutions she had failed in the very first effort to keep them, and that being the case, what encouragement had she to proceed? She did not, however, give up at once, but when the nine o'clock bell rang, sending all to their rooms, she sat down resolutely to the table, and took up her Bible.

"What in the world are you doing?" asked Delia. "You are not studying your Sunday lesson so early in the week?"

"No," replied Emily, coloring, and resisting a strong impulse to tell a falsehood, "but think it is a good plan to read a little every night, don't you?"

"I don't see any particular use in it, I must say," returned Delia, "but of course there's no harm in it if you like to do it, but don't be late, that's all."

"I won't," said Emily, going on with her reading, but very much annoyed and distracted by the consciousness that Delia was smiling as she curled her hair, and dreading more and more the ordeal of kneeling down to say her prayer. She read on, and on, almost without taking the sense of a single word, until Delia exclaimed,—

"You will certainly be late, Emily. The bed bell will ring directly, and you have not even begun to undress."

"I will hurry," replied Emily. She closed her book, and added, with a great effort, "I must say my prayers first."

"Say them, and welcome," returned Delia, "but I am afraid they will not save you from a mark, and I should not like to be imperfect in deportment the very first week, if I were you."

Emily knelt down without replying, but, as may be imagined, her mind was in any thing but a devotional state. She could not at first compose herself sufficiently to remember even a form of words, and the bell rang before she had finished the Lord's prayer. She started up and began to undress as fast as possible, but she had not nearly finished when the door opened, and Miss Thomas, who was going her rounds in the regular discharge of her duties, as officer, put her head into the room.

Miss Thomas' passion for neatness and punctuality have been noticed before. Her temper, never very placid, had already been severely ruffled by several untoward events, such as finding her own towel fallen into the slop jar, and various skirts, hoops, etc., belonging to the young ladies, scattered upon the floors of their respective apartments, instead of being neatly disposed for the night. She reproved Emily sharply, would listen to no excuses, telling her that three-quarters of an hour was time sufficient for any young lady to prepare for bed, and concluded by saying that she should give her a mark, which she need not seek to have excused. All this did not, of course, tend to the increase of Emily's serenity.

"Hateful, cross old thing!" said she, as the door finally closed upon Miss Thomas and her lecture. "I wish she were in Jericho!"

"And just as you were being so extra good too," returned Delia, laughing. "But never mind, Emily, you can call it persecution for righteousness sake, you know."

"You are very provoking, Delia," retorted Emily. "I do believe you are glad to have me get into a scrape, just that you may have the pleasure of saying, 'I told you so!'"

"Upon my word, your devotions don't seem to have improved your temper," said Delia, not without reason. "I am sure I did all I could to save you from trouble. I don't object to your saying as many prayers as you like, only as I have told you before, consistency is a jewel."

Emily felt that Delia had some reason for her remarks, and checked the sharp answer which rose to her lips, but her frame of mind was any thing but amiable or Christian. As one goes to sleep at night, so one is very apt to awake in the morning, and she opened her eyes with that unpleasant feeling which every one has experienced at one time or another, that something very disagreeable had happened which she did not exactly remember.

Delia was already up, curling her hair at the dressing-table, and looking as neat and bright as ever, while Emily's uncurled locks hung tangled and uncomfortable around her face—another circumstance to remind her of course of the night before. Delia made no remark upon them, however, but assisted Emily to arrange her hair neatly and comfortably, straightened and smoothed the tumbled collar and sleeves, and sewed on a missing button. She generally delivered a little lecture upon neatness upon these occasions, for the most perfect tidiness was one of her good qualities, and she had already rendered Emily an essential service in reforming her rather careless habits.

At this time, however, she never even alluded to the subject, but chatted pleasantly of matters at home, and at which Emily felt grateful for her forbearance. She hoped that Delia would go out and leave her alone fur a few minutes, but no such thing occurred, and the breakfast bell rang before she had quite made up her mind what to do. So the previous preparations for the day's duties and trials was again lost.

Things had by this time fallen nearly into their usual train, in which, though as all the girls had not yet returned, it was impossible to arrange the classes accurately. When will parents learn that it is quite as important to their daughters as to their sons, to return regularly and promptly to their duties? Boys are for the most part sent back to school, or college, on the very day of the opening, but girls are allowed to linger at home for two, three, or four days, or even a week or two after the school commences, to the great annoyance of the teachers and their own equal disadvantage. Mrs. Pomeroy had waged war on this custom for years, but with little success, and there were always at least half a dozen behind hand to produce confusion in classes, and vexation to teachers. On this occasion it was Mr. Fletcher's Latin class which clashed with Mr. Hugo's French, and of course Mr. Fletcher gave way to the stranger till matters could be arranged.

"I am glad the Latin was put aside," said Almira to Emily, as they gathered up their books, and went down together to the lecture room. "I would not miss this first recitation for any thing—it will be so odd to write French to a gentleman. Do you know I don't think Mr. Fletcher likes him very much!"

Emily had somehow received the same impression, though she could not tell how, and she asked her companion what made her think so. But Almira would not tell, only she did not believe he did. The large class was assembled in the lecture room, quite filling the raised seats in front of the apartment, before Mr. Hugo made his appearance. Some of the girls were looking over their lessons, some were occupied with their personal appearance, some simpering and giggling in that indescribable flutter which characterizes a certain style of young women (and some who are not so young) when there is a prospect of seeing a strange individual of the male sex. Delia sat on one of the front seats, quite composed and collected, though Emily thought she had rather more color than usual.

Punctually at the striking of the clock the Professor made his appearance, and mounted the platform without seeming in the least disconcerted by the array of young ladies. He did look slightly annoyed when Mrs. Pomeroy came in and seated herself upon one of the back benches, and he glanced at her in no very friendly way from under his bushy eyebrows. But the head of Minerva over the clock was not more impenetrable than Mrs. Pomeroy, and as she calmly took out her knitting, as though she had quite made up her mind to hear the lesson through, Mr. Hugo had no alternative but to proceed.

The lesson began with a general examination upon the principles of French Grammar, especially the verbs, that having been Mademoiselle's great hobby. The young ladies did themselves much credit, and Mr. Hugo not only professed himself satisfied, but paid a graceful compliment to their former teacher. He then dictated while they wrote, (an admirable plan by the way,) and then requested to see the exercises.

Only three young ladies beside Delia and Emily were prepared in this part of the lesson, and to the surprise of every body, one of these was Annette. She blushed visibly as she gave in her paper, but looked pleased at receiving a kind "very well, Annette!" from Mrs. Pomeroy, while Bella whispered to Lucy, who sat beside her, "You were right, after all. We shall see her a good French scholar yet."

Mr. Hugo glanced at all the papers, said they were very neatly written, and that he would return them the next morning; requested the young ladies to be particular in endorsing their names on the outside of their exercises, to prevent mistakes, and dismissed the class with a bow. His method of teaching seemed admirable, and as his manners were quiet and gentlemanly, Mrs. Pomeroy decided that she had done very well in engaging him, and said as much to Mr. Fletcher.

"I have seen so little of him that I am not prepared to judge, at present," was Mr. Fletcher's reply. "I cannot say, however, that I am pleased with the expression of his face."

Though Mrs. Pomeroy often asked Mr. Fletcher's opinion upon matters connected with the school, she was not apt to attach much importance to it, unless it coincided with her own. Mr. Fletcher had advised her to learn more of Mr. Hugo before engaging him, but she had thought the recommendation quite satisfactory which he had brought from his late employer in L., and his manners and accent were those of a gentleman. She could not help thinking that some of Mr. Fletcher's distrust of him arose from annoyance at his advice having been disregarded, and hinted es much, but Mr. Fletcher only smiled, and made no reply.

The class next day was very much the same that it had been the day before, except that Mr. Hugo returned the exercises he had taken the day before, commenting upon the faults he had marked in each. Poor Annette's paper was covered with many lines, notwithstanding the pains she had taken, and Emily felt sorry for her as the Professor handed it back with the not very encouraging remark, that it did not contain one perfectly correct sentence. Her own was pronounced "tres bien," and Delia's also seemed without a flaw, though she did not open it, but placed it carefully in her book.

When the class was dismissed, Emily lingered a moment to talk to Bella and Lucy, who were endeavoring to console Annette for her failure, and on trying the door of her room she found it locked. It was a moment or more before Delia opened it, and Emily thought she looked a little confused, but she made no remark.

"Let us go and see Kitty," said Delia, after school was dismissed in the afternoon. "I have not called on her yet, and I want to take her my strawberries."

Kitty was dressed and sitting by the fire in Mrs. Pomeroy's room, wrapped in the warm knitted shawl which had been Emily's Christmas present to her. She was very grateful for the strawberries, and still more for the remembrance that prompted the gift.

"Every one is so good to me," said she, "that I don't know how to thank them. Just see what a beautiful shawl Emily made for me! Aunt says it is the prettiest one she ever saw." And she ran on about it till Emily was glad to turn her attention to something else, by asking her how she contrived to amuse herself. The question only gave the sweet little girl still farther opportunity of expatiating upon the goodness of every one about her.

Janet had made her a beautiful picture book, which she could look at when she was unable to read. Miss Thomas had brought her a lovely little bird from New York, which sang all day long, and Mr. Fletcher always came to her as soon as school was out, and told her such charming stories, and he had taught her kittens to play ball just as Grip did. Then she returned to the shawl, and displayed all its beauties, till Delia laughingly declared she was growing jealous, and carried Emily off.

"What a sweet little creature she is!" she remarked, after they had left the room. "I should almost be willing to be sick, too, to be so good and gentle. And she is so cheerful, too, notwithstanding all she suffers. I don't see how it is that she contrives to keep up such good spirits, do you?"

Emily thought she could understand the source of Kitty's cheerfulness, but she felt every day less and less inclined to converse on such matters with Delia, so she turned the subject by reminding her companion that if they meant to walk in the yard, it was time they were about it. Hoods and furs were quickly donned, and they were soon pacing up and down the sunny walk, in front of the house, where many of their companions, in twos and threes, were enjoying the same exercise.

"Do look at those girls," said Belle Faushane, as she joined them, and directed their attention to some three or four young ladies (so styled by courtesy) who had stopped in their promenade as near to the gates as rules permitted, and were evidently trying to attract the attention of some young men who were passing. "What fools they do make of themselves! Every boy that passes, they stop short and look at him. If I were so very anxious for a beau, I would not show it quite so plainly. There is Almira Crosby, a grown up woman, almost."

"Quite grown up, I should say," interrupted Delia, laughing; "at best it is to be hoped that she would not grow any taller."

"Well, but do see her, shaking her long curls, and simpering at that little slip from the Academy. And there is Sue Dayton, waving her handkerchief. What a fool she is!"

"Hush, hush, don't call such hard names!" said Lucy Spencer, while Delia and Emily laughed at Belle's vehement indignation. "Sue is very steady sometimes—when she is with steady people. I must allow that she is something of a chameleon, and takes her color a good deal from her surroundings. If she were always with good girls, she would be a good girl herself."

The girls laughed, but Emily had an uneasy feeling that Lucy's remarks might apply to herself, as well as to Susan.

"I wish Mrs. Pomeroy would make Almira cut off those curls," pursued Belle, who was apt, when excited, to give more than a sufficient license to her tongue. "I am sure she would have more in the inside of her head, if there were less on the outside. It runs to ringlets, instead of to brains."

"Thank you," said Emily, laughing, as she thought of her own heavy braids. "I suppose that is partly meant for me."

"Oh, your hair is of a more solid character," returned Belle. "It is not of the wavy and willowy kind. But see, girls, there is Mrs. Pomeroy looking out of the library window. She will be out here in a moment, and then for an explosion. I would not be in Sue Dayton's shoes for something."

Even as she had prophesied, Mrs. Pomeroy no sooner caught sight of the group of girls which had so roused Belle's indignation, than her cap disappeared from the window, and in a moment, more appeared at the door, while in imperative tones she called—"Almira Crosby, Anne Prior, Susan Dayton, come into the house!"

Horror-struck, they obeyed, and were seen no more that evening, nor did they again "take their walks abroad," in the front of the house, for a long time afterward.

For two or three days every thing went on quietly, and Emily began to hope that Delia had given up her whims. She still persisted in saying her prayers at night, though they were often sadly hurried and formal, and she took great pains with all her daily duties, so that she seemed in a fair way to recover her original standing in school.

Lucy rejoiced in this apparent amendment, for she had been attached to Emily from the first, and even Belle, who had less confidence in her stability, began to think she had done her injustice.

Even Emily herself was more comfortable than she had been for a long time. She had now become fully convinced that her guilty secret was confined to her own breast, which was great satisfaction to her, and her perseverance in saying her prayers (from which, however, Delia never said a word to dissuade her) gave her a much better opinion of herself. This went on for some days, when an event occurred which at once dispelled her fancied security, and showed her her true condition.

It happened one day that Delia awoke with a violent sick head-ache, a disorder to which she was somewhat subject. She persisted in getting up to breakfast, and tried to keep about as usual, but with all her resolution, the pain and sickness overcame her, and she was obliged to go to bed. Emily would have been excused to wait upon her, but this Delia would not hear of, assuring her that she should be better alone, and that it was not worth while for her to lose her lessons.

Emily darkened the room and arranged the pillows for her friend, and then prepared to go down to the French class.

"Be sure you bring up my exercise!" said Delia, rousing herself as Emily went out. She seemed about to add more, but a fresh paroxysm of pain seized her, and she sank back with a groan.

Emily closed the door softly, and went down stairs to the lecture room, where the class was already assembled, receiving a short and sharp rebuke from the Professor for being behind hand. She made her excuses by saying that Delia was sick, which Mr. Hugo graciously accepted, and then proceeded with the lesson.

Annette's exercise was ready as usual, and Mr. Hugo encouraged her with the remark that she was making great improvement. To do him justice, he was really in most respects an excellent teacher, though his temper and patience were of the shortest. He was not the man to explain and simplify, and go over a lesson with a dull scholar, as Mr. Fletcher did. If one did not understand at once, that was the end of the matter, but then his expositions were remarkably clear, and his manner of speaking fixed the attention, even in spite of one's self.

"I will take Delia's exercise to her, if you please," said Emily, as the class was dismissed.

Mr. Hugo looked first surprised, and then doubtful. "Did she tell you to ask for it?" said he, holding it in his hand, as though undecided what to do.

"Certainly, sir!" replied Emily, wondering at the question.

Mr. Hugo finally handed it to her, with an injunction not to lose it, and to give it to no one but Delia herself. Two or three of the girls were standing round the hall stove, discussing some point in the lesson, apparently relating to Annette's exercise.

"I am sure Annette is right," said Janet Graves; "I remember talking over that very thing with Mademoiselle last year. It is too bad, to charge the poor child with more mistakes than she makes. I will look back at some of my old books, and see what can find about it."

"Look at Delia's exercise, Emily, and see if he has corrected it there," said Annette. "Delia and myself are writing in the same place."

Unthinkingly Emily opened the carefully folded paper, and cast her eyes over it, but a single glance showed her that it was not an exercise at all, and she hastily refolded it, and turned away, saying that she must go and see how Delia was.

"Only just look at that one thing, Emily," persisted Annette; "because I really want to know whether it is right or not."

But Emily was already out of hearing.

"How queerly she acted!" said Almira Crosby. "What possible harm could it do Delia to have her exercise looked at?"

"I don't believe that was it," said Annette. "She was in a hurry, that was all. You are always imagining things, Almira."

"I keep my eyes and ears open," said Almira, significantly; "and that is more than some folks do. There are not many things going on in this house, that I do not see into."

"Especially when they are none of your business," said Belle. "We all know what a benevolent interest you take in other people's concerns, Almira. It is rather a pity you should not devote a little of your spare time to your own affairs, and so save yourself from disgrace now and then. I don't believe there has been one Friday since school commenced, that you have not been deficient in something."

"That is none of your business, any way," retorted Almira. "But as to Delia Mason, she is very close with her affairs. She thinks she can turn every one round her finger, as she does Emily, but she may find herself mistaken some day. You must allow that it was very curious in Emily to make such a fuss about showing a French exercise."

"What a great quantity of bricks you are making, without any straw at all," said Belle, impatiently. "What was it, after all? Annette asked to look at Delia's exercise, and Emily said she was in a hurry, and must go and see to Delia herself. You all know that Delia is sick, and what was more natural than that Emily should want to get back to her?"

"Dear me, what did I say? You need not be so angry, Belle. I am sure I have no ill-will against Emily, but I do think it was odd that she should not want to show that exercise!"

Emily, meanwhile, had escaped to her room. Delia was now sleeping heavily, her head-aches usually going off in this way, so she sat down by the darkened window in silence, and began to consider what she ought to do.

The hasty glance she had taken at the paper, showed her that it was certainly not a French exercise—not Delia's hand writing at all. It was clearly a letter. Emily now saw through several things which had puzzled her very much of late. Delia's great industry in writing her French exercise, which she always copied carefully, and about which she would accept no assistance, though she had always heretofore, been glad to avail herself of Emily's help in her French lessons—her punctuality at recitations, being always in the school-room several minutes before any one else. All these matters now become plain as daylight.

Instead of abandoning her schemes, Delia was prosecuting them with vigor, and holding a close correspondence with her lover in the very face of her schoolmates and teachers. Emily could not but wonder at her boldness.

Then the thought occurred to her, that after all she might be entirely mistaken in the character of the document. It was probably some private paper of Mr. Hugo's, which he had given her by mistake. This seemed such a likely supposition, that she accepted it at once, and was ready to laugh at herself for her fears, but then the Professor's peculiar manner, recurred to her memory, and she was again in doubt. Finally, she wished to take another look and satisfy herself. She opened the paper and glanced at it. There was no mistake! It was clearly a letter, addressed to his beloved Delia, and signed with the Christian name of Mr. Hugo.

She was just folding it again, when the sound of her own name startled her, and looking round, she beheld Delia setting up in bed, and gazing at her with pale cheeks and lips, and eyes that flashed fire.

"How dare you look at my papers?" was the question uttered in a voice of such concentrated anger, that she could hardly believe it to be Delia's.

"What harm is there in looking at your French exercise?" returned Emily, with a presence of mind which surprised herself. "There is nothing private in that, is there?"

Delia recovered herself with a visible effort and said more calmly, "There is no use in our trying to deceive each other, Emily. You have seen now, if you did not know before, that that paper is not an exercise."

"I have," replied Emily, "much to my regret. I hoped you had given up the whole thing."

"Did I not tell you that I would never give it up?" asked Delia. "I should be very foolish to do so now, when I have the game in my own hands."

"You must not expect me to help you about it," said Emily firmly. "I will have nothing more to do with it."

"What is the matter now?" asked Delia coolly. "Another fit of conscience, I suppose. They don't last long, that is one comfort."

"You will find it will last this time, however," said Emily with spirit. "I am determined not to have that on my conscience at any rate, and so I tell you frankly, that you need not ask me to help you in any way or shape. I love you, Delia, and I won't have any thing to do with your ruining yourself, as I am sure you will."

"Thank you," said Delia composedly, "perhaps your affection for me may lead you to betray me to Mrs. Pomeroy."

"I do not think I shall do that, though I will not promise. I think if you persist, it will be my duty to do so."

"I hope your duty will lead you to confess your sins at the same time," said Delia, betraying no signs of perturbation, but rising from her bed and beginning to arrange her hair and dress as she spoke.

"About the debts do you mean. That is all settled, and the bills are paid, so there is no more to be said about it."

"Unless Mrs. Pomeroy should happen to ask you where you get your money to pay them. I think you would find that rather an embarrassing question."

"Mrs. Pomeroy knows that Cousin David sent me some money, and I borrowed some of you. It is against rules to borrow I know, but,—"

"But you know," said Delia, interrupting her; "that your cousin only sent you ten dollars; and I lent you five, while the bills amounted to almost twice that amount. Where did the rest of the money come from, and how did it happen that you did not have it on Wednesday evening, and did have it on Thursday morning? Isn't it, then, rather a curious coincidence between that fact and the circumstance that a ten dollar bill was unaccountably lost about that very time? And wont Mrs. Pomeroy be very apt to put these circumstances together, even if no body does it for her? Kitty, poor child, need not have been so very grateful for her shawl, if she had known whose money paid for it."

Emily did not answer, and Delia turning round to observe the effect of her words, discovered that her room-mate had fainted away.

CHAPTER VII.

STARTLED as she was by the unexpected effects of her words, Delia did not lose her presence of mind. She gently turned the key in the door, and then applying herself to a judicious use of such restoratives as were within reach, she had soon the satisfaction of seeing Emily open her eyes. She seemed bewildered at first, and asked what was the matter.

"You fainted," replied Delia, quietly, continuing to bathe her head.

"Do you feel better?"

Emily looked at her for a moment, and then as the tide of recollection rushed back upon her mind, she turned away her head, and burst into a passion of tears and hysterical sobs.

"Listen to me Emily," said Delia firmly, but not unkindly, and taking Emily's hand in hers. "This will never do. You must command yourself and be quiet, or I shall have to send for Mrs. Pomeroy, and then an exposure will be inevitable. For your own sake, make an effort and compose yourself."

"I wish she did know all about it," said Emily, as soon as she could speak, "and then it would be over."

"I think you are mistaken there," replied Delia. "You do not know as much of schools as I do. Are you quite prepared to take the consequences?"

"What consequences?"

"In the first, place, expulsion from the school. Mrs. Pomeroy, as you well know, values the reputation of her school above every thing else in the world. Do you think she would keep a girl in the house who had deliberately robbed an orphan child, and that child Kitty Mastick, whom she loves as the apple of her eye? It is true she might send you away privately, but that would make little difference. The whole affair would soon become known, and your reputation would be ruined forever. Then where would you go? You have no home. Your father—"

Emily groaned, but Delia pitilessly pursued her course—

"Your father, as you always say, detests nothing so much as dishonesty in money matters, and from what you have told me of him, I imagine that he would visit such a sin more severely upon the head of his own daughter, than upon that of a stranger. If you were terrified at the very idea of his knowing that you had made a little bill at a store, with what sort of feeling will you tell him that you have stolen money enough to send you to the Penitentiary?"

"I wish I were dead—I do wish I were dead," said Emily despairingly.

"That is quite useless; and if all Mr. Fletcher says is true, you would not improve your condition much by dying. No, Emily, the case is simply this. You must listen to reason and be guided by me, and I promise you that I will be your friend; but then you must be willing to do something for me in return. I can save you from expulsion and disgrace, and I will do so, but it must be on my own terms."

"And how do I know that you will not bring me to disgrace instead of saving me from it?" demanded Emily.

"Simply because I have not yet done so," replied Delia. "Though I have known your secret from the beginning, I have never before hinted my knowledge even to you, nor should I have done so now, if you had not forced it upon me."

"But to have disgrace always hanging over my head—always to be under—" Emily shuddered without finishing the sentence. "No, Delia, I cannot bear it. I must confess and have it over at once; I will go to Mrs. Pomeroy this minute."

She tried to rise from the bed as she spoke, but her head was still giddy—the room seemed to turn dark, and she nearly fell. Delia caught her, replaced her on the bed without speaking, and then turning the key in the lock, she opened the door as if to go out.

"Where are you going?" asked Emily, fearing she knew not what.

"I am going to ask Mrs. Pomeroy to give me another room-mate," said Delia decidedly. "If she asks me the reason, of course I shall have to tell her the whole story."

"You forget that I have also a story to tell!"

"And who will believe you? You have no proof. No one has seen the letter but yourself, and it is not now in existence; while I have my corrected exercise to show, and all the girls will bear witness to my conduct in class. You have told Mrs. Pomeroy more than one lie already, and she will think you have manufactured this story, simply out of revenge. I repeat again, you have not one particle of proof for your story, while I have plenty for mine."

Emily had nothing to say. She saw how completely she had ensnared herself, and that Delia had her altogether in her power.

"At the same time," continued Delia, her tone relenting a little, "I have not the least desire to make an ungenerous use of my knowledge. I do not want to injure you, and I think I have proved it by not betraying you at the time of the inquiry. I repeat, if you will be guided entirely by me, I will save you from disgrace and ruin, and all things shall go well. You have no occasion to trouble yourself as to how my affairs are likely to turn out. I am perfectly well able to manage them myself. Take your choice! Promise to be guided by me, and to help me when I wish it, or prepare yourself for expulsion from school, perhaps for being discarded by your father, for the ruin of your reputation, and of all your prospects in life. It is now half past eleven. I give you till twelve o'clock to make up your mind."

"You are so hard upon me, Delia!" pleaded poor Emily.

"I have no desire to be so," returned Delia, in a softened tone. "I want to serve you if I can. How many girls in this school would have done for you what I have done? Do you think Lucy Spencer or Belle Faushane would have gone on treating you just the same as before, if they had known what I know? Would they have lent you money without the least chance of being repaid, or risked disgrace for themselves to keep it from you? I don't say these things by way of upbraiding you, Emily; you know very well that is not my way. I only wish to set before you the reasons you have for confiding in me. But I will say no more. I leave you to make your own decision."

Delia took up her book, and seating here by the window was soon apparently absorbed in study.

The tumult in Emily's mind maybe better imagined than described. At one moment she thought she would confess, at all hazards. Then came the thought of all the train of consequences which Delia had set before her. Mrs. Pomeroy's anger—the stern wrath of her father, of whose uncompromising temper she had already had some experience, and who would feel himself involved in her disgrace—the contempt of her schoolmates, with whom she had always been a favorite, and the loss of the good opinion of Mr. Fletcher—all these lay in her way. What a despicable hypocrite they would think her, especially after her late religious professions!

How Almira Crosby, and Sue Dayton, and all that set of girls would triumph, not only over her, but over Lucy and Belle, and all the religious girls in the school. There would be some reason in what they were always saying—that after all, people were no better for being so pious. The cause of true religion in the school would receive a wound, through her fault, from which it might be years in recovering. Would it not be better, if only upon that account, to conceal the matter, even though such a concealment involved the necessity of a certain complicity in Delia's designs, which, after all, might never come to any thing?

Delia was not the only one in the school who did such things. There was Jane Emmons—she corresponded all last term with a young gentleman she had never seen, sending her letters in those of his sister, and all the girls knew she did, but nothing came of it, and Almira Crosby had almost always some love affair in hand. Delia was shrewd enough, and would keep herself from disgrace, and suppose she did marry Mr. Hugo, what harm would there be in that? A great many people married teachers. Mrs. Pomeroy's own niece had done so, and every one thought it a fine thing for her. Besides, Delia was so determined, that she would have her own way at any rate, so that by interfering she probably would succeed in ruining herself, without saving her friends.

And then came the bitter reflection that she had indeed no proof of her assertions, while Delia had plenty of them. Who would believe a thief and a convicted liar?

Then, after all, something might turn up. Delia or Mr. Hugo might go away, or she might leave school herself—her father might send her some money, or perhaps—she shuddered at the idea that she could find relief in such a supposition—perhaps he might never return. Was it not better to run the chances of concealment, rather than those of exposure?

Was it not better, at least, to wait? At any rate, she did not see that she could do any thing else at present, but accede to Delia's proposition, and by and by she might take advantage of some favorable time and set the matter right, so far as it was now possible to do so. By confessing at present, she could do nothing but harm to herself, to Delia, and the cause of religion. She should leave school some time, and then she could write to Mrs. Pomeroy, tell the whole story, and enclose the money. At present she could only keep silence.

The twelve o'clock bell rang as she came to this conclusion, and Delia closed her book and turned round.

"Well, Emily!"

"I don't see what I can do, except to follow your advice," said Emily. "I have no choice. But oh, Delia, don't ask me to do any thing else that is wrong! I have sins enough upon my conscience already."

"I have not asked you to do any thing, except to keep silence," returned Delia. "All the rest I can manage myself. You are not obliged to know any more than I choose to tell you, and if I want you to give me any active help, I will be sure to contrive matters so that no harm shall happen to you."

"That is true," said Emily, catching eagerly at the first part of the reply, and hardly heeding the concluding sentence. "It is only keeping silence, after all, and Mrs. Pomeroy herself says, she never wants us to tell of each other. I promise you, Delia."

"That is acting like my own sensible Emily," said Delia, kissing her. "I was sure you would come to the right view of the case at last, and I promise you in return, that I will never betray your secret so long as you are faithful to me. Not only that, but I will take care that other people do not suspect you. You must be aware that there are many prying eyes about this house, besides Mrs. Pomeroy's. Almira Crosby and her set would be perfectly delighted to find out one of the 'pious girls,' as they call them, in such a scrape."

"I thought of that," said Emily, in a low tone.

"I don't pretend to be influenced by such considerations, myself," continued Delia, "though I think it very bad taste to talk upon those subjects as Almira does—but if I were—however, that is not what I was going to say. You know how prying Almira is. She was never quite satisfied about that money, and she is always hinting that she will find out about it some day. But I know how to manage her ladyship, and I think I can insure you from any mischief from that quarter. I know too many of her secrets for her to be very willing to offend me."

"How much better off people are, who have no secrets at all," sighed Emily. "I don't suppose either Lucy or Belle ever had a concealment in their lives—"

"There are about half a dozen girls in this school whom we can thoroughly respect!" said Delia, with considerable feeling. "There is Lucy to begin with, and there is Janet Graves, though the girls do call her the Queen of Sheba, and Belle, though she is not always careful enough of what she says, and poor dear Annette, and three or four others, who have a right to call themselves Christians. I should not mind exchanging places with any of them. As for the rest—I did not mean to hurt your feelings," she added, seeing the tears in Emily's eyes, "but you must be aware that it is not possible for me to consider you very consistent."

Emily sighed. "I cannot blame you, Delia. I don't think I shall ever make any more pretensions in that way. Oh, how I wish I had never come to school."

"It seems to me that your religious principles could not be worth much, if they only kept you out of trouble just so long as you could not get into it," replied Delia. "But never mind that now. The dinner bell will ring in a few minutes, and you will not have more than time to get ready. Try to sit up, and I will brush your hair for you."

"I don't believe I can possibly go down to dinner," said Emily. "Every thing turns dark to me the moment I rise up. I shall faint at table, if I try."

"I don't believe you can, indeed," said Delia, watching her friend's changing color. "Lie down again, and I will make your excuses, and get Mrs. Pomeroy to send you something. You had better lie still till tea-time, and if Mrs. Pomeroy comes to see you, take care you don't betray yourself. I shall tell her that you stood too long at the blackboard, and fainted away in consequence. Mr. Hugo does keep the girls up there an unconscionable time. I shall speak to him about it."

Delia was as good as her word. Her excuse was accepted, and she obtained permission to carry up Emily's dinner herself. Mrs. Pomeroy soon followed to ascertain Emily's condition, satisfied herself that the attack was not a dangerous one, and would be best treated by allowing the patient to lie still, excused her from duty, and sent her an entertaining book to read; rather to the disgust of Miss Thomas, who was accustomed to look upon all illness among the girls as only a pretext to escape from school duties, and who thought that Emily might as well have amused herself with her algebra and slate.

By tea-time, Emily was so far recovered as to be able to go down, but all the girls noticed her paleness and want of appetite. Delia had told all inquirers that Emily had fainted in consequence of standing too long at the blackboard, and they were all very ready to believe it—the blackboard exercise being a very unpopular innovation introduced by Mr. Hugo.

Almira connected Emily's illness with the affair of the exercise, and decided that there must be something in it after all, but on hinting her suspicions to Delia, she received from that young lady such an answer as convinced her that she had much better hold her peace.

All things now went on in their accustomed train for some time. Delia handed in her exercise every day, and received a paper in return, but Emily neither knew nor sought to know whether the correspondence was continued. Mr. Hugo won golden opinions from all sorts of people about the house, unless it might be from Mr. Fletcher, who never expressed any opinion whatever. The girls liked him because he gave moderate lessons, and explained them clearly—and Mrs. Pomeroy was pleased with his manners, and thought his appearance creditable to the school. Emily regarded him with mingled disgust and terror, but she kept out of his way, and never spoke to him if she could help it.

The end of February was marked with extraordinary mild weather for the season. The brook in the garden babbled as freely as in summer, there was no ice on the lake, and warm clothing was really burdensome. If it had only been as pleasant under foot as over head, the weather would have been delightful; even as it was, many long walks were enjoyed in spite of the mud, and woeful were the complaints of the laundress at the number of white skirts and stockings that the young ladies put in the wash. The only really dry promenades in the neighborhood were the long paved walks in the garden, which being swept every day, were always clean and pleasant, and consequently very popular.

"How I should like to come down here by moonlight, sometime," said Emily, one afternoon, when nearly the whole school were amusing themselves on these walks.

"You had better let Miss Thomas hear you say 'moonlight,'" said Belle Faushane, laughing. "She would think you were all ready to make a runaway match to-morrow, and she would watch you as a cat watches a mouse."

"It would not be very difficult to escape from her if she did," observed Emily. "She is so near-sighted that she cannot distinguish countenances six yards off. I would wear spectacles, if I was in her place."

"It would be much better," said Lucy, "but she is so absurdly sensitive on the subject, that there is no use in talking to her about it. The only time I ever got into disgrace with her, was by asking her very innocently, why she did not wear glasses. She did not get over it for a week, and I got more marks during that week than I ever had before or since. But she is a good soul, in spite of her crotchets."

"So she is," said Janet. "It is a pity she should think so much of her personal appearance, for it really injures her influence in the school. I should think any woman could be above thinking all the time, whether she was looking as pretty as she possibly could. It seems so degrading."

"There spoke the Queen of Sheba!" said Emily laughing.

Janet laughed, too. She had borne the nickname too long to be sensitive about it, and she had long ago learned the great secret that the best way of disarming ridicule is to laugh one's self. She could well afford to be laughed at a little, as notwithstanding her dignified carriage and grand airs, as the girls called them, her obliging disposition made her a general favorite in the school, and all the little girls especially, all but worshipped her. She accepted the sobriquet of Queen of Sheba with a perfectly good grace, and answering to it as readily as to her own name, and she had borne it so long that even Mrs. Pomeroy ceased to look grave when she heard it.

"I really should like to come down here by moonlight," said Emily to Delia, after the other girls had left them. "The moon will be almost full to-night, and it will be as bright as day."

"I am coming out," said Delia quietly, "and as I want you to come with me, your desire will be gratified."

"You don't really mean it," said Emily, surprised. "How in the world will you manage to get permission!"

"I shall take it," replied Delia.

"But how will you get out?"

"Easily enough. We will go to bed as usual, but without entirely undressing, and wait till every thing is quiet. Then we will put on our frocks and cloaks, and taking the water pitcher, we will go down quietly and slip out of the garden door. Miss Thomas is officer, and she sleeps as sound as a log, and besides, if she does catch a glimpse of us, she is so near-sighted she will never know who it is."

"But suppose she comes down and catches us?"

"Then we will say we went out for some water, which is no very heinous crime. Some of the girls do so every little while, and even they are caught, there is very little said about it."

Emily could not help feeling some misgiving, but she had been so passive in Delia's hands, that she hardly thought of dissenting from any plan that the other proposed. Then, too, she really enjoyed the idea of a ramble in the garden by moonlight, and as she said, "There was no more harm in walking by moonlight than by daylight," forgetting that the harm lay not in the nature of the act itself, but in the disobedience it involved.

But as the Scotch poet remarks in the oft quoted lines—

"The best laid schemes of mice and men
Gang aft agley."

About sunset, the sky became overcast, and a heavy winding wind coming up from the southwest, drove before it such a tremendous shower of rain, that Emily decided at once that the expedition must be given up.

Delia was not quite so ready to be convinced. She looked dismayed when the first burst of rain rattled against the window, but prophesied that it would not last long, and that the sky would be as bright as ever in half an hour. But the clouds thickened more and more—the wind came in heavier and heavier gusts, and shook the building sensibly. Presently one of the large school-room windows was driven in with a tremendous crash, the glass flying half across the room, and at the same time, a bright flash was followed by a terrific peal of thunder which shook the building like an earthquake.

A scene of confusion ensued, such as that school-room had seldom seen. A chorus of shrieks rose up from the terrified girls, who all thought the building had been struck by lightning. Even Miss Gilbert uttered a terrified exclamation. Alice Parker fainted away, and Almira Cosby went into hysterics, while even the most energetic and sensible of the girls were paralyzed for the moment.

Good Mr. Holz, who had come into the school-room for a missing book, rushed to the window and put his head out with a vague idea of doing something, when the wind catching his wig, it was carried up into the air, and borne away to parts unknown. Having offered this propitiatory sacrifice to the powers of the elements, Mr. Holz returned to his place, meekly conscious of the comical appearance of his bald head, as contrasted with his heavy moustache and whiskers, and seemed to be pondering as to what he should do next.

Another loud peal of thunder augmented the alarm of the girls, and at the same moment, a gust of wind extinguished the remaining light, all but a solitary gas jet over the desk, which happened to be covered by a shade. A new burst of shrieks was heard above the roar of the elements, and the confusion was at its height, when a man's voice made itself heard, calm and clear amid all the tumult—

"What is the meaning of all this noise? Let me have silence instantly!"

The noise was hushed on the instant, and all eyes were now turned to the desk, where stood Mr. Fletcher. His cloak was dripping with wet, as though he had just come in, but he stood composedly at his post, looking with flashing eyes, upon the disorderly assembly.

"Silence!" he commanded again, as a hysterical sob made itself heard. "Almira Crosby, sit up and be quiet."

Almira's sobs ceased. Much as she feared the storm, she feared Mr. Fletcher more.

"It is impossible for you to stay here," he continued in a quiet way, as though in the exercise of his ordinary school duties. "The window cannot be repaired immediately, and the room is quite cold. You will therefore go quietly to the dining room, and take your seats there with as little confusion as possible. Miss Graves, Miss Spencer, Miss Mason, you seem to have your wits about you: please take charge of the little girls; Miss Faushane and Annette will attend to Miss Parker; Miss Gilbert will you have the kindness to go before and see that the lamps are lighted."

The confusion was quelled at once. Every one felt relieved at leaving the exposed school-room, while the coolness and promptitude displayed by Mr. Fletcher calmed the fears of the most timid. Lucy, Janet, and Delia, each took one or two of the little ones by the hand; Miss Parker roused herself by a brave effort, and all were soon quietly seated in the dining room, which was sheltered from the wind, and where the closed blinds kept out the glare of the lightning.

Mr. Fletcher was too wise to expect impossibilities. He had seen upon his first entrance into the school-room, that authority was absolutely needful, and he had used it accordingly. But he also saw that the girls' minds were in no condition for study, and he did not require it of them, while at the same time, he endeavored to divert them from their fears. He spoke of a thunder storm in winter as a thing unusual, indeed, but by no means unprecedented, and described two or three remarkable instances which he had witnessed in different parts of the globe. Then, in answer to some questions, he diverged to other incidents and scenes of his extensive travels, describing scenery and manners with that vividness which belonged to him, and which kept every one's attention entranced as long as he chose to speak.

After a time, seeing that the painful excitement had passed away, he returned again to the events of the evening. He uttered a mild reproof for the alarm, and the lack of presence of mind which had been manifested by the girls in general, "with some honorable exceptions," and recalled to their thoughts the fact that wind and storm fulfil the word of the Almighty, who is also the All-wise and the All-merciful, and to whom the night is as clear as the day. Even the giddiest of the girls felt ashamed of her terror as she listened.

And they were few who did not join heart and soul in the prayer which followed these remarks.

By bed-time, the minds of all were tranquilized and prepared for repose. The storm, too, had passed over, and the moon was shining as brightly as ever.

"You will hardly think of taking a walk to-night," said Emily to Delia, as they were undressing. Since the day of their memorable explanation, she had given up even the semblance of prayer, feeling it to be, as indeed it was, only a mockery of the Almighty.

"No, indeed," replied Delia, "nothing would tempt me to go."

"Mr. Fletcher complimented you on having your wits about you," pursued Emily, "but I think you were as much frightened as any of us. I saw you turn pale at every clap of thunder, and even when all the rest of us were attending to Mr. Fletcher's stories, you seemed to be listening to the wind."

"I was very much frightened," replied Delia, "but you know it is not my way to make a fuss about things. Do you know, Emily, I could not help feeling as though it were a warning?"

"I had the same feeling," replied Emily.

"A thunder storm is not like any other danger," pursued Delia, thoughtfully. "One is so perfectly helpless. In sickness, or an accident, or even in case of fire, there is always something that one can do, but in a storm there is nothing for it but to sit still and await one's doom. I suppose really religious people feel differently, though Alice Parker was as much alarmed as any one. She was the only person that fainted."

"You know her health is very delicate," said Emily, apologetically. "But about the storm—I felt just as you did—that it was a warning. Oh, Delia, let us take it so. Let us leave off doing wrong, and try to do as we ought. I am sure we shall both be happier in the end. Just think, if we had been killed, where should we be now?"

Emily hid her face, and wept bitterly, and even Delia seemed affected, and said seriously that she would think of it. She evidently desired to avoid further conversation upon the subject, and Emily could not force it upon her.

"To-morrow!" said Delia to herself, as so many have said before her. To-morrow came, and found her seriousness vanished. She made light of her alarm of the night before, and when Emily adverted to their conversation, she turned it off with a jest and an allusion to the past, which silenced Emily completely.

"A thunder storm is not enough to convert me, Emily. It will require an earthquake, at the very least, and then you will see that I shall stay converted. My religion will not be of the intermittent kind."

Of course the storm and its result were the subjects of conversation for the day, and many were the jokes uttered at the expense of the hysterical young ladies, and of poor Mr. Holz, whose wig had been discovered by Cornelius Agrippa, lying on the ground in the farthest part of the garden, and brought to his master by that sagacious quadruped, who was clearly under the impression that he had discovered a rare specimen of the animal kingdom.

"You may laugh, if you please," said Belle, who always took the part of the meek little music master. "Mr. Holz at least tried to do something. He did not think only of himself, as most of the rest of us did. Wasn't Mr. Fletcher grand, though? I wonder what it is about him, that always governs every body on the instant. Even Almira acknowledged the force of his genius last night. Which did you fear most, Almira, the thunder or the Professor?"

"Well, I am afraid of him," said Almira, sulkily, "and I cannot bear him. For my part, I think it was very hard-hearted in him to show so little regard to our feelings. He told me to be quick, as though I had been a dog."

"You should have minded the first time," said Belle. "Besides, you know that you made more than half of it. It was not more than five minutes after we got into the dining room, before I saw you eating the cake you stole from the tea-table."

"Perhaps it was the consciousness of the theft that shamed her," remarked some one in the group. "But Alice fainted away, and Mr. Fletcher did not scold her at all."

"Thunder always makes me faint," said Alice. "It is not because I am afraid, either, for I should like to watch the storm coming up, if it did not make me sick. I suppose it must be something in the air. I had been feeling very unwell for some time before the window blew in, but I thought I would brave it out. You know I never could make the experiment with the electrical machines, because they made my head ache so."

"Yes, and if it had been any one but you, Mr. Fletcher would say it was affectation," returned Almira.

"Oh, Almira!" said Lucy. "I think there are a good many girls in this school whose word Mr. Fletcher would take in such a case."

"Well, I was frightened for one, I confess," said Annette, "though I tried hard not to show it on account of the children, for I remembered how I was first taught to be afraid of thunder."

"How?" asked some one.

"By seeing other people afraid. I had never thought of such a thing till I was almost five years old, but I used to stand at the window and watch the flashes. About that time a lady came to our house, who was afraid of all sorts of things, especially of thunder. It was not long before a storm came up, and she flew round the house, shutting all the windows and doors—"

"A very unphilosophical thing to do," interrupted Janet, "as any one may see who takes the trouble to think about it."

"Well, at any rate she did it, and then she got into the middle of a feather bed, and there she sat and covered her eyes and cried. Of course I thought something dreadful was going to happen, and I cried and screamed because she did. That was the first time I thought of being afraid of thunder, and it was a long, long time before I got over it."

"What cured you at last?" asked Emily, who had come out of her room just in time to hear Annette's story.

"Why, I was sitting up with my little sister one night. She had had a dreadful time of the ear-ache, and had not slept any for several nights, nor mother either, and finally I persuaded her to go to bed and leave Josy with me. I sang to her, and told her stories, and after a while she got asleep in my lap. About eleven o'clock a terrible thunder storm came up—oh, a great deal worse than that last night. I had left the blinds open and the curtains up to please Josy, because she liked to look out and see the moonlight, and of course, as she was asleep in my arms, I could not get up to shut them."

"Couldn't you put her down?" asked Almira.

"Not without waking her, and I wouldn't have done that for the world. She did not seem to mind the thunder at all, though it was the loudest I ever heard. So I began to repeat all the Psalms and Bible verses I could remember, and then all the hymns, and I managed to sit still all through the storm, though it was pretty hard work, especially as the lightning struck a tree in the meadow close by our house."

"How could you do it?" asked Almira.

"Why I had to!" said Annette. "Because I did not want to wake mother or Josy. Mother never knew a word about it till morning."

"Well," said Almira, "all I have to say is, I should like to see myself sitting with the blinds open all through a thunder storm, for fear of waking one of our young ones. I guess it will be after this when I do."

"I guess it will!" said Belle. "And did that cure you, Manny?"

"Pretty much," replied Annette. "I never seemed to care much for thunder after that. I always say to myself, if I could keep from making a fuss once, I can again; and besides," she added, blushing, as she always did when she spoke on religious subjects,—"you know Somebody can take care of us as well in a thunder storm as any other time."

"True!" said Belle. "And it certainly shows a want of faith in Him to be so much alarmed." She looked at Emily as she spoke, but Emily did not answer, and the bell now summoned them to the French class.

The Professor was undeniably cross this morning. The lessons had been somewhat interrupted by the events of the evening before, and were not as well prepared as usual, but Mr. Hugo seemed to think the storm offered no excuse, and was particularly severe upon those who could be induced to break their engagement by a paltry disturbance of the elements. Fears like those, he said, were unworthy of rational beings, and none but fools would indulge them, either in themselves or others. The young ladies might be glad that they had not him to deal with.

"I am!" whispered Janet to her neighbor. "I perfectly agree with him there."

"What insolence is that Miss Graves?" thundered the Professor. "Repeat your remark!"

"My remark was that I agreed with you," returned the Queen of Sheba with spirit—"if you consider that impertinent. Permit me to add, that I never am guilty of insolence myself, nor do I suffer it from others."

Two or three of the girls looked terribly frightened, but Mr. Hugo only bowed grimly, and said as the subject of the storm seemed exhausted, they would now proceed with the lesson.

"What ailed Mr. Hugo?" asked Emily of Delia, after they had returned to their room. "He was perfectly savage, and I for one was glad that Janet answered him as she did. I must say I think his insinuations about Mr. Fletcher were very improper."

"It was uncalled for certainly," said Delia. "No one can deny that Mr. Fletcher behaved very well. But every one is out of humor sometimes, and I dare say he had had something to vex him before he came, We must have our walk to-night, Emily."

Emily was now very unwilling to consent to the scheme, and reminded Delia of what she had said the night before, but Delia only laughed and said it was certainly very foolish, as Mr. Hugo said, to be frightened from one's purpose by a mere disturbance of the elements. It was not however without a great deal of persuasion, and even an insinuated threat, that Emily consented, with many misgivings, to accompany Delia on her stolen expedition.

CHAPTER VIII.

ABOUT half past eleven o'clock, when all was quiet in the house, Delia and Emily slipped on their frocks and cloaks, and taking a pitcher, to serve as an excuse if they happened to be caught, they stole quietly down stairs, and out at the school-room door into the garden. The moon was full, and shone with extraordinary brilliancy.

Not a sound was to be heard except the babble of the brook, and the distant barking of a dog; not a mouse seemed to stir in all the long range of buildings belonging to the Seminary, yet Emily felt strangely timid, as setting her pitcher on the well, she walked with Delia down one of the long alleys. She could not help peeping uneasily into every shadowy nook by the side of the path. The evergreen shrubs took strange and suspicious shapes; there were unaccountable rustlings in the hedges, and their footsteps echoed so strangely upon the flags that she could not help glancing behind her more than once, under the impression that they were followed by something.

Delia did not seem inclined for conversation, so that Emily had full leisure to work herself up to the highest state of excitement, and she nearly screamed aloud when the tall cloaked figure of a man rose abruptly from behind the group of arbor vitæ bushes, which shaded a rustic garden seat near the end of the long alley.

Delia grasped her arm hard.

"Hush, you little fool! Don't you see that it is Mr. Hugo?"

"Apparently Miss Emily is timid," remarked Mr. Hugo, seeming by no means pleased at seeing her. "I think, Delia, you would have been much wiser to have left her behind. She has clearly no taste for adventure."

"I did not wish to come without a companion," replied Delia. "Emily is in my confidence, and I have no reason to distrust her."

Mr. Hugo did not seem quite satisfied, and murmured something which was lost in his overhanging moustache. He then gave his arm to Delia, and they walked away together, leaving Emily struck dumb with consternation and shame.

To what a transaction had she made herself a party? It was clearly no accidental meeting. Delia had contrived the whole affair before hand, and it was doubtless her failure to meet her engagement of the evening before, which had put Mr. Hugo so out of temper in the morning. If she had guessed at the object of this stolen expedition, she thought she would have refused, at all hazards, to have any participation in the matter. And yet, what good would that have done? Delia would have come alone, which would have been much worse, and she might have precipitated her own disgrace.

She looked anxiously after the promenaders, and felt much relieved to see that they had reached the limit of the walk and turned back, for at first she had been in dread of an actual elopement.

She walked up and down uneasily for a while, and then sat down on the garden seat—that very seat where she had once been accustomed to come on Sunday afternoons to read her Bible, and tried to enjoy the prospect. There was the village spread out before her, with its peaceful homes sleeping in the moonlight, its graceful spires and towers pointing the way to heaven—nearer lay the still more peaceful city of the dead, the grave-stones and monuments glistening in the moonlight, and, conspicuous among them the tall white marble pillar, surmounted by a cross, which marked that portion of the ground appropriated to the Seminary. Far away stretched the lake, blue and beautiful, closed in by high hills, which might almost be called mountains.

But "all these things pleased not her eye," for it is only to the pure heart and tranquil spirit that great nature unveils her fair and awful beauty, and neither of these were Emily's. The wonderful creation might as well have been a blank for all her enjoyment of its glories, and the holy quiet of the hour brought her no peace, for there is no peace, saith God, to the wicked.

For a long, long hour, she sat in the arbor, or walked backward and forward upon the stones, shivering with the cold, terrified at every rustle of the branches, and wondering when the conference would be finished. At last, to her great delight, the pair separated. Mr. Hugo departed, and was heard softly to close the garden gate, and Delia returned to her companion, with something in her hand, which she slipped hastily into her pocket.

"You poor child!" said she, kissing Emily. "What a stupid time you have had here by yourself. It was too bad to serve you so, but I did not see how to help it, for come I must, and I dared not come alone."

"If I had had any idea of your object," Emily began, but Delia interrupted her—

"Do you mean to say that you really had no idea? Did you think I was going to take all that trouble only for the sake of a walk? Oh, Emily, what a little goose you are!"

"But how dare you do such a thing? If Mrs. Pomeroy should find you out—"

"Nothing venture, nothing have," said Delia. "Besides, I don't mean that she shall find me out. I wish I were as sure of another person as I am of her."

"Who do you mean?"

"Mr. Fletcher! I do fear that man in spite of myself. He never turns his eyes upon me, but I feel as though he could read me through and through. I wish he were a thousand miles off. Mr. Hugo fears him as much as I do, and hates him, too; I believe he would kill him, if he dared."

"Oh, Delia,—kill Mr. Fletcher!" exclaimed Emily, in horror.

"My dear child, you need not take every word one says so absolutely literally. I do not suppose he would kill him outright, but he wishes him out of his way. But come, we must hurry in, and remember if we meet any one, we have only been out for some water."

They filled their pitcher accordingly, and returned by the same way they had come out, but on opening the garden door they were confronted by Miss Thomas, in her wrapper and with a lamp in her hand. Her hair was decidedly disordered, and the want of her front teeth, which she had forgotten in her hurry to make sure of the culprits, did not add to the dignity of her appearance.

"So, Miss Mason!" was her salutation. "I have caught you at last, have I!"

"So it seems, Miss Thomas," was the cool reply. "But are you not afraid of taking cold with no shoes or stockings, on these cold floors?"

"Umph!" returned Miss Thomas, rather taken aback by the calmness of the culprit, whom she had supposed would be too much abashed to utter a word. "I should like to know what has taken you out at this time of night?"

"I went to get some water," replied Delia, holding up her pitcher! "It is against rules I know, but the salt beef made me so thirsty that—"

"That you had to walk up and down the garden for an hour with a gentlemen," interrupted Miss Thomas. "Go to your room, both of you, and don't leave it till you have permission. I shall tell Mrs. Pomeroy all about it, and see what she says to such goings on."

"I propose to tell her the story myself, Miss Thomas," said Delia, with a dignity which might have become the Queen of Sheba herself. "If I have committed a fault, I have no intention of concealing it. Meantime, let me advise you not to make slanderous assertions, which you have no means of sustaining, lest you get into trouble yourself."

"Go to your room without another word," said the angry teacher. "We shall see whether I can sustain my accusation or not!"

Delia made no answer, except to shut the door in her face, when she attempted to enter the room, for the purpose of continuing her lecture. Emily had not spoken one word. She was no adept at making excuses, and she perceived that Delia was perfectly competent to sustain the warfare with Miss Thomas, but her heart sank as she thought of being summoned to Mrs. Pomeroy's presence on the morrow.

"Oh, Delia, what shall we do now?" were her first words, after the door had closed upon Miss Thomas and her exhortations. "I don't see but we are ruined outright."

"We are in a scrape, certainly," replied Delia, beginning to undress. "But I have been as badly off before, and I think I see my way out."

"That is more than I do," said Emily. "What can we possibly say to Mrs. Pomeroy? Who would have thought Miss Thomas could see so far?"

"She did not see, she only guessed," returned Delia. "I saw how she winced when I told her she had no proof. Every one in the house knows that she is as near-sighted as a bat, besides being old. I shall tell Mrs. Pomeroy frankly, that after filling our pitcher, we were tempted by the beauty of the night to take a walk in the garden, and stayed longer than we intended. Then we shall get a lecture, and a long piece of French or Latin to learn by heart, and perhaps be forbidden to go out two or three weeks, and that will be the end of the matter. Miss Thomas is not such a favorite with Mrs. Pomeroy that she will be a very partial judge where she is concerned. Oh no, it is not nearly as bad as you think.

"Dear me, if you knew some of the things the girls used to do at the Gymnasium—this is not a circumstance. The rules there were ten times more strict than they are here, and I am sure there was forty times as much mischief going on. The girls were forbidden even to raise their eyes when they passed a man in the street, and they were not allowed to walk in front of the house at all. It was perfectly ridiculous, and did no good either. But come, dear, go to sleep, and leave the whole to me. I promise you it shall all go right, yet."

Delia's confidence restored some degree of courage to Emily, though she could not keep her heart from sinking, as she thought of meeting Mrs. Pomeroy's eye in the morning. Of that other Eye, from which no secrets are hid, she had almost ceased to think. She had silenced the voice of conscience so long and so determinedly, that the inward monitor now seldom made itself heard, though there was all the time a dull, heavy pain pressing on her heart, and paralyzing her energies. She turned and tossed, and finally fell into an unquiet slumber, which seemed to have lasted only a few minutes, when the rising bell rung, and reminded her of all that was before her.

As the girls were forbidden to leave their rooms, they did not go down to breakfast. No sooner were prayers over, than the monitress appeared with the much dreaded summons to attend Mrs. Pomeroy in the library.

Why is it, that the study or the library must always be the place of fear in every boarding school? So it almost invariably is, and so it was at Mrs. Pomeroy's, and few were they who entered its precincts on any special summons without a shudder. The lady principal now sat enthroned in awful state upon her velvet covered chair, dignified as usual, but evidently somewhat ruffled. Near her sat Miss Thomas, her cheeks flushed, and her little black eyes sparkling, clearly not in a very sweet humor.

"Good morning, young ladies," said Mrs. Pomeroy, with dignity. "Be pleased to sit down."

The girls curtseyed, and obeyed in silence, and she proceeded. "I am sorry to say, I am informed by Miss Thomas of great misconduct upon your part. I am told that you, or one of you, was walking in the garden at a late hour last night, and in very improper company." She paused a moment, and then went on. "It would be much better for you to confess your fault at once, than to make any attempt to conceal it."

"I have no desire for concealment, Mrs. Pomeroy," answered Delia, respectfully, "nor has Emily. That we did very wrong, I acknowledge, and I am ready to tell you the whole story, as I should have done to Miss Thomas last night, but she did not seem disposed to listen."

"How dare you—" began Miss Thomas, but Mrs. Pomeroy waived her hand.

"Allow me, Miss Thomas—Proceed, Delia. I presume you speak for your companion, as well as for yourself."

"I do," said Delia. "Emily and I both ate a good deal of dried beef for tea, which made us very thirsty. We had no water in the room except the cistern water, which, you know, is not quite fit to drink at present."

"It is true!" assented Mrs. Pomeroy. "The cisterns are to be cleaned to-day, but go on, my dear."

"My dear," was always a sign of approaching fine weather with Mrs. Pomeroy.

Miss Thomas moved uneasily in her chair, and Delia went on modestly, but steadily.

"I proposed to Emily, that rather than suffer from thirst all night, we should go down and get some water. We should have asked permission, but it was late, and Miss Thomas was asleep, and knowing how much she has lately suffered from toothache, we were unwilling to disturb her. So we put on our clothes and went down as quietly as we could, and when we got out, the night was so fine that we were tempted to take a ramble in the garden. We got talking down by the arbor, and stayed out longer than we intended. It was very wrong, and we are ready to apologize, and submit to the penalty. I am sure, Emily, I may speak for you as well as myself."

Emily, who had hidden her face in her handkerchief; murmured assent.

"But Miss Thomas declares, that standing at her bed-room window, she saw you walking up and down the garden with a gentleman," said Mrs. Pomeroy. "How was that?"

"Courage!" thought Delia. "If she came no nearer than the bed-room window, we are safe and she has cornered herself." Such was her thought, but she answered as modestly as before—

"If I might be permitted to ask Miss Thomas a few questions, without being considered disrespectful—"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Pomeroy, as she paused for a reply. "It is but just that you should have every opportunity of defending yourself."

"Will Miss Thomas please to tell me how many people she saw walking in the garden, from her bed-room window?"

"I saw two people," said Miss Thomas.

"That is to say, myself or Emily, and a gentleman in a cloak."

"Of course!" returned the teacher, evidently much irritated by Delia's questions, and her studiedly respectful manner. "A gentleman in a long cloak. Have you done?"

"Not quite," replied Delia, in the same even tone. "Will you have the goodness, Miss Thomas, to read, from where you are sitting the third row of figures upon that blackboard?" Pointing to one which had been used in a recitation, and left with the figures upon it.

"Nonsense!" said Miss Thomas, coloring deeply, and looking just ready to explode with anger. "I shall do no such thing."

Delia looked at Mrs. Pomeroy, and was delighted to see the first dawn of a smile on her countenance. She began to see what Delia was aiming at, and could not help being amused at her ingenuity.

"Read the figures, if you please, Miss Thomas," said she mildly. "What possible objection can you have to doing so? They are very plainly written."

"I can't see them," said Miss Thomas, bursting out at last. "I cannot tell one line from another, at this distance, and you know I can't."

"I have but little more to say," continued Delia, without manifesting any triumph at the success of her experiment. "Miss Thomas says that she only two people walking in the garden, and we have both confessed to being there. She cannot see to read a line of large white figures on a black ground at the distance of four yards, so it is no great wonder that she should mistake poor Emily, in her long black cloak and fur cap, for a gentleman, especially as she seemed to have made up her mind that there must be a beau in the case, any how. I do not mean to say any thing disrespectful, but I must say I think she should furnish herself with more substantial proofs, before bringing such accusations against young ladies of good character. I do not think either my father, or Emily's, would be at all pleased to think that we had been subjected to such suspicions."

Delia spoke with a propriety and dignity which might have prepossessed the sternest judge in her favor, and the apparently free confession of her real fault, had great weight with Mrs. Pomeroy, who valued frankness above all things. Miss Thomas' defective vision was well known to every one, notwithstanding the absurd pains she took to conceal it. She was, moreover, extremely suspicious in her temperament, and apt to draw conclusions from what she imagined, than from what she really saw; and consequently her word had less weight with Mrs. Pomeroy than that of any other teacher in the school. This being the case, Mrs. Pomeroy was quite willing to give the girls the benefit of the doubt which evidently existed, and consider the whole matter as nothing more than a girlish frolic. So she gave them due praise for their openness, and a kind admonition to do better in future, appointed them an act of Athalie to learn by heart, (she always gave punishment lessons out of Athalie), and dismissed them to their duties. Emily was crying too much to speak, but Delia said, and this time with real feeling:

"You are very kind, Mrs. Pomeroy. I shall try to act in such a manner, in future, that you shall never regret your goodness to me to-day. Miss Thomas, I am sorry that I spoke disrespectfully to you last evening, and I beg your pardon."

Miss Thomas received this apology with a kind of snort, making no other reply, but the moment the door closed behind the girls, she opened her fire upon Mrs. Pomeroy.

"So this is the reward I get for my faithfulness in your behalf, ma'am—losing my rest, and endangering my health, to be browbeaten and put down in your very presence, ma'am, by those who can pull the wool over your eyes by a few fine speeches. But this is the last time I shall expose myself in your service—" She paused for lack of breath.

"You are exposing yourself now, without doing any one service, least of all, yourself," answered Mrs. Pomeroy, calmly. "I appreciate your good qualities, Miss Thomas, and desire to bear with your infirmities—"

"Infirmities! ma'am—infirmities. I should beg respectfully to know what they are? I know I am a sinful mortal, of course, like every one else, but I should like to know what fault you, or any one else, have to find with me?"

"But I must beg to remind you, that I am always accustomed to be mistress in my own house," pursued Mrs. Pomeroy, with a slight smile. "As to your implied threat of leaving, you are at liberty to fulfil it at any day or hour you choose, though I should advise you to think well, before taking such a step, where you are likely to meet with another engagement. The clock is striking ten, and my history class will be in directly. I advise you to go to your room, and endeavor to compose yourself before returning to the school-room!"

Miss Thomas obeyed, determined at first to seek another home, without delay, but before dinner, cool reflection came, and convinced her that she had better be quiet. Not one person in twenty, she well knew, would have as much patience with her as her present principal, to whom she was at heart deeply attached, and, as Mrs. Pomeroy had hinted, another engagement would probably not be attainable at that time of the year. So she swallowed her resentment, apologized for her violence, and fell again into her usual train of school duties.

"Well," said Emily, after they had reached their room, "we really have got off a good deal better than I expected. I never believed that even you could have managed matters so cleverly, though, after all, that French lesson is no joke. It will take all our play time for ever so long."

"I think you might be thankful that there was nothing worse," said Delia. "Mrs. Pomeroy was so kind, and so ready to believe me, that it made me feel more ashamed than ever I did before in my life, to think she should trust me, when I was deceiving her so. When a person is always watching and spying, and seems to take pleasure in finding one out in mischief, as Miss Thomas does, I don't at all mind setting my wits against her, but I must say, I could not help feeling very mean and contemptible, in my own mind, to think of the confidence I was betraying."

"What can you think of Mr. Hugo then?" Emily ventured to ask. "I am sure he is betraying Mrs. Pomeroy's confidence in the very worst way possible."

"I know it," said Delia in a low voice, and after a little silence, she continued: "I thought of that very thing this morning, and what surety have I that he will not serve me in the same way?"

"Oh, Delia, if you would only think so," exclaimed Emily overjoyed. "If you would only give him up! Then the whole thing would be past and gone, and we should be so happy."

"You might be happy, but I never could," returned Delia, shaking her head. "There is the trouble of playing with edge tools! I cared for nothing but the fun at first, but it is very different now." She walked to the window as she spoke, and stood a few minutes looking out. "But I might refuse to have any more secret meetings or correspondence with him," said she presently returning. "I shall leave school pretty soon, and then there will be nothing to prevent the affair going on openly. I have property of my own, left me by my mother, and there will be nothing to prevent his marrying, if we are so disposed."

"I don't believe you would be," said Emily. "You would feel differently by that time."

"Possibly!" returned Delia. She mused for some time, and then said suddenly, "That is what I will do, Emily. I am resolved. I must see him once more to tell him of my determination, and after that I will have nothing more to do with the matter for the present. He will be very angry, I know, and I cannot blame him, but I cannot help it."

"Then you ought to give him back his presents and his letters," said Emily, anxious to bring the whole affair to a conclusion at once.

"Of course!" said Delia. "And so I will. We agreed to burn each other's letters, and so they are disposed of, but I will return the ring and bracelet, and the book he gave me last night."

She rose as she spoke, and took down the dress she had worn the evening before, but on putting her hand into the pocket, it was empty. The book was gone!

"What is the matter?" asked Emily surprised and terrified at Delia's sudden change of countenance. "What has happened?"

"I have lost that book," said Delia, sitting down in the chair that Emily hastily placed for her. "I must have dropped it, instead of putting it into my pocket. If it is found, I am ruined."

"What was the book?" asked Emily. "Was your name in it?"

"I don't even know the title of it," replied Delia, "nor whether my name was in it or not. He gave it to me and told me to read it. How careless I was! What shall I do?"

"I don't see that you can do any thing just now," said Emily after some consideration. "If you dropped it on the walk, or in the arbor, it must have been found long before this time. If your name is not in it, you are not obliged to know any thing about it, since you can say with truth that you never read even the title."

"Upon my word, Emily, for a young lady who was afraid to tell even a white lie a few months ago, that is a pretty fine calculation. I should say you had made pretty good progress in your education."

"If I have, you are the very last person to reproach me with it," said Emily, with bitterness. "I am your pupil, and you have spared no pains to teach me, either by precept or example."

"We will neither of us reproach the other, Emily. If I have harmed you, you have done as much for me. I believe Lucy Spencer and Mr. Fletcher would have converted me before this time, if your example had not always been before my eyes, to show me how much religious professions are worth. But as I said, reproaches are useless. I have now only to await my fate with as much philosophy as I can."

"Don't give up in despair," said Emily. "I will go out and look as soon as the French class is dismissed, and it is possible after all that I may find it. You need not go."

"Thank you, but there would be more risk than good in doing so. Most likely some one has found it before this time, and the very fact of your being seen searching for any thing will excite suspicion."

"But I really did lose something yesterday, Delia—a lead pencil with an ivory head. If any one asks me a question, I can say I am looking for that."

"Just as you please," was the reply, "but don't accuse me of asking you to tell lies for me. I don't mean to be ungracious, dear, but I am so tired and sick of the whole concern. I shall manage to see Mr. Hugo when class is out, and do you wait for me up here. Heigho! I wish it was over. I know he will be so angry."

As soon as class was over, Delia approached Mr. Hugo with a paper, and requested him to look over and correct a French letter, which she had been writing to a former schoolmate. He took the hint at once, dismissed the other young ladies, and Emily went up to her room to dispose of her books.

She could not help hoping that the worst of her troubles was over. Delia was evidently heartily sick of the part she had been playing and seriously desirous of throwing it up. The loss of the book was unfortunate, but after all her name might not be in it, and then no one need know to whom it had belonged. She put on her bonnet and went down to the garden, which she found quite deserted, for the morning was raw and cold. She was walking slowly along, looking carefully on each side the path, when she almost ran against some one, and looking up, she beheld Mr. Fletcher. She would rather have seen almost any one else.

"What are you searching for, Emily?" said he, rather sternly.

"For my pencil, sir," replied Emily, quietly, for she had, as Delia remarked, made great progress in the art of lying. "I think I dropped it here, yesterday, when I was walking and here it is, sure enough," she added, stooping down and picking it up. "It lies between the stones as nicely as if it had been put there for safe keeping."

She turned to go into the house, but Mr. Fletcher detained her.

"Do you know any thing about this book?" he asked, holding up a small volume elegantly gilded and ornamented, which he took from his pocket.

"No sir, I never saw it before," replied Emily. So far as words went, she spoke truth, for she had never seen the book at all. "What is it?"

"It is a book I should be very sorry to see in the hands of any young lady in this school," replied Mr. Fletcher, holding out the volume as if it had been a cock-roach, or something worse. "It is a French novel, of the very worst class. I cannot conceive who should have brought such a thing here."

"Is there no name in it?" asked Emily, trembling at her own boldness in putting the question.

"None whatever, but quite a tender inscription, as though it had been presented to some one. Grip found it under one of the currant bushes, and brought it to me in his mouth. I only hope it won't poison him."

"Mr. Hugo often walks in the garden, between the classes," Emily ventured to suggest. "Perhaps it belongs to him!"

"Perhaps so!" said Mr. Fletcher, putting the offending volume in his pocket again. "If so, I must give him a hint not to sow such poisonous weeds in our grounds."

He detained her a moment with some remarks as to the propriety of carefulness in reading, and then went into the house, followed by Cornelius Agrippa, who certainly showed no signs of being poisoned.

With a light heart, Emily returned to her room, where she found Delia standing by the window, apparently absorbed looking out.

"Good news, Delia!" she exclaimed, joyfully. "The book is found, but no harm is done. Grip discovered it, and carried it to his master, but there is no name in it, and Mr. Fletcher has not the least suspicion, except that he thinks it may belong to Mr. Hugo. So don't let us trouble ourselves any more about that."

Delia turned round, as Emily spoke. She was ashy pale, and seemed unable to speak, though she tried, but as Emily went up to her in alarm, she put her arm round her neck, and laying her head on her shoulder, burst into a passionate fit of weeping. It was the first time Emily had ever seen her shed a tear.

CHAPTER IX.

IT was some moments before Delia became composed enough to speak at all, so that Emily had time to imagine every conceivable misfortune, before she found out the real state of the case. At last Delia recovered herself by a strong effort.

"It is all useless, Emily. I can do nothing! I am entirely in his power, and must do just as he, says. Oh, why was I ever such a fool as to listen to him!"

"But how is it?" asked Emily. "I don't understand."

"You know I told you we had agreed to burn each other's letters."

Emily nodded.

"Do you believe he has kept all mine, every one of them and they are all signed with my name. He declares if I drop the correspondence now, he will publish them to all the world, and that, with other things I have done, would ruin me forever."

"I don't know what else you have done, except meeting him in the garden."

"That is enough, and more than enough for his purpose, even if it were all, but there is more than that. It is not the first time."

"The villain!" exclaimed Emily, indignantly. "He deserves to be hung!"

"You are too hard upon him, Emily. He would never have thought of it, if I had not encouraged him in the first place. He complains that I have trifled with him outrageously, which is true enough, and says I am bound to him in all honor."

"I should think there could be very little honor in such a case," said Emily, "especially as he broke his word in not destroying your letters."

"He says that he did not understand the agreement to destroy them, which may be true, and that he shall not make any use of them, unless I drive him to it. And you must remember that I have been quite as much to blame as he, and more so."

"And is there no way?" asked Emily.

"No way, but to let the matter run to its close. I have made my bed, and now I must lie upon it."

"But cannot something be done? Oh, Delia, let me tell Mrs. Pomeroy, or Mr. Fletcher! They are so kind. I am sure that you have no reason to fear them! Just think how good she was this morning!"

Delia shook her head. "You don't know. A frolic in the garden is a very different thing from such a matter as this. Besides it would lose Mr. Hugo his place, and I have no right to do that. No, Emily, you must not say one word. I wish with all my heart and soul that I had never drawn you into it. I might have been content with my own share of wickedness, without making you as bad as myself."

"You did not hurt me," said Emily. "I never had any principle. I can see it now. It was all feeling, and doing as other people did. But do let me do something for you, dear, I don't mind my own disgrace at all, if I can only help you."

"You are very kind, Emily, but it would be of no use. You would only hurt yourself, and not help me. Don't cry for me, darling, I am not worth it. Let us get ready for dinner. We have a good excuse for red eyes, that is one thing. But how pale you are. Don't you feel well?"

"No!" said Emily. "My head aches, and I have such pains in my limbs that I can hardly help screaming. I think I must have taken cold last night."

"I don't feel any the worse," said Delia, "but then I kept in motion, and you were sitting most of the time on that cold stone bench. How selfish I was! You ought to hate me, Emily, for I have done you nothing but harm ever since I knew you. I almost wish you did."

"I don't!" replied Emily. "I love you dearly, and as to going out, it was as much my fault as yours. I proposed it in the first place, when we were walking in the afternoon."

"It was all arranged long before that," said Delia, "and I should have gone at any rate. But come, there is the bell. Miss Thomas will be quite satisfied with our state of minds I think," she added, looking in the glass. "You know she always measures the girls penitence by the redness of their eyes and noses."

Emily could not laugh, as she usually did, at Delia's jests.

Delia noticed her gravity, and, said, "We may as well laugh as cry, you know, as long as we cannot help ourselves."

"I don't know that," replied Emily, "I know I don't feel very much like laughing. Oh, that pain again! It seems as though it would take my life away."

"Perhaps you will feel better after dinner." remarked Delia. "Do try to keep up, if you can. I believe I should go mad, if you should be taken seriously ill."

Emily did try, and managed to sit up till the middle of the afternoon, when she was overcome by pains and giddiness, and obliged to lie down. She made a heroic endeavor to rise when the tea bell rang, but the effort brought on such excruciating pain, that it was with much difficulty she repressed a scream.

Delia perceived that something serious was the matter, and that Emily ought to receive immediate attention. She called Mrs. Pomeroy, and Mrs. Pomeroy called the doctor, who pronounced that Miss Arlington was laboring under a severe attack of rheumatic fever.

"We must have her moved over to the sickroom before she grows so much worse as to make it impossible," said Mrs. Pomeroy to Delia, who stood by, looking the picture of misery, but perfectly silent unless spoken to. "Poor child, that moonlight walk has cost her dear."

"It has, indeed," replied Delia, bitterly, but she said no more.

The transit was not accomplished without extreme suffering upon Emily's part, and she shrieked more than once, notwithstanding her efforts at fortitude.

All that night, and for many succeeding nights and days, she suffered agonies almost beyond endurance. Her mind wandered at times, and then she talked incessantly of her home life, but curiously enough, she made no allusion to any thing which had happened at school. When her reason returned, and she found she had been wandering, she showed great anxiety and distress, and asked with much earnestness what she had talked about, but seemed relieved when she was assured that she had said nothing that any one could understand.

At last the fever was subdued, but it left her so weak that it seemed for many days as though her life hung upon a thread. Delia would gladly have devoted her whole time to nursing, but her presence seemed to excite Emily so much, that at last it was deemed best for her not to enter the room at all.

Delia wept bitterly when she heard of the prohibition, but she made no objection in words. Indeed, she did not seem to speak at all, if she could help it. All the girls noticed how sad and reserved she was, but her depression was naturally laid to the account of Emily's danger and suffering.

"How much feeling Delia shows," said Belle Faushane, one day, to Alice Parker. "I never before gave her credit for caring for any one but herself. It shows how wrong it is to judge any one so severely."

"Delia is very different from what she used to be," observed Alice. "I should not wonder if Emily's loss should be the means of her conversion."

"Her loss—what do you mean?" asked Belle, startled. "You don't think Emily is going to die?"

"I believe she will," said Alice. "I was in to see her a moment this afternoon, and I never saw any one look more like it. She is so weak that she cannot speak above a whisper, and I do not see that she gains at all."

"But the fever is subdued," argued Belle, "and that is the great thing. I heard Dr. J. tell Mrs. Pomeroy that he was very much encouraged about her."

"Doctors always say so," said Alice, "so that is nothing. For my part, if I were in her place, I would rather it should be so than not. I am sure there is very little in this world worth living for," she added, sighing as usual,—"nothing but sin and sorrow and all sorts of trials—there is nothing to tempt one to stay here longer than one can help."

"Well I don't know!" said Belle. "I think there is a good deal about it that is pleasant too—at least I should suppose there ought to be."

"Ought to be!" repeated Alice. "Why?"

"Who made the world?" asked Belle gravely.

"God made the world of course," was the reply, "nobody doubts that."

"And He orders all things in it, and arranges all its affairs and ours, according to the counsel of his wisdom and goodness—in other words by His Providence.—Does he?"

"Certainly," replied Alice. "What of it?"

"A good deal of it, I think," said Belle. "If God made the world and all things in it, he must have made it as He thought right, and I should think what was good enough for Him, ought to be good enough for you."

Alice looked a little startled by this view of the case. "But you cannot deny there are a great many trials in this life!"

"I don't wish to deny it," replied Belle. "God sends us trials and cares no doubt, but it is because they are needful for us, and we ought to take them in that way."

"It is easy for one to talk who has never suffered," said Alice. "You don't know any thing about trouble, Belle."

"That does not affect the argument," said Belle. "Either He sends us sorrow because it is good for us, or He does not. The Bible says that all things work together for good to them that love Him, and if that is true, and I suppose you won't dispute it, it appears to me that when God gives us a lesson, we ought to learn it cheerfully, even though it is a pretty hard one, and not fret over it, like Almira Crosby over a French verb."

"I don't mean to distrust God," said Alice, somewhat vexed, "and I don't think I do. I am sure if I am willing to entrust Him with my eternal salvation—"

"You ought to be willing to trust Him with your temporal prosperity," interrupted Belle, finishing the sentence for her. "I think so too; but it appears to me that in the view you take of life, you seem to say in effect, that you are willing to trust God to dispose of the concerns of eternity, but as for those of time, you would prefer to manage them yourself. But I don't think that is very consistent either, for if you don't like His arrangements here, it is very possible that you may not like them any better in Heaven; so that you have no better prospect than that of going on fretting to all eternity."

Alice seemed a good deal struck with this view of the case, but she said again: "You don't know how I am situated, Belle."

"I know that your situation is an uncomfortable and difficult one," replied Belle, "but then I know too that God placed you there, and I don't imagine that He would have done so, unless He had had some work in that particular place which you could do better than anyone else. I don't believe He makes any mistakes in His appointments."

"I am sure I never found out what it was," observed Alice rather peevishly.

"Perhaps you never tried," said Belle.

Alice looked rather hurt. "What should you say was my work," she asked.

"I should say part of it was to cultivate a cheerful temper, and try to make your religion attractive by that means," replied Belle. "What use is there in your talking to the girls about the power of religion to make them happy, when they see you crying half the time, and moping the other half? I think they may be excused for not believing it, when they have such an example before their eyes. I don't mean to hurt your feelings, Alice, but I must say I think your continued low spirits are a reproach to the cause you advocate, as well as a great injury to yourself. I dare say Lucy would have said all this a great deal better than I have done, but it is true, and I think you will see it so if you give it a little consideration."

The days wore on, and Emily improved slowly, and grew able to be moved without pain, and then to sit up a little, and be amused with reading or conversation for a little while at a time. The girls were only too ready to give her their company, and Mrs. Pomeroy was obliged to make a law that no more than two should be admitted at once. Lucy and Belle were perhaps the most frequent visitors, next to Delia, who now spent some hours of every day with her.

Belle's prattle was always amusing, and she was the first person who succeeded in making Emily laugh. Lucy's sweet cheerfulness brought sunshine every where, so it is no wonder that she was a desirable visitor in the sick room. Delia's depression instead of lightening with the progress of her friend's recovery, seemed to grow deeper and deeper every day. She would read aloud to Emily for hours, but she seldom spoke unless she was directly addressed, and then she would converse only on the most indifferent topics. Yet her affection for Emily seemed undiminished, and she never parted from her without a kiss and embrace as passionate as though she never expected to see her again.

Mr. Fletcher had returned Mr. Hugo his book with an expression of disgust which seemed to surprise and rather amuse the learned Professor.

"What harm, mon ami? It is not perhaps exactly the book one would circulate among the young ladies, though I believe the sweet darlings are not all such innocent angels, either,—but it is a choice book for all that, and will not harm either you or me."

"I do not agree with you," answered Mr. Fletcher coldly. "Such moral pitch cannot be touched by any one without danger of defilement. I profess no immunity from such contagion."

"Eh bien! What signify these grand airs of virtue when we are by ourselves?" asked Mr. Hugo contemptuously. "Better to keep them for Madam's benefit."

Mr. Fletcher looked at the gentleman as though he were resisting a strong impulse to turn him out of the room, but he made no response. And Mr. Hugo, finding that he was not invited to sit down, departed, muttering between his teeth, something which did not sound like a compliment. Mr. Fletcher walked up and down his room for some time, apparently deep in thought, and then taking his hat and cane, and whistling to Grip, he went out, and took his way straight to the telegraph office, where he remained for a considerable time.

It was now the first week in April, and Emily was so far recovered as to be able to sit up part of the day, and had taken two or three little walks from the bed to her chair, and from her chair to the window, though she still could not step without assistance. Mrs. Pomeroy and the Doctor prophesied that she would be about again, before warm weather came on, and she herself began to be encouraged and hopeful, and to form plans about commencing her studies by little and little. She had been talking over all these matters with Delia one afternoon, or rather she had been talking and Delia listening, for she seemed to have given up conversation altogether herself.

"Mrs. Pomeroy says I may begin to read a little Latin with Mr. Fletcher to-morrow, and that you may come and read with me, instead of going into class. Won't it be nice to have him all to ourselves?"

"Very!" replied Delia compelling herself to attend, as Emily seemed to wait for an answer. "Mrs. Pomeroy is always kind. I only wish I had made her a better return for all her goodness."

"But I am sure you have been very good lately," said Emily. "Mrs. Pomeroy said herself that she had never seen any one improve more. She said she only wished she could see you in better spirits, and that she must talk with you, and find out what the matter was. Oh, Delia, if you would only tell her the whole story!"

"I do wish with all my heart I had done so at the time you were taken sick," said Delia. "I came very near it, and if there had been no one but myself to suffer, I believe I should have ventured it. But I thought he would lose his place and be left without resources. Let me give you one piece of advice, Emily, perhaps it is the last, I may over give you, and I should like to think I had done one good thing for you. When you see your duty, go straight-forward and do it, without stopping to calculate the consequences, and don't tell a lie, to save yourself from any danger or trouble. Straight-forward, is the only right way."

There was something in Delia's manner which startled Emily very much, and she was just about asking a question, when two or three of the girls came in with their hands full of early wild flowers, all eager to give Emily an account of the "splendid ramble" Mr. Fletcher had given them, and Delia slipped out without giving an opportunity for any more conversation. But the words and the tone in which they were uttered recurred to Emily's mind many times during the day.

She could not help feeling that matters were drawing towards some great catastrophe, and she resolved to make at least one more effort to induce Delia at least to try to escape from the toils in which she seemed to think herself so hopelessly involved.

Emily was now so much better that it was not thought necessary for any one to sleep in the room with her, and as she was rather nervous and easily disturbed, she preferred to be alone at night. This particular night she felt wakeful and thoughtful. The wind blew, and the rain dashed against the windows, bringing vividly back to her mind the night of the thunder storm—the last evening but one that she had been in the school-room. How long ago it seemed!

Since then she had been near to death's door, and God had mercifully spared her—spared her she hoped, to repentance and reformation. She had fully made up her mind, to make a full confession of her own fault, whatever might be the consequences, and she had only delayed, hoping to persuade Delia to join her. She felt more than ever the truth of the remark she had made to Delia, before her illness, namely, that she had never possessed any religious principles. Feelings she had had in abundance, but no settled rules of action.

She prayed earnestly for guidance—for forgiveness for the past and strength for the future—above all for poor Delia, whom she loved more tenderly than ever.

It was growing late, and the storm seemed subsiding, when she thought she heard some one moving about the house. She raised herself upon her elbow and listened. Some one was already walking very gently through the long hall. Probably Mrs. Pomeroy had come out to see that all the windows were closed before retiring herself. She sank down upon her pillow again, and prepared to compose herself to rest, when the door opened, and some one entered the room, closing it after her with great care, as though she feared to be overheard.

It was Delia! She was deadly pale, except a little spot of red in each cheek. She wore her travelling dress and bonnet and a thick veil, and carried a satchel on her arm. She came to the bed-side and kissed Emily, who was at first too much paralyzed with wonder and fear to speak. But as Delia turned to depart, she found words, and catching her dress to detain her, she gasped rather than spoke:

"What does this mean? Where are you going at this time of night, and in this storm?"

"I am going to my fate, whatever it is," replied Delia in a whisper which had more of despair in its tones than many a shrill scream of anguish. "I have risked a great deal to see you once more, but I felt that I must bid you good-bye. You may tell Mrs. Pomeroy every thing to-morrow. I have left a letter for her on my table, and something for you. God bless you, Emily, whatever becomes of me." She kissed Emily again, and would have gone, but Emily still held her.

"But what—what is it?"

"I am going to be married to Mr. Hugo. We shall leave here in the twelve o'clock train. I will write to you from the first stopping place."

She forcibly extricated her dress from Emily's grasp, and as the door closed behind her, Emily sank back insensible. How long she remained so she did not know, but she recovered her senses at last, and collecting her thoughts with a desperate effort, she turned up the gas, and looked at her watch. It wanted yet ten minutes to twelve, but she knew that the railroad time was faster than hers, and the train might be—probably was—already gone.

No matter! There was a chance, a bare chance it was true, but still a chance of saving her friend, and she must try it at all hazards. She must call Mrs. Pomeroy, and tell her the whole story. As she came to this resolution, she fancied she heard the whistle of the train, and without stopping to put on even her shoes, she ran through the halls and knocked at Mrs. Pomeroy's door.

Mrs. Pomeroy was up, and she opened the door at the first summons, greatly wondering who beside herself could be awake at this hour, for she generally out-watched every one in the house but Mr. Fletcher. Her astonishment was changed to terror, as she beheld Emily bare-footed and in her night-dress—as she said afterward, it was the nearest she had ever come to seeing a ghost.

"Good heavens, my child, what is the matter?" she exclaimed.

"Oh, Mrs. Pomeroy, save Delia!" was the burned reply. "Do not stop a moment, or it will be too late. Never mind me. Oh, do go!" she repeated in agony.

"But what is it, love? You must have been dreaming. Delia has been safe in bed these two hours."

"No, no!" replied Emily, exerting herself to speak intelligibly, as she saw that she was not understood. "She has gone away with Mr. Hugo. She came to bid me good-bye, and he was waiting for her outside. I heard him whistle. I know she did not want to go, but she was afraid of him. I will tell you all about it, but oh, do hurry! There may be time."

Mrs. Pomeroy could think faster than about any person in the world, and her calmness increased always in proportion to the emergency. "Delia must be saved, and if possible without exposure," that was her first idea. The next thought was for Emily. She took her up like an infant and laid her in her own bed, and having partially calmed her by a hasty assurance that all should be well, she descended to seek Mr. Fletcher, who was famous for keeping late hours, and whom she expected to find ready dressed. There was a light burning in his rooms, which opened upon the piazza, and Grip was lying upon the sofa, but Mr. Fletcher was not there, and his cap and cloak were no where to be seen. He had evidently gone out.

"Just like him!" said the good lady much disappointed and vexed. "A storm that would keep any other man within doors only seems to offer him an additional inducement to go out. What shall I do now?"

Even as she spoke however, she heard his step on the wet gravel and hastened to the door to meet him. But we must now follow our fugitives.

Delia sat alone in the large empty waiting room at the station, closely veiled, and shrinking from observation every time the only official person then about the establishment cast his eyes towards her. The misgivings had grown more and more intense ever since she left the house, and her feelings now amounted almost to agony, but she saw no escape, for even if she should insist upon returning to the house, she could not get in, as she had fastened behind her the door from which she had made her escape, nor was it very likely that Mr. Hugo would permit her to do so. He had treated her harshly more than once of late, and given way to such fits of rage, as made her tremble before him. She had not consented to the elopement without a severe struggle, and she would have given her right hand to be able to retreat, but it seemed now too late.

Mr. Hugo, who had been talking to the man in the ticket office now returned to her, looking anything but well pleased.

"The train is behind time, Delia," said he. "There has been an accident, and it will not be here for three or four hours—perhaps not till morning. Ah, ma chere, when we are once in France, I will show you very different arrangements from these. But we can never wait that length of time."

"Oh let us go back!" said Delia complainingly. "Let us give it up."

"It is rather too late for that, my timid beauty," returned her companion with a smile, which certainly did not add much to the attractiveness of his features. "Even if you care for nothing else, you must remember that I have risked much for your sake, and I am not likely to give up my prize now that have it fairly in my hands. No, we will not give it up, but we will procure a carriage, and go on to the next station, where we can wait in comparative safety. I go to seek one. Meantime you will remain here. I have told our friend in the office that you are a lady slightly insane, whom I am conveying to her friends, so he will have an eye to your safety."

He smiled again and departed, leaving Delia overwhelmed with terror and despair. She thought at first that she would run home at all hazards, but she saw the baggage master watching her, and she dared not attempt it. He believed her insane, and even if she told him her story, he would not believe her. She covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears of agony, but at that moment, a strong hand was laid on her arm, and a familiar voice said, "Delia!"

She looked up in amazement. There stood Mr. Fletcher, wrapped in his long dark cloak, his black hair dripping with the rain, and his eyes like blazing fires!

"Delia," he repeated, "what are you doing here?"

Delia had once feared Mr. Fletcher more than any other living being, but now he seemed to her like an angel sent from Heaven to her rescue.

She threw herself at his feet, and exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Fletcher, save me, take me home!"

Mr. Fletcher raised her without a word, drew her shawl around her, and taking her arm within his, prepared to leave the room, when the baggage master interfered—"What's the case, Mr. Fletcher? Anything wrong? The French gentleman said the lady was crazy."

"The French gentleman is a scoundrel, and you may tell him I say so," was Mr. Fletcher's reply. "This lady is under my protection, and you know me."

"All right!" returned the baggage master, as if it were all in the ordinary course of business. "I am glad you came in, for I had begun to suspect something wrong. One of the seminary girls, I suppose," he continued to himself, as the pair left the room. "The rascal! I should like to give him a thrashing myself."

In about ten minutes, Mr. Hugo returned. His surprise and wrath at finding Delia gone, may be imagined.

"Oh! Mr. Fletcher, save me!"

"Where is the lady, sir?" he asked in rather a threatening manner, approaching the baggage master, who was a herculean fellow, with a clear blue eye, and that peculiar coolness of manner which is rather apt to characterize railroad men. "What has become of the lady?"

"The crazy lady?" asked the other, with a slight elevation of the eyebrows, but without removing his hands from his pockets. "She might have stepped into the other room. You can see if you like."

Mr. Hugo opened the door, but no lady was there, and he returned more wrathful than ever.

"Where is the lady?" he reiterated, absolutely foaming with rage. "What have you done with her?"

"Mr.," said Mr. Brown, "I hav'nt done anything with her myself, but a gentleman of my acquaintance called and took her away. She seemed glad enough to go, poor thing. He said it was all right, and left a message to you."

"What message, you villain?" demanded the enraged Frenchman.

"He said you were a scoundrel," said Mr. Brown, adding an expletive which certainly Mr. Fletcher had never made use of, "and I am much of that opinion myself."

Mr. Hugo shook his fist in the man's face.

The baggage master took his hands out of his pockets, and in another moment, the professor found himself sprawling on his face in a mud puddle outside the station room door.

Meantime Mr. Fletcher pursued his way homeward, walking rapidly and almost carrying Delia, who could scarcely support herself, and stumbled continually. He did not speak, except to encourage her as she looked back evidently in deadly fear of being pursued. Her hands grew lighter, as the distance between them and the station increased, and when they reached the seminary gate she felt comparatively safe.

"We will go in at my door, and I will take you directly to Mrs. Pomeroy's room," said he as he helped her up the steps. "We must save you from any exposure if possible." He prepared to open the door as he spoke, but Mrs. Pomeroy saved him the trouble.

"I bring you a stray lamb!" was his greeting. "A repentant wanderer, I hope, since she has come back of her own accord. Let us thank God for all His mercies. A little moment longer and I should have been too late."

CHAPTER X.

MR. HUGO picked himself up, his appearance not greatly improved by the mud which decorated his dress and moustache, or by the black eye so generously bestowed upon him by the baggage master, who had again put his hands in his pockets, and was coolly regarding him through the glass door of the station house, much as he might have amused his leisure hours by the contemplation of a stray dog or horse.

His first impulse was to annihilate his late antagonist upon the spot, but a second thought convinced him that the work of annihilation would not be a very easy task, and might be attended with inconvenience to himself; so he contented himself with threatening to procure his immediate discharge from office, a prospect which Mr. Brown seemed to take very coolly, and walked off to his lodgings.

As he himself expressed it, he had still another card to play. Delia was out of his power, and her fortune was lost to him, and he gnashed his teeth with rage, as he thought how Mr. Fletcher had carried her off from under his very face and eyes; but he had still all her letters, and he believed that her father would be very glad to purchase his silence and their destruction, by the sacrifice of a part of that fortune which he had hoped to secure entire. Revolving these schemes in his mind, he retired to rest.

We have already related how Mr. Fletcher and his companion were received by Mrs. Pomeroy at the door. It was no time for reproof or inquiry, for Delia was clearly all but beside herself with excitement and terror, and moreover, it was necessary to have the house quiet before any alarm should be given which might lead to inconvenient questions. It was not till Delia was half led, half carried up stairs into Mrs. Pomeroy's room, her dripping shawl and dress removed, and a restorative administered, that Mrs. Pomeroy spoke.

"My poor, dear child," said she, "What could have induced you to take such a step?"

"I don't know," replied Delia. "I was possessed, I think."

A man's step was heard at the door at the moment, and trembling all over she clung to Mrs. Pomeroy, exclaiming—"Oh, Mrs. Pomeroy, don't let him come near me—he will kill me!"

"Do not be frightened, my love,—it is only Mr. Fletcher, and you do not fear him. No one shall hurt you. Poor thing," she said to herself, as she disengaged herself and opened the door. "It is clearly no time for lecturing. I must get her to bed at once, and it is a wonder if she is not sick enough in the morning to make a good excuse for keeping her there. I only hope poor Emily won't be sick again. What an effort she must have made!"

Mr. Fletcher had come to suggest that some one should go over to Delia's room, and take measures to prevent any untoward discoveries being made in the morning.

"I will go myself, as soon as I got her to bed," said Mrs. Pomeroy. "She is terrified almost out of her senses."

"I believe she has been ruled by terror more than any thing else," replied Mr. Fletcher. "She was evidently most thankful to see me come in. The villain thought he had provided against her escape, by telling Brown that she was deranged, and he was her keeper. He did not know exactly with whom he was dealing."

"There is one thing I should like to know," said Mrs. Pomeroy, "and that is, how you came to be there at all?"

Mr. Fletcher only smiled, and said good night, nor though Mrs. Pomeroy often attacked him upon the subject afterward, did she ever succeed in getting an answer. Whatever might be his sources of information, he kept them to himself.

"I shall put you to bed in my room for to-night," said Mrs. Pomeroy, returning to Delia, "and to-morrow we will see what is to be done. But this much I must say—I will do nothing for you—I will leave you to the fate you have provoked by your misconduct, unless you promise to be guided entirely by me, and to be perfectly obedient and straight-forward."

"I will," replied Delia, earnestly. "I have had enough of crooked courses, and by the help of God,—if He will help such a creature as I am—I will never tell another lie as long as I live."

"You must not doubt of God's mercy," said Mrs. Pomeroy. "The greatest sinner may return to Him, with a full assurance of welcome and pardon. At the same time, you must not expect to escape entirely from the consequences of transgression."

"I don't mind that," replied Delia. "Only for my father's sake, I should be glad to escape from disgrace. But I fear that is impossible!" And she burst into tears.

"We will talk it all over in the morning, and decide what is best to be done," said Mrs. Pomeroy, soothingly. "You must go to bed now, and try to rest. See, here is poor Emily waiting for you! You ought to be grateful to her, for she ran a great risk to try to save you."

"Oh, Delia!" whispered Emily, as she clasped her friend in her arms, "I told! I could not help it!'"

"You was right," replied Delia, returning the embrace. "If I had only listened to you—but it is too late, now!"

"You must not give way to despair," observed Mrs. Pomeroy, over-hearing her. "Think how much worse it would have been if Mr. Fletcher had not found you, or if the cars had come in time! Lie down, now, and do not talk any more. I am going over to your room, and hope to find you both asleep when I return."

She kissed them both, turned down the gas, and left them to repose. They had both been greatly excited, and now felt as though rest was almost out of the question, but sleep comes easily to the young, and when Mrs. Pomeroy returned, she found them slumbering in each other's arms.

Mrs. Pomeroy's prophecy proved true, and Delia, next morning, was too ill to rise. Great was the questioning and wonderment when her room was found empty, and Miss Thomas came running over to Mrs. Pomeroy's room with the news, in a state of the greatest excitement.

"What do you think, ma'am? Miss Mason is gone! Her room is empty, and all her clothes that she wore yesterday are gone: She has gone off to be married, no doubt. Well, I only hope I shall be allowed to believe my own eyes, next time, that is all. I am not quite a goose, nor absolutely a blind bat, though some folks seem to think so!"

"Gently, gently, my dear Miss Thomas," said Mrs. Pomeroy, smiling in spite of herself. "Miss Mason is safe in my room, and has been there since midnight. She is very ill, and excessively nervous, and I shall be obliged to you and the other teachers, if you will keep the house as quiet as possible, and allow none of the young ladies to come to my room—but I will arrange that matter myself."

Miss Thomas retreated to her own domain, rather disgusted than otherwise that Delia should be safe after all, for she was a prophet of the school of Jonah, and would rather half the young ladies should run away to be married, than that one of her own predictions should fall to the ground.

"What is it, Miss Thomas? What did Mrs. Pomeroy say? Does she know that Delia has gone?" were some of the questions that greeted her from the group of dressed, undressed, and half-dressed girls, which surrounded her as she made her appearance in the hall.

"Hold your peace all of you, and get ready for breakfast!" was the polite rejoinder of the teacher. "Delia is in Mrs. Pomeroy's sick in bed. That is the whole story, and no one in their senses would have thought of any thing else. Look at your petticoats, Miss Faushane,—actually sweeping the floor—I wonder you don't take them to rub the stove with. Miss Crosby, I will give you an untidy mark for every curl on your head, if you don't get rid of those curl papers by breakfast time. Miss Graves, if none of the other teachers think it worth while to pay any attention to their duties, I think as long as you are monitress, you might see that the young ladies behave themselves properly, instead of indulging in idle gossiping conjectures about their companion."

Janet only shrugged her shoulders and retreated to her own room, to finish her toilet. She had found that the best way to silence Miss Thomas, was to let her alone. But Belle was not quite so forbearing.

"I wonder who started the idle gossipping conjectures," said she quite loudly enough to be heard by the retreating teacher. "No one would have dreamed of Delia's having run away, if Miss Thomas had not said so."

"It is queer, though," said Almira Crosby. "How did she come to be over there without any one's knowing it?"

"Easy enough," replied Belle. "She rooms alone, and not feeling well, she probably dressed herself, and went over to Mrs. Pomeroy's room for some medicine, and Mrs. Pomeroy kept her."

"She has not seemed like herself for a good while," remarked Annette. "She has grown so nervous. I have noticed how she changes color when she gives in her exercise, and you know we did not used to think she cared for any such thing."

"There is something wrong about those exercises," said Almira. "I have never felt satisfied about that matter."

"Oh, Almira!" exclaimed Janet, who had appeared again upon the scene, when Miss Thomas had departed. "What a vacuum your head must be! If you get a notion into it, it buzzes there like a bee in an empty cask. It seems to me that I would stuff it with something, if it were only to stop the echo. No one but yourself sees anything wonderful in the matter at all, and I had forgotten it long ago."

"Very likely," returned Almira, no-ways abashed by the ridicule, to which indeed she was pretty well accustomed. "But I don't forget a thing when once I hear it."

"Don't you?" said Belle. "In what year was the English revolution? You hear that often enough."

"In 1492," retorted Almira triumphantly. "You didn't catch me that time, Miss Faushane!"

"Well, I don't know," said Belle. "I should rather think I did."

"I don't care!" returned Almira. "I remember some things, if I don't recollect dates."

"Such as French verbs, and rules in Arithmetic, I suppose. But come there is the breakfast bell."

Mrs. Pomeroy appeared at the breakfast table, serene as usual, and no one was missing but Delia. Emily had been gone so long, that the girls had ceased to look for her. Towards the end of the meal, Mrs. Pomeroy tapped with her spoon upon the urn before her, and the girls were all attention in a moment. Mrs. Pomeroy spoke with her usual deliberation.

"I wish to say to the young ladies, that some of them must come to my bed-room to-day, upon any pretext whatever, but must apply to Miss Gilbert who will supply any thing that may be necessary. Miss Mason is quite ill, and it is necessary that she should be kept perfectly quiet. I am sure your own good feeling will lead you to make as little noise as possible in going back and forth to your lessons. There will be no recitations in French this morning, and the young ladies will study in the school-room during that hour. You are excused."

"There, I knew there was something queer," said Almira, exultingly. "I knew that Mr. Hugo was mixed up in it somehow. What is he away for to-day, if it is not so?"

"Perhaps he has shot himself!" said Janet, bravely.

"Or lost, or accidentally mislaid himself," added Lucy, taking up the ball.

"Or lost his boots—or broken his bottle of hair-dye—or got a black eye—" continued Belle, coming nearer to the truth than she imagined in this last suggestion. "Send down some one with your compliments, and inquire."

"I don't care," said Almira, sulkily, "I will find out all about it, yet,—see if I don't, if I have to listen at the door."

"There will be no occasion to see if you don't, since we shall all be sure to hear if you do," said Belle. "But I advise you not to let Mrs. Pomeroy catch you listening. She does not admire the pursuit of knowledge under such circumstances."

Delia slept till nine o'clock, and awoke so much refreshed and composed, that Mrs. Pomeroy no longer feared to question her on the events of the past night. She concealed nothing, but related the whole affair from the very beginning at the Classical Gymnasium; where the correspondence commenced, to its close, screening Emily as much as possible, and taking the whole blame upon herself.

"But I do not understand, Emily, why you did not refuse to have any participation in the matter," said Mrs. Pomeroy. "You might at least have done that, if your false ideas of honor and friendship prevented you from revealing the secret. It was not what I would have expected from you. I had a good deal of confidence in your good principles."

"Your confidence was sadly misplaced," said poor Emily. "I had a secret of my own, even worse than Delia's." She felt that the time had come for her to lay down the burden which had weighed on her so long, and with many tears, she confessed all her faults from that first one of making "a bill at the store," to the last and most disgraceful ending.

Mrs. Pomeroy was excessively shocked. She had never dreamed of such a thing as that the money should have been taken by one of the young ladies, and she could hardly believe her ears when she heard that such was the case.

Emily concluded by saying, "Ever since I was sick, I have made up my mind to confess at all hazards, and I was only waiting to have one more talk with Delia to try and persuade her to join me. I am ready to tell the story before the whole school, if you wish me to do so."

"There would be no good, but a great deal of harm in that," replied Mrs. Pomeroy. "The whole matter has died away now, and there is no use in recalling it. I think it will be necessary to tell Kitty, but we can rely upon her discretion as much as if she were fifty years old. The poor child will be terribly shocked, for she almost worshipped you, Emily."

"I have been thinking," said Emily in a low voice, "that I ought to write and tell my father."

"There is some good in her yet," thought Mrs. Pomeroy, "or she would never propose such a step of her own accord." "You are quite right in thinking so," she said aloud. "It is one of the best proofs you can give of your sincere repentance."

"And my father," said Delia anxiously, "what about him?"

"I have written to him and your mother to come here," replied Mrs. Pomeroy, "and I shall expect them to-morrow morning. We must consult together what is best to be done. I cannot now arrive at any decision, and till I do so, I wish neither of you to leave this room on any pretext whatever, nor shall I allow you to see any one. You must not complain if I treat you altogether as culprits till you have shown yourselves worthy of confidence."

There was a violent ring at the door as she spoke, and a few minutes afterward, a servant appeared and informed Mrs. Pomeroy that Mr. Hugo was below, and desired to see Miss Mason immediately.

Delia turned pale.

"Oh, Mrs. Pomeroy, I cannot see him. Don't let him come near me!"

"Fear nothing, my child. He shall not harm you, if I can help it. I only wonder at his insolence in presenting himself here at all."

She stopped a moment to put her cap to rights, for in no emergency was she seen with any part of her dress in disorder, and descended to the drawing room, which was directly under her own apartments.

The girls sat clasped in each other's arms, Delia trembling and terrified, listening to the angry voice which made itself heard through the floor, and offered a striking contrast to Mr. Fletcher's deep and composed tones. Leaving them to comfort each other, we will follow Mrs. Pomeroy to the drawing room.

Mr. Hugo was walking up and down the long apartment, raging like a wild beast, his appearance not improved by his black eye, or the loss of his moustache, which he had been obliged to sacrifice, being quite unable to clean it from the tenacious clay which it had contracted in his fall. Mr. Fletcher stood by the fire-side, quietly regarding him with his dark, bright eyes, but showing no signs of disturbance. Mr. Hugo turned round as Mrs. Pomeroy entered.

"To what am I indebted for the unexpected honor of seeing Madame?" he inquired, with sarcastic politeness. "If my memory serves me, I inquired for Miss Mason, alone."

"When visitors inquire for my young ladies, I am accustomed to receive them myself," was the quiet reply. "Miss Mason is at present quite too unwell to see any one, and she requests me to say, that neither now, nor at any other time, does she wish to receive visits from Mr. Hugo. I must add, that owing to recent events, I must decline any further attendance from you at this establishment."

"Which I have degraded myself ever to have entered—" burst forth Mr. Hugo. "But upon what pretext does Miss Mason deny my visits?"

"I am not aware that any pretext is necessary, but if it were, I have forbidden her to leave her room till her father arrives, nor, I may add, has she any wish to do so. She has related to me the whole story of her acquaintance, from the beginning, and I have her authority not only for refusing any further correspondence, but also for returning your presents, and requesting the return of her letters."

"Which, nevertheless, I shall take the liberty of retaining," said Mr. Hugo, with his peculiar smile. "These same letters will make a pretty little romance, which will, no doubt, be pleasing to the friends of Miss Mason and Miss Arlington, and add greatly to the reputation of Mrs. Pomeroy's school, as showing the care which is taken of the young ladies' morals at that establishment."

This was touching Mrs. Pomeroy upon a tender point. As Delia had once remarked, she valued the reputation of her school above all things, and it had hitherto been above a breath of reproach. She cast a glance of some alarm at Mr. Fletcher, which Mr. Hugo perceived, and fancying that he had gained an advantage, he pursued it.

"Very pretty documents are these same letters, and when they are properly arranged, and accompanied with some account of moonlight walks, and meetings in the back rooms of confectionary shops, and so forth, they will make a nice story for some of the daily prints. Your respectable pension will derive additional lustre from the fact of its having been the scene of such a transaction, and I shall put a pretty little sum in my pocket. This will be some compensation for the loss of the fortune of Miss Delia, who, as the heroine of this romance, will confer honor on her family name. Monsieur says nothing," he added, turning from Mrs. Pomeroy to Mr. Fletcher. "Possibly he is struck dumb with astonishment!"

"Not at all!" replied Mr. Fletcher. "I always believed you to be a consummate rascal, from the first moment I saw you. I suppose the plain English of all this rodomontade is, that you want to be paid for suppressing the letters. If that is your object, you would do better to state it directly."

"Monsieur is very quick-sighted," said Mr. Hugo, with a grin. "You must be aware that the publication of these letters will irrecoverably injure the young lady. Notwithstanding the way in which she has treated me, I have a disinterested regard for her—"

"We will dispense with any reference to your regard," interrupted Mr. Fletcher, "which might have been somewhat modified, had you been acquainted with the fact that the young lady's fortune is wholly forfeited if she marries without her father's consent, before she comes of age."

"The traitress!" exclaimed Mr. Hugo. "She never told me that. However, it is no reason why I should not make my profit off these documents."

At this juncture, Mr. Fletcher was called out of the room. He remained about some five minutes, during which time Mr. Hugo walked up and down, examining the pictures, and commenting upon them in a way which told a good deal for his knowledge of arts, and still more for his powers of impudence, while Mrs. Pomeroy sat on thorns, afraid lest someone should come in, and wondering what could detain Mr. Fletcher.

Presently he returned. He did not, however, resume his former place but remained standing by the door, with his hands behind him, and a curious smile on his face, which Mrs. Pomeroy could not exactly understand.

"Well sir!" said he. "Have you made up your mind how much to ask for these same documents?"

"Ah! That is coming to the point," said Mr. Hugo. "I have no desire to be exorbitant, out I am, at this moment, in want of money to return to France. I should think that a thousand dollars from the young lady's father, and another thousand from Madame here, would content me—for the present."

Mrs. Pomeroy opened her eyes in amazement.

Mr. Fletcher said quietly:

"And suppose we pay this sum, what security have we that you will perform your part of the engagement?"

"The honor of a Frenchman, Monsieur!" said Mr. Hugo, drawing himself up in a magnificent manner.

Mr. Fletcher laughed outright. "I am afraid you would hardly get a note discounted upon that security," said he. "I think your terms high, and as I hold the documents in my possession, at this moment, I must beg leave respectfully to decline the bargain."

He brought his right hand from behind him as he spoke, and displayed a large bundle of papers, arranged and filed in a manner which did credit to Mr. Hugo's business habits. Mrs. Pomeroy uttered an exclamation of joy, and Mr. Hugo seemed for a moment as though he were about to spring upon Mr. Fletcher like a wild cat. He restrained himself; however, and said grimly through his teeth:—

"You search gentlemen's rooms, do you?"

"No," replied Mr. Fletcher, "but there are those who render that service to such honorable gentlemen as yourself!"

He tapped the door slightly as he spoke. It opened on the instant, and in walked two stout professional looking men, of decidedly determined aspect, followed by Mr. Hugo's old acquaintance, Mr. Brown, the baggage master.

At the sight of the foremost man, Mr. Hugo turned ghastly pale: all his assurance seemed to desert him—he looked helplessly round as though searching in vain for some way of escape, and then dropped into a chair; as the officer, for such he was, walked up to him and laid his hand on his shoulder, he seemed to collapse and shrink into himself, and Mrs. Pomeroy looked to see him disappear altogether.

"Excuse me, madam," said the officer, politely addressing Mrs. Pomeroy. "It becomes my duty to arrest this person for forgery and bank robbery committed at New Orleans, some time since. We have been for a long time upon his track, and only heard of his whereabouts a short time ago. I understand he has been acting as teacher in your establishment, and elsewhere, under the assumed name of Emile Hugo."

"It is true," replied Mrs. Pomeroy, recovering a little from her first surprise. "My eyes have been but just now opened to his true character."

"It is well that they are so," said the officer. "From what I gathered from the papers found in his apartment, I should imagine that he had been endeavoring to draw some young lady under your charge into a clandestine marriage. Had he succeeded, he would have been liable to a prosecution for bigamy, as he has a wife now living in New Orleans."

"My poor Delia!" exclaimed Mrs. Pomeroy, quite thrown off her balance by this new proof of villainy. "From what a fate have you been saved?"

"Mr. Fletcher, to whom we are indebted for the information which led to Mr. Bruce's apprehension," continued the last speaker, "has informed me that the prisoner had an idea of extorting money from the young lady's friends, by means of those letters, which I thought proper to deliver to him. As you may have some fears on this point, I take pleasure in informing you that neither you, nor the lady in question, need entertain any apprehension, as the proof against him will be more than sufficient to send him to finish his days in the State prison."

He produced a pair of hand-cuffs, as he spoke, and in a few minutes the wretched man had taken his departure between his two guards. We have only to add, that the officers' prediction was fulfilled, and the accomplished Mr. Hugo now dresses stone in the State prison.

Mr. Brown lingered a moment, to talk the matter over with Mr. Fletcher.

"Well!" said he. "The fellow is well disposed of. The officers came on the morning train—the very one he would have taken, if it had been in time. I knew who they were the moment I saw them, and something, I don't know what, gave me a guess of who they might be after—so I stepped up and asked them if it was a Frenchman they were looking for. They said yes, and I described the man who was in the office last night with the girl. That was their customer, they said, and asked me to go with them. We went to his boarding-house first, and there saw these letters lying on the table. I hinted to them that he had been trying to run off with one of the Seminary girls, and told them to bring the letters along, intending to hand them to you or Mrs. Pomeroy."

"Thank you, very much," said Mr. Fletcher. "For the poor girl's sake, I must ask you not to mention what happened last night, as we want to keep the affair quiet, if possible."

Mr. Brown's tawny moustache twitched a little. "I had a daughter of my own, about that poor girl's age, Mr. Fletcher. She was a good girl, and has gone to a better place than this—but I know how I should have felt if any rascal had tried to serve her so. I am not what I should be, but I've got a father's feelings, and no one will ever know a word from me!"

"You are a good fellow, Brown," said Mr. Fletcher, grasping his hand. "But hav'nt you another daughter? I think I have seen a little girl with you sometimes."

"Yes," replied Mr. Brown, surprised at the question—"Why?"

"I want you to send her up here to school, and let me educate her," was the reply. "I am sure she will be an honor to the establishment, and both Mrs. Pomeroy and myself shall consider her education but a small return for the service you have rendered us in this unhappy affair."

"Pray do so, Mr. Brown," added Mrs. Pomeroy. "I assure you, she shall be cared for, as if she were my own daughter."

"I don't want any return," said Mr. Brown, a little gruffly. "I did as I would be done by, and that's enough. At the same time, I have no right to refuse such an opportunity for the girl, who is a good one, if I say it myself. I am much obliged to you, ma'am, and since you are so kind, I shall send her to you to-morrow."

We will not attempt any description of Delia's feelings, when she was informed by Mrs. Pomeroy of the events that had transpired in the parlor. It would be hard to tell whether she were more horror-struck at the danger to which she had been exposed, or thankful for her escape. Mrs. Pomeroy had a long conversation with her, and was fully convinced of the reality of her repentance.

"There are your letters," she said in conclusion, putting the parcel into her hands, "and the only penance I shall at present impose upon you, is, that of reading them through from first to last, before you commit them to the flames."

We have but one more incident to record of this most eventful day, and that is an adventure of Miss Almira Crosby's in the pursuit of knowledge. Pursuant to the declaration she had made in the morning, she had been watching and peeping all day, but she had ascertained nothing beyond the fact that Mr. Hugo had called, and that he had gone away in company with several other persons; and that Delia and Emily were together in Mrs. Pomeroy's room.

At last an opportunity presented itself which was too good to be lost. Mrs. Pomeroy's dressing room opened upon a kind of upper piazza or balcony, which was accessible by a flight of steps from below. This door was seldom opened in winter, but as Almira was passing to and fro upon the walk, trying at least to catch a glimpse of some one passing the window, she suddenly perceived that the door was ajar. Her resolution was instantly formed. She slipped off her shoes, and putting them in her pocket, she stole softly up the stairs, and applied her ear the door.

All was still at first. There seemed to be no one in the dressing room, but he heard a murmur of voices beyond, and as her ear grew accustomed to the sound, she could easily distinguish the words. She heard Mrs. Pomeroy say, "Are you prepared—"

She listened eagerly for the remainder of the sentence, placing her head still closer to the door, when alas! A gush of wind came round the corner—the door slammed violently and suddenly, and poor Almira found herself a prisoner, held fast by the whole of one side of her long ringlets, which had been caught by the closing door so close to her head, that it was a marvel her ear had not shared the same fate.

Here was a dilemma! What was to be done? She could not open the door, which had no handle on the outside. Mrs. Pomeroy might come out of the bed-room and find her there at any moment, or some of the girls might come round the corner. There was but one way. Luckily she had a pair of scissors in her pocket; she drew them forth, and in another moment she was at liberty, but at the expense of one whole side of her ringlets, which she was obliged to leave hanging in the door. It was not till she had succeeded in escaping unseen to her room, and looked in the glass, that the whole extent of her misfortune burst upon her, and she saw that the other side must needs share the fate of its fellow. She burst into tears, but there was no remedy, and reluctantly she applied the scissors once more, laying each severed curl carefully and mournfully away.

"What in the world have you been doing to yourself, Almira?" exclaimed Annette, opening her eyes in amazement, as Almira came out of her room when the tea bell rang.

"I have cut off my hair," replied Almira, trying to put a good face upon the matter. "It was altogether too much trouble, and took too much of my time."

"But you need not have cut it so short," said Annette. "Why didn't you just brush it back plain. You look like a picked chicken."

"I made a mistake," replied Almira.

"Never mind, it will soon grow again," said Belle, consolingly, seeing that Almira looked annoyed. "She will come to something, after all," she continued to Janet, as they went down stairs together. "I shall have some hope of her, now that she has got rid of those curls. Poor thing, what a struggle it must have cost her."

"Those same ringlets never went for nothing," replied the Queen of Sheba, who in her office of monitress had been more than usually disturbed by Almira's carelessness and laziness during the day. "I should not be surprised if we should hear something more about them before long."

So it turned out. In her distress at her loss, it had never occurred to Almira that she was leaving behind her a token of her presence, which could not fail to be recognized.

Mrs. Pomeroy, coming out of her bed-room, had seen the unlucky ringlets hanging in the door, and at once divined how they came there. For more than a year, she had been trying by all sorts of gentle means, to break Almira of her habit of eaves-dropping, and prying into the concerns of others, but without the least success, and she now determined to try the effect of another course. Taking the locks in her hand, she descended to the tea-table, and at the end of the meal, the usual signal announced a speech from the throne.

"Has any young lady lost any thing?" asked Mrs. Pomeroy.

There was silence, but one or two glanced significantly at poor Almira, whose cheeks began to burn.

"These curls were found hanging in the outside door to my dressing room," continued Mrs. Pomeroy, holding them up in full view of the assembled family. "I cannot, of course, imagine how they should have come there, unless, indeed, some one has been listening at the door, but if they belong to any young lady in the establishment, she can have them returned, by calling at my room and proving her property."

CHAPTER XI.

MR. AND MRS. MASON arrived next morning, and had rather a lengthened conversation with Mrs. Pomeroy, before they were admitted to see Delia, who continued very unwell, and seemed threatened with serious illness. Poor Delia meantime was trembling with conflicting emotions, among which shame, perhaps, predominated. She had, as Mrs. Pomeroy requested, read through all the returned letters, from beginning to end. The task was a hard one, but it did her good. Now that her eyes were opened to the man's real character, she wondered what it could have been about him that fascinated her.

"But I never really did care for him," she said to Emily. "My vanity was flattered by his attentions, and I thought there was something very interesting in having a secret correspondence. There were plenty of such things going on at the Gymnasium, and some of the teachers knew it well enough, too. I have seen Miss Jenkins look the other way, very hard indeed, when she knew, as well as they did, that the girls were doing things that were forbidden. But the poor thing was so overworked, and the girls plagued her so, that it was no wonder if she was glad to buy a little peace at any price. How long they stay down stairs! I do wish they would come up, and yet I dread to see them, especially mother. I have acted so shamefully towards her."

"Don't excite yourself," said Emily, seeing that Delia was growing feverish again. "If your mother is as good as every one says, I am sure you have no cause to fear her. Oh, dear me! I only wish I had a mother to turn to."

The door opened as she spoke, and Mrs. Pomeroy entered, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Mason. Mr. Mason had been very angry at hearing of his daughter's misconduct, and had fully determined to treat her with great sternness, a resolution from which Mrs. Pomeroy had attempted in vain to dissuade him. As they were going up stairs, however, Mrs. Mason dropped behind and whispered to her.

"You need have no fear of Mr. Mason's using any undue severity. You will see how it will be!"

Delia was still confined to her bed, but she raised herself, as they entered, and looked eagerly towards them. She had grown very thin and pale of late, and her black eyes looked unnaturally large and bright. She did not speak at first. Mr. Mason made an effort to deliver his intended reproof.

"Delia!" he began, with an extra amount of sternness in his voice, as he felt his courage giving way at the sight of his daughter. "I am very much shocked—I could never have believed that a daughter of mine—bless me, how thin she is—why she looks like a ghost. There, there, don't cry, poor dear, and we won't say any more about it, just now. It is all over, and you have only to get well, and try to do better in future."

Mrs. Mason glanced at Mrs. Pomeroy, as she stooped to kiss Delia, while Mr. Mason walked away to the window, to blow his nose and wipe his spectacles.

"Oh, mother!" were Delia's first words. "If I had only been guided by you, I should never have been where I am."

"Try not to agitate yourself, my love," was Mrs. Mason's quiet reply. "We can talk of that another time. You must keep yourself quiet as possible now, in order not to increase your fever. Mrs. Pomeroy has told us the whole story, and we are ready to forgive every thing. Nobody else knows any thing of the matter, and you have nothing more to fear from your persecutor."

"I don't want you to judge him too hardly, mother," said Delia. How naturally the word mother now came to her lips, and how she wondered that she should ever have found it so hard to speak. "I do not think Mr. Hugo was nearly so much to blame as myself. He would never have thought of such a thing, if I had behaved properly."

"I dare say not," said Mrs. Mason. "In ninety-nine such cases out of a hundred, the fault rests more with the woman than the man. If a girl respects herself, other people will respect her."

"I think it will be hard for me to respect myself, after this," said Delia, sighing. "I am sure I cannot expect others to respect me. It does not seem as though I could ever look any one in the face again."

"That very humility must be your safeguard, my child. But Delia, there is One against whom you have offended far more than against any earthly friend. Have you asked forgiveness of Him?"

"Yes, mother," replied Delia, in a low voice, "but it is very hard for me to think that He will forgive me. I don't feel so."

"You have a surer witness than any mere feeling, my dear."

Delia looked at her, inquiringly.

"You have the promises of God, expressed in Holy Scripture, that no repentant sinner who comes seeking forgiveness through the intercession and merits of our Saviour, will be cast out. Feeling is a very uncertain thing, at the best; and often leads us astray, but not so the promises of God. There is no variableness nor shadow of turning in them."

"That is something like what Emily says," observed Delia. "She was very religious when she first came to school, but she says now that it was all feeling, and that she had no more principle than I had."

"Probably that is true," said Mrs. Mason. "They are often mistaken, the one for the other."

"Then you think, mother," said Delia, after a little pause—"that I ought to believe that God has forgiven me? I should be only too glad to think so, but it seems almost presumptuous."

"Do you think, Delia, that you have truly repented of your past sins?"

"Yes, mother, I think so."

"You have asked the forgiveness of your Father in Heaven, through the merits and intercession of our Lord Jesus Christ?"

"Yes, mother, over and over again."

"And what about the future. Do you wish, or intend that it shall be like the past?"

"Oh no, indeed!" replied Delia, shuddering. "I do hope to live a Christian life after this. But I don't know—I have no faith in myself."

"Nor is it necessary or desirable that you should have faith in yourself. Faith in God is much better. But since you are truly repentant, and have sought God's forgiveness in the way of His own appointment, is it not rather more presumptuous to indulge a doubt of receiving it, than it is to believe in his plainly expressed promises?"

"Perhaps so!" replied Delia, sighing, as if with a feeling of relief. "I had never looked at it in that way. I am sure I shall be only too glad to believe it."

"We will not say much now," said Mrs. Mason, observing that Delia seemed very tired. "You are evidently over excited, and need rest and quiet. We will talk over these matters another time."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Mason. "Talk it over with your mother. She understands such things. She has taught me a great deal that I never knew before. But I want to see you well, now. Poor dear, how much you must have suffered. I only hope you have had enough of secrets to last you all the rest of your life. They are wretched things. Why, dear me, it makes me miserable to have any thing on my mind that I can't talk about."

Delia could not help smiling.

"There, that's right. Now you look natural again. But as I was saying, I don't think you will ever want any more secrets."

"No, indeed!" said Delia, heartily. "I don't think I shall as long as I live."

Great was the wonderment of the school when the true story of Mr. Hugo's departure came out, and great also the triumphing of Almira, who declared that she knew there was something queer about him, and appealed to the girls to know if she had not always said so. She had kept herself pretty quiet after the loss of her hair, and the consequent exposure, but the "delight" of finding herself in the right, as she expressed it, quite overcame her previous mortification, and she was loud in her exaltation, ending by saying—

"And more than that, I know that Emily Arlington and Delia Mason had something to do with the business, or why does Delia stay in Mrs. Pomeroy's room and see no one, and why were her father and mother sent for in such a wonderful hurry? As to her being sick, that is all humbug. I don't believe she is any more sick than I am. Mrs. Pomeroy means to keep the thing quiet, that is all."

"Did you learn all that the night you lost your hair?" asked some one.

"You just be quiet, Sue Dayton. I am not the only person in this house that has ever listened at a door. But any how, I know just as well as I know any thing—"

"That is not so strong an assertion as you might use, Almira," interrupted Belle; "since there are some things that you don't know very well."

"Just as well as I know any thing," continued Almira, disregarding the interruption—"that Em. Arlington and Delia Mason were mixed up in that affair of Mr. Hugo's."

"Let me advise you, as a friend, not to repeat that assertion, Almira," said Janet Graves, seriously. "Mrs. Pomeroy would be very angry to hear you connect the name of any of her young ladies with Mr. Hugo's, and you do not stand so well with her now, that you can afford to lose any favor. It would only take a very few more mis-steps on your part, to ensure your dismission from school."

"I should like to know how you come to know so much about it," said Almira. "You are not a teacher, and I don't believe Mrs. Pomeroy tells you every thing."

"It is true, I am not a teacher," replied Janet, "but since Miss Bronson has been sick, I have helped Miss Gilbert to make up her books, and I know the standing of every scholar in school. Your marks are not what I should like to have mine, and though I am not at liberty to say any more, I certainly advise you to take care how you make them any worse. Even you would not like to be sent home in disgrace."

"Dear me, no!" said Almira, in alarm. "I should never dare to show my face there, if I was expelled. But are they so very bad, Janet? I did not think they would be."

"I don't know how you can think so, when hardly a week passes that your name is not at the very bottom of the bill, both for lessons and deportment. You have only been in the perfect list once this term."

"But just tell me how many marks I have, Janet, or let me guess—Is it fifty?"

"Did I not tell you that I was bound in honor not to say any more?" said the Queen of Sheba, much disgusted. "If you had any sense of propriety, you would never ask me another question, after that."

"Dear me! What is the use of being so grand?" asked Almira. "Of course, I should not tell Miss Gilbert, and what harm would it do, so long as she did not know it?"

Her majesty deigned no reply, but walked away, leaving Almira to her reflections, if she could be supposed to have any.

"After all," said Lucy, when Janet related this conversation to her afterward. "Perhaps we are all too hard upon poor Almira. She has had no home advantages. Her mother is just as great a gossip as herself, and I dare say, Almira has heard all the affairs of the neighborhood, public and private, beside a good many that never existed at all, talked over in her presence over since she can remember. I don't believe Mrs. Crosby ever read through a book of any sort in her life. I could not help laughing the last time I was at home, to hear her tell mother, with such an appearance of self-satisfaction, that she had no time for reading or study—she had to attend to her domestic concerns, which she considered as woman's proper sphere."

"But one would think Almira might have improved," said Janet. "Mrs. Pomeroy has taken so much pains with her, that it seems as if she might have formed a different sort of character."

"Her character was pretty much formed before Mrs. Pomeroy had any thing to do with her, I imagine," replied Lucy. "Remember that she was almost sixteen when she came here. I do hope, however, that she will not be sent home, for neither her father nor mother would have any forbearance with her, under such circumstances."

"It was for that very reason that I gave her a hint," said Janet. "I know how angry it would make Mrs. Pomeroy to hear that any such talk was going on in the school. But it is nonsense to say that Delia is not sick. I saw her for a moment this morning, and really don't think I should have known her."

Delia did, indeed, continue very unwell. Mrs. Pomeroy had hoped that her illness would have passed away with the excitement which caused it, but such was not the case, and as the days went on, it became evident that her health had received a serious shock. It was at last decided that she would be more likely to recover in the quietness of home, and under the care of her mother, to whom she now clung almost as much as she had hitherto disliked her; and as soon as she was able to travel, she was removed.

Even Miss Thomas was moved, when she saw Delia for the first and last time, and she bade her an affectionate farewell. None of the girls, except Emily and Janet, saw her at all, as she was still very weak, and unable to bear the least excitement, but she exerted herself to look out of the carriage and wave her handkerchief, as she passed the gate, where most of her companions were assembled to see the last of her.

"Oh, how happy I might have been here," she sighed, as she sank back again, "but it was all my own fault."

"Let us hope that you have many happy days still in store," said Mrs. Mason. "Your lesson, though a hard one, will be worth all it has cost you, if it has led you to the foot of that Cross wherein alone is safety and salvation."

Emily had not forgotten her resolution, and as soon as Delia was gone, she sat down resolutely to write to her father. It was a hard task, and was not accomplished without many tears, but she knew what was her duty, and she resolved to perform it faithfully. She concealed nothing, but related the whole story of her faults, from the very beginning, without attempting the least excuse or palliation of her conduct. She concluded, by humbly asking permission to remain at the school till her father's return, that she might have an opportunity of redeeming her character, and regaining the confidence of Mrs. Pomeroy, of whose kindness she could hardly say enough. This letter was submitted to Mrs. Pomeroy, who approved it, and added one of her own, which, however, she did not show to Emily.

When Mr. Arlington received these two letters, his first impulse was to remove Emily from the school at once, and keep her in future entirely under his own eye. But he was not a hasty man, and though his temper was naturally severe, he was lacking neither in a sense of justice, nor in a due regard for his daughter. He could not help observing that Emily's letter showed every sign of true contrition, without the least attempt at self-justification, and he was particularly pleased with the sensible and straight-forward tone of Mrs. Pomeroy's note.

Mrs. Pomeroy had written that she should not make any attempt to excuse Emily, further than to remind him that she was still very young, and that the perfect retirement in which she had lived previously to entering school, had, perhaps, not altogether fitted her for resisting temptation. There could be no doubt of the sincerity of her repentance, as her letter, written entirely of her own free will, and by her own suggestions, abundantly showed. She had no desire to lose Emily from the school, but stood ready to dispose of her as her father should appoint.

Mr. Arlington reflected that it would be exceedingly inconvenient for him to return home, or to have Emily come out to him, and that she would be more likely to get into fresh trouble among strangers, than with Mrs. Pomeroy, who was well acquainted with her faults, and for her own sake, would watch her carefully hereafter. Finally, he decided to let her remain where she was, at least for another year, and wrote to Mrs. Pomeroy to that effect, at the same time enclosing money to pay all her indebtedness. His letter to Emily was extremely kind—more so than she had anticipated, or indeed than he had at first intended, but as he went on writing, his heart melted toward the motherless child, so far separated from him, and though he did not conceal his displeasure at her faults, he assured her of his entire forgiveness and continued affection, and his desire to act solely for her good, concluding with a fervent blessing upon his only and darling child.

Emily watched and waited for this letter till her heart was sick with fear and hope deferred, but when it came, she hardly dared to open it till Mrs. Pomeroy assured her that it contained no ill news. Many were the tears of joy and sorrow which she shed over its pages, and most fervent were her prayers that she might have grace given her from on high to enable her to show herself worthy of so much affection. It gave her a different feeling toward her father, from any she had ever entertained before, and she thought she should never again fear to open her heart to him. In fact, from this time might be dated the beginning of a thoroughly good understanding between Mr. Arlington and his daughter which was never again interrupted.

Mrs. Pomeroy paid Kitty the ten dollars which she was at first very unwilling to receive, but she consented to do so upon Mrs. Pomeroy's representing to her that she would thereby relieve Emily from a painful sense of obligation. She had been greatly shocked on being informed of the transaction, but her anger was quite swallowed up in her sympathy for Emily's distress. Again and again she kissed her and assured her that it was no matter—that she had done quite as well without it, and that she was even glad she had lost it, as that it gave her an opportunity of seeing how much the girls loved her. Nor did any allusion to the matter ever pass her lips. Her health was improving greatly, and Mrs. Pomeroy began again to hope with trembling that she might be spared to grow up a comfort to her own declining years.

Mr. Arlington had requested Mrs. Pomeroy to give Emily a certain weekly allowance, such as she should deem suitable, and Mrs. Pomeroy did so, but Emily seemed all at once to have grown very economical. She never asked permission to go out shopping, the candy woman's attractions were passed by unheeded, and even resisted the temptation of purchasing some beautiful verbenas to plant in her garden. Mrs. Pomeroy noticed this economy, but made no remark upon it, nor was she much surprised, when after the lapse of some time, Emily brought her ten dollars; the whole sum of her allowance, requesting her to expend it in some way for Kitty's benefit.

But though not surprised, she was much pleased. She thought it a sign of no small firmness and principle in Emily thus to have denied herself almost every pleasure, in order to restore from what was strictly her own, that which she had stolen. Nor did she refuse the money, though she declined to appropriate it to Kitty. There was a charitable fund which had existed in the school, almost since its commencement to which most of the girls were subscribers, and the proceeds of which were appropriated to clothing poor children for Sunday Schools. Mrs. Pomeroy proposed to Emily that this ten dollars, the fruit of her self-denial, should be quietly placed in this fund, and Emily joyfully consented, feeling her heart very much relieved.

Little now remains to be added to our story.

Delia remained very unwell, and greatly depressed in spirits for a considerable time, but the quiet of home, and the kind attentions of her friends at last had their effect, and she gradually recovered her health. Emily spent the summer vacation with her, and they returned to school together. Delia was not a person to do anything by halves. She had once said that it would take an earthquake to convert her, but that then she should stay converted. It was even so. She had had the earthquake, and the rest of the prediction seemed likely to be fulfilled. Her reformation was complete and lasting, and during the last year of her stay at school, she was as noticeable for her consistent Christian character, as she had formerly been the reverse. Her presence was of great service to Emily, who was not possessed of her friend's force of character, and might perhaps have been led again into temptation, without the help of Delia's counsel and example. They finished their school course with credit to themselves and their instructress, and are now both useful and respected women.

We are sorry not to be able to say as much for Miss Crosby. She returned home at the end of the year, not one particle wiser than she had been at its beginning, having expended more time and ingenuity in getting rid of lessons than would have been requisite to learn them twice over. But she was very pretty and graceful, and was soon married to a gentleman, who believed such lovely simplicity would be easily guided, and thought it would be a delightful task to form the mind of such an artless young creature. It is possible that he may have found out by this time that the artless young creature has not only a mind, but a will of her own already formed. Such at least is the idea current among his friends, who do not appear to consider him an object of envy.

Alice Parker was considerably impressed by her conversation with Belle Faushane at the time of Emily's sickness, and began to consider whether she had not been in some degree to blame in making the very worst of her lot instead of the best. As she was not deficient either in strength of mind, or religious principle, she was induced to make an effort at greater cheerfulness, and had really improved considerably, when she received intelligence which seemed likely to throw her back again. Mrs. Williams was attacked with paralysis, and her presence was required at home immediately. Mrs. Williams partially recovered, but remained quite feeble and helpless, and as she was unwilling to have her adopted daughter away from her side, Alice's school career came to a sudden termination. The effect of the change upon her character, was reported by Belle Faushane after her return to school in the fall.

"Oh, and by the way, I went to see Alice."

"How does she get on?" asked Delia. "I suppose she must be more dismal than ever, now that she has to live at home all the time."

"On the contrary, she has brightened up amazingly. I never saw any one so changed. She did not sigh once while I was there, and she laughed quite merrily two or three times. Poor Mrs. Williams suffers a great deal and is quite childish, and Alice has to contrive all sorts of ways to amuse her. She has prevailed upon her to have Mrs. Parker there to keep house for them, which of course makes it much pleasanter, but after all, I believe the change is more in Alice herself."

"I always thought Alice might be happier at home if she managed differently," observed Lucy. "But she always had such a way of acting as though she was terribly abused by some one, that it was not calculated to conciliate a woman like Mrs. Williams, especially when she felt at the same time that she really was doing a great deal for Alice."

"I think Alice feels that herself," said Belle. "She said to me, 'You told me once that the reason I did not find my work was, because I did not look for it, and I believe you were right. I have found it now, and it seems likely to be lasting, but I am far from quarrelling with it, for it has made me happier than ever I was before.'"

Belle herself has found her work. She has married a clergyman and is the very head and front of all the charitable, literary and other undertakings in a large city parish, where she is much liked and admired, though it must be confessed that she sometimes terrifies and now and then extinguishes, certain fine young gentlemen of the weaker sort, causing them to seek revenge in remarking upon safe opportunities, that Mrs. Garland would be quite a fine woman if she was not so sarcastic.

She is quite worshipped by all the poor people, children and servants in the parish, including her own, and she and her husband think each other the most wonderful people in the world. She is an admirable housekeeper too, which rather surprised Miss Thomas, who lately spent a Christmas vacation with her.

Miss Thomas confessed to Mrs. Pomeroy on her return that she had never seen a household better managed, but added—"As much pains as I took with her, it would be strange if she did not turn out something, but there are none of the girls of the present day, who compare with that set. They are all slatterns and idlers from beginning to end."

From which remark it may be inferred that Miss Thomas is not much altered by the lapse of time.

Mr. Hugo's place was supplied by an amiable and accomplished French lady, under whose instructions Annette made such progress that she actually received the second French prize. It is unnecessary to say that her amiable disposition and strength of principle made her a happy and useful woman.

Lucy became a teacher in the seminary after the death of her mother, and had the pleasure of seeing her two little sisters educated under the fostering care of Mrs. Pomeroy, who still continues her honorable and useful career, cheered by the love and care of Kitty Mastick, and of Agnes Brown, the baggage master's daughter, who has been with her ever since the memorable night when her father knocked down the gallant Mr. Hugo.

Mr. Fletcher lives honored and venerated by all who know him. He is still addicted to going out in the stormiest weather and making long botanical excursions on foot. Mrs. Pomeroy has never found out how he came to be in the station room just in time to meet Delia.

Cornelius Agrippa lived to a very great age, and died much lamented. His remains repose in the garden under a picturesque monument, erected by the contributions of the young ladies. His master was much afflicted at his loss, but was partially consoled by an opportune present of four horned frogs, which were carefully brought all the way from one of the southwestern military posts by a favorite pupil who had been home to spend the summer. These charming creatures were alive and thriving at the last accounts.

I cannot close this little volume better than by commending to one and all of my young readers, the motto adopted by Emily Arlington for her graduating composition—

"WALK IN THE LIGHT, AS CHILDREN OF THE LIGHT. HE THAT WALKETH IN DARKNESS KNOWETH NOT WHITHER HE GOETH."

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Table of Contents

- STRAIGHT FORWARD;

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE