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BASHFUL FIFTEEN

by

L. T. MEADE

Author of "Out of the Fashion," "A Sweet Girl Graduate," "The Medicine
Lady," "Polly, a New-Fashioned Girl," "A World of Girls," etc.






New York
Cassell Publishing Company
104 & 106 Fourth Avenue

Copyright, 1892, by
Cassell Publishing Company.

All rights reserved.

The Mershon Company Press,
Rahway, N. J.




CONTENTS.

CHAPTER                                        PAGE
     I. CURIOSITY,                                1

    II. THE NEW GIRL,                            10

   III. RIBBONS AND ROSES,                       24

    IV. THE QUEEN OF THE SCHOOL,                 35

     V. BREAKING IN A WILD COLT,                 52

    VI. CAPTIVITY,                               62

   VII. WHO IS TO PROVIDE THE NEEDFUL?           73

  VIII. THE "JANET MAY STALL,"                   82

    IX. TAKING SIDES,                            98

     X. CHECKMATE,                              106

    XI. A WILD IRISH PRINCESS,                  114

   XII. LADY KATHLEEN,                          128

  XIII. PEARSON'S BOOK OF ESSAYS,               147

   XIV. "I'M BIG, AND I'M DESPERATE,"           158

    XV. BRIDGET O'HARA'S STALL,                 177

   XVI. STILL IN THE WOOD,                      193

  XVII. PERSIAN CATS,                           200

 XVIII. AN IRISH WELCOME,                       215

   XIX. "BRUIN, MY DOG,"                        221

    XX. THE SQUIRE AND HIS GUESTS,              232

   XXI. THE HOLY WELL,                          244

  XXII. WILD HAWK,                              260

 XXIII. UNDER A SPELL,                          275

  XXIV. NORAH TO THE RESCUE,                    289

   XXV. HER MAJESTY THE WITCH,                  294

  XXVI. A TERRIBLE NIGHT,                       303

 XXVII. "SPEAK OUT,"                            310

XXVIII. WHAT THE O'HARAS SAID TO ONE ANOTHER,   318

  XXIX. THE CHILD OF HIS HEART,                 323




BASHFUL FIFTEEN.




CHAPTER I.

CURIOSITY.


The school stood on the side of a hill, which faced downward to the
sea. Its aspect was south, and it was sheltered from the east and west
winds by a thick plantation of young trees, which looked green and
fresh in the spring, and were beginning already to afford a delightful
shade in hot weather.

A fashionable watering-place called Eastcliff was situated about a
mile from Mulberry Court, the old-fashioned house, with the old-world
gardens, where the schoolgirls lived. There were about fifty of them
in all, and they had to confess that although Mulberry Court was
undoubtedly school, yet those who lived in the house and played in
the gardens, and had merry games and races on the seashore, enjoyed a
specially good time which they would be glad to think of by and by.

The period at which this story begins was the middle of the summer
term. There were no half-term holidays at the Court, but somehow the
influence of holiday time had already got into the air. The young girls
had tired themselves out with play, and the older ones lay about in
hammocks, or strolled in twos or threes up and down the wide gravel
walk which separated the house from the gardens.

The ages of these fifty girls ranged from seventeen to five, but from
seventeen down to five on this special hot summer's evening one topic
of conversation might have been heard on every tongue.

What would the new girl be like? Was she rich or poor, handsome or
ugly, tall or short, dark or fair? Why did she come in the middle of
the term, and why did Mrs. Freeman, and Miss Delicia, and Miss Patience
make such a fuss about her?

Other new girls had arrived, and only the faintest rumors had got out
about them beforehand.

A couple of maids had been seen carrying a new trunk upstairs, or old
Piper had been discovered crawling down the avenue with his shaky cab,
and shakier horse, and then the new girl had appeared at tea-time and
been formally introduced, and if she were shy had got over it as best
she could, and had soon discovered her place in class, and there was an
end of the matter.

But this new girl was not following out any of the old precedents.

She was coming at mid-term, which in itself was rather exceptional.

Mrs. Freeman and Miss Patience had driven away in a very smart carriage
with a pair of horses to meet her.

Miss Delicia was fussing in and out of the house, and picking fresh
strawberries, and nodding to the girls she happened to meet with a kind
of suppressed delight.

What _could_ it all mean? It really was most exciting.

The smaller girls chatted volubly about the matter, and little Violet
Temple, aged ten, and of course one of the small girls, so far
forgot herself as to run up to Dorothy Collingwood, clasp her hand
affectionately round the tall girl's arm, and whisper in her impetuous,
eager way:

"I'm almost certain, Dolly, that she's to sleep in a room by herself,
for I saw the Blue Room being got ready. I peeped in as we were going
down to dinner, and I noticed such jolly new furniture--pale blue, and
all to match. Oh, what is it, Olive? Now you've pinched my arm."

"Run back to your companions this minute, miss," said Olive Moore.
"You're getting to be a perfect tittle-tattle, Violet. There, I'm not
angry, child, but you must learn not to talk about everything you see."

Violet frowned all over her fair, small face, but Olive Moore,
a sixth-form girl, was too powerful an individual to be lightly
disregarded. She shrugged her shoulders therefore, and walked sulkily
away.

"Why did you speak so sharply to her, Olive?" exclaimed Dorothy. "After
all, her curiosity is but natural--I must even own that I share it
myself."

"So do I, Dorothy, if it comes to that, but Violet must be made to know
her place. She is one of those little encroachers without respect of
persons, who can become absolute nuisances if they are encouraged. But
there, we have said enough about her. Ruth and Janet are going to sit
in 'The Lookout' for a little; they want to discuss the subject of the
Fancy Fair. Shall we come and join them?"

Dorothy turned with her companion; they walked along the wide gravel
sweep, then entered a narrow path which wound gradually up-hill.
They soon reached a rural tower, which was called by the girls "The
Lookout," mounted some steep steps, and found themselves standing on a
little platform, where two other girls were waiting to receive them.

Ruth Bury was short and dark, but Janet May, her companion, was
extremely slim and fair. She would have been a pretty girl but for the
somewhat disagreeable expression of her face.

"Here you are," exclaimed the two pairs of lips eagerly.

"Sit down, Dorothy," cried Ruth, "we have kept your favorite armchair
vacant for you. Now, then, to discuss the Fancy Fair in all its
bearings. Is it not kind of Mrs. Freeman to consent to our having it?
She says it is quite an unusual thing for girls like us to do, but in
the cause of that poor little baby, and because we wish the Fancy Fair
to be our break-up treat, she consents. The only stipulation she makes
is that we arrange the whole programme without troubling her."

"Yes," continued Janet, "she met me half an hour ago, and told me to
let you know, Dorothy, and you, Olive, and any other girls who happen
to be specially interested, that we are to form our programme, and
then ask her to give us an audience. She will look herself into all
our plans, and tell us which can and cannot be carried into effect.
The only other thing she stipulates is that we do not neglect our
studies, and that we leave room in the happy day's proceedings for the
distribution of the prizes."

While Janet was speaking, Dorothy, who had refused to seat herself in
the armchair assigned to her, and whose clear, bright blue eyes were
roving eagerly all over the beautiful summer landscape, exclaimed in an
eager voice:

"After all, what does the Fancy Fair signify--I mean--oh, don't be
shocked, girls--I mean, what does it signify compared to a real living
_present_ interest? While we are discussing what is to take place in
six weeks' time, Mrs. Freeman and Miss Patience are driving up the
avenue with _somebody else_. Girls, the new inmate of Mulberry Court
has begun to put in an appearance on the scene."

"Oh, let me look; do let me look!" cried Ruth, while Olive and Janet
both pressed eagerly forward.

From where they stood they obtained a very distinct although somewhat
bird's-eye view of the winding avenue and quickly approaching carriage.
Mrs. Freeman's tall and familiar figure was too well known to be
worthy, in that supreme moment, of even a passing comment. Miss
Patience looked as angular and as like herself as ever; but a girl, who
sat facing the two ladies--a girl who wore a large shady hat, and whose
light dress and gay ribbons fluttered in the summer breeze--upon this
girl the eyes of the four watchers in the "Lookout" tower were fixed
with devouring curiosity.

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Dorothy, after a pause. "I don't suppose
Mrs. Freeman will allow that style of wardrobe long. See, girls, do
see, how her long blue ribbons stream in the breeze; and her hat! it is
absolutely _covered_ with roses--I'm convinced they are roses. Oh, what
would I not give for an opera glass to enable me to take a nearer view.
Whoever that young person is, she intends to take the shine out of us.
Why, she is dressed as if she had just come from a garden party."

"I don't believe she's a new schoolgirl at all," cried Ruth; "she's
just a visitor come to stay for a day or two with Mrs. Freeman. No
schoolgirl that ever breathed would dare to present such a young lady,
grown-up appearance. There, girls, don't let's waste any more time over
her; let's turn our attention to the much more important matter of the
Fancy Fair."

Notwithstanding these various criticisms, the carriage with its
occupants calmly pursued its way, and was presently lost to view in the
courtyard at the side of the house.

"Now, do let us be sensible," said Janet, turning to her companions.
"We have seen all that there is to be seen. However hard we guess we
cannot solve the mystery. Either a new companion is coming among us,
who, I have no doubt, will be as commonplace as commonplace can be, or
Mrs. Freeman is receiving a young lady visitor. Supper will decide the
point, and as that is not half an hour away I suppose we can exist for
the present without worrying our brains any further."

"Dear Janey, you always were the soul of sense," remarked Dorothy, in
a somewhat languid voice. "For my part I pity those poor little mites,
Violet and the rest of them. I know they are just as curious with
regard to the issue of events as we are, and yet I can see them at this
moment, with my mental vision, being driven like sheep into the fold.
They'll be in bed, poor mites, when we are satisfying our curiosity."

"You have a perfect mania for those children, Dorothy," exclaimed
Olive. "I call it an impertinence on their parts to worry themselves
about sixth-form girls. What's the matter, Janet? Why that contraction
of your angel brow?"

"I want us to utilize our opportunities," said Janet. "We have a few
minutes all to ourselves to discuss the Fancy Fair, and we fritter it
away on that tiresome new girl."

"Well, let's settle to business now," said Ruth; "I'm sure I'm more
than willing. Who has got a pencil and paper?"

Dorothy pulled an envelope out of her pocket. Olive searched into the
recesses of hers to hunt up a lead pencil, and Janet continued to speak
in her tranquil, round tones.

"The first thing to do is to appoint a committee," she began.

"O Janey," exclaimed two of the other girls in a breath, "a committee
does sound so absurdly formal."

"Never mind, it is the correct thing to do. In a matter of this kind
we are nothing if we are not businesslike. Now, who _is_ coming to
interrupt us?"

Steps--several steps--were heard clattering up the stone stairs of the
little tower, and two or three girls of the middle school, with roughly
tossed heads and excited faces, burst upon the seclusion of the four
sixth-form girls.

"O Dolly," they exclaimed, running up to their favorite, "she has
come--we have seen her! She is very tall, and--and----"

"Do let me speak, Marion," exclaimed little Violet Temple, coloring all
over her round face in her excitement and interest. "You know I got the
first glimpse of her. I did, you know I did. I was hiding under the
laurel arch, and I saw her quite close. It's awfully unfair of anyone
else to tell, isn't it, Dolly?"

"Of course it is, Violet," replied Miss Collingwood in her good-natured
way. "But what a naughty imp you were to hide under the laurel arch.
The wonder is you did not get right in the way of the horses' hoofs."

"Much I cared for that when I had a chance of seeing her," remarked
Violet. "I _did_ get a splendid peep. She's awfully tall, and she
was splendidly dressed; and O Dolly! O Ruthie! O Janey! she's just
_lovely_!"

"I wish you'd go away, child!" said Janet in a decidedly cross tone.
"What are all you small girls doing out and about at this hour? Surely
it's time for you to be in bed. What can Miss Marshall be about not to
have fetched you before now?"

"Cross-patch!" murmured Violet, turning her back on Janet. "Come,
Marion; come, Pauline, we won't tell her any more. We'll tell _you_,
Dolly, of course, but we won't tell Janet. Come, Marion, let's go."

The children disappeared in as frantic haste to be off as they were a
few minutes ago to arrive.

"Now, let's go on," said Janet, in her calm tones. "Let us try
and settle something before the supper bell rings. We must have a
committee, that goes without saying. Suppose we four girls form it."

"What about Evelyn?" inquired Dorothy.

When she said this a quick change flitted over Janet's face. She bit
her lips, and, after a very brief pause, said in a voice of would-be
indifference:

"I don't suppose that Evelyn Percival is to rule the school. She is
away at present, and we can't wait on her will and pleasure. Let's form
our committee, and do without her."

"It's a distinct insult," began Dolly. "I disapprove--I disapprove."

"And so do I"--"And I"--cried both Ruth and Olive.

"Well," said Janet, "if you insist on spoiling everything, girls, you
must. You know what Evelyn is."

"Only the head girl of the school," remarked Dolly in a soft tone. "But
of course a person of not the _smallest_ consequence. Well, Janet, what
next?"

"As I was saying," began Janet----

A loud booming sound filled the air.

Ruth clapped her hands.

"Hurrah! Hurrah! Supper!" she cried. "Your committee must keep, Janet.
Now for the satisfaction of rampant, raging curiosity. Dolly, will you
race me to the house?"




CHAPTER II.

THE NEW GIRL.


Although the booming sound of the great gong filled the air, the supper
to which the head girls of the school were now going was a very simple
affair. It consisted of milk placed in great jugs at intervals down
the long table, of fruit both cooked and uncooked, and large plates of
bread and butter.

Such as it was, however, supper was a much-prized institution of
Mulberry Court; only the fifth-form and sixth-form girls were allowed
to partake of it. To sit up to supper, therefore, was a distinction
intensely envied by the lower school. The plain fare sounded to them
like honey and ambrosia. They were never tired of speculating as to
what went on in the dining room on these occasions, and the idea of
sitting up to supper was with some of the girls a more stimulating
reason for being promoted to the fifth form than any other which could
be offered.

On this special night in the mid-term the girls who were ignominiously
obliged to retire to their bedrooms felt a sorer sense of being left
out than ever.

As Dorothy and her companions walked through the wide, cool entrance
hall, and turned down the stone passage which led to the supper room,
they were quite conscious of the fact that some of the naughtiest and
most adventurous imps of the lower school were hovering round, hanging
over banisters or hiding behind doors. A suppressed giggle of laughter
proceeded so plainly from the back of one of the doors, that Dorothy
could not resist stretching back her hand as she passed, and giving a
playful tap on the panels with her knuckles. The suppressed laughter
became dangerously audible when she did this, so in mercy she was
forced to take no further notice.

The girls entered the wide, long dining hall and immediately took their
places at the table.

Mrs. Freeman always presided at the head of the board, Miss Patience
invariably sat at the foot, Miss Delicia wandered about restlessly,
helping the girls to milk and fruit, patting her favorites on their
backs, bending down to inquire tenderly how this girl's headache was,
and if another had come off conqueror in her tennis match. No girl in
the school minded or feared Miss Delicia in the least. Unlike her two
sisters, who were tall and thin, she was a little body with a round
face, rosy cheeks, hair very much crimped, and eyes a good deal creased
with constant laughter. No one had ever seen Miss Delicia the least bit
cross or the least bit annoyed with anyone. She was invariably known
to weep with the sorrowful, and laugh with the gay--she was a great
coddler and physicker--thought petting far better than punishment, and
play much more necessary for young girls than lessons.

In consequence she was popular, with that mild sort of popularity which
is bestowed upon the people who are all patience and have no faculty
for inspiring fear.

Mrs. Freeman could be austere as well as kind, and Mrs. Freeman was ten
times more loved than Miss Delicia.

The girls took their places at the table--grace was said, and the meal
began.

A sense of disappointment was over them all, for the new girl
upon whom their present thoughts were centered had not put in an
appearance--nothing was said about her--Mrs. Freeman looked as
tranquil as usual, Miss Patience as white and anxious, Miss Delicia as
good-natured and downy.

Dorothy was beginning to whisper to her companion that all their
excitement was safe to end in smoke, when the door at the farther end
of the dining hall was softly pushed open, and a head of luxuriant
nut-brown curling hair was popped in. Two roguish dark blue eyes looked
down the long room--they greeted with an eager sort of delighted
welcome each fresh girl face, and then the entire person of a tall,
showily dressed girl entered.

"My dear Bridget!" exclaimed Mrs. Freeman, so surprised by the
unexpected apparition that she was actually obliged to rise from her
seat and come forward.

"Oh, my dear, ought you not to be asleep?" exclaimed Miss Patience in
thin, anxious tones from the other end of the board, while Miss Delicia
ran up to the girl and took one of her dimpled white hands in hers.

"I did not feel tired, Mrs. Freeman," replied the newcomer in an eager,
irrepressible sort of voice. "You put me into my room and told me to
go to bed, but I didn't want to go to bed. I have had my supper, thank
you, so I don't want any more, but I have been dying with curiosity to
see the girls. Are these they? Are these my schoolfellows? I never saw
a schoolfellow before. They all look pretty much like other people.
How do you do, each and all of you? I'm Bridget O'Hara. May I sit near
you, Mrs. Freeman?"

"Sit there, Miss O'Hara, please," said Mrs. Freeman. She tried to
suppress a smile, which was difficult. "Girls," she said, addressing
the fifth and sixth forms, "girls, this young lady is your new
schoolfellow--her name is Bridget O'Hara. I meant to introduce her
to you formally to-morrow, but she has taken the matter into her own
hands. I am glad you are not tired, Miss O'Hara, for you have had a
very long journey."

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Miss O'Hara, "that's nothing. Goodness gracious me!
what would you think of thirty or forty miles on an Irish jaunting car,
all in one day, Mrs. Freeman? That's the sort of thing to make the back
ache. Bump, bump, you go. You catch on to the sides of the car for bare
life, and as likely as not you're pitched out into a bog two or three
times before you get home. Papa and I have often taken our thirty to
forty miles' jaunt a day. I can tell you, I have been stiff after those
rides. Did you ever ride on a jaunting car, Mrs. Freeman?"

"No, my dear," replied the head mistress, in a rather icy voice, "I
have never had the pleasure of visiting Ireland."

"Well, it's a very fine sort of place, as free and easy as you please;
lots of fishing in the lakes and in the rivers. I'm very fond of my
gun, too. Can you handle a gun, Mrs. Freeman? It kicks rather, if you
can't manage it."

An audible titter was heard down the table, and Mrs. Freeman turned
somewhat red.

"Will you have some fruit?" she said coldly, laying a restraining hand
as she spoke on the girl's beflowered and embroidered dress.

"No fruit, thank you. Oh, what a lovely ring you have on! It's a
ruby, isn't it? My poor mother--she died when I was only three--had
some splendid rubies--they are to be mine when I am grown up. Papa is
keeping them for me in the County Bank. You always keep your valuables
in the Bank in Ireland, you know--that's on account of the Land
Leaguers."

"I think, my dear, we won't talk quite so much," said Mrs. Freeman.
"At most of our meals German is the only language spoken. Supper, of
course, is an exception. Why, what is the matter. Miss O'Hara?"

"Good gracious me!" exclaimed Bridget O'Hara, "am I to be dumb during
breakfast, dinner, and tea? I don't know a word of German. Why, I'll
die if I can't chatter. It's a way we have in Ireland. We _must_ talk."

"Patience," said Mrs. Freeman, from her end of the supper table, "I
think we have all finished. Will you say grace?"

There was a movement of chairs, and a general rising.

Miss Patience asked for a blessing on the meal just partaken of in a
clear, emphatic voice, and the group of girls began to file out of the
room.

"May I go with the others?" asked Miss O'Hara.

"Yes, certainly. Let me introduce you to someone in particular. Janet
May, come here, my dear."

Janet turned at the sound of her name, and came quickly up to her
mistress. She looked slight, pale, and almost insignificant beside
the full, blooming, luxuriously made girl, who, resting one hand in a
nonchalant manner on the back of her chair, was looking full at her
with laughing bright eyes.

"Janet," said Mrs. Freeman, "will you oblige me by showing Miss O'Hara
the schoolrooms and common rooms, and introducing her to one or two of
her companions? Go, my dear," she continued, "but remember, Bridget,
whether you are tired or not, I shall expect you to go to bed to-night
at nine o'clock. It is half-past eight now, so you have half an hour to
get acquainted with your schoolfellows."

"My! what a minute!" said Miss Bridget, tossing back her abundant hair,
and slipping one firm, dimpled hand inside Janet's arm. "Well, come
on, darling," she continued, giving that young lady an affectionate
squeeze. "Let's make the most of our precious time. I'm dying to know
you all--I think you look so sweet. Who's that love of a girl in gray,
who sat next you at supper? She had golden hair, and blue eyes--not
like mine, of course, but well enough for English eyes. What's her
name, dear?"

"I think you must mean Dorothy Collingwood," said Janet in her clear,
cold English voice. "May I ask if you have ever been at school before,
Miss O'Hara?"

"Oh, good gracious me! don't call me Miss O'Hara. I'm Biddy to my
friends--Biddy O'Hara, at your service--great fun, too, I can tell you.
You ask my father what he thinks of me. Poor old gentleman, I expect
he's crying like anything this minute without his Biddy to coddle him.
He said I wanted polishing, and so he sent me here. I have never been
in England before, and I don't at all know if I will like it. By the
way, what's your name? I didn't quite catch it."

"Janet May. This is the schoolroom where the sixth form girls do their
lessons. We have a desk each, of course. That room inside there is for
the fifth form. I wonder which you will belong to? How old are you?"

"Now, how old would you think? Just you give a guess. Let me stand in
front of you, so that you can take a squint at me. Now, then--oh, I
say, stop a minute, I see some more girls coming in. Come along, girls,
and help Miss May to guess my age. Now, then, now then, I wonder who'll
be right? How you do all stare! I feel uncommonly as if I'd like to
dance the Irish jig!"

Dorothy, Ruth, and Olive had now come into the schoolroom, and had
taken their places by Janet's side. She gave them a quick look, in
which considerable aversion to the newcomer was plainly visible, then
turned her head and gazed languidly out of the window.

Bridget O'Hara bestowed upon the four girls who stood before her a
lightning glance of quizzical inquiry. She was a tall, fully developed
girl, and no one could doubt her claim to beauty who looked at her even
for a moment.

Her eyes were of that peculiar, very dark, very deep blue, which seems
to be an Irish girl's special gift. Her eyelashes were thick and black,
her complexion a fresh white and pink, her chestnut hair grew in thick,
curly abundance all over her well-shaped head. Her beautifully cut
lips wore a petulant but charming expression. There was a provocative,
almost teasing, self-confidence about her, which to certain minds only
added to her queer fascination.

"Now, how old am I?" she asked, stamping her arched foot. "Don't be
shy, any of you. Begin at the eldest, and guess right away. Now then,
Miss Collingwood--you see, I know your name--the age of your humble
servant, if _you_ please."

Dorothy could not restrain her laughter.

"How can I possibly tell you, Miss O'Hara?" she replied. "You are a
tall girl. Perhaps you are seventeen, although you look more."

"Oh! hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! What will my dear dad say when I tell him
that? Biddy O'Hara seventeen! Don't I wish I were! Oh, the lovely balls
I'd be going to if those were my years! Now, another guess. It's your
turn now--you, little brown one there--I haven't caught your name,
darling. Is it Anne or Mary? Most girls are called either Anne or Mary."

"My name is Ruth," replied the girl so addressed, "and I can't guess
ages. Come, Olive, let us find our French lessons and go."

"Oh, I declare, the little dear is huffed about something! Well, then,
I'll tell. _I'll be fifteen in exactly a month from now!_ What do you
say to that? I'm well grown, am I not, Janet?"

"Did you speak?" asked Miss May in her coldest tones.

"Yes, darling, I did. Shall we go into the common room now? I'm dying
to see it."

"I'm afraid I have no more time to show you any of the house this
evening," answered Janet. "The common room is very much the shape of
this one, only without the desks. I have some of my studies to look
over, so I must wish you good-evening."

Bridget O'Hara's clear blue eyes were opened a little, wider apart.

For the first time there was a faint hesitation in her manner.

"But Mrs. Freeman said----" she began.

"That I was to take you round and introduce you to a few companions,"
continued Janet hastily. "Miss Collingwood, Miss O'Hara--Miss Moore,
Miss O'Hara--Miss Bury, Miss O'Hara. Now I have done my duty. If you
like to see the common room for yourself, you can go straight through
this folding door, turn to your left, see a large room directly facing
you; go into it, and you will find yourself in the common room. Now,
good-night."

Janet turned away, and a moment later reached the door of the
schoolroom, where she was joined by Olive and Ruth. "Come," she said
to them, and the three girls disappeared, only too glad to vent their
feelings in the passage outside the schoolroom. Dorothy Collingwood
lingered behind her companions. "Never mind," she said to Biddy, "it is
rude of Janet to leave you, but she is sometimes a little erratic in
her movements. It is a way our Janey has, and of course no one is silly
enough to mind her."

"You don't suppose I mind her?" exclaimed Bridget. "Rudeness always
shows ill-breeding, but it is still more ill-bred to notice it--at
least, that's what papa says. She spoke rather as if she did not like
me, which is quite incomprehensible, for everybody loves me at home."

There was a plaintive note in the girl's voice, a wistful expression in
her eyes, which went straight to Dorothy's kind heart.

"People will like you here too," she said. "I am certain you are
very good-natured; come and let me show you some of our snug little
arrangements in the common room, and then I think it will be time for
bed."

"Oh, never mind about bed--I'm not the least sleepy."

"But Mrs. Freeman wants you to go to bed early to-night."

"Poor old dear! But wanting Biddy O'Hara to do a thing, and making
her do it, are two very different matters. I'll go to bed when I'm
tired--papa never expected me to go earlier at home. I declare I feel
quite cheerful again now that I have got to know you, Dorothy. Janet is
not at all to my taste, but you are. What a pretty name you have, and
you have an awfully sweet expression--such a dear, loving kind of look
in your eyes. Would you mind very much if I gave you a hug?"

"I don't mind your kissing me, Bridget, only does not it seem a little
soon--I have not known you many minutes yet?"

"Oh, you darling, what do minutes signify when one loves? There, Dolly,
I have fallen in love with you, and that's the fact. You shall come and
stay with me at the Castle in the summer, and I'll teach you to fire a
gun and to land a salmon. Oh, my dear, what larks we'll have together!
I'm so glad you're taking me round this house, instead of that stiff
Janet."

Dorothy suppressed a faint sigh, took her companion's plump hand, and
continued the tour of investigation.

The common room to which she conducted Miss O'Hara was entirely for the
use of the elder girls; the girls of the middle and the lower school
had other rooms to amuse themselves in. But this large, luxuriously
furnished apartment was entirely given up to the sixth and fifth-form
schoolgirls.

The room was something like a drawing room, with many easy-chairs and
tables. Plenty of light streamed in from the lofty windows, and fell
upon knickknacks and brackets, on flowers in pots--in short, on the
many little possessions which each individual girl had brought to
decorate her favorite room.

"We are each of us allowed a certain freedom here," said Dorothy. "You
see these panels? It is a great promotion to possess a panel. All the
girls who are allowed to have the use of this room cannot have one,
but the best of us can. Now behold! Open sesame! Shut your eyes for a
minute--you can open them again when I tell you. Now--you may look now."

Bridget opened her eyes wide, and started at the transformation
scene which had taken place during the brief moment she had remained
in darkness. The room was painted a pale, cool green. The walls
were divided into several panels. One of these had now absolutely
disappeared, and in its place was a deep recess, which went far enough
back into the wall to contain shelves, and had even space sufficient
for a chair or two, a sewing machine, and one or two other sacred
possessions.

"This is my panel," said Dorothy, "and these are my own special pet
things. I bring out my favorite chair when I want to use it, or to
offer it to a guest; I put it back when I have done with it. See these
shelves, they hold my afternoon tea set, my books, my paint box, my
workbasket, my photographic album--in short, all my dearest treasures."

"I must have a cupboard like that," said Biddy. "Why, it's perfectly
delicious!"

"Yes; you have got to earn it first, however," replied Miss
Collingwood, slipping back the pale green panel with a dexterous
movement.

"Earn it--how? Do you mean pay extra for it? Oh, that can be easily
managed--I'll write to papa at once. He has heaps of money, even though
he is Irish, and he can deny me nothing. He's paying lots more for
me than most of the girls' fathers pay for them. That's why I have a
room to myself, and why I am to have riding lessons, and a whole heap
of things. But I mean to share all my little comforts with you, you
darling. Oh, if the cupboard is to be bought, I'll soon have one. Now
let us sit in this cosy, deep seat in the window, and put our arms
round one another and talk." The great clock in the stable struck nine.

"Don't you hear the clock?" exclaimed Dorothy, unconscious relief
coming into her tones.

"Yes, what a loud, metallic sound! We have such a dear old eight-day
clock at the Castle; it's said to be quite a hundred years old, and I'm
certain it's haunted. My dear Dolly, to hear that clock boom forth the
hour at midnight would make the stoutest heart quail."

"Well, and our humble school clock ought to make your heart quail
if you don't obey it, Bridget. Seriously speaking, it is my duty to
counsel you, as a new girl, to go to bed at once."

"The precious love, how nicely she talks, and how I love her gentle,
refined words. But, darling, I'm not going to bed, for I'm not tired."

"But Mrs. Freeman said----"

"Dolly, I will clap my hands over your rosebud lips if you utter
another word. Come, and let us sit in this deep window-seat and be
happy. Would you like to know what papa is doing at the Castle now?"

"I don't think I ought to listen to you, Bridget."

"Yes, you ought. I'm going to give you a lovely description. Papa has
had his dinner, and he's pacing up and down on the walk which hangs
over the lake. He is smoking a meerschaum pipe, and the dogs are with
him."

"The dogs?" asked Dorothy, interested in spite of herself.

"Yes, poor old Dandy, who is so lame and so affectionate, and Mustard
and Pepper, the dear little snappers, and Lemon. Poor darling, he is a
trial; we have called him Lemon because he exactly resembles the juice
of that fruit when it's most acrid and disagreeable. Lemon's temper
is the acknowledged trial of our kennel, but he loves my father, and
always paces up and down with him in the evening on the south walk.
Then of course there's Bruin, he's an Irish deerhound, and the darling
of my heart, and there's Pilate, the blind watchdog--oh! and Minerva.
I think that's about all. We have fox hounds, of course, but they are
not let out every day. I see my dear father now looking down at the
lake, and talking to the dogs, and thinking of me. O Dolly, Dolly, I'm
lonely, awfully lonely! Do pity me--do love me! O Dolly, my heart will
break if no one loves me!"

Bridget's excitable eager words were broken by sobs; tears poured out
of her lovely eyes, her hands clasped Dorothy's with fervor.

"Love me," she pleaded; "do love me, for I love you."

It would have been impossible for a much colder heart than Dorothy
Collingwood's to resist her.

"Yes, I will love you," she replied; "but please go to bed now, dear.
You really will get into trouble if you don't, and it seems such a pity
that you should begin your school life in disgrace."

"Well, if I must go, and if you really wish it. Come with me to my
room, Dorothy. O Dolly, if you would sleep with me to-night!"

"No, I can't do that; we have to obey rules at school, and one of our
strictest rules is that no girl is to leave her own bedroom without
special permission."

"Then go and ask, darling. Find Mrs. Freeman, and ask her; it's so
easily done."

"I cannot go, Bridget. Mrs. Freeman would not give me leave, and she
would be only annoyed at my making such a foolish proposition."

"Oh, foolish do you call it?" A passing cloud swept over Bridget
O'Hara's face. It quickly vanished, however; she jumped up with a
little sigh.

"I don't think I shall like school," she said, "but I'll do anything
you wish me to do, dearest Dorothy."




CHAPTER III.

RIBBONS AND ROSES.


Dorothy shared the same bedroom as Ruth and Olive. Each girl, however,
had a compartment to herself, railed in by white dimity curtains, which
she could draw or not as she pleased. Dorothy's compartment was the
best in the room; it contained a large window looking out over the
flower garden, and commanding a good view of the sea. She was very
particular about her pretty cubicle, and kept it fresh with flowers,
which stood in brackets against the walls.

Ruth and Olive slept in the back part of the room. They had a cubicle
each, of course, but they had not Dorothy's taste, and their little
bedrooms had a dowdy effect beside hers.

They were both undressing when she entered the room this evening, but
the moment she appeared they rushed to her and began an eager torrent
of words.

"Well, Dolly, have you got rid of that horrible incubus of a girl at
last? What a trial she will be in the school! She's the most ill-bred
creature I ever met in my life. What can Mrs. Freeman mean by taking
her in? Of course, she cannot even pretend to be a lady."

"And there's such a fuss made about her, too," interrupted Olive. "A
carriage and pair sent to meet her, forsooth, and a separate room
for the darling to sleep in. It was good-natured of you to stay with
her, Dolly; I assure you Ruth, and Janet, and I could not have borne
another moment of her society."

"She's not so bad at all," began Dorothy.

"Oh, oh, oh! if you're going to take her part, that is the last straw."

"I shan't allow her to be persecuted," said Dorothy, with some
firmness. "She's the most innocent creature I ever met in my life.
Fancy a girl of her age, who has simply never had a rebuff, who has
been petted, loved, made much of all her days, who looks at you
with the absolute fearlessness of a baby, and talks out her mind as
contentedly and frankly as a bird sings its song. I grant she's an
anomaly, but I'm not going to be the one to teach her how cruel the
world can be."

"Oh, _if_ you take it up in that way," said Olive; but her words had a
faint sound about them--she was a girl who was easily impressed either
for good or evil.

If Dorothy chose to take the new girl's part, she supposed there
was something in her, and would continue to suppose so until she
had a conversation with Janet, or anyone else, who happened to have
diametrically opposite opinions to Dorothy Collingwood.

Dorothy went into her own little cubicle, drew her white dimity walls
tight, and, standing before the window, looked out at the summer
landscape.

She had to own to herself that Bridget had proved a very irritating
companion. She would take her part, of course; but she felt quite
certain at the same time that she was going to be a trial to her. As
she stood by her window now, however, a little picture of the scene
which the Irish girl had described so vividly presented itself with
great distinctness before Dorothy's eyes.

She saw the wild landscape, the steep gravel path which overhung the
lake, the old squire with his white hair, and tall but slightly bent
figure, pacing up and down, smoking his pipe and surrounded by his
dogs. Dorothy fancied how, on most summer evenings, Bridget, impetuous,
eager, and beautiful, walked by his side. She wondered how he had
brought himself to part with her. She gave a little sigh as she shut
the picture away from her mind, and as she laid her head on her pillow,
she resolved to be very kind to the new girl.

Breakfast was at eight o'clock at Mulberry Court. The girls always
assembled a quarter of an hour before breakfast in the little chapel
for prayers. They were all especially punctual this morning, for they
wanted to get a good peep at Miss O'Hara.

She was not present, however, and did not, indeed, put in an appearance
in the breakfast room until the meal was half over.

She entered the room, then, in a long white embroidered dress, looped
up here, there, and everywhere with sky-blue ribbons. It was a charming
toilet, and most becoming to its wearer, but absolutely unsuitable for
schoolroom work.

"How do you do, Mrs. Freeman?" said Bridget. "I'm afraid I'm a little
late; I overslept myself, and then I could not find the right belt for
this dress--it ought to be pale blue to match the ribbons, ought it
not? But as I could not lay my hand on it, I have put on this silver
girdle instead. Look at it, is it not pretty? It is real solid silver,
I assure you; Uncle Jack brought it me from Syria, and the workmanship
is supposed to be very curious. It's a trifle heavy, of course, but it
keeps my dress nice and tight, don't you think so?"

"Yes, Bridget, very nice--go and take your place, my dear. There,
beside Janet May. Another morning I hope you will be in time for
prayers. Of course, we make all allowances the first day. Take your
place directly, breakfast is half over."

Bridget raised her brows the tenth of an inch. The faintest shadow of
surprise crossed her sweet, happy face. Then she walked down the long
room, nodding and smiling to the girls.

"How do you do, all of you?" she said. "Well, Janet, good-morning"; she
tapped Janet's indignant back with her firm, cool hand, and dropped
into her place.

"Now, what shall I eat?" she said. "By the way, I hope there's a nice
breakfast, I'm awfully hungry. Oh, eggs! I like eggs when they're
_very_ fresh. Mrs. Freeman, are these new laid? do you keep your own
fowls? Father and I wouldn't touch eggs at the Castle unless we were
quite sure that they were laid by Sally, Sukey, or dear old Heneypeney."

A titter ran down the table at these remarks; Mrs. Freeman bent to pick
up her pocket handkerchief, and Miss Delicia, rushing to Bridget's
side, began to whisper vigorously in her ear.

"It is not the custom at school, my dear child, to make remarks about
what we eat. We just take what is put before us. Here's a nice piece
of bacon, dear, and some toast. Don't say anything more, I beg, or you
will annoy Mrs. Freeman."

"Shall I really--how unfortunate; but she doesn't look a bad-tempered
woman, and what is there in wishing for fresh eggs? Stale eggs aren't
wholesome."

"Do try not to make such a fool of yourself," repeated Janet, angrily,
in her ear.

Bridget turned and looked at her companion in slow wonder. Janet's
remark had the effect of absolutely silencing her; she ate her bacon,
munched her toast, and drank off a cup of hot coffee in an amazingly
short time, then she jumped up, and shook the crumbs of her meal on to
the floor.

"I've had enough," she said, nodding to Mrs. Freeman in her bright way.
"I'm going out into the garden now, to pick some roses."

Bridget's movements were so fleet that the head mistress had no time to
intercept her; there was a flash of a white dress disappearing through
the open window, and that was all.

The eyes of every girl in the room were fixed eagerly on their
mistress; they were all round with wonder, lips were slightly parted.
The girls felt that a volcano had got into their midst, an explosion
was imminent. This feeling of electricity in the air was very exciting;
it stirred the somewhat languid pulses of the schoolgirls. Surely
such an impulsive, such a daring, such an impertinent, and yet such a
bewitching girl had never been heard of before. How sweet she looked in
her white dress, how radiant was her smile. Those pearly white teeth of
hers, those gleaming, glancing eyes, that soft voice that could utter
such saucy words; oh! no wonder the school felt interested, and raised
out of itself.

"My dears," said Mrs. Freeman, answering the looks on all faces, "your
young companion's extraordinary conduct can only be explained by the
fact that she has never been at school before. I am going out to the
garden to speak to her. You girls will now go as usual to your separate
schoolrooms and commence study."

"Come, my dears," said Miss Patience to the girls near her, "let us
lose no more valuable time. Please don't scrape your chair in that
atrocious way, Alice. Rose, _what_ a poke! Susie, hold back your
shoulders. Now, young ladies, come to the schoolroom quietly; quietly,
if you please."

Miss Patience had a thin voice, and her words fell like tiny drops of
ice on the girl's excited hearts. They followed their teachers with a
certain sense of flatness, and with very little desire to attend to
French verbs and German exercises.

Dorothy Collingwood ran after Mrs. Freeman.

"Please remember----" she began.

"What is it, my dear?" The head mistress drew herself slightly up, and
looked in some surprise at her pupil.

"I ought not to speak," said Dorothy, turning very red, "but if you are
going to be hard on Bridget----"

"Am I ever hard to my pupils, my love?"

"No, no--do forgive me!"

"I think I understand you, Dorothy," said Mrs. Freeman. "Kiss me!"

Miss Collingwood was turning away, when her mistress stretched out her
hand and drew her back.

"I shall look to you to help me with this wild Irish girl," she said
with a smile. "Now, go to your lessons, my dear."

Dorothy ran away at once, and Mrs. Freeman walked down the garden in
the direction where she had just seen a white dress disappearing.

She called Bridget's name, but the wind, which was rather high this
morning, carried her voice away from the young girl, who was gayly
flitting from one rosebush to another, ruthlessly pulling the large,
full-blown flowers with buds attached.

"I don't think I ever felt my temper more irritated," murmured the good
lady under her breath. "Why did I undertake an Irish girl, and one who
had never been from home before? Well, the deed is done now, and I
must not _show_ impatience, however I may _feel_ it. Bridget, my dear!
Bridget O'Hara! Do you hear me?"

"Yes, what is it?"

Biddy turned, arrested in her gay flight from rosebush to rosebush.

As she cut the blossoms off, she flung them into her white skirt,
which she had raised in front for the purpose. Now, as she ran to meet
Mrs. Freeman, the skirt tumbled down, and the roses--red, white, and
crimson--fell on the ground at her feet.

"Bridget, do look," said Mrs. Freeman; "you have trodden on that lovely
bud!"

"Oh, I am sorry!"

Miss O'Hara stooped carelessly to pick it up. "Poor little bud!" she
said, laying it on her hand. "But there are such a lot of you--such a
lot! Still, it seems a pity to crush your sweetness out."

"It is more than a pity, Bridget," said her governess in a severe tone.
"I am sorry to have to open your eyes, my dear child; but in picking
any of my roses you have taken an unwarrantable liberty."

"What?" said Bridget, coloring high. "Do you mean seriously to tell me
that I--I am not to pick flowers? I think I must have heard you wrong!
Please say it again!"

"You are not to pick flowers, Miss O'Hara; it is against the rules of
the school."

"Oh, how very funny--how--how unpleasant. Did you tell papa about that
when he arranged to send me here?"

"I did not specially mention the flowers, my dear. There are many rules
in full force at Mulberry Court, and the pupils are expected to obey
them all."

"How disagreeable! I can't live without flowers. I suppose papa will
not expect me to stay if I don't like the place?"

"He will expect you to stay until the end of the term."

"Good gracious, why, that's weeks off! I can't live without flowers for
weeks! Look here, Mrs. Freeman; is there not to be an exception made
for me? Papa said, when I was coming here, that my happiness was to be
the first thing considered. Don't you agree with him? Don't you wish me
to be very, very happy?"

"I do, my love. But your truest happiness is not secured by giving you
your own way in everything."

"Oh, but I hate self-denial, and that dreadful motto--'No cross, no
crown.' I'm like a butterfly--I can't live without sunshine. Papa
agrees with me that sunshine is necessary for life."

"So it is, Bridget. But you will permit me, an old woman compared to
you, to point out a fact--the self-denying people are the happy ones,
the selfish are the miserable. Take your own way now in your youth,
sip each pleasure as it comes, turn from the disagreeables, trample on
those who happen to be in your way, as you did on that rosebud just
now, and you will lay up misery for yourself in the future. You will be
a very wretched woman when you reach my age."

"How solemnly you speak," said Bridget, tears coming slowly up and
filling her eyes. "Is that a sermon? It makes me feel as if someone
were walking over my grave. Why do you say things of that sort? I'm
superstitious, you know. I'm very easily impressed. You oughtn't to do
it--you oughtn't to frighten a stranger when she has just come over to
your hard, cold sort of country."

"But, my dear child, our hearts are not cold. I assure you, Bridget, I
am most anxious to win your love, and so also is Dorothy Collingwood."

"Is she? I love her--she is a sweet darling! And you really want me
to love you, Mrs. Freeman? Well, then, I will. Take a hug now--there,
that's comfortable."

Bridget's arms were flung impulsively round her governess's neck, and
then one hand was tucked within the good lady's arm.

Mrs. Freeman could not help uttering a faint, inward sigh.

"I must break you in gradually, dear," she said. "As this is your first
day at school you need not do any lessons, but you must come with me
presently to the schoolroom in order that I may find out something
about your attainments."

"My attainments! Good gracious, I haven't any!"

"Don't say 'good gracious,' Bridget; it's a very ugly way of expressing
yourself. You have learnt something, haven't you?"

"Learnt something? I should rather think I have. You question me on
dogs, their different breeds, and their complaints! Do you know, Mrs.
Freeman, what's the best thing to do for a dog if he shows signs of
distemper?"

"I don't mean that sort of learning, Bridget. I mean what you acquire
from books--grammar, French, music."

"I adore music; I play by ear all the old Irish jigs and the melodies.
Oh, doesn't father cry when I play 'The Harp that once through Tara's
Halls,' and 'She is far from the Land,' and 'The Minstrel Boy.' And oh,
Mrs. Freeman, even you, though you are a bit old and stiff, could not
help dancing if I strummed 'Garry Owen' for you."

"Well, my dear, you must play it for me some evening, but we don't
allow _strumming_ at the Court."

"Oh, good gra----! I mean, mercy Moses!"

"That's as bad as the other expression, Bridget."

"I expect I shan't be allowed to talk at all."

"Yes, you will. You'll soon learn to control your tongue and to speak
in a ladylike way."

"I loathe ladylike ways."

"Now, my dear child, will you come into the house with me? I ought to
be in the schoolroom now."

"Please wait one moment, Mrs. Freeman."

"Yes, my dear, what is it?"

"Are you going to be cross when you find I don't know your sort of
things?"

"I hope not, Bridget."

"It will be awfully unfair if you are, for I could pose you finely on
my subjects. What's the first thing to do for a dog who shows symptoms
of hydrophobia? How do you land a salmon? What keeps a gun from
kicking? How does a dear old daddy like his pipe filled with tobacco?
What is the best way to keep your seat when you ride bare-backed, and
the horse runs away? Ha, ha, I thought I'd pose you. I could have a
very jolly school of my own, if I tried."

"Bridget, my dear, before you come into the schoolroom I must request
that you go upstairs and change your dress."

"Change my dress! Now I really _don't_ understand you. Am I to come
down in my dressing-gown?"

"No. You are to take off that unsuitable afternoon costume you are now
wearing, and put on a neat print dress for your morning work."

"This is the very plainest dress I possess, Mrs. Freeman; I pulled a
lot out of my trunk this morning to look at them. There was a sky-blue
delaine with coffee lace, and a pink surah, and----"

"Spare me, my dear. I really am in too great a hurry to hear a list of
your wardrobe. Is it possible that your father sent you to school with
all that heap of finery, and nothing sensible to wear?"

"It wasn't father, it was Aunt Kathleen. She chose my outfit in Paris.
Oh, I do think it's lovely. I do feel that it's hard to be crushed on
every point."

"Well, dear, you are not to blame. I shall take you to Eastcliff this
afternoon, and order some plain dresses to be made up for you."

"Oh, goodness--no, I mustn't--mercy! nor that either; oh, I--I _say_,
Mrs. Freeman, don't let the new dresses be frumpy, or I'll break my
heart. I do so adore looking at myself in a lovely dress."

"Come into the schoolroom with me," said Mrs. Freeman. She was
wondering how it would be possible for her to keep Bridget O'Hara in
her school.




CHAPTER IV.

THE QUEEN OF THE SCHOOL.


It is not an easy matter to break in a wild colt, and this was the
process which had now to take place with regard to the new girl, whose
eccentricities and daring, whose curious mixture of ignorance and
knowledge, of affectionate sympathy and careless levity, made her at
once the adored and detested of her companions.

In every sense of the word Bridget was unexpected. She had an
extraordinary aptitude for arithmetic, and took a high place in the
school on account of her mathematics. The word mathematics, however,
she had never even heard before. She could gabble French as fluently
as a native, but did not know a word of the grammar. She had a perfect
ear for music, could sing like a bird, and play any air she once heard,
but she could scarcely read music at all, and was refractory and
troublesome when asked to learn notes.

"Just play the piece over to me," she said to her master. "I'll do
it if you play it over. Yes, that's it--tum, tum, tummy, tum, tum.
Oughtn't you to crash the air out a bit there? I think you ought. Yes,
that's it--_isn't_ it lovely? Now let me try."

Her attempts were extremely good, but when it came to laboriously
struggling through her written score, all was hopeless confusion,
tears, and despair.

With each fresh study Bridget showed the queer vagaries of a really
clever mind run more or less to seed. She did everything in a dramatic,
excitable style--she was all on wires, scarcely ever still, laughing
one moment, weeping the next; the school had never known such a time as
it underwent during the first week of her residence among them.

After that period she found her place to a certain extent, made some
violent friends and some active enemies, was adored by the little
girls, on whom she showered lollipops, kisses, and secrets, and was
disliked more or less by every girl in the sixth and fifth form,
Dorothy Collingwood excepted.

All this time Miss Percival, the head girl of the school, was absent.
She had been ill, and had gone home for a short change. She did not
return until Bridget had been at the Court a fortnight.

By this time the preparations for the Fancy Fair were in active
progress. Janet May had obtained her own wish with regard to the
Committee, each member of which was allowed to choose a band of workers
under herself, to make articles for the coming sale.

The Fair was the great event to which the girls looked forward, and in
the first excitement of such an unusual proceeding each of them worked
with a will.

Janet was the heart and soul of everything. She was a girl with a
great deal of independence of character; she was not destitute of
ambition--she was remarkable for common sense--she was sharp in her
manner, downright in her words, and capable, painstaking, and energetic
in all she did.

She was a dependable girl--clever up to a certain point, nice to those
with whom she agreed, affectionate to the people who did not specially
prize her affection.

Janet was never known to lose her temper, but she had a sarcastic
tongue, and people did not like to lay themselves open to the cutting
remarks which often and unsparingly fell from her lips.

She used this tongue most frequently on Bridget O'Hara, but for the
first time she was met by a wondering, puzzled, good-humored, and
non-comprehending gaze.

"What does Janet mean?" Bridget would whisper to her nearest companion.
"_Is_ she saying something awfully clever? I'm sorry that I'm stupid--I
don't quite catch her meaning."

These remarks usually turned the tables against Janet May, but they
also had another effect. She began to be sparing of her sharp, unkind
words in Bridget's hearing. This, however, did not prevent her hating
the new girl with the most cordial hatred she had ever yet bestowed
upon anyone.

Bridget was a fortnight at the school, and had more or less shaken down
into her place, when the evening arrived on which Miss Percival was to
return.

Dorothy, Bridget, and a number of the girls of the lower school were
walking up and down a broad road which led to the shore. They were
talking and laughing. The smaller girls were dancing and running about
in their eagerness. Some very funny proposal had undoubtedly been made,
and much explosive mirth was the result.

Janet and Olive Moore were returning slowly to the house after a
vigorous game of tennis. They stopped to look down at the group who
surrounded Dorothy.

"We have lost her," said Olive, with a sigh.

"Lost whom?" answered Janet in her tart voice.

"Why, Dorothy Collingwood; she has gone over to the ranks of the enemy."

"What do you mean, Olive?" Olive turned and looked at Janet.

"You know perfectly well what I mean," she answered; "you know who the
enemy is--at least you know who is your enemy."

"I never knew before that I had an enemy," said Janet, in her guarded
voice.

Olive looked at her steadily.

"Come now, Janet," she said, "confession is good for the soul--own--now
do own that you cordially hate the new girl, Bridget O'Hara."

"I'm sick of the new girl," said Janet; "if you are going to talk
about her I shall go into the house; I want to look over my French
preparation. M. le Comte is coming to-morrow morning, and he is so
frightfully over-particular that I own I'm a little afraid of him."

"Nonsense, Janet, you know you're one of the best French scholars in
the school. You won't get out of answering my question by that flimsy
excuse. Don't you hate Miss O'Hara?"

"Hate her?" said Janet; "there must be a certain strength about a girl
to make you hate her. I've a contempt for Bridget, but I don't rouse
myself to the exertion of hating."

"Oh, well; it's all the same," said Olive. "You won't admit the feeling
that animates your breast, but I know that it is there, _chérie_. Now
I have got something to confess on my own account--I don't like her
either."

"You have too good taste to like her, Olive, but do let us talk about
something more interesting. How are you getting on with that table
cover for the fair?"

"Oh, I'll come to that by and by; now about Miss O'Hara. Janet, I deny
that she's weak."

"You deny that she's weak," repeated Janet. "I wonder what your idea of
strength is, Olive."

"She's not learned, I admit," replied Olive, "but weak! no, she's
not weak; no weak character could be so audacious, so fearless, so
indifferent to her own ignorance."

"If she had any strength, she'd be ashamed of her ignorance," retorted
Janet.

"I don't agree with you," answered Olive. "Strength shows itself in
many forms. Miss O'Hara is pretty."

"Pretty," interrupted Janet, scorn curling her lip.

"Yes, Janet, she's pretty and she's rich, and she's destitute of fear.
She is quite certain to have her own party in the school. I repeat,"
continued Olive, "that there is no weakness in Bridget. I grant that
she is about the most irritating creature I know, but weak she is not."

"Well, well," interrupted Janet impatiently, "have your own way, Olive.
Make that tiresome, disagreeable girl a female Hercules if you fancy,
only cease to talk about her. That is all I have to beg."

"I must say one thing," replied Olive, "and then I will turn to a more
congenial theme. I hope Evelyn Percival won't take Miss O'Hara's part.
You know, Janet, what strong prejudices Evelyn has."

"Oh, don't I!" said Janet, stamping her small foot.

"And if she happens to fancy Bridget she won't mind a word we say
against her. She never does mind what anyone says. You know that,
Janet."

"I know," echoed Janet, a queer angry light filling her eyes for a
minute. "Oh, dear! oh, dear! What with our examinations and the Fancy
Fair, and all this worry about the new girl, life scarcely seems worth
living--it really doesn't."

"Poor darling!" said Olive, in a sympathetic tone. "I thought I'd tell
you, Janet, that whatever happened I'd take your part."

"Thanks!" said Janet calmly.

She looked at her friend with a cool, critical eye.

Olive Moore belonged to the toadying faction in the school. Toadies,
however, can be useful, and Janet was by no means above making use of
Olive in case of need.

She scrutinized Olive's face now, a slightly satirical expression
hovering round her somewhat thin lips.

"Thanks!" she repeated again. "If I want your help I'll ask for it,
Olive. I'm going into the house now, for I really must get on with my
preparation."

Janet turned away, and Olive was obliged to look out for a fresh
companion to attach herself to.

She looked at the merry group on the lawn, and a desire to join them,
even though of course she knew she was in no sense one of them, came
over her.

She ran lightly down the grassy slope, and touched Dorothy on her arm.

"I'm here, Dolly," she said, in her rather wistful manner.

"Oh, well; it's all right for you to be here, I suppose," said Dorothy.
"What were you saying, Bridget? I didn't catch that last sentence of
yours."

"I was going up the staircase," continued Bridget. "I held a lighted
candle in my hand. It was an awful night--you should have heard the
wind howling. We keep some special windbags of our own at the Castle,
and when we open the strings of one, why--well, there is a hurricane,
that's all."

"Oh, she's telling a story," whispered Olive under her breath. She
settled herself contentedly to listen.

"Go on; tell us quickly what you did with the candle, Biddy!" cried
little Violet, pulling her new friend by the arm.

"Don't shake me so, Vi, my honey; I'm coming to the exciting place--now
then. Well, as I was going up the stairs all quite lonely, and by
myself, never a soul within half a mile of me----"

"But your castle isn't half a mile big," said Katie, another small
girl. "And you did say your father lived there with you, and, of
course, there must have been some servants."

"Well, dear, well! half a mile is a figure of speech. That's a way
we have in Ireland--we figure of speech everything; it's much more
graphic. Now, to go on. I was running up the stairs with my candle, and
the wind rushing after me like mad, and the Castle rocking as if it
were in an agony, when---- What do you think happened?"

"What?" said Katie, her eyes growing big with fascination and alarm.

"The wind dropped as if it were dead. After screeching as if it had the
tongues of hundreds of Furies, it was mummer than the timidest mouse
that ever crept. The Castle ceased to rock; it was the suddenest and
deadest calm you could possibly imagine. It was miles more frightful
than the storm. Just then there came a little puff of a breeze out of
the solid stone wall, and out went my candle."

"O Bridget!" exclaimed the little girls, starting back in affright.

"Bridget, you are talking a great deal of nonsense," said Dorothy, "and
I for one am not going to listen to you. We are much too sensible to
believe in ghost stories here, and there is no use in your trying to
frighten us. Good-by, all of you; I am off to the house!"

Dorothy detached herself from Bridget's clinging arm, and ran quickly
up the sloping lawn.

Bridget stood and watched her. Olive kept a little apart, and the
smaller girls clustered close together, watching their new friend's
face with interest and admiration.

The Irish girl looked certainly pretty enough to win any number of
susceptible small hearts at that moment. Her pale blue dress set off
her graceful figure and fair complexion to the best advantage. Her
mirthful, lovely eyes were raised to follow Dorothy as she disappeared
into the house. Her lips were parted in a mischievous smile. She raised
one hand to push back the rebellious locks of chestnut curls from her
forehead.

"Now, Biddy, go on, Biddy!" exclaimed the children. "We love ghost
stories, so do tell us more about the candle."

"No!" said Bridget. "_She_ says they aren't good for you, so you shan't
have them. Let's think of some more fun. Who's that new girl, who, you
say, is going to arrive to-night?"

"New girl!" exclaimed Katie, "why, she's about the very oldest girl in
the school--the oldest and the nicest. She's the head of the school.
We call her our queen. She's not like you, Biddy, of course; but she's
very nice--awfully nice!"

"And what's the darling's name?" asked Bridget.

"Evelyn Percival. Doesn't it sound pretty?"

"Faix, then, it does, honey. I'm all agog to see this lovely queen. Why
has she been absent so long? Doesn't Mrs. Freeman require any lessons
of the sweet creature? Oh, then, it's I that would like to be in her
shoes, if that's the case."

"She has been ill, Biddy," said Violet. "Evelyn has been ill, but she
is better now; she's coming back to-night. We are all glad, for we all
love her."

"Let's run down the road, then, and give her a welcome," said Bridget.
"In Ireland we'd take the horses off the carriage, and draw her home
ourselves. Of course, we can't do that, but we might go to meet her,
waving branches of trees, and we might raise a hearty shout when we saw
her coming. Come along, girls--what a lark! I'll show you how we do
this sort of thing in old Ireland! Come! we'll cut down boughs as we go
along. Come! be quick, be quick!"

"But we are not allowed to cut the boughs, Bridget," said Katie.

"And we are not allowed to go out of the grounds by ourselves," cried
several other voices.

"We are not by ourselves when we are together," replied Bridget. "Come
along, girls, don't be such little despicable cowards! I'll square
it with Mrs. Freeman. You trust _me_. Mrs. Freeman will forgive us
everything when the queen is coming back. Now, do let's be quick, we
haven't a minute to lose!"

Small girls are easily influenced, and Bridget and her tribe rushed
down the avenue, shouting and whooping as they went.

Olive had no inclination to join them. They had taken no notice of her,
and she was not sufficiently fascinated by Bridget to run any risk for
her sake. She knew that her present proceedings were wrong, but she
was not at all brave enough to raise her voice in protest. She walked
slowly back to the house, wondering whether she should go and tell
Janet, or sink down lazily on a cozy seat and go on with a story book
which was sticking out of her pocket.

As she was approaching the house she was met by Miss Delicia, who
stopped to speak kindly to her.

"Well, my dear child," she said, "I suppose you, like all the rest of
us, are on tenter hooks for our dear Evelyn's return. From the accounts
we received this morning, she seems to be quite well and strong again,
and it _will_ be such a comfort to have her back. I don't know how it
is, but the school is quite a different place when she is there."

"We'll all be delighted to have her again, of course," said Olive. "And
is she really quite well, Miss Delicia?"

"Yes, my love, or she would not be returning."

Miss Delicia hurried on, intent on some housewifely mission, and Olive
entering the house went down a long stone passage which led to the
sixth form schoolroom.

Janet was there, busily preparing her French lesson for M. le Comte.
She was a very ambitious girl, and was determined to carry off as many
prizes as possible at the coming midsummer examinations. She scarcely
raised her eyes when Olive appeared.

"Janet!"

"Yes, Olive; I'm very busy. Do you want anything?"

"Only to tell you that that pet of yours, Bridget O'Hara, is likely to
get herself into a nice scrape. She has run down the road with a number
of the small fry to meet Evelyn. They are taking boughs of trees with
them, and are going to shout, or do something extraordinary, when they
see her arriving. Janet, what's the matter? How queer you look!"

"I'm very busy, Olive; I wish you'd go away!"

"But you look queer. Are you frightened about anything?"

"No, no; what nonsense you talk! What is there to be frightened about?
Do go; I can't learn this difficult French poetry while you keep
staring at me!"

"I wish you'd say what you think about Bridget. Isn't she past
enduring, getting all the little ones to disobey like this? Why, she
might be expelled! Yes, Janet; yes, I'm going. You needn't look at me
as if you'd like to eat me!"

Olive left the room with slow, unwilling footsteps, and Janet bent her
head over the copy of Molière she was studying.

"Nothing in the world could be stupider than French poetry," she
muttered. "How am I to get this into my head? What a nuisance Olive is
with her stories--she has disturbed my train of thoughts. Certainly,
it's no affair of mine what that detestable wild Irish girl does. I
shall always hate her, and whatever happens I can never get myself to
tolerate Evelyn. Now, to get back to my poetry. I have determined to
win this prize. I won't think of Evelyn and Bridget any more."

Janet bent her fair face again over the open page; a faint flush had
risen in each of her cheeks.

She was beginning to collect her somewhat scattered thoughts, when the
door was opened suddenly, and, to her surprise, Mrs. Freeman came into
the room.

"Pardon me for disturbing you," she said; "I did not know anyone was in
the schoolroom at present."

"I am looking over my French lesson, madam," answered Janet, in her
respectful tones. "It's a little more difficult than usual, and I
thought I'd have a quiet half hour here, trying to master it."

"Quite right, Janet, I am glad you are so industrious. I won't disturb
you for more than a minute, my love. I just want to look out of this
window. It is the only one that commands a view of the road from
Eastcliff. Evelyn ought to be here by now."

Janet did not say any more. She bent forward, ostensibly to renew her
studies, in reality to hide a jealous feeling which surged up in her
heart.

What a fuss everyone _was_ making about that stupid Evelyn Percival.
Here was the head mistress even quite in a fume because she was a
minute or two late in putting in an appearance.

It really was too absurd. Janet could not help fidgeting almost audibly.

"Janet," said Mrs. Freeman, "come here for a moment. I want you to use
your young eyes. Do you see any carriage coming down the hill?"

Janet sprang from her seat with apparent alacrity.

"Look, dear," said the governess. "What is that distant speck? I am so
terribly near-sighted that I cannot make out whether it is a carriage
or cart of some sort."

"It is a covered wagon," said Janet. "I see it quite plainly. There is
no carriage at all in view, Mrs. Freeman."

"My dear, I must tell you that I am a little anxious. Hickman took that
shying horse, Caspar, to bring Evelyn home. I intended Miss Molly to
have been sent for her. Dear Evelyn is still so nervous after her bad
illness that I would not for the world have her startled in any way.
And really, Caspar gets worse and worse. What is the matter, Janet?
_You_ have started now."

"Nothing," replied Janet. "I--I--shall I run out to the front, Mrs.
Freeman, and listen if I can hear the carriage? You can hear it a very
long way off from the brow of the hill."

"Do, my love, and call to me if you do. I would not have that dear girl
frightened for the world. I am more vexed than I can say with Hickman."

Janet ran out of the room. Her heart was beating hard and fast. Should
she tell Mrs. Freeman what Olive had just confided to her, that Bridget
and a number of the smaller children of the school had rushed down the
road to meet Evelyn, carrying boughs in their hands, and doubtless
shouting loudly in their glee?

Caspar was a sensitive horse; even Janet, who had no physical fear
about her, disliked the way he started, and shied sometimes at his own
shadow. It was scarcely likely that he would bear the shock which all
those excited children would give him.

Oh, yes, she ought to tell; and yet--and yet----

She stood wavering with her own conscience. Caspar was nervous, but he
was not vicious.

All that could possibly happen would be a little fright for Evelyn,
and a larger measure of disgrace for Bridget. And why should Janet
interfere? Why should she tell tales of her schoolfellows? Her story
would be misinterpreted by that faction of the girls who already had
made Bridget their idol.

No, there was nothing to be alarmed about. Evelyn was too silly, with
her nerves and her fads. Janet stood by the bend of the hill. Her
thoughts were so busy that she scarcely troubled herself to listen for
the approaching carriage.

She stood for a minute or two, then walked slowly back to the window,
out of which her schoolmistress leaned.

"I don't hear any sound whatever, Mrs. Freeman," she said, "but please
don't be alarmed; Evelyn's train may have been late."

"Hark! Stop talking!" said Mrs. Freeman.

There was a sound, a commotion. Several steps were heard; eager voices
were raised in expostulation and distress.

"Let me go," said the head mistress.

She stepped out of the open window, and walked rapidly across the wide
gravel sweep.

Alice, Violet, and several more of the little girls were running and
tumbling up the grassy slope. The moment they saw Mrs. Freeman they
ran to her.

"Oh, come at once!" said Violet, "there has been an accident, and
Evelyn is hurt. Bridget is with her. Come, come at once!"

The child's words were almost incoherent. Alice, who was not quite so
excitable, began to pour out a queer story.

"I know we've all been awfully naughty, but we didn't think Caspar
would mind the boughs. He turned sharp round and something happened
to the wheels of the carriage--and--and--oh, Mrs. Freeman, do come. I
think Evelyn must be dead, she's lying so still."

"Are you there, Janet?" said Mrs. Freeman. "Go into the house, and ask
Miss Patience to follow me down the road. And see that someone goes
for Dr. Hart. Alice, you can come back with me. The rest of the little
girls are to go into the playroom, and to stay there until I come to
them."

Mrs. Freeman spoke calmly, but there was a look about her face which
gave Janet a very queer sensation. The schoolmistress took Alice's
hand, and walked as quickly as she could to the scene of the accident.

The carriage lay smashed a couple of hundred yards from the gates of
the avenue.

Bridget was sitting in the middle of the dusty road with a girl's head
on her lap. The girl's figure was stretched out flat and motionless;
her hat was off, and Bridget was pushing back some waves of fair hair
from her temples.

"It's all my fault, Mrs. Freeman," said Bridget O'Hara, looking up with
a tear-stained face at her governess. "_I_ made the children come, and
_I_ made them cut the branches off the trees, and we ran, and shouted
as we ran. I didn't think it would do any harm, it was all a joke, and
to welcome her, for they said she was the queen, but no one is to blame
in all the wide world but me."

"Oh, what a wicked girl you are," said Mrs. Freeman, roused out of
her customary gentle manner by the sight of Evelyn's motionless form.
"I can't speak to you at this moment, Bridget O'Hara; go away, leave
Evelyn to me. Evelyn, my darling, look at me, speak to me--say you are
not hurt!"

When Mrs. Freeman told Bridget to go away and leave her, the Irish girl
stopped playing with the tendrils of hair on Evelyn's forehead, and
looked at her governess with a blank expression stealing over her face.

She did not attempt to rise to her feet, however, and Mrs. Freeman was
far too much absorbed to take any further notice of her.

"If I had only some smelling salts," she began.

Bridget slipped her hand into her pocket, and pulled out an exquisitely
embossed vinaigrette.

The governess took it without a word, and opening it applied it to
Evelyn's nostrils.

After two or three applications the injured girl stirred faintly, a
shade of color came into her cheeks, and she opened her eyes.

"There, thank Heaven, I haven't killed her!" exclaimed Bridget.

She burst into sudden frantic weeping.

"I believe I am more frightened than hurt," said Miss Percival,
struggling to sit up, and smiling at Mrs. Freeman, "I'm so awfully
sorry that I've lost my nerve. Where am I? what has happened? I only
remember Caspar turning right round and looking at me, and some people
shouting, and then the carriage went over, and I cannot recall anything
more. But I don't think--no--I am sure I am not seriously hurt."

"Thank God for that, my darling," said Mrs. Freeman. She put her arm
round the young girl, kissed her tenderly, and drew her away from
Bridget.




CHAPTER V.

BREAKING IN A WILD COLT.


Miss Percival's accident, and Bridget O'Hara's share in it, were the
subjects of conversation not only that night, but the next morning.

The doctor had come to see Evelyn, had pronounced her whole in limb,
and not as much shaken by her fall out of her carriage as might have
been expected. After prescribing a day in bed, and all absence of
excitement, he went away, promising to look in again in a few days.

Mrs. Freeman breathed a sigh of relief.

"And now," she said, turning to her two sisters, "the question of
questions is this: what is to be done with Bridget O'Hara? Is she to
continue at Mulberry Court after such a daring act of disobedience?
Must the safety of the other scholars be sacrificed to her?"

"I'd punish her very severely," said Miss Patience. "I am sure
punishment is what she wants. She ought to be broken in."

"I don't believe you'll ever drive her," said Miss Delicia. "I know
that sort of character. It's only hardened when it's driven."

"I shall do nothing to-night," said Mrs. Freeman. "But to-morrow,
after morning school, I must speak to Bridget. Her conduct during that
interview will more or less decide what steps I must take."

The next morning, after breakfast, Mrs. Freeman went upstairs to sit
with her favorite Evelyn.

Evelyn Percival, the head girl of the school, was now between
seventeen and eighteen years of age. She was a rather pale, rather
plain girl; her forehead was broad and low, which gave indications of
thoughtfulness more than originality; her wide open gray eyes had a
singularly sweet expression; they were surrounded by dark eyelashes,
and were the best features in a face which otherwise might have
appeared almost insignificant.

But plain as Evelyn undoubtedly was, no one who knew her long ever
remarked about her appearance, or gave a second thought to the fact
that she could lay small claim to physical beauty.

There was a spirit that shone out of those gray eyes, and lent
sweetness to that mouth, which was in itself so beautiful that it
radiated all over Evelyn, and gave her that strong fascination which
those who are striving heavenward ever possess.

She never came into a room without exercising in a silent, unobtrusive,
very gentle way, a marked effect for good.

Uncharitable talk about others ceased when Evelyn drew near.
Selfishness slunk away ashamed.

All the other girls in the school tried to be good when Evelyn was by,
not because she would reproach them, but because she had a certain way
about her which made goodness so attractive that they were forced to
follow it.

She was not a specially clever girl, nevertheless she was now, in
virtue of her seniority, and a certain painstaking determination, which
made her capable of mastering her studies, at the head of the school.

There are some jealous people who dislike the beautiful because they
are beautiful, the good because they are good. Girls with this special
character are to be found in every school. Janet May was one of them,
but perhaps in the whole of Mulberry Court she was the only person who
at this juncture cordially disliked Evelyn Percival.

"It is delightful to have you back again," said Mrs. Freeman, bending
over her pupil and kissing her. "And really, Evelyn, you look almost
well. Oh, my dear child, what a fright I got about you last night."

"But I'm all right to-day," said Evelyn, in her bright voice. "I don't
feel any bad effects whatever from my accident. I can't think why I was
so stupid as to faint, and give you a fright. I ought really to have
more control over my nerves."

"My dear, you have been ill, which accounts for your nervousness. But
in any case a person with the stoutest nerves may be pardoned for
fainting if she is flung out of a carriage. I cannot imagine how you
escaped as you have done."

"I feel quite well," replied Evelyn, "quite well, and disinclined to
stay in bed. I want to get up and see all my friends. You don't know
how I have been looking forward to this."

"You shall see the girls one at a time in your room, darling, for
whether you feel well or not, the doctor wishes you to remain quiet
to-day."

Evelyn gave a very faint sigh, and turning her head looked out of the
window.

Mrs. Freeman went over and drew back the curtains.

"You can watch the sea from your bed, my dear," she said, "and I will
send Dorothy to sit with you after morning school. Now I want to ask
you if you can give any idea of how the accident occurred?"

A slight additional color came into Miss Percival's cheeks.

"Caspar shied at something," she said.

"Yes, but at what?"

"Well, Mrs. Freeman, you know how fond the children are of me, and I of
them. They came to meet me, several of the little ones, and one tall,
beautiful girl, whom I do not know. Perhaps they were all over-excited.
They shouted a good deal, and waved branches of trees. Poor Caspar
evidently could not stand it; but they really did nothing that anyone
could blame them about."

"Nonsense, Evelyn. They disobeyed my most stringent orders. Are they
not to be blamed for that?"

"Hadn't they got leave to come to meet me?"

"No, it was that wild Irish girl's doing. I really don't know what to
do with her."

"Is she the beautiful girl who was the ringleader? I don't think I ever
saw anyone with such presence of mind. She absolutely caught me as I
was flung out of the carriage. I felt her arms round me; that was why I
was not hurt."

"Yes, I am sure she has a good deal of physical courage, but that
does not alter the fact of her having defied my authority and led the
children into mischief."

"Poor girl!" said Evelyn, a wistful expression coming into her eyes.

"Now, my dear, you are not going to plead for her. I must manage her my
own way. I will leave you now, Evelyn. Rest all you can, dear, and if
you are very good you may perhaps be allowed to join us at supper."

Mrs. Freeman left her pupil's room, and went downstairs.

Evelyn Percival was one of the few girls in the school who was
privileged to have a room to herself. Her little room was prettily
draped in white and pink. It was called the Pink Room, and adjoined the
Blue Room, which was occupied by Bridget O'Hara.

On her way downstairs Mrs. Freeman stepped for a moment into Bridget's
room. Her pupil's large traveling trunks had been removed to the box
room, but many showy dresses and much finery of various sorts lay
scattered about.

Bridget was evidently not blessed with the bump of order. Valuable
rings and bracelets lay, some on the mantelpiece, some on the dressing
table; ribbons, scarfs, handkerchiefs, littered the chairs, the
chest of drawers, and even the bed. A stray stocking poked its foot
obtrusively out of one of the over-packed drawers of the wardrobe.
Photographs of friends and of scenery lay face downward on the
mantelpiece, and kept company with Bridget's brushes and combs in her
dressing-table drawer.

Mrs. Freeman was very particular with regard to tidiness, and the
condition of this very pretty room filled her with grave displeasure.
The rules with regard to tidy rooms, neatly kept drawers, a place for
everything and everything in its place, were most stringent at Mulberry
Court, but up to the present rules mattered nothing at all to Bridget
O'Hara.

"There is nothing whatever for it," murmured Mrs. Freeman; "I must
punish the poor child in a way she will really feel. If this fails,
and I cannot break her in before the end of the term, I must ask her
father to remove her."

Mrs. Freeman sighed as she said these words.

She went downstairs and entered her own private sitting room. It was
now half-past eleven o'clock, and morning school was over. The weather
was too hot for regular walks, and the girls were disporting themselves
according to their own will and pleasure on the lawns and in the
beautiful grounds which surrounded the school.

Mrs. Freeman could see them as she sat in her sitting room.

Janet, accompanied by Olive and Ruth, was pacing slowly backward and
forward under some shady trees. Her satellites were devoted to her,
and Janet's slender figure was very erect, and her manner somewhat
dictatorial. Dorothy Collingwood was not to be seen, she had evidently
gone to join Evelyn upstairs. The girls of the middle school were
preparing to exert themselves over more than one tennis match. The
smaller children were going down to the shore.

Bridget, her hat hanging on her arm, defiance very marked on her brow,
came suddenly into view. She was alone, and Mrs. Freeman noticed that
Janet and her two companions stopped to look at her as if they rather
enjoyed the spectacle. They paused for a moment, stared rudely, then
turned their backs on Miss O'Hara.

Bridget wore a white muslin dress with a long train. Her silver girdle
was clasped round her waist. She went deliberately up to a rose tree in
full flower, and, picking two or three half-opened buds, put them in
her girdle.

Mrs. Freeman got up, and sounded an electric bell in the wall.

When the servant answered her summons, she desired her to ask Miss
O'Hara to come to her immediately.

In about ten minutes' time Bridget came into the room without knocking.
Her hat was still swinging on her arm; there was a wild-rose color on
her cheeks; her eyes had a certain excited, untamed gleam in them.

"Did you want me, Mrs. Freeman?" she said, in her lazy, rich, somewhat
impertinent voice.

"I certainly want you, Bridget. I am not in the habit of sending for my
pupils if I don't wish to speak to them."

Bridget uttered a faint sigh.

"Well, I'm here," she said; "what is it?" She still used that
half-mocking, indifferent voice.

Mrs. Freeman could scarcely restrain her impatience.

"I'm afraid I have some unpleasant things to talk about, Miss O'Hara,"
she said. "But, before I begin, I must distinctly request you to
remember that you are a young girl in the presence of the lady who has
been appointed by your father to guide, direct, and command you."

"Command me?" said Bridget, her nostrils dilating.

"Yes; does not a mistress always command her pupils?"

"When she can," replied Bridget. Her hands dropped to her sides. She
lowered her eyes; her proud lips were firmly shut.

After a little pause, during which neither mistress nor pupil spoke,
the pupil raised her head.

"I hate school," she said. "I want to go back to the Castle. Can I go
to-day?"

"No, Bridget, you cannot. You have been sent here to be under my care,
and you must remain with me at least until the end of the term."

"When will that be?"

"Not for over a month?"

"Couldn't you write to father, Mrs. Freeman, and tell him that I am not
happy? Say, 'Biddy is not happy, and she wants to go back to you and
the dogs.' If you say that, he'll let me come home fast enough. You
might write by the next post, and father, he'd jump on the jaunting-car
and drive into Ballyshannon, and send you a wire. If papa wires to you,
Mrs. Freeman, the very moment he gets your letter, I may perhaps be
home on Sunday."

Bridget's changeful face was now all glowing with excitement,
eagerness, and hope. Her defiant attitude had vanished. As she looked
full at Mrs. Freeman, her governess noticed for the first time that her
eyelids were red, as if she had been crying. That, and a certain pathos
in her voice, made the head mistress regard her in a new light.

"My dear," she said, "I cannot grant your request. You have been sent
to me by your father. He wishes you to stay here as long as you are
well in body. You are quite well, Bridget; you must therefore make up
your mind, whether you like school or whether you hate it, to remain
here until the end of the term."

"Very well, if it must be so, but I shall be very miserable, and misery
soon makes me ill."

"You were not miserable yesterday."

"No, not very. The younger girls were fond of me, and Dorothy
Collingwood was nice."

"And isn't she nice to-day?"

"_No_ one is nice to-day. There's the most ridiculous, unfair fuss
being made about nothing. There isn't a single girl in the school who
hasn't turned against me, because of the accident last night to that
stupid, plain Miss Percival. If I'd hurt her, or if she were ill, and
in the least pain, I'd be as sorry as the rest of them; but she's not
in the slightest pain; she's quite well. I can't understand all this
fuss."

"Can't you, Bridget? I'm afraid I must make you understand that the
fact of Evelyn being uninjured does not alter your conduct."

"My conduct? What _have_ I done?"

"You have disobeyed me. One of my strictest rules forbids the girls to
leave the grounds without permission. You not only left the grounds
contrary to my express order, but you took several of the little
children of the school with you. It is against my orders to have the
trees destroyed by breaking off branches. Knowing this, you willfully
disobeyed me again, and you and your companions rushed down the road
shouting wildly. What was the result? Evelyn Percival mercifully
escaped serious injury, but my carriage was broken and my horse
damaged. The mere money loss you have occasioned me, Bridget----"

"Oh, papa'll pay that! Don't you fret about that, Mrs. Freeman; the
dear old dad will settle it. He quite loves writing checks!"

"But your father cannot pay for your disobedience--for the bad example
you have set the little children, for the pain and anxiety you have
given me."

"Pain and anxiety! I like that! You are just angry with me--that's
about all!"

"I am sorry for you also, my dear. I earnestly desire that you should
be a good girl, for the girl is the mother of the woman, and a good
girl makes that admirable and priceless treasure--a good woman by and
by."

Bridget moved restlessly. She looked out of the window. The sun was
shining brilliantly, and the grass under the big shady trees looked
particularly inviting.

"I suppose I may go," she said, "if that's all you have got to say?"

"I have some more things to say. I must get you, Bridget, before you
leave this room, to make a promise."

"What is that?"

"That you will obey me."

"I don't know how I can, Mrs. Freeman. I said at once, when I came to
school and saw what kind of place it was, that I wouldn't obey the
rules. They were so tiresome and silly; I didn't see the use of them."

"Bridget, you are incorrigible. If kindness won't make you see that you
are bound in honor to obey me, I must try punishment. Wretched child, I
don't wish to be hard to you, but do what I say, you _must_!"

Bridget's face turned very white. She looked wildly toward the door,
then at the window.

Mrs. Freeman went up to her, and took her hand. "My dear," she said, "I
must make you feel my authority. I do this with great pain, for I know
you have not had the advantage of the training which many of the girls
who live here have received. I would treat you with kindness, Bridget,
but you won't receive my kindness. Now I must be severe, but for your
good. Until you promise to obey the rules of the school, you must not
join your schoolfellows either at work or play. My sister Patience
will allow you to sit with her in her sitting room, and your meals
will be brought to you there. The length of your punishment rests with
yourself, my dear."




CHAPTER VI.

CAPTIVITY.


There are times in life when all one's preconceived ideas are
completely upset and altered. We looked at the world from a certain
point of view. From that special angle of our own it showed in gold
and rose color and blue. A day came when we were forced to change our
vantage ground, and on that day we for the first time perceived the
grays and the blacks of that same old world--it ceased to smile on us,
it ceased to pet us--it ceased to say to us, "I was made to render
your life beautiful, I was made to minister to every selfish desire of
yours; I am your slave, you are my mistress; do with me what you will."

On this particular day the world ceases to speak in those gentle and
submissive tones. With all its grays and its blacks turned full in
view, it says: "You are only an atom; there are millions of other human
beings to share my good things as well as my evil. After all, I am not
your slave, but your mistress; I have made laws, and you have got to
obey them. Up to the present I have treated you as a baby, but now I am
going to show you what life really means."

It was in some such fashion that the world spoke to Bridget O'Hara on
this special summer's morning.

Mrs. Freeman took her unwilling hand, led her into Miss Patience's dull
little sitting room, which only looked out upon the back yard, and,
shutting the door behind her, left her to her own meditations.

"You remain here, Bridget," she repeated, "until you have promised to
obey the rules of the school. No longer and no shorter will be your
term of punishment. It remains altogether with yourself how soon you
are liberated."

The door was closed then, and Bridget O'Hara found herself alone.

The summer sounds came in to her, for the window of her dull room was
open, the birds were twittering in the trees, innumerable doves were
cooing; there was the gentle, soft whisper of the breeze, the cackling
of motherly hens, the lowing of cows, and, far away beyond and over
them, the insistent, ceaseless whisper of the gentle waves on the shore.

Bridget stood by the window, but she heard none of these soothing
sounds. Her spoilt, childish heart was in the most open state of
rebellion and revolt.

She was in every sense of the word an untamed creature; she was like a
wild bird who had just been caught and put into a cage.

By and by doubtless the poor bird would be taught to develop his
notes into something richer and rarer than nature had made them, but
the process would be painful. Bridget was like the bird, and she was
beating her poor little wings now against her cage.

Her first impulse was to open the door of her prison and go boldly out.

She had not passed a pleasant morning, however, and this plan scarcely
commended itself to her.

For some reason her companions, both old and young in the school, had
taken upon themselves to cut her.

In all her life Bridget had never been cut before.

At the dear old wild Castle in Ireland she had been idolized by
everyone, the servants had done her bidding, however extravagant and
fanciful that bidding had been. She led her old father where she wished
with silken reins. The dogs, the horses, even the cows and the calves,
followed Bridget like so many faithful shadows. In short, this wild
little girl was the beloved queen of the Castle. To cut her, or show
her the smallest incivility, would have been nothing short of high
treason.

This morning Bridget had been practically "sent to Coventry." Even
Dorothy was cold in her manner to her. The small children who had hung
upon her words and followed her with delight the evening before, were
now too frightened at the consequences of their own daring to come
near her. Janet, Ruth, and Olive had shown their disapproval by marked
avoidance and covert sneers. Bridget had done a very naughty act, and
the school thought it well to show its displeasure.

There was little use, therefore, in rushing out of her prison to join
her companions in their playground or on the shore.

Should she run away altogether? Should she walk to Eastcliff and take
the next train to London, and then, trusting to chance, and to the
kindness of strangers, endeavor to find her way back to the dear and
loving shores of the old country, and so back again to the beloved home?

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she thought of this plan; but, in the
first place, she had no idea how to manage it, and, what was a far more
serious obstacle, her little sealskin purse, her father's last present,
was empty.

Bridget could certainly not return home without money.

She sat down presently on the nearest chair and covered her face with
her hands. She could only resolve on one thing--she would certainly not
yield to Mrs. Freeman's request--nothing would induce her to promise to
obey the rules of the school.

A story book, belonging to the school library, happened to be lying
on a chair close to her own. She took it up, opened it, and began to
read. The tale was sufficiently interesting to cause her to forget her
troubles.

She had read for nearly an hour when the door of the room opened, and
Miss Patience came in. Miss Patience was an excellent woman, but she
took severe views of life; she emphatically believed in the young
being trained; she thought well of punishments, and pined for the
good old days when children were taught to make way for their elders,
and not--as in the present degenerate times--to expect their elders
to make way for them. Miss Patience just nodded toward Bridget, and,
sitting beside a high desk, took out an account book and opened it.
Miss O'Hara felt more uncomfortable than ever when Miss Patience came
into the room; her book ceased to entertain her, and the walls of her
prison seemed to get narrower. She fidgeted on her chair, and jumped up
several times to look out of the window. There was nothing of the least
interest, however, going on in the yard at that moment. Presently she
beat an impatient tattoo on the glass with her fingers.

"Don't do that, Bridget," said Miss Patience; "you are disturbing me."

Bridget dropped back into her seat with a profound sigh. Presently
the dinner gong sounded, and Miss Patience put away her papers and
accounts, and shutting up her desk, prepared to leave the room. Bridget
got up too. "I am glad that is dinner," she said; "I'm awfully hungry.
May I go up to my room to tidy myself, Miss Patience?"

"No, Bridget, you are to stay here; your dinner will be brought to
you." Bridget flushed crimson.

"I won't eat any dinner in this horrid room," she said; "I think I have
been treated shamefully. If my dinner is sent to me I won't eat it."

"You can please yourself about that," said Miss Patience, in her
calmest voice. She left the room, closing the door behind her.

Bridget felt a wild desire to rush after Miss Patience, and defying all
punishment and all commands, appear as usual in the dining room.

Something, however, she could not tell what, restrained her from doing
this. She sank back again in her chair; angry tears rose to her bright
eyes, and burning spots appeared in her round cheeks.

The door was opened, and a neatly dressed servant of the name of
Marshall entered, bearing a dinner tray.

She was a tall, slight girl, fairly good-looking, and not too
strong-minded.

"Here, Miss O'Hara," she said good-naturedly, "here's a lovely slice of
lamb; and I saved some peas for you. Them young ladies always do make
a rush on the peas, but I secured some in time. I'll bring you some
cherry tart presently, miss, and some whipped cream. You eat a good
dinner, miss, and forget your troubles; oh, dear! I don't like to see
young ladies in punishment--and that I don't!"

While Marshall was speaking she looked down at the pretty and
rebellious young prisoner with marked interest.

"I'd make it up if I was you, miss," she said.

Marshall, with all her silliness, was a shrewd observer of character.
Had the girl in disgrace been Janet May or Dorothy Collingwood, she
would have known far better than to presume to address her; but Bridget
was on very familiar terms with her old nurse and with many of the
other servants at home, and it seemed quite reasonable to her that
Marshall should speak sympathetic words.

"I can't eat, Marshall," she said. "I'm treated shamefully, and the
very nicest dinner wouldn't tempt me. You can take it away, for I can't
possibly touch a morsel. Oh, dear! oh, dear! how I do wish I were at
home again! What a horrid, horrid sort of place school is!"

"Poor young lady!" said Marshall. "Anyone can see, Miss O'Hara, as
you aint accustomed to mean ways; you has your spirit, and I doubt me
if anyone can break it. You aint the sort for school--ef I may make
bold to say as much, you aint never been brought under. That's the
first thing they does at school; under you must go, whether you likes
it or not. Oh, dear, there's that bell, and it's for me--I must fly,
miss--but I do, humble as I am, sympathize with you most sincere. You
try and eat a bit of dinner, miss, do now--and I'll see if I can't get
some asparagus for you by and by, and, at any rate, you shall have the
tart and the whipped cream."

"I can't eat anything, Marshall," said Bridget, shaking her head. "You
are kind; I see by your face that you are very kind. When I'm let
out of this horrid prison I'll give you some blue ribbon that I have
upstairs, and a string of Venetian beads. I dare say you're fond of
finery."

"Oh, lor, miss, you're too good, but there's that bell again; I must
run this minute."

Marshall departed, and Bridget lifted the cover from her plate and
looked at the nice hot lamb and green peas.

Notwithstanding her vehement words, some decided pangs of hunger seized
her as she saw the tempting food, She remembered, however, that in
the old novels heroines in distress had never any appetite, and she
resolved to die rather than touch food while she was treated in so
disgraceful a manner.

She leant back, therefore, in her chair and reflected with a sad sort
of pleasure on the sorrow which her father would feel when he learnt
that she had almost died of hunger and exhaustion at this cruel school.

"He'll be sorry he sent me; he'll be sorry he listened to Aunt
Kathleen," she said to herself.

A flash of self-pity filled her eyes, but there was some consolation in
reflecting on the fact that no one could force her to eat against her
will.

Marshall reappeared with the asparagus and cherry tart.

She gave Bridget a great deal of sympathy, adjured her to eat, shook
her head over her, and having gained a promise that a pair of long
suède gloves should be added to the ribbons and Venetian beads, went
away, having quite made up her mind to take Bridget's part through
thick and thin.

"It's most mournful to see her, poor dear!" she muttered. "She's fat
and strong and hearty, but I know by the shape of her mouth that she's
that obstinate she won't touch any food, and she won't give in to obey
Mrs. Freeman, not if it's ever so. I do pity her, poor dear, and it
aint only for the sake of the things she gives me. Now let me see,
aint there anyone I can speak to about her? Oh, there's Miss Dorothy
Collingwood, she aint quite so 'aughty as the other young ladies; I
think I will try her, and see ef she couldn't bring the poor dear to
see reason."

The girls were leaving the dining room while these thoughts were
flashing through Marshall's mind. Dorothy and Janet May were walking
side by side.

"Miss Collingwood," said Marshall, in a timid whisper, "might I say a
word to you, miss?"

"Yes, Marshall," said Dorothy; she stopped. Janet stopped also, and
gave Marshall a freezing glance.

"We haven't a moment to lose, Dorothy," she said, "I want to speak to
you alone before the rest of the committee arrive. That point with
regard to Evelyn Percival must be settled. Perhaps your communication
can keep, Marshall."

"No, miss, that it can't," said Marshall, who felt as she expressed it
afterward, "that royled by Miss May's 'aughty ways." "I won't keep Miss
Collingwood any time, miss, ef you'll be pleased to walk on."

Janet was forced to comply, and Dorothy exclaimed eagerly:

"Now, Marshall, what is it? How fussy and important you look!"

"Oh, miss, it's that poor dear young lady."

"What poor dear young lady?"

"Miss Bridget O'Hara. She aint understood, and she's in punishment,
pore dear; shut up in Miss Patience's dull parlor. Mrs. Freeman don't
understand her. She aint the sort to be broke in, and if Mrs. Freeman
thinks she'll do it, she's fine and mistook. The pore dear is that
spirited she'd die afore she'd own herself wrong. Do you think, Miss
Collingwood, as she'd touch a morsel of her dinner? No, that she
wouldn't! Bite nor sup wouldn't pass her lips, although I tempted her
with a lamb chop and them beautiful marrow peas, and asparagus and
whipped cream and cherry tart. You can judge for yourself, miss, that
a healthy young lady with a good, fine appetite must be bad when she
refuses food of that sort!"

"I'm very sorry, Marshall," said Dorothy, "but Miss O'Hara has really
been very naughty. You have heard, of course, of the carriage accident,
and how nearly Miss Percival was hurt. It's kind of you to plead for
Miss O'Hara, but she really does deserve rather severe punishment, and
Mrs. Freeman is most kind, as well as just. I don't really see how I
can interfere."

"Are you coming, Dorothy?" called Janet May from the end of the passage.

"Yes, in one minute, Janet! I don't know what I'm to do, Marshall,"
continued Dorothy. "I should not venture to speak to Mrs. Freeman on
the subject; she would be very, very angry."

"I don't mean that, miss; I mean that perhaps you'd talk to Miss
Bridget, and persuade her to do whatever Mrs. Freeman says is right. I
don't know what that is, of course, but you has a very kind way, Miss
Dorothy, and ef you would speak to Miss O'Hara, maybe she'd listen to
you."

"Well, Marshall, I'll see what I can do. I must join Miss May now, for
we have something important to decide, but I won't forget your words."

Marshall had to be comforted with this rather dubious speech, and
Dorothy ran on to join Janet.

"Well," said Janet, "what did that impertinent servant want? I hope you
showed her her place, Dorothy? The idea of her presuming to stop us
when we were so busy!"

"She's not at all impertinent," said Dorothy. "After all, Janet,
servants are flesh and blood, like the rest of us, and this poor
Marshall, although she's not the wisest of the wise, is a good-natured
creature. What do you think she wanted?"

"How can I possibly guess?"

"She was interceding for Bridget," said Dorothy.

"Bridget O'Hara!" exclaimed Janet, "that incorrigible, unpleasant girl?
Why _did_ you waste your time listening to her?"

"I could not help myself," replied Dorothy. "You know, of course,
Janet, what Bridget did last night?"

"Yes, yes, I know," replied Janet, with a sneer; "she did something
which shook the nerves of our beloved favorite. Had anyone else given
Miss Percival her little fright, I could have forgiven her!"

"Janet, I wish you would not speak in that bitter way."

"I can't help it, my dear; I'm honest, whatever I am."

"But why will you dislike our dear Evelyn?"

"We won't discuss the whys nor the wherefores; the fact remains that I
do dislike her."

"And you also dislike poor Bridget? I can't imagine why you take such
strong prejudices."

"As to disliking Miss O'Hara, it's more a case of despising; she's
beneath my dislike."

"Well, she's in trouble now," said Dorothy, with a sigh. "I think you
are very much mistaken in her, Janet; she's a very original, clever,
amusing girl. I find her tiresome at times, and I admit that she's
dreadfully naughty, but it's the sort of naughtiness which comes from
simply not knowing. The accident last night might have been a dreadful
one, and Bridget certainly deserves the punishment she has got; all the
same;--I'm very sorry for her."

"I can't share your sorrow," replied Janet. "If her punishment,
whatever it is, deprives us of her charming society for a few days, it
will be a boon to the entire school. I noticed that she was absent from
dinner, and I will own I have not had a pleasanter meal for some time."

"Well, Marshall is unhappy about her," replied Dorothy. "She said that
Bridget would not touch her dinner. I don't exactly know what Mrs.
Freeman means to do about her, but the poor girl is a prisoner in Miss
Patience's dull little sitting room for the present."

"Hurrah! Hurrah! Long may she stay there! Now, do let us drop this
tiresome subject. We have only ten minutes to ourselves before the rest
of the committee arrive, and that point with regard to Evelyn Percival
must be arranged. Come, Dorothy, let us race each other to the Lookout!"




CHAPTER VII.

WHO IS TO PROVIDE THE NEEDFUL?


Fast as they ran, however, the two girls were not the first at the
place of rendezvous. Olive and Ruth, and another girl of the name of
Frances Murray, were all waiting for them when they arrived.

These three girls, with Janet and Dorothy, were the members of the
committee who were managing all the affairs of the Fancy Fair.

The subject now to be brought under discussion was whether Evelyn
Percival, the head girl of the school, should be asked to join the
committee.

Janet was very much opposed to the idea; the other girls, for more
reasons than one, were in favor of it.

Evelyn was popular; she had a very clear head, she had a good many
original, as well as sensible ideas; last, but not least, she was rich.
If Evelyn took up the idea of the Fancy Fair with enthusiasm, the
scheme would certainly succeed, for she would spare neither time nor
money on the cause. She would, however, also, in the natural sequence
of things, become immediately the guiding spirit of the scheme.

Janet was head at present; Janet first thought of the Fancy Fair. A
little boy in the neighborhood had lost his father and mother; the
father had been drowned at sea, the mother had died of the shock--the
baby-boy of a year old had been left without either friends or
providers.

When out walking one day, Janet and one of her companions met the
child, who was a beautiful boy, with picturesque hair and one of those
fair, sweet faces which appeal straight to the hearts of all women. A
little barefoot and slip-shod girl was carrying the child. Janet and
her companion stopped to speak to him; his sad story was told by his
eager little nurse. The girls were full of sympathy; even Janet May's
languid interest was aroused. She was poor, but she took half a crown
out of her purse and gave it to the beautiful baby; her companion
immediately followed suit. Janet and her friend talked of the boy all
the way home, and that evening the Fancy Fair was first mooted as a
means of raising a substantial sum of money for little Tim's benefit.

Mrs. Freeman was only too pleased to see the rather cold-hearted Janet
May roused to take an interest in another. She gave her sanction to
the girls' ideas, and the Fancy Fair was now the principal object of
conversation in the school. The girls liked to think they were working
for little Tim, and Janet secured more affectionate glances and more
pleasant words than she had ever received before in the school. She
enjoyed herself greatly. Ambition was her strongest point, and that
side of her character was being abundantly gratified. She was looked up
to, consulted, praised; she was the head of the committee. Janet liked
to be first; she was first now, with a vengeance. No fear of anyone
else even trying to claim this envied position. Janet was clever; she
had a good head for business; she was first; the glory of the scheme
was hers; the praise, if it succeeded, would be hers. It was all
delightful, and nothing came to dim her ardor until the news reached
her that Evelyn Percival had recovered and was returning to the school.

This news was most unwelcome to Janet. Everybody loved Evelyn; she was
the head girl. If she joined the committee she would be expected to
take the lead; Janet would be no longer first. If such a catastrophe
occurred, Janet felt that the Fancy Fair would immediately lose all
interest in her eyes. Her object of objects now was, whether by foul
means or fair, to keep Evelyn Percival from being asked to join the
committee.

She knew that her task would be a delicate one, as it would be
impossible for her to give the real reasons for her strong objection to
Evelyn being on the committee.

"Well, girls, here you are!" sang out Frances Murray, as the two,
panting and breathless, ran up the winding stairs of the little tower.
"We thought you weren't coming; but three make a quorum, and we were
about to transact the business ourselves; weren't we, Ruth?"

"Yes," said Ruth, in her prim, somewhat matter-of-fact voice; "but,"
she added, glancing at Janet, "we are only too delighted that you have
come, Janey, for what really important step can be taken with regard to
the fair without your advice?"

"Of course," echoed Olive; "it is dear old Janey's idea from first to
last. Sit here, Janet, love; won't you, next me? It is very hot up
here, but there's nice shade under my big umbrella."

Janet took very little notice of her satellites Ruth and Olive. They
were useful to her, of course, but in her heart of hearts she rather
despised them. She was by no means sure of their being faithful to her
in case anything occurred to make it more for their own interest to go
over to the other side.

"Sit down, sit down, and let us begin!" said Frances, who was a very
downright, honest sort of girl. "What I want to do is to get to
business. The fair is only three weeks off. We have committed ourselves
to it, and we have really made very little way. The idea of the fair
is, of course, Janet's, and she's the head for the present; but when
Evelyn joins us, we'll have a lot of fresh force put into everything.
Mrs. Freeman says that Evelyn is better, and that she will be down to
supper this evening, and I vote that we tell her about the fair then,
and ask her at once to come on the committee. What do you say, Dolly?"

"I agree, of course," said Dorothy. "Evelyn is delightful; and she has
such a lot of tact and sense that having her with us will insure the
success of the fair."

"Well, that is our principal business to-day," continued Frances. "We
can soon put it to the vote, and then each member of the committee can
join her own working party, and get things as forward as possible. For
my part, I can't get the girls to do much needlework this hot weather.
I have done everything in my power to incite them; little Tim's
destitute condition has been aired before their eyes so often that it
begins to lose its effect. The girls who are well off say they will buy
things, or write to their several homes for them, and the girls who are
badly off simply loll about and do nothing."

"You have not sufficient influence, Frances," said Janet, some
angry spots coming into her cool, pale cheeks. "Now, my girls work
extraordinarily well. Annie and Violet, and Rosy and Mamie, are
painting some beautiful fans; they will be really artistic, and will
fetch a good price. All that is wanted is to get a girl to take up
the work she is really interested in. She'll do it fast enough then.
You can't expect anyone to care to hem stupid pinafores, and to make
babies' frocks this weather."

Frances colored; she had no love for Janet, whose ideas on every point
were opposed to her own.

"It's all very well to sneer at my pinafores and babies' frocks," she
exclaimed; "but when people go to bazaars they like to buy useful
articles. Your ideas are all very well, but you carry your art mania
too far; however, when Evelyn is with us she'll make everything smooth.
How glad I am that she has come back in time! Now then, who'll vote to
have her asked to join the committee?"

"I will, of course," said Dorothy Collingwood. Janet was silent; she
walked across the little platform at the top of the Lookout, and
leant over the low parapet. Ruth and Olive were also silent; they
cast anxious and undecided glances at their friend's back. They knew
by her attitude that she was waiting for them to speak. In her heart
Ruth adored Evelyn, but she was more or less in Janet's power, who had
helped her many times with her more difficult lessons. Olive also felt
that up to the present it would be her best policy to side with Janet.

"Well, Ruth, you, of course, wish us to ask Evelyn to join," said
Frances, fixing her bright eyes on the girl.

"I--I don't know," said Ruth, in a hesitating voice.

"It might rather upset arrangements now," faltered Olive.

"Yes, I agree," said Janet, flashing round; "I agree with Ruth and
Olive."

"Ruth doesn't know her own mind, so you can't agree with her,"
interrupted Frances.

"Yes, Ruth does know her own mind," said Janet; "she's a little bit
timid, I grant, but she knows it well enough. You don't want Evelyn to
be asked to join us, do you, Ruthy?"

"No," said Ruth, with sudden boldness, "no, I don't."

"Well, then, the votes are against you, Frances," said Janet; "so the
matter is settled; three against two. I suppose we needn't waste any
more time now; we can all go away and set to work."

"No; wait a minute," said Dorothy. "The decision you have come to,
Janet--of course, Olive and Ruth always go with you; you know that, so
they scarcely count--the decision you have come to seems to us most
extraordinary. You offer a direct slight to Evelyn Percival; you leave
her out in the cold. I do not see that there is anything for it, but
for Frances and me to send in our resignations, if Evelyn is not to
join us."

"I have very good reasons for what I am doing," said Janet. "When I
stayed with my aunt, Mrs. Greville, last summer, she had a Fancy Fair
very much on the lines on which I propose to conduct ours. At the last
moment a lady of influence in the neighborhood was asked to join. She
was very nice and very important, just as Evelyn is very nice and
very important, and the people said just what you say now, that they
could not possibly do without her, and that it would be a great slight
not to have her. Well, she was asked at the eleventh hour to come
on the committee, and from that moment everyone else's arrangements
were turned topsy-turvy, and the fair was an absolute failure. Had
Evelyn been here at the beginning, we could not have helped asking
her to join, but I know that it's a mistake now. I don't think I'm
unreasonable in saying this."

Janet had great control of her emotions, and her words, now uttered
very calmly and quietly, had a certain effect upon Frances Murray.

"There's something in what you say," she remarked after a pause. "Of
course, Evelyn might be told that matters are too advanced now for her
to take any active part, but there is another matter, Janet, which
you have overlooked. It is this: There is not a single rich person on
our committee. I am as poor as a church mouse, and am not ashamed to
own it. I don't suppose you are overburdened with pelf, and I know
that Dolly and Ruth and Olive are not oppressed with the weight of
their purses. Now, Evelyn is rich. If Evelyn took an interest in this
bazaar, she would think nothing of spending five or six pounds in
buying all sorts of pretty things; she would send to London and have
some big packets sent down full of those sorts of little fresh tempting
_souvenirs_ which people always take a fancy to at bazaars and always
buy."

While Frances was speaking, Janet turned rather pale. She had foreseen
this great difficulty, and was much puzzled to know how to get over it.

"The fact is," said Dolly, "there are only two really rich girls in the
school. Evelyn is one, and that poor wild little Biddy is the other."

"Is Bridget O'Hara rich?" asked Janet suddenly.

"Rich? I should think so. Mrs. Freeman told me one day that the poor
child is an heiress, and will have more money than she knows what to do
with."

"Why do you talk of an heiress as 'a poor child,' Dorothy?" said Janet.
"That kind of speech sounds so affected and out of date."

"Well, you needn't be cross to me," said Dorothy. "I do pity Bridget
very much; she will have a lot of responsibility by and by, and up to
the present she certainly has no wise ideas with regard to her future."

"Poor dear," said Janet, with a little sneer, "her position is truly
afflicting."

"Well, well, do let us return to business," said Frances. "Is Evelyn to
be asked to join or not? We all know that Janet doesn't love her; we
can't make out why, but we are not going to trouble ourselves on that
score. I repeat that it is a slight to Evelyn not to ask her to join,
but that fact may be glossed over by making a great deal of the fact
that she was not here at the beginning. We might support you, Janet, in
this, in order that you might retain your dearly coveted position as
head of the fair."

"I don't care a bit about that," said Janet, coloring high.

"Now, my dear; now, my dear, don't let that graceful little tongue lend
itself to a wicked story. However, to return to business. If we exclude
Evelyn from taking an active part in the arrangements of the fair, who
is to provide the needful? Now, Janet May, there's a puzzler for you;
answer it if you can."

Janet walked over to the little parapet, and, leaning against it,
looked out over the dazzling, dancing summer sea. She was silent for a
full moment, then she turned slowly and looked at her companions.

"I own that the money is a sore puzzle," she said. "It goes without
saying that we must have money. Give me twenty-four hours, girls, to
think what is best to be done. If, at the end of that time, I have
thought of no expedient, I will own myself defeated, and will withdraw
my opposition to Evelyn Percival being asked to join."




CHAPTER VIII.

THE "JANET MAY STALL."


The several girls of the committee separated, and went to join the
different parties who were working for the Fancy Fair.

Almost every girl in the school had volunteered to do something, and
on this long, lovely half-holiday they had decided to take their work
out to different parts of the grounds, where they sat, some under the
shelter of the wide-spreading beech trees, others in the summerhouses,
or tents, which were scattered here and there in the grounds.

Ruth, who had a certain gift for management, was helping three or four
of the smaller girls to make some patchwork quilts, but Olive had
decided to keep with Janet and help her as much as possible.

Janet's party had assembled in a large, roomy summerhouse. There was a
rustic table in the middle, and rustic chairs and benches surrounded
it. Here six girls, all of whom belonged to the lower school, were
sitting round a table laughing and chatting merrily. Some bits of
colored silk, some gay chintzes, a heap of wools for crewel work,
several boxes of water-color paints, some pieces of cardboard, some
fans, screens, and pretty baskets were scattered about.

The girls were waiting for Janet and Ruth. They were not disposed to
work. They lolled about and laughed, and looked somewhat wistfully at
the lovely outer world, with the flickering shadows on the grass, and
the dancing, happy sunshine making itself felt through everything.

"Even a Fancy Fair is a bore," said pretty little Violet to her crony
Nora.

"But then we are doing it for Tim," said Alice, raising her charming,
sweet face, and blushing as she spoke.

"Yes," retorted Violet again; "I think of Tim all the time, and how
nice it will be to collect money for the little darling, and how happy
we'll be in the long vacation, when we remember how we saved the pet
from going to the workhouse, but still I do want to bathe awfully
to-day, and however hard I think of the good this Fancy Fair is going
to do, I cannot help being lazy this hot weather."

"Did you know, girls," exclaimed Nora, "that Bridget can swim and dive?
She made a bet yesterday in the school that if we dropped sixpence into
the sea she'd bring it up again in her mouth. She did really; she was
most positive about it. Mary Hill and Cissy Jones bet against her that
she wouldn't, but she was so fierce, and said she had done it fifty
times before in the lake at home. I do love Bridget, don't you, Violet?"

"Yes, I adore her," said Violet, "she's quite the jolliest girl I ever
came across. I'm awfully sorry she has got into trouble, and I hope
Mrs. Freeman will soon forgive her. Poor dear, she doesn't mean to do
wrong, and she is such fun."

"She's like a big baby," said Alice; "but all the same, it is wrong of
her to bet, isn't it?"

"I don't know," replied Violet; "the way Biddy does things makes them
appear not a bit wrong. I should like awfully to see her bring up
that sixpence in her mouth. But hush, let us pretend to be talking of
something else, for here comes Janet and that nasty Olive."

"Janet is really very nice about this fair," said Alice; "but she hates
Biddy, and she has always hated darling Evelyn; it is so funny!"

"O Alice, do shut up," exclaimed Violet. "Here's Janet coming in. Let's
pretend to be talking of something else."

The little girls bent their heads together, pulled forward their
different working materials, and looked busy and important when Janet
and Olive came in.

"Well, girls," said Janet, "I hope you are making lots of progress.
How about that fan, Alice? Oh, you naughty puss, you have not touched
it yet to-day. Now set to work; do set to work. Violet, how is your
mat getting on? Let me look at it, dear; very pretty indeed; don't you
think you could finish it to-day? Molly," turning to the smallest girl
in the summerhouse, "you said you would paint some ribbon markers.
Have you begun them yet? No, I see you haven't. Sit down now, you lazy
darling, and try to make good progress."

Janet's tone was bright and confident. It had immediate effect upon,
the children, stimulating their listlessness, and exciting them to work
with energy.

Janet herself sat near the entrance of the summerhouse. She had an
easel in front of her, and was painting an exquisite little water-color
from nature. Janet had great talent for a certain kind of painting.
There was nothing bold nor masterful in her work, but her touch was
true and delicate, and in a small way she could produce a very pretty
effect.

The younger girls thought Janet's painting perfection, and they stole
up now, one by one, to look at her work and to give enthusiastic
opinions with regard to it.

Their little comments were delightful to her. She had a great thirst
for praise, and could swallow it in any guise.

While she worked, however, her thoughts were very busy; she had to
solve a difficult problem, and had only a few hours to do it in.

After a long period of silence a remark dropped from her lips.

"I have made up my mind," she said, turning round and addressing all
the children.

"O Janey, what have you thought of now?" asked Alice, raising her
pretty flushed face, and pushing aside her painting.

"Take care of messing that fan, dear; you are painting in that red
poppy very nicely," answered Janet. "Well, girls, I have made up my
mind."

"Yes, Janey, yes; what about?" they all answered.

"Our stall is to be far and away the most beautiful at the Fancy Fair."

"Three cheers!" exclaimed the children, but then Alice said in a
wistful tone:

"I don't see how it can be, Janet, for we are none of us rich. I heard
Dolly say this morning that Evelyn's stall would certainly be far and
away the best, for she was the only one of us who had money."

"Evelyn may not have a stall at all," said Janet, "but, in any case,
if you six little girls will back me, and if Olive--I can answer for
Olive that she will do her best--if Olive will help also, our stall
will be the richest and the most lovely at the fair. Will you trust me
to manage this, children?"

"Of course, Janet!" replied Nora, her eyes sparkling.

"Now I tell you what," said Janet, "I know pretty well what the other
girls are doing. Frances Murray's girls are going in for the sober and
useful; Dorothy Collingwood's are working with a will on the same dull
lines. Poor old Ruth--oh, I'm not disparaging her--can't rise above her
patchwork quilts, whereas we, we alone, have embraced ART. Girls, the
combination of _art_ and _money_ will produce the most lovely stall
at the fair. Now I have spoken! You stick to me, girls, and keep your
secret to yourselves. Say nothing, but determine, every one of you, to
do her utmost, not only for little Tim, but for the glory of the 'Janet
May Stall.'"

"We will, we will!" said the children.

They were quite impressed by Janet's enthusiasm, and looked upon their
own humble little efforts in the great field of art with some awe.

"It shall be done!" said Janet. "You have my word for it; I can, I will
manage it. I shall take immediate steps. Olive, will you look after the
girls during the remainder of this afternoon? I must do something at
once to secure our ends."

Janet walked quickly back to the house. She was so lost in thought that
she never saw a girl who was running full tilt against her.

"A penny for your thoughts, Janey!" exclaimed Dorothy Collingwood.
"I never saw your brow so knit with care, my love. What _can_ be the
matter? Is the problem you have got to solve within twenty-four hours
so intensely difficult?"

"It is difficult, Dorothy," replied Janet. "But, puzzling as it is, I
am not going to allow it to conquer me. By the way, that reminds me;
have you just come from the prisoner?"

"What prisoner?"

"That sweet Irish maid, Bridget O'Hara."

"No, I haven't, Janet; I have not forgotten her by any means. But I
suppose I ought to ask Mrs. Freeman's leave before I visit her."

"Well, can't you ask it?"

"I have been looking all over the place for her, but can't find her
anywhere. I am ever so sorry, for I should like to see Biddy, and I am
sure I could exercise a little influence over her. However, there is
nothing to be done until I get Mrs. Freeman's permission, and, as I'm
going up to Evelyn now, poor Biddy must ponder over her shortcomings
for at least another hour."

"What a happy girl you are, Dorothy!" said Janet. "Just fancy spending
all one's time between the good and the naughty favorite of the school.
Oh, what will not money effect!"

"I did not know before that poor Biddy was the favorite of the school,"
said Dorothy. "I wish you would not speak in such a satirical way,
Janet. What is the good of trying to throw scorn on Evelyn? People
only dislike you when you speak like that, and I earnestly wish you
wouldn't."

"You are a good little soul, Dolly," said Janet, "but I must speak
as the spirit moves me. Now don't let me keep you from your darling.
There! I'll try and tolerate her for your sake."

Dorothy ran off, and Janet walked slowly past the front of the house,
her brow knit in anxious thought.

She had reached a little wicket gate, which led round to the back
premises, when she was suddenly startled by finding herself face to
face with Mrs. Freeman.

For a moment a flood of color rushed to her cheeks. She felt inclined
to pass her mistress with a brief salutation; then another impulse
arrested her steps.

"Mrs. Freeman," she said, "may I speak to you for a moment?"

"Certainly, my dear! Can I do anything for you?"

"I should like to ask a favor of you."

"Well, Janet, you don't very often petition for my small mercies. You
are a good girl, studious and attentive. Your masters and mistresses
always give me pleasant reports of your progress. Now, what can I do
for you?"

"I've been told that Bridget O'Hara is under punishment. I should very
much like to see her."

This request of Janet's evidently astonished Mrs. Freeman. She looked
attentively at her pupil, then said in a voice of surprise:

"I did not even know that you were friends."

"Nor are we. I think without any doubt we are at the antipodes in
everything. But--I am sorry for a girl who is under punishment. I
thought perhaps I might say something to her about--submitting.
She might take it better from one of her schoolfellows than from a
mistress. This occurred to me, but perhaps I am only taking a liberty."

"By no means, Janet. I frankly say I am pleased and surprised at your
thoughtfulness. I confess to you, my dear, that Bridget is a very
difficult girl to manage."

"I am sure of that!"

"Very, very difficult. The care of her weighs heavily on me. I
sympathize with her in some things. She is full of good impulses, but
her character--well, it has not been trained at all. Are you likely to
be able to influence her, Janet?"

"I could but do my best!"

Mrs. Freeman paused to consider.

"Had Dorothy made this petition," she said then, "I should have granted
it, as a matter of course. Dorothy has always tried to be nice to
Bridget, and it would have been like her to do a kindness now. Dorothy,
however, has come to me with no such request, and you have, Janet. I am
pleased with your thoughtfulness. I shall certainly not refuse you. Go
to her, dear, and say what is in your heart. You have my best wishes!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Freeman," said Janet, in her low, pretty voice. She
tripped away, and a moment later was knocking at Miss Patience's
sitting-room door.

"Come in, whoever you are!" said a sulky voice from the interior of the
room.

Janet opened the door, shut it carefully behind her, and advanced to
the table, on the edge of which Bridget had perched herself as if she
were on horseback.

"Well, what do you want now that you have come?" asked Miss O'Hara, in
her proudest voice. "You never liked me, so I suppose you are awfully
pleased to see me like this?"

"Now do hush," said Janet. "I have not come in an unkind spirit. You
must really listen, Bridget, to what I have come to say. I am the very
first of your schoolfellows to visit you, and _would_ I trouble to come
if I did not mean it kindly?"

Janet's voice was the essence of gentle calm. It affected poor
tempest-tossed Biddy, who jumped down from her imaginary horse, and
leant up against the window-sill, a strikingly handsome, but defiant
looking young sinner.

"I suppose you do mean it kindly," she said, "and you are the first of
the girls to look me up. But you are sure Mrs. Freeman did not send
you?"

"She knows that I have come, but she certainly did not send me."

"Well, I suppose it's good-natured of you. I thought Dolly Collingwood
would have come to me before now, but it's 'out of sight, out of mind'
with her as with the rest of them."

"Dorothy, at the present moment, is with Evelyn Percival."

"The girl who was thrown out of the carriage last night--the queen of
the school? I may be thankful she was not badly hurt, poor dear."

Janet did not say anything. Bridget turned to the window, and began to
beat a tattoo on the pane with her knuckles.

"Look here," she said again, after a pause, "now that you are here,
what do you want? It's good-natured of you to come, of course, but I
can't make out what good you are likely to do."

"Yes. I shall do plenty of good," said Janet, in her assured tones. "I
am going to give you some advice which you will be very glad to take."

"Indeed, then, you are finely mistaken. I'll be nothing of the kind."

"You've not heard what I'm going to say, yet. Won't you sit down and
let us be comfortable?"

"You can sit if you fancy it. I prefer standing."

"Very well; we shall both be pleased. This is a very comfortable chair."

Janet sank back in it, and raised her placid face to Bridget's. The
two girls were in all particulars contrasts. Biddy's curls were now a
mop; a wild, aggressive, almost disreputable looking mop. Her white
dress was draggled and crumpled, her cheeks were deeply flushed, her
eyes flashed ominous fire, her proud lips took many haughty and defiant
curves. Janet, in contradistinction to all this, was the soul of neat
commonplace. Her pale blue cambric frock fitted her neat figure like a
glove. She had white linen cuffs at her wrists; her little hands were
exquisitely clean; her fair face looked the essence of peace. Her neat,
smooth head of light hair shone like satin.

"I am anxious about you," said Janet. "I can see quite plainly that you
are going all wrong."

Bridget gave a sort of snort.

Janet held up her small hand imploringly.

"Do listen," she said. "How can I explain myself if you interrupt me
each moment?"

"But you never liked me, Janey. You have shown that all too plainly. I
cannot imagine what you are prying into my affairs for. Now if Dolly
came----"

"Dolly has not come, and I have. Now, will you listen. I will frankly
say that I did not care about you when you first came to the school.
When I saw you so--so defiant, Bridget, so proud, so free, so
absolutely fearless; when I saw you with all these characteristics,
taking people by storm, for you know you did take the little girls of
the school quite by storm, I felt a sense of strong irritation against
you. I never met a girl like you before; you puzzled me; you did not
please me. Now, I am going to be quite frank; I do not really like you
much better now, but as I see that you fully intend to be on my side,
it is impossible for me any longer not to take your part."

"I fully intend to be on your side?" repeated Bridget. "Indeed, then, I
don't, and I may as well say so frankly at once."

"Yes, Bridget, you do; you can't help yourself, for you and I will in
future have good cause to hate the same girl."

"What girl?'

"Evelyn Percival; the one you have just spoken of as the queen of the
school."

"The darling!" exclaimed Bridget, "and why in the name of goodness am I
to hate her?"

"Well, you must be a poor-spirited thing if you don't. May I ask if
you would have got into your present scrape but for her? Have you not
before this disobeyed Mrs. Freeman? Up to last night she took pity on
you; she said to herself: 'Bridget knows nothing of the rules of the
school; Bridget has never been accustomed to obey any rules, I will be
merciful to her, I will be lenient, I will never forget that Biddy has
been queen in her Irish home.'"

"Oh, don't talk to me about my home," said Bridget, her lips quivering,
her eyes filling with tears.

"Yes; but is it not true, Bridget? Has not Mrs. Freeman been very
lenient to you in the past?"

"I suppose she has. I never thought much about it. I scraped along
somehow; I was happy enough."

"Well, was she lenient to you to-day?"

"Need you ask, Janet? I'm a prisoner; a close prisoner in this
abominable room. Such treatment will soon kill me. I can't eat; I shall
soon die of misery."

"It is hard on you, Bridget; you are exactly like a wild bird of the
woods put into a cage."

"Yes, that's it; and the captive bird will break its heart."

"Poor Bridget! I didn't like you in your free days, but I'm willing to
own that I pity you now."

"Thank you, thank you; but I hate pity. Whoever would think of offering
pity to Bridget O'Hara at home?"

"But Bridget O'Hara is no longer at home; she is a captive in a strange
land. Don't cry, Biddy. Let us leave sentimentalities now, and come to
facts. Whom do you think you owe this severe treatment to?"

"I am sure I can't tell you."

"I can tell you, however. You owe it entirely--to Evelyn Percival."

"Now what do you mean? that nice girl whom I nearly killed?"

"You didn't nearly kill her; that's all stuff! Bridget, you don't know
Evelyn Percival, but I do. Had any other girl been in the carriage when
you and the children startled the horses, you would have been forgiven.
Mrs. Freeman would still have remembered that you were unaccustomed
to rules, and she would have tried to break you in gently and
considerately; but as Evelyn happened to be the person whose delicate
nerves sustained a shock, Mrs. Freeman was incapable of showing any
mercy. Evelyn Percival poses in the school as a sort of saint. Nearly
everyone bows down to her; Mrs. Freeman, head mistress though she is,
is so influenced by her that you are sure to have a bad time in future."

"I shan't stand it; it isn't likely."

"You will be forced to stand it. If Evelyn gives the smallest
suggestion about you, it will be certain to be followed out. I pity
you, Bridget, but you are certainly likely to have a lively time."

"You don't mean to tell me," answered Bridget, "that I have to thank
Miss Percival for this punishment; that it is at her instigation I am
here?"

"You are certainly here at no one else's instigation."

"Did she tell Mrs. Freeman to make a close prisoner of me, and to
starve me?"

"It is your own fault if you are starved, Bridget; don't exaggerate,
my dear; you do no good by that. As to your being made a prisoner, you
certainly owe it to Evelyn. She can say things, even though she does
not put them into words."

"Oh, I understand," said Bridget. She turned again to look out of the
window, and her impatient fingers once more played a tattoo on the
glass.

"Evelyn is most popular," continued Janet, "for the simple reason that
people don't read her through and through. I can see beneath that
sweet, saintly calm, and I honestly say that I cannot bear her. Now,
Bridget, if you will come on my side, if you will join me in opposing
the pernicious influence that girl exercises, I can help you out of
this scrape without allowing you to humiliate yourself, and I can at
the same time put you up to having the nicest little revenge in the
world on this delightful Miss Percival."

"But Dorothy believes in her, and Dorothy is so sweet and kind,"
exclaimed Bridget, in perplexity.

"Poor, dear Dolly," exclaimed Janet, "anyone can take her in; but you,
my dear, although you are not very learned, are clever. However, this
is your own concern. If you like to stay in this hot room until Mrs.
Freeman breaks in your proud spirit, and if you like to submit to the
many indignities which I can plainly see are before you, that, of
course, is your affair. I thought it only kind to warn you, but perhaps
I have interfered unwarrantably. If so, forgive me."

Janet rose as she spoke, and took a step or two toward the door.

"No, don't go," exclaimed Biddy. "You puzzle me very much; there's no
one in the world who hates mean ways more than I do, and if Evelyn is
that sort----"

"She is that sort, Bridget."

"Well, well!" Bridget turned again to the window.

"What am I to do, Janet?" she said, after a pause. Her tone was quite
humble; there was a crushed expression in her face.

"Poor old thing!" said Janet, in her light, silvery voice. She went up
to Bridget, and gave her a careless kiss on her cheek. She could afford
to do this, for she knew the victory was hers.

"In the future I will be your friend," she said; "you may rely upon me.
We are going to choose fresh chums in a week's time. Suppose we choose
one another. I know we are not a bit alike, but that's just the very
thing; opposites should keep together. However, there's time enough to
settle that presently."

"Yes, quite time enough," said Bridget. "I thought that I'd take Dolly
for my chum."

"You can't get her, my dear; she's bespoken to Evelyn long ago."

"That horrid Evelyn!" Bridget stamped her foot impatiently.

"Ah, I see, Biddy, that you and I will get on capitally. I could kiss
you again, but kissing isn't my way. Now then to business. The first
thing is to get you out of this room."

"How is that to be effected? Mrs. Freeman says that I am to stay here
until I promise to obey the rules of the school. I can't obey them, so
I suppose I'm to stay here until I die."

"And why can't you obey them, Bridget?"

"Why can't I obey the rules of the school? We are not likely to be
chums if you talk to me in that fashion, Janet."

"Now, my dear, I must just reason with you a little. You say you can't
obey the rules of the school; you say so because you fail to understand
them. If you put yourself under my guidance, and I am quite willing to
take charge of you, I will show you that you can obey them sufficiently
to keep yourself out of all serious scrapes, and yet at the same time
you will enjoy as much liberty as any girl need desire. Do you think I
am unhappy on account of the rules of the school?"

"No; but you haven't got a wild heart like me."

"Poor Biddy, I'll take care of your wild heart. It was ill-natured of
me not to see after you before, but in the future, my dear, you are
quite safe. I am going to fetch Mrs. Freeman now."

"What in the world for?"

"To tell her that you will obey the rules, that you will cease to be an
unruly member of the community, that you are going to be my chum."

"O Janet, but it's dreadful to promise and not to perform. I have been
awfully naughty, I know, over and over and over again, but I have never
stooped to breaking a promise."

"You shall not break this promise, for I won't let you, but I can show
you a way to keep the fetters from galling. Now I am going to fetch
Mrs. Freeman. It's worth your while to submit at once, Biddy, for I
intend to take you for a row."

"A row on the water!" Bridget's eyes sparkled; she threw back her
shoulders with a gesture of relief.

"Yes," repeated Janet, "a row on the water. The school boat is at our
disposal this evening. Mademoiselle is coming to take charge of us,
but, as she is really nobody, we shall practically be as free as air.
Stay where you are, Biddy, until I fetch Mrs. Freeman."




CHAPTER IX.

TAKING SIDES.


When Dorothy entered Evelyn's bedroom she found her friend up and
dressed.

"I'm quite well, really, Dolly," said Evelyn, with a smile. "I stayed
in bed until I could endure it no longer. I can't tell you how vexed I
am that I fainted last night, and gave Mrs. Freeman a fright. There was
nothing really to make anyone else faint, for that brave girl saved me
from being hurt in the most wonderful manner. By the way, how is she? I
should like to see her and to thank her."

"Poor Eva," said Dorothy, coming up and kissing her friend, "you are
just the most forgiving creature in existence. Anyone else would be
awfully angry with Bridget. Her conduct very nearly cost you your life!"

"There is a wide difference between 'very nearly' and 'quite,'" said
Evelyn, with a smile. "I escaped with a 'very nearly,' and feel as well
as ever now, and rather ashamed of myself. There never was a girl who
meant less harm than this Bridget. I can see her now running down the
road, her face all smiles, her eyes dancing, her white teeth showing;
I can see the little ones surrounding her. They waved boughs of trees,
and they shouted and sang as they came. For one moment I said to
myself, 'O Jubilate! here is a welcome worth having!' but then Caspar
took fright, the carriage swayed horribly, the cushions jumped up as
if they were going to strike me, and I remembered nothing more until I
awoke with my head on this girl's lap, and Mrs. Freeman bending over
me. I should like to see the girl, to thank her. Where is she, Dolly? I
am attracted by her face; it is a very lovely one!"

"Well, sit down, now, by the window, and let us talk," answered
Dorothy. "I shall be jealous if you give all your thoughts to Bridget
O'Hara. I know she's a pretty girl, and I like her very much for some
things. But, oh dear, she is a care! I don't believe that any school
had ever before such a madcap in it. But don't let us waste all our
time talking about her. You can't help hearing her name spoken morning,
noon, and night, when you come into the school."

Evelyn sank down in a low easy-chair by the open window. She wore a
white cambric dress, and a pale blue belt round her slender waist. Her
gentle eyes, also faint blue in their coloring, looked out over the
summer scene. She was not beautiful, but there was a charm about her, a
sense of repose, which made it delightful to be with her. The singular
unselfishness of her nature was apparent in everything she did, said,
and thought.

"I'm delighted to be back, Dolly," she said. "This illness of mine has
been such a bother, and it's delicious to be well and able to go in for
things again. Now, if I may not speak of Bridget, tell me about the
other girls in the school. Tell me, also, what is the great object of
interest at present?"

"Oh, the Fancy Fair!" Dorothy colored as she spoke. "You need not
bother your head about it, Evelyn," she continued quickly. "Janet is
at the head of it; it was she who thought of the fair, and she's the
moving spring. You know what that means, don't you, darling?"

"I'm afraid I do," replied Evelyn. "Does Janet May dislike me as much
as ever?"

"She certainly does; but don't fret about her; she's not worth it. Eva,
you will most likely be asked to come on the committee, and to take a
stall at the Fancy Fair. If you get the invitation, will you accept it?"

"Of course I shall. Need you ask? Alack and alas! I have no chance of
winning any prizes, so the fair will be a great diversion. I suppose
it's a charity concern; who is it for?"

"A little orphan boy in the neighborhood. Oh, you'll learn all about
him presently. We are working as hard as possible for the fair. If
you come on the committee, Evelyn, you must let me help you with your
stall."

"_If_ I come on the committee," repeated Evelyn. "I suppose I am quite
certain to be asked to join? Dolly, you look at me in rather a queer
way!"

"_Do_ I? Don't notice my looks. There is something worrying me, but
nothing bad may come of it. It is so nice to talk to you again. Now I
have something to say about that poor Biddy. At the present moment she
is in disgrace."

"In disgrace? What about?"

"I'm afraid it's about you."

"Oh, but I must speak to Mrs. Freeman. She really meant nothing wrong,
dear child."

"She broke the rules in leaving the grounds without leave. I think it
is for her disobedience that Mrs. Freeman is punishing her. She has
shut her up in Miss Patience's room, and poor Biddy won't eat, and
is in a dreadful state of mind. Marshall spoke to me about her after
dinner, and asked me to go to her; but we had a committee meeting just
then, and afterward I could not find Mrs. Freeman."

"Have you left the poor girl by herself all this time, Dolly?"

"I must own that I have. I will go and have a talk with her as soon as
ever I leave you; not that I can do much good, she's such a queer kind
of mixture of obstinacy and passion."

"But it does seem dreadful to leave her by herself all this time; just
as if no one had a scrap of sympathy for her. Let us both go to her at
once, Dolly. I want to thank her for being so brave."

"But Mrs. Freeman; we ought to ask her leave."

"Mrs. Freeman will be in her own sitting room at this time. Come along,
Dolly, we have just a few minutes to spare before the gong sounds for
tea."

Dorothy made no further objections, and she and Eva went downstairs
side by side.

They knocked at Mrs. Freeman's sitting-room door. She was not in, but
Miss Delicia was tidying books and papers on her davenport.

"Is that you, Eva!" she exclaimed in delight. "Why, you look as well
and jolly as possible. How nice to have you back again!"

The little lady ran up to Evelyn, and kissed her affectionately. "Now,
my darling, you are not going to tire yourself," she said. "Come and
sit here by the open window."

"I have been sitting still and lying down all day," replied Evelyn,
with a faint little grimace; "I am not really tired at all. Dolly and
I came, Miss Delicia, to ask Mrs. Freeman to give us leave to go and
see that poor girl, Bridget O'Hara. It seems she has got into a scrape
on my account."

"And rightly, my dear; and very rightly. For my part, I don't approve
of punishments; I am all the other way; but such conduct as Bridget's
does deserve a sharp reprimand. Suppose you had been seriously hurt,
Evelyn?"

"But I was not hurt at all. I wish I could go and see Miss O'Hara now;
I want to thank her for having saved my life. If she did give me a
fright, Miss Delicia, she also kept me from the consequences of her own
act. I wish I could thank her."

"Well, dear, do go to her; I'll give you permission, and set things
right with Mrs. Freeman. If you and Dolly can bring that wild child to
hear reason we shall all be only too delighted. Run away, my dears,
both of you, and do your best."

The girls left the room, and ran down the stone passage which led to
Miss Patience's little sitting room at the other side of the big house.

They were surprised, however, on reaching it, to find the door flung
wide open and the room empty.

Dorothy gave an exclamation of astonishment.

"Bridget must have given in," she said; "Mrs. Freeman must have come to
her, and she must have yielded. Oh, what a relief! How glad I am! Come,
Evelyn, let us go on the terrace, and walk up and down until tea is
ready."

The broad terrace which ran in front of the house was completely
sheltered from the sun at this hour. There was a pleasant breeze, and
the girls, as they paced arm in arm up and down the broad path, looked
happy and picturesque.

Two girls who were coming up the grassy slope at this moment stopped at
sight of them; one uttered a slight exclamation of dismay, the other
made an eager bound forward.

"There's Dolly!" exclaimed Bridget; "do let me run to her, Janet."

"Miss Percival is with her," exclaimed Janet. "Do you really want to
speak to Miss Percival, Bridget, after all you have suffered on her
account?"

"But she looks very nice."

"What a poor, weak kind of creature you are to be influenced by looks;
besides, she is in reality very plain. Even her warmest admirers have
never yet bestowed on her the palm of beauty."

"Oh, I like her face; it looks so good."

Janet paused in her walk to give her young companion a glance of steady
contempt.

"Can I possibly go on with this scheme of mine?" she muttered to
herself. "Bridget O'Hara is altogether too dreadful." Had Janet yielded
to her impulses at that moment she would have told Bridget to join her
beloved Dorothy and Evelyn Percival, and have declared her intention of
washing her hands of her on the spot. Had Janet acted so, this story
need never have been written. But that strong ambition, that thirst
for praise, which was her most marked characteristic came to her aid.
Bridget was the only means within her power to achieve a most desirable
end, and as such she must be tolerated.

"Come down this walk with me," she said, in a low tone; "come quickly,
before those girls see us. I want to say a word to you." She took
Biddy's hand as she spoke and hurried her into a little sheltered path
which led round to the back of the house.

"Now, Bridget," she said, "I must clearly understand how matters are
going to be. Dorothy Collingwood cares nothing at all for you; she is
a most fickle girl. She took you up to a certain extent when first you
came, but her conduct during your punishment proves how little she
really cares for you. She and Evelyn will be all in all to each other,
and if you go back to them, you will soon see for yourself that three
is trumpery; now, on the other hand, if you will be guided by me, I
will keep my promise to you. I am willing to become your chum, and if I
am your chum, I will see you safely past all the rocks ahead. You know
nothing whatever about school. There are two sorts of girls at every
school; there is the girl who is always in trouble, who doesn't learn
her lessons, who doesn't obey the rules. Such a girl is a misery both
to herself and her companions. There is also the girl who obeys the
rules, and who learns her lessons. I represent the one sort of girl,
you represent the other. I can teach you to become like me, without
making things at all unpleasant to you, but you must choose at once;
you must be on my side, or on Evelyn Percival's side. Now which is it
to be?"

"Yours, of course," said Bridget; "you are the only girl in the school
who was kind to me to-day, so of course I'll be on your side."

"Very well, that's all right. You must copy me when you talk to Evelyn
Percival. You must show Dorothy also that you resent her coldness.
There's the tea gong. Let us go in. Immediately after tea you will
find time to write that letter to your father, won't you, dear?"

"Yes, of course. I know he'll give me as much money as I want."

"Ask him for plenty; there's nothing like money when all is said and
done. Now come along to tea. I won't be able to sit near you, Bridget,
but I'll have my eye on you, so don't forget how I'll expect you to
behave."




CHAPTER X.

CHECKMATE.


There was great astonishment among the girls who met at the Lookout the
next day when Janet pronounced in calm, decided tones that a new member
was willing to join the committee, that the new member was the Irish
girl, Bridget O'Hara, who would help her at her stall, and would give
as much money to the cause as was necessary to insure its success.

"Bridget O'Hara is not here," said Janet, "but she has asked me to
speak for her. She has written to her father to ask him to send her
plenty of funds. She will be more or less of a cipher, of course, but
having the wherewithal she will be a useful one. I propose, therefore,"
continued Janet May, "that our committee remains as it is with this one
welcome addition, and that Evelyn Percival is not asked to join."

While Janet was speaking Dorothy's rosy face turned very pale. "Now I
understand," she murmured; "now I can account for poor Biddy's change
of manner. O Janet, why didn't you leave her alone?"

"What do you mean?" said Janet, flashing round angrily. "Bridget's
help is most desirable. She has money, and she won't interfere with
projects already formed. Had Miss Percival been asked to join, she
would, of course, have given us plenty of money, but she would also
have interfered. I may as well plainly say that I don't choose to
be interfered with at this juncture. That is plain English, I hope;
you can make the worst of it, girls, all of you! I prefer that poor
nonentity of a Bridget to Miss Percival, and I have managed to have my
way."

"I suppose we must vote for Biddy," said Ruth and Olive.

"Of course, you must vote for her," retorted Janet.

"I do not object to her joining the committee," said Frances; "but I
think you have managed the whole thing in a very underhand way, Janet.
You are fond of saying that you like frank opinions, so there is mine
for you."

"All right!" said Janet; "I accept it for what it is worth. Now then,
girls, this weighty matter is settled. Dorothy, you must say something
nice to Evelyn. Of course, you have a reasonable excuse to give her. It
would be ridiculous to ask her to join us at the eleventh hour. She is
a sensible girl, and will----"

At this moment, Olive, who was bending over the parapet, turned round,
and said to her companions in a low, almost awestruck voice:

"Mrs. Freeman is coming up the steps of the Lookout!"

The next instant the smiling face of the head mistress appeared.

"Well, my dears," she said, "I won't waste your valuable time a single
moment longer than is necessary. I am very much pleased with all your
zeal in getting up this little bazaar. I, on my part, will take every
possible pains to see that your Fancy Fair is well attended. I have a
suggestion, however, to make; it is this: Evelyn Percival ought to be
asked to take a prominent part in the management of the fair. She has
come back in sufficient time for this; her health is quite restored,
and it is due to her position in the school to pay her this respect. I
dare say, my loves," continued Mrs. Freeman, "that you have all thought
of this already, and are even now preparing to ask her to join you. If
so, you will find her in the summerhouse at the end of the East Walk
with Kitty Thompson. Good-by, my dears! Forgive me if I have interfered
unnecessarily."

Mrs. Freeman went away. The girls had no time to ask her a question.
The head mistress was always quick and decisive in her movements. She
was kind, even indulgent, but she was also firm. From Mrs. Freeman's
decision each girl in the school felt there was no appeal.

As her retreating footsteps sounded on the winding stairs of the little
tower, the girls who formed the committee for the Fancy Fair looked
at one another. In Janet's gaze there were open-eyed consternation
and dismay. Olive and Ruth appeared what they were: the very essence
of uncertainty and nervousness. Frances Murray could not restrain an
expression of triumph appearing in her bright eyes, while Dolly looked
both glad and sorry.

"O Janet!" she said, "I wish I could take your side and my own. I wish
I could obey dear Mrs. Freeman, and have our darling Evelyn to help us,
and be one of us, and I also wish to do the thing that makes you happy."

"Oh, don't worry about me," said Janet. "Of course, the thing is
inevitable. Under existing circumstances, I give in. I have only
one request to make, girls, and that is, that you will not betray
to Evelyn Percival, who, of course, will take the lead now in the
management of the Fancy Fair, the very frank objections I have made to
having her with us. We must welcome her, of course, with a good grace,
and I trust to you all to keep my little remarks to yourselves."

"Of course, of course, Janey," they each eagerly replied.

"As if we could be so mean as to tell," remarked Ruth, going up to her
friend and giving her hand a squeeze.

Janet did not return the pressure of Ruth's hand. She turned abruptly
to Dorothy.

"Evelyn is to be found in the summerhouse. Will you go and fetch her at
once, Dolly?"

Dorothy ran off without another word. While she was absent Janet kept
her back to her friends. She generally carried a little sketchbook in
her pocket; she took it out now, and under the shelter of her parasol
pretended to sketch the lovely summer landscape which surrounded her.

The other girls who were watching saw, however, that her small, dainty
fingers scarcely moved.

When voices and steps were heard in the distance, Janet was the first
to turn round, and when Evelyn appeared on the scene Janet went up and
bade her welcome.

"We have elected you to join our committee," she said, in a low and
careless voice. "As the head girl of the school, you will naturally
take the lead in the matter; but, as you have been obliged to be absent
when our scheme was first started, you would perhaps like me to tell
you how far we have gone."

"I am delighted to join the committee," replied Evelyn, "and
particularly glad that you have asked me, Janet. You may be sure,
girls, I'll do all I can to help, but as the idea of the Fancy Fair was
yours, Janet, I don't think I ought to take the lead."

For a second a pleased expression flitted across Janet May's cold,
self-possessed face. It vanished, however, as quickly as it came.

"No," she said, "I cannot possibly take the lead. The head girl of
the school has certain rights which no one must deprive her of. It is
generous of you to offer me your place, Evelyn, but, even if I allowed
myself to accept the position, Mrs. Freeman would instantly require
me to vacate it in your favor. The thing is settled, then; you are
formally invited by us all to join our committee; is that not so,
girls?"

"Yes, yes," they all exclaimed, delight and relief plainly apparent on
every face.

"You are formally elected, therefore," proceeded Janet. "Won't you sit
down, Evelyn? That is a comfortable seat in the shade over there. Won't
you take it? I can then tell you as briefly as possible what we have
done."

Evelyn sat down in the comfortable seat without a word. Frances Murray
sprang to her side, slipped her hand through her arm, and looked into
her face with adoration; Ruth and Olive were only restrained by Janet's
presence from groveling at her feet. Dolly alone leant in a careless
attitude against the low parapet of the tower. Her affectionate glance
traveled many times to her friend's face, but she had too much tact and
too good taste to show her preference too openly while Janet May was
present.

"Up to the present," said Janet, also leaning against the parapet, and
exactly facing Evelyn, "up to the present I have managed the proposed
bazaar. If it is generally wished, I can still remain treasurer. At the
present moment, I am sorry to say, there is very little money to guard.
If the thing is to be a success, more money must be spent, but that,
of course, is for Evelyn to decide. We are having the bazaar, Evelyn,
hoping to raise money to send little Tim Donovan to a good school. Mrs.
Freeman said something about this bazaar being repeated, if necessary,
in the future; but that, of course, we need not discuss at present. The
bazaar is to be called a Fancy Fair. It will be held in a large tent in
the four-acre field. This part of the entertainment Mrs. Freeman has
herself promised to provide. Our present idea is to have four stalls.
You will, of course, conduct the principal one; I, if permitted, will
take the second; Dorothy or Frances Murray will manage the third;
and there will also be a refreshment stall, for which we have not at
present provided. Each girl of the committee has undertaken to secure
a certain number of fancy materials for sale at the fair. Ruth, Olive,
and I at the present time are doing well; about six little girls of the
lower school are helping us. We meet twice a week in the summerhouse
at the end of the South Walk to work for the bazaar, and the results
will, I believe, be fairly creditable. I cannot say what arrangements
Frances is making, but she will doubtless tell you herself. Dorothy
is also the soul of industry. You'll probably reconstruct everything,
and I shall be ready to come to you for advice whenever you ask me.
There is, I think, only one thing more to say, and that is, that I
have persuaded the new girl, Bridget O'Hara, to join us. She does not
strictly belong either to the upper or the lower school at present.
Her position in the house is, I think, somewhat unique. She is a very
tall, grown-up-looking girl, but she is not yet quite fifteen years of
age. Her mind very much resembles her body, being extremely grown-up
in some ways, and absolutely childish in others. Her acquirements
are also those of a child. I have thought it right, however, in your
absence, of course, Evelyn, to ask her to join us. She has a good
deal of originality; she has also some money, which she is willing to
devote to the cause. I think that is all. I am now going to join my
workers in the summerhouse at the end of the South Walk. You, Ruth, and
you, Olive, can come with me if you like, but if you prefer it, you
are quite at liberty to join Evelyn's stall, for now that I have got
Bridget's help I can do admirably without you."

Ruth and Olive looked more undecided than ever, but Evelyn said in
a firm voice: "Of course, girls, you could not for a moment wish to
desert Janet. I should like to say one thing before you go, Janet; it
is this, that I am very much surprised at your pluck and bravery in
getting up a bazaar of this sort. I am pleased to join it, and to do
all I can to promote it. Under the circumstances, I should much prefer
working as your aide-de-camp to taking the lead; but you are quite
right in saying that the head girl of the school has certain privileges
which, whether she likes it or not, she cannot forego. I must, of
course, take the principal part at the bazaar, but I shall, in every
way in my power, do what is most agreeable to you, and will lose no
opportunity to let my friends know that the idea is yours, not mine."

"You are very good-natured," said Janet, "but I, too, have something
to say. Under the circumstances, I prefer sinking into the background.
After all, the only person to be seriously considered is little Tim
Donovan. If he is substantially helped I don't suppose it matters much
what anyone thinks of us."




CHAPTER XI.

A WILD IRISH PRINCESS.


The girls of the lower school were all busy with their preparation.
Violet and Rose sat side by side. They had been chums for nearly a
year now, and the fact was so fully recognized in the school that
even their desks were placed close together. Violet was puzzling her
little brains over a very difficult piece of French translation, Rose
endeavoring to learn four or five long stanzas from Scott's "Lady of
the Lake." They were both clever little girls, and, as a rule, their
preparation was quickly over, and their tasks speedily conquered; but
to-night there was a holiday feeling in the air; a sense of idleness
pervaded everyone. Lessons seemed cruel, and the children rebelled
against their tasks. They looked at one another, laughed, yawned,
struggled with the listlessness which seized them, shot envious glances
at their more studious companions, and absolutely refused to overcome
the difficulties of the French translation and the English poetry.

The door between the lower schoolroom and the room occupied by the
girls of the middle school had been thrown open, and from where the
children sat they could see the pretty flounce of a pale blue muslin
dress, and the provoking and exasperating peep of a little, pointed,
blue Morocco shoe. The shoe evidently belonged to a restless foot, for
it often appeared beneath the flounce, to vanish as quickly, and then
to poke itself into notice again.

"It's Biddy," whispered Violet in a low tone to Rose. "I don't believe
she's learning her lessons a bit better than we are."

"She never learns them at all," answered Rose. "Janet does them for her
now; don't you know that, Violet?"

"Hush!" said Violet, "we are disturbing Katie and Susy Martin, and they
are such spiteful little cats, they are sure to tell on us. Hush! do
hush, Rose! you ought not to say such things."

"I won't say them if you don't like," whispered Rose back again; "but
they are true all the same."

Violet bent over her French translation. Rose made another frantic
struggle to conquer "The Lady of the Lake."

The other children in the room were working with considerable industry;
the little idlers in the corner had to suppress their emotions as best
they could.

Rose had a very emphatic way; she was a stronger character than Violet,
and in consequence had her little friend more or less under her thumb.

Violet had a great admiration for Biddy, and, as she was really an
honorable and conscientious child, Rose's words shocked her very much.

The moments went by. The summer evening outside looked more beautiful
and inviting each moment. After preparation was over, there was a treat
in store for the children. This was Bridget O'Hara's birthday, and she
was herself the giver of the treat. The children were to have a sort of
supper-tea in the tent on the lawn, and afterward Biddy was going to
give each of them a little present in memory of the day.

The thought of Biddy's present and Biddy's treat had filled every
little heart with a pleasant sense of excitement during the entire day;
but Violet felt now that if Rose's words were really true she would not
care to accept a keepsake from Bridget.

As she sat before her desk, too lazy, too languid, and at the same time
too excited, to pay the smallest heed to her lessons, she could not
help wishing that she could see something more of the blue frock than
just that part which covered the pretty foot.

She slipped down lower and lower by her desk, and presently contrived
to get a view of Bridget's desk. She could not see her face, but she
could catch a glance of a plump young hand; it was quite still, it did
not move, it did not turn a page. Violet could stand it no longer. In
a moment of desperation she kicked off her slipper, and springing from
her seat, bent low on the floor to pick it up.

From there she could see the whole of Biddy's figure. Oh, horror! her
little heart went down to zero; Bridget O'Hara's head rested against
her plump hand; she was fast asleep.

The shrill voice of mademoiselle was heard from her corner of the room:

"Reste tranquille, mon enfant; tu es bien ennuyeuse; est ce que tu ne
sais pas que c'est l'heure de silence?"

Violet scrambled to, her feet, and sat down before her French
translation with a crimson face.

In the meanwhile a pale, quiet-looking girl had entered the room where
the middle school were busy over their tasks, and, bending down by
Bridget O'Hara's side, took up an exercise she had just finished, and
looked over it swiftly and eagerly.

"That is right," she said; "you will get good marks for this. Now, what
about your arithmetic?"

"I have managed my sums fairly well, Janet; see," pulling an
exercise-book forward. "I suppose they are all right, but they look
very funny."

"They must be all right, dear. Let me see! Yes, yes; oh, what an
incorrigibly stupid girl you are! This sum in compound subtraction has
got the answer which should be attached to the compound addition sum.
Quick, Bridget, give me your pen; I will score through these two lines,
and then you must add the figures underneath yourself. That is right.
What have you done with my----"

"Your copy, Janet? I was going to tear it up, as I had done with it."

"Don't do that, give it to me; it will be safest. Now, try and look
over your poetry, Bridget. I will wait for you outside."

"Oh, that is easy enough; I shan't be any time. It's the first page or
two of that delightful 'Ancient Mariner'; I can get it done in no time."

"Lucky for you. I will wait for you outside; I have something I want to
say to you. Be quick, for all those small tots will be out immediately,
and they'll want to take up every moment of your time. Give me those
notes, however, before I go."

Bridget pulled some crumpled bits of paper out of her pocket, and
thrust them into Janet's eager hand.

Miss May left the room, and Biddy, wide awake now, devoted herself to
her poetry.

There was an eager, pleased, almost satisfied, expression on her face.

It was over a week now since Janet had taken her up. During that time
she had, without in the least guessing the fact herself, been brought
into a considerable state of discipline.

If she obeyed no one else in the school, Janet's slightest nod was
sufficient for her.

It was Janet's present aim, whether by foul means or fair, to make
Biddy appear both good and fascinating.

She did not want her captive to feel the end of her chain; she was
clever enough to make Biddy her complete slave without allowing the
slave to be conscious of her slavery.

The result of this week of very judicious slavery was, as far as
externals went, highly beneficial.

Biddy had a gorgeous taste in the matter of dress. She wore her
splendid garments with truly barbarian recklessness, overdressing
herself on one occasion, being untidy and almost slovenly on another.
A few suggestions, however, from Janet, altered all this, and the most
fastidious person could now see nothing to object to in the clothes
which adorned her beautifully proportioned figure, and the hats under
which that charming and lovely face looked out.

To-night, Biddy's pale blue muslin, made simply, but with a lavish
disregard to expense in the matter of lace and ribbons, was all that
was appropriate; her crisp chestnut curls surrounded her fair face like
a halo. There was a queer mixture of the woman and the child about her;
she was by many degrees the most striking-looking girl in the school.

It took Biddy but a very few minutes to conquer the difficulties of
"The Ancient Mariner." She had a great aptitude for committing poetry
to memory, and after repeating the stanzas two or three times under her
breath, she slipped the book inside her desk and ran out.

To do this she had to go through the schoolroom where the little girls,
Violet and Alice, were sitting mournfully in front of their unlearned
lessons.

"Oh, you poor tots!" she said, struck by the expression on their
wistful faces, "haven't you done yet? The feast is almost ready. I've
ordered clothes baskets of strawberries, my dears, and quarts and
quarts of cream."

"Silence, mademoiselle!" screamed the French teacher.

Bridget put her rosy fingers to her lips in mock solemnity, blew a kiss
to all the children, and banged the door somewhat noisily behind her.

Violet's blue eyes sought Alice's; there was a world of entreaty in
their meaning. Alice began, with feverish, forced energy, to mutter to
herself:


    "A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid."


Violet continued to gaze at her; then, taking up a scrap of paper, she
scribbled on it:


    "I don't believe that Janet helps Biddy with her lessons."


This scrap of paper was thrust into Alice's hand, who, in a moment,
tossed a reply into Violet's lap:


    "Yes, she does. You ask Honora Stedman or Jessie Sparkes."


Violet tore the paper into a thousand bits. Tears, she could scarcely
tell why, dimmed her pretty eyes. She sank back in her seat, and
resumed her lessons.

"Maintenant, mes enfants, l'heure de préparation est passée," said the
French governess, rising, and speaking with her usual, quick little
scream. "Mettez vos livres de côté; allons-nous à la fête donnée par la
gracieuse Mlle. Bridget O'Hara."

The children jumped up with alacrity. Chairs scraped against the
floor; desks were opened and books deposited therein more quickly than
quietly, and then the whole eager group went out.

There was a large tent erected on the front lawn; gay flags were posted
here and there round it, and a rustic porch had been hastily contrived
at the entrance. This was crowned with many smaller flags, and was
further rendered gay with bunches of wild flowers and ferns which had
been fastened to it, under Bridget's supervision, early in the day.

The brilliant effect of the many colored flags and banners, the peep
within the tent of tempting tables and many charming presents, excited
the wild spirits of the little ones to an almost alarming degree.

Alice looked at Violet with a face full of ecstasy.

"_How_ I love Biddy O'Hara!" she exclaimed. "Think of her getting up
such a lovely, exquisite treat for us! Would any other girl think only
of others on her birthday? Oh, I love her; I do love her!"

"But if she does really crib her lessons!" answered Violet, in a low
tone of great sorrow. "O Alice, it can't be true."

"It is true," replied Alice; "but, for goodness' sake, Violet, don't
fret yourself; it isn't our affair if Biddy chooses to do wrong.
Whether she does right or wrong, I shall still maintain that she's
a dear, generous darling. Do come on now, Violet, and let us enjoy
ourselves." Alice caught her little companion's hand as she spoke, and
the two children ran down the rather steep grassy incline to the tent.

Most of their companions had arrived before them, and when they entered
under the flower-crowned porch, they found themselves in the midst
of a very gay and attractive scene. Bridget, with two or three older
girls of the school, was entertaining the children with strong sweet
tea, piles of bread and butter, cakes of various sizes and shapes, and
quantities of strawberries, which were further supplemented with jugs
of rich cream.

Violet and Alice seated themselves at once at one end of the long
table, and the merry feast went on.

What laughter there was at it, what childish jokes, what little
harmless, affectionate, mirthful repartees! Bridget O'Hara's face wore
its sweetest expression. The Irish girl had never looked more in her
element. Frances Murray and Dorothy, who were both helping her, had
never seen Bridget look like this. She showed herself capable of two
things: of giving others the most intense pleasure and enjoyment, and
absolutely forgetting herself.

Dorothy had not felt kindly disposed to Bridget during the past week.
Bridget's conduct, Bridget's extraordinary reserve, the marked way in
which she resented small overtures of friendship from Evelyn Percival,
hurt her feelings a great deal; but to-night Dorothy Collingwood felt
her heart going out to Biddy in a new, unexpected way.

"I agree with Evelyn," she said suddenly, turning round and speaking to
Frances Murray.

"About what, my dear?" retorted that young lady. "You generally do
agree with Evelyn, you know."

"Don't tease me, Frances; of course we're chums, but I hold, and always
will hold, my own opinions. I agree with her now, however. I agree with
her with regard to Bridget O'Hara."

"Biddy looks very sweet to-night," replied Frances, "but surely Evelyn
cannot care about her."

"Biddy has been very nasty to Evelyn," answered Dolly. "Of course, I
know who is really to blame for it. Still I thought Biddy would have
more spirit than to be led in a matter of this sort. But do you think
Evelyn resents this sort of thing? Not a bit of her. She is just as
sweet and good about it all as she can be, and she said to me, what I
am really inclined to believe, that if Biddy is only done justice to,
there won't be a nobler woman in the world than she."

"Oh, fudge!" said Frances; "I grant that she does look very sweet now,
but it's just like Evelyn to go to the fair with things, and it's just
like you, Dolly, to believe her. Come, come, the little ones cannot eat
another strawberry, however hard they try, and Bridget is going up to
the end of the tent to distribute the presents."

"Let us see," replied Dolly.

The two girls went up to the far end of the tent, where a little table
covered with a crimson cloth stood; on this Bridget had placed her
small gifts.

They were all minute, but all dainty. They had arrived from Paris, a
few nights ago, in a small box. Thimbles in charming little cases,
dainty workboxes, writing cases, penholders, dolls, photograph frames,
boxes of colors, etc., etc., lay in profusion on the pretty table.

Biddy stood by her presents, a bright light in her eyes, a bright
color on her cheeks. The two elder girls, who stood in the background,
could not help a sudden pang as they watched her. There was something
about her mien and bearing which made them, for the first time, clearly
understand that this girl was a wild Irish princess at home. For the
first time they got an insight into Biddy's somewhat complex character.

"Come here, darlings," she said to the children in her sweet, rather
low-pitched voice. "I am glad to give you a little bit of pleasure. It
is the best sort of thing that can happen to me, now that I'm away from
father. Had you enough to eat, pets?"

"Oh, yes, Biddy, oh, yes!" they all cried.

"That's right. I thought you would. We have lots of feasts of this sort
at the Castle. The children aren't like you, of course; they live,
half of them, down in the cabins near the water's edge, and they come
up with their little bare feet, and their curly heads that have never
known hat nor bonnet, and their eyes as blue as a bit of the sky, or
as black as the sloes in the hedges. Oh, they are pets every one of
them, with their soft voices, and their little prim courtesies, and
their 'Thank you, kind lady,' and their 'Indeed, then, it's thrue for
ye, that I'm moighty honored by ateing in the sight of yer honor.'
Ah, I can hear them now, the pets! and don't they like the presents
afterward, and don't they send up three cheers for father and me before
they go away! They are all having a feast to-night at the Castle in
honor of my birthday, and father is there, and all the dogs, but I'm
away; I expect they're a bit lonesome, poor dears, without Biddy, but
never mind! You have all been very good to let me give you a little
feast, my dear darling pets."

There was a great pathos in Biddy's words; the children felt more
inclined to cry than to laugh; Dolly felt a lump in her throat, and
even Frances looked down on the ground for a second, but when there
was a brief pause Frances raised her hand, and waved it slightly as a
signal.

This was enough, all the hands were raised, all the handkerchiefs
waved, and from every throat there rose a "Hip! hip! hurrah!" and
"Three cheers for the Irish princess!"

"Many happy returns of the day," said Frances, and then all the
children repeated her words.

"You must not add any more," exclaimed Biddy. "I don't wish to cry; I
want to be happy, as I ought to be when you are all so nice and good
to me. I may as well say frankly that I did not at all like school at
first, but I do now. If you are all affectionate and loving, and if
Janet goes on being kind to me, I shall like school, and I shan't mind
so much being broken in."

"Poor Biddy," exclaimed Dorothy, turning to her companion; "she reminds
me of the lovely silver-winged horse Pegasus. She does not like the
taming process."

"No, my dear, that's true," replied Frances; "but Pegasus grew very
fond of Bellerophon in the end."

"Only I deny," said Dolly, "that Janet is in the least like
Bellerophon."

"Listen!" exclaimed Frances.

"I am going to give you your presents now," said Bridget. "Come here,
each of you in turn."

The children pressed eagerly to the front, and Biddy put a small gift
into each of their hands.

"Now come for a walk with me," she said. "I shall tell you a fairy
story--a very short one; it pleased the barefooted children at home,
and I dare say it will please you. After that you must go to bed."

It was really late now. The sun had set, but there was an after-glow
all over the sky, and the moon was showing her calm, full, round face
above the horizon.

Alice linked her hand inside Biddy's arm, the other children surrounded
her, and Violet felt herself pressed up to her other side.

On another occasion Violet would have taken Biddy's arm, and held it
tight. She did not do so to-night; she walked quietly by her side,
holding a lovely jointed doll in her arms.

Bridget told a wonderful fairy tale, but Violet's eyes were fixed on
her doll, and her thoughts were far away.

The other children cheered and applauded, and questioned and
criticised, but Violet was absolutely silent.

At last the gong in the great house sounded. This was the signal for
all the little ones to go to bed. They each of them pressed up to kiss
Bridget, and thank her for the lovely treat she had given them. Each
one after she had kissed her friend ran into the house.

At last Violet was the only child left. Even Alice ran off, but Violet
stood in the middle of the gravel walk, clasping her doll in her arms.

"What is the matter, Vi?" asked Bridget. "Don't you like the doll?
Would you rather I exchanged it for something else?"

Alice had climbed the steep grassy slope. She stood on the summit, and
shouted down into the gathering darkness:

"Come, Violet, come at once, or you'll be late!"

"Kiss me, Violet, and run to bed," said Bridget. "If you don't like the
doll, I'll exchange it to-morrow."

"But I do like the doll," said Violet. "I love it! It isn't that,
Biddy. May I ask you something?"

"Of course you may, you little darling. How pale you look. What's the
matter, Vi?"

"Is it true, Biddy, that you crib your lessons? Alice says it's true;
but I don't believe her."

Bridget had knelt down by Violet in her earnest desire to comfort her.
She rose now to her feet, and stood erect and tall in the moonlight.
After a very brief pause, she spoke in a haughty tone:

"Alice says that I crib?" she repeated. "What do you English girls mean
by 'cribbing'?"

"Alice says--oh, please don't be angry, Biddy--she says that Janet
helps you; that Janet does--does _some_ of your lessons for you,
herself. I don't believe it! I said it wasn't true."

"You are a good little soul," said Biddy.

She took the child's hand within her own.

"What a plucky little thing you are, Vi. So you think it wrong to crib?"

"I think it wrong to crib?" repeated Violet. "I think it wrong to crib?
Why, of course; it is _most un_honorable."

Bridget colored.

"That's what you English think," she said, in a would-be careless tone;
"but when a girl doesn't know, and when she's quite certain to get into
all sorts of scrapes--eh, Vi--you tell me what a girl of that sort has
got to do?"

"She must not crib," said Violet, in a shaky and intensely earnest
little voice; "it's most awfully unhonorable of her; a girl who
cribs must feel so--so mean. If it was me, I'd rather have all the
punishments in the school than feel as mean as _that_. But you don't
crib, Biddy, darling; you are so lovely, and you are so sweet; I
know--I _know you don't crib_."

Bridget O'Hara had been tempted by Janet into a very dishonorable
course of action, but no spoken lie had ever yet passed her lips.

When Violet looked up at her with the moonlight reflected on her little
pale, childish, eager face, Biddy felt the hour for that first lie had
arrived. She thought that she would do anything in the world rather
than crush the love and the eager trust which shone out of Violet's
eyes.

"Of course I don't crib," she was about to say; but suddenly, like a
flash, she turned away.

"I'm sorry to destroy your faith in me, Vi," she said, in a would-be
careless tone; "but though I have done a very 'unhonorable' thing, as
you call it, I really can't tell a lie about it. I do crib, if cribbing
means taking Janet's help when I learn my lessons."

The faint roses which Violet wore in her cheeks faded out of them.

"I'm awfully sorry for you," she said. "I didn't believe it a bit when
Alice said it; I wouldn't believe it now from anyone but yourself.
There's the doll back again, Biddy; I--I can't keep it, Biddy."

She pushed the waxen beauty into Bridget's arms, and rushed back to the
house.




CHAPTER XII.

LADY KATHLEEN.


For the past week, Janet May had managed, through her tact and
cleverness, to make Bridget's life quite comfortable to her. She had
shown her a way in which she could obey the rules and yet not feel the
fetters. She imparted to Bridget some of that strange and fatal secret
which leads to death in the long run, but which at first shows many
attractions to its victims. Bridget might live at the school, and have
a very jolly, and even independent time; all she had to do was to obey
the letter and break the spirit.

In point of acquirements, Biddy could scarcely hold a place even in
the middle school. She had many talents, but her education had never
been properly attended to. During the last week, however, she had made
rapid progress in her studies; she had been moved up a whole class, and
was steadily getting to the top of her present one. Her masters and
mistresses praised her, and these words of approval proved themselves
extremely sweet, and spurred her on to make genuine efforts in those
studies for which she had really a talent. Biddy's English was perhaps
her weakest point. Her spelling was atrocious; her writing resembled
a series of hieroglyphics; her sums were faulty; her history was
certainly fable, not fact.

She could speak French perfectly; her marks, therefore, in this
tongue were always good. Now her English, too, began to assume quite a
respectable appearance; her sums were invariably correct; her spelling
irreproachable; her various themes were well expressed, and her facts
were incontestable. She was making her way rapidly through the middle
school, and Mrs. Freeman said that she had every reason to hope that so
clever a girl might take her place in the upper school by the beginning
of the next term.

As it was, Bridget was accorded a few of the privileges of the upper
school. One of these privileges was very much prized; she might spend
her evenings, once preparation was over, exactly as she pleased.

After Violet's unexpected reproof she came slowly into the house. She
had that uncertain temperament which is so essentially Irish; her
spirits could rise like a bird on the wing, or they could fall into the
lowest depths of despondency.

She had felt gay and joyful while her birthday treat was going on; now
as she entered the house she could scarcely drag one leaden step after
the other.

Janet was standing in the stone passage which led to the common room,
when Biddy passed by.

"I have been waiting for you," she said, in a rather cross voice. "What
an age you've been! Surely the treat need not have been followed by a
whole wasted hour afterward?"

"I was telling the children a story," said Biddy; "the story was part
of the treat."

Janet's thin lips curled somewhat sarcastically.

"Well, come now," she said; "the committee have all assembled in the
common room, and we're only waiting for you to begin."

"You must do without me to-night," said Bridget; "I have got a
headache, and I'm going to bed." She turned abruptly away, utterly
disregarding Janet's raised brows of astonishment, and the faint little
disagreeable laugh which followed her as she went upstairs.

Bridget's room adjoined the one occupied by Evelyn Percival. As Bridget
was entering her bedroom, Evelyn was coming out of hers.

"Had you a nice treat?" she said, stopping for a moment to speak to
Bridget. "You never asked me to come and look on, and I should have
enjoyed it so much."

"But you're the head girl of the school; my treat was only for the
little ones," said Bridget, in a cold tone.

"I love treats for little ones," said Evelyn, "and I think it was so
nice of you to think of it. Aren't you coming down to the committee,
Miss O'Hara? This is the evening when we arrange our different
contributions. You know, of course, that the bazaar is only a week off."

"I don't care when it is held," said Biddy; "there never was such
a stupid fuss made about anything as that bazaar; I'm sick of the
subject. No, Miss Percival, I'm not going to join the committee
to-night."

"Well, good-night, then," said Evelyn.

She ran downstairs, and Biddy shut herself into her own room and locked
the door.

About an hour later the other girls went to bed. Biddy unlocked her
door, and getting between the sheets just as she was, in her pretty
blue muslin frock, waited until all the house was still. Miss Delicia
usually visited the girls the last thing before going to bed. She came
into Bridget's room as usual, but noticed nothing wrong. The top of a
curly head was seen above the sheet. Miss Delicia stepped lightly on
tiptoe out of the room, and a few moments later the large house, with
its many inmates, was wrapped in profound silence.

When this silence had lasted about a quarter of an hour, Biddy raised
herself on her elbow, and listened intently; then she threw aside the
bedclothes, and stepped lightly on to the floor. Her slippers were
discarded, and her little stockinged feet made no sound as she walked
across the boards. She managed to open her door without its making a
single creak, and a few moments later, guided by the moon, she was
standing in the deserted schoolroom, and was unlocking her school desk.
From out of it she took three very neat looking exercise-books. From
each of these books she tore a page. These three pages she deliberately
reduced to the minutest fragments; returned the books to her desk,
locked it, and went back to bed.

No one had heard her go or come. When she laid her head once more on
her pillow a little sob escaped her lips.

"You shan't ever say I'm unhonorable again, Violet," she muttered; some
tears stole from under her thick, curly lashes. Two or three minutes
afterward she had dropped into profound and peaceful slumber.

The next day at lesson time Bridget O'Hara was in extreme disgrace. She
had no exercises, either good or bad, to show; not the most careless or
untidy notes had she with regard to her history lesson; her geography
had simply not been prepared at all.

Biddy went to the bottom of her class, where she stayed for the
remainder of the morning.

She was to learn her lessons during the hours of recreation, and was
told by her indignant teachers that she might consider herself in great
disgrace.

She received this announcement with complacency, and sat with a
contented, almost provoking, smile hovering round her lips.

Morning school being over, the girls went out to play as usual;
but Biddy sat in the schoolroom with her sums, history lesson, and
geography all waiting to get accomplished.

"You have been a good girl lately, Bridget; you have prepared your
lessons carefully and cleverly," said Miss Dent, the English teacher.
"I am quite sure, therefore, that you will speedily retrieve the great
carelessness of this morning. I am willing to make all allowances
for you, my dear, for we none of us forget that yesterday was your
birthday. Now, just give your attention to these lessons, and you will
have them nicely prepared by dinner time."

"I don't believe I shall," said Bridget, with a comical expression. She
bent over her books as she spoke, and Miss Dent, feeling puzzled, she
did not know why, left the room.

A moment later Janet came in.

"What is the matter?" asked Janet. "I have just met Miss Dent, who
tells me that you failed in your three English lessons this morning.
How can that be? Your grammar and English history and geography were
perfect last night. They had not a single mistake!"

"You mean," said Bridget, raising her eyes and looking full at, Janet,
"that _your_ grammar and geography and English history were perfect
last night."

Janet shrugged her shoulders.

"It's all the same," she said. "I told you that I'd help you with your
lessons, and I shall keep my word. How is it that you have managed to
get into disgrace, after all the trouble I have taken for you?"

"You are never to take it again, Janet; that is all!"

"Never to take it again! Dear me, what a very superior voice we can
use when we like! And has our 'first' sweet little 'gem of the ocean'
discovered that her own mighty genius can tide her over all school
troubles?"

"I'm not going to be afraid of you, Janet," said Biddy. "Of course,
you've been awfully kind to me, and I'm not ungrateful. But
something--something _happened_ last night which made me see that I've
been a mean, horrid, deceitful girl to let you help me at all, and you
are not to do it again; that's all."

"What happened last night to open your virtuous eyes?"

"I'm not going to say."

"Have any of the girls found out?"

Janet turned decidedly pale as she asked this question.

"I'm not going to say."

"You don't mean to hint to me, Bridget, that you have told the teachers
about what I have done?"

"Of course I haven't, Janet. But I'll tell you what I did do. I went
down last night when all the other girls--you among them--were sleeping
the sleep of the just, and I tore a sheet out of each of these books;
the sheet which you had so carefully prepared for me last night. That's
why I had no English lessons, good, bad, or indifferent, to show this
morning."

Janet stood quite silent for a moment or two; her delicately formed
fingers beat an impatient tattoo on the top of Biddy's desk.

"You can please yourself, of course," she said, after a pause. "You
can wade through your lessons as best you can, and sink to your proper
position, you great big baby, in the lower school. You have shown a
partiality for the little children. You are likely to see enough of
them in future, for you will belong to them."

"They are dear little creatures, much nicer than any of the big girls,
except Dolly. I'd rather be with them and do right than stay in the
middle school, or even the upper, and feel as I did last night."

"It is delightful to see what a tender conscience you have got!
I confess I did not know of its existence until to-day, but I
congratulate you most heartily on such a priceless possession. It will
be a great relief to me, not to have to worry any more about your
lessons. For the future I wash my hands of you."

"Am I not to be your chum any more, then, Janet?"

Bridget looked up, with decided relief on her face.

Janet saw the look. Her brow darkened; she had to make a great effort
to suppress the strong dislike which filled her breast. Bridget,
however, was rich; she might be useful.

"Of course, we are chums still," she said in a hasty voice. "It is your
own fault if I don't do as much for you as I promised. You are a great
little goose to reject the help which I am giving you. Your father sent
you to school in order that you might learn; you can't learn if you
are not helped. However, it's your own affair; but if you ever let out
to mortal that I gave you this assistance your life won't be worth
living, that's all."

"I'm not a bit afraid of your threats, Janet; but I won't tell, of
course."

"I say," exclaimed Janet, suddenly rushing to the window, "what a nice
carriage, and what fine horses! Who in the world can be coming to
Mulberry Court now?"

Bridget had again bent over her lessons. They were hopelessly
difficult. It was on the tip of her tongue to say:

"Janet, how am I to parse this sentence?" But she restrained herself.

Janet had forgotten all about her. She was gazing at the beautiful
carriage and spirited horses with eyes full of curiosity.

The carriage, a smart little victoria, contained only one occupant. The
horses were pawing the ground impatiently now; the lady had disappeared
into the house.

"I say," exclaimed Janet, turning to Bridget; but whatever further
words she meant to utter were arrested on her lips. There was the
swishing sound of voluminous draperies in the passage, a gay, quick
voice could be distinguished pouring out eager utterances, and the next
moment the room door was opened hastily, and a lady rushed in.

She was immediately followed by Miss Patience, who seemed somewhat
amazed.

"Really, Lady Kathleen----" she began.

"Now, my dear Miss Patience, don't interrupt me. I know what a good
soul you are; but if you think I'm going to sit in your drawing room
waiting until that precious child is brought to me, you are finely
mistaken. Ah, and here you are, my treasure! Come into Aunt Kitty's
arms!"

"Aunt Kathleen!" exclaimed Bridget.

She rushed from her seat, upsetting a bottle of ink as she did so, and
found herself clasped in a voluminous embrace.

"Now that's good," said Lady Kathleen. "I'll write full particulars
about you to Dennis to-night. And how are you, my pet? And how do you
like school? Are they very cross? Oh, _I_ know them! I was here long
ago myself. Patience, do you remember how you used to insist upon
punishing the girls, and dear old Delicia used to beg them off? I
expect you are just the same as ever you were. Does Miss Patience give
you many punishments, my ducky, and does Miss Delicia beg you off?"

"I'll leave you now, Lady Kathleen," said Miss Patience, still in
her stiff voice. "If you really prefer staying in this room to the
comfortable drawing room, I cannot help it. Of course, you will remain
to dinner? Mrs. Freeman will be delighted to see you again."

"Dear Mrs. Freeman! If there's a woman in the world I respect, she's
the one. But stay a moment, Miss Patience; I'll come and see Mrs.
Freeman another time. I want to take this dear child off with me now
to Eastcliff for the day, and I'd be delighted if her young companion
would come too. What's your name, my love?"

"May," replied Janet.

"May? What a nice little flowery sort of title. Well, I want you to
come and spend the day with me, May."

"My name is Janet May."

"It's all the same, I expect. Now, Miss Patience, may I take these two
sweet children to Eastcliff? I'll promise to have them back under your
sheltering wings by nine o'clock this evening."

Miss Patience hesitated for a moment, but Lady Kathleen Peterham was
not a person to be lightly offended.

"It is very kind of you," she said, "and also most natural that you
should wish to have your niece with you. But Janet----"

"Oh, come, come," said Lady Kathleen, with a hearty laugh, "I want to
have them both, dear children. Run upstairs, now, both of you, and make
yourselves as smart as smart can be. While the girls are getting ready,
you and I can have a little talk, Patience. Run, my loves, run, make
yourselves scarce."

Bridget and Janet both left the room. All the crossness had now
disappeared from Janet's face. She was in high good humor, and even
condescended to link her hand inside Bridget's arm as they mounted the
stairs to their bedrooms.

Janet had very quiet and very good taste in dress.

She came downstairs presently in a dove-colored cashmere, a black lace
hat on her head, and dove-colored gloves on her hands. A pretty black
lace parasol completed her ladylike attire. There was nothing expensive
about her simple toilet, but it was youthful, refined, and suitable.

Biddy did not return so quickly to the schoolroom. Alas! alas! she was
given _carte blanche_ with regard to her dress. Miss O'Hara loved gay
clothing. She came out of her room at last bedizened with fluttering
ribbons, wherever ribbons could be put. Her dress was of shimmering
sea green; she wore a large white hat, trimmed with enormous ostrich
feathers; white kid gloves were drawn up her arms. Her parasol was of
white lace, interspersed with bows of sea-green velvet. This gorgeous
costume had not before seen the light. It suited Biddy, whose radiant
sort of beauty could bear any amount of dress. Beside this splendid
young person, quiet Janet May seemed to sink into utter insignificance.
Miss Patience gave a gasp when Bridget appeared, but Lady Kathleen
Peterham smiled with broad satisfaction.

"Ah!" she said, rising from her chair, "I call that costume really
tasty. The moment I saw it at Worth's I knew it would suit you,
Biddy, down to the ground. No, you naughty child, I'd be afraid even
to whisper to you what it cost; but come along now, both of you, or
we'll be late for all our fun. Miss Patience, I see you are lost in
admiration of Bridget's turn-out."

"I must be frank with you, Lady Kathleen," said Miss Patience. "I
consider your niece's dress most unsuitable--the child is only fifteen.
A white muslin, with a blue ribbon belt, is the fitting costume for
her, and not all that tomfoolery. You'll excuse me, Lady Kathleen; I
think you and Mr. O'Hara make a great mistake in overdressing Miss
Biddy as you do."

"Oh, come, come," said Lady Kathleen, "Bridget is my poor dear sister's
only child, and my brother-in-law and I can't make too much of her. In
school hours, of course, she can be as plain as you please, but out
of school----" The lady raised her eyebrows, and her expression spoke
volumes.

"Come, my dear," she said.

A moment later the gay little victoria was bowling back to Eastcliff,
and Lady Kathleen was pouring out a volley of eager remarks to Janet
May. The change from the dull routine of school life bewildered and
delighted sober Janet; she forgot her habitual reserve, and became
almost communicative. Biddy, notwithstanding all her fine feathers,
seemed for some reason or other slightly depressed, but Janet had never
known herself in better spirits.

"What a sweet companion you are for my niece!" said Lady Kathleen. "You
may be quite sure, my love, that I'll tell my brother-in-law all about
you. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he invited you to the Castle
for the holidays. I shall be there, and we are going to have all kinds
of gay doings. Eh, Biddy, love, what do you say to having your pretty
school friend with you? Why, how pensive you look, my deary!"

"When I see you, Aunt Kathleen, I cannot help thinking of father and
the dogs," said Bridget abruptly. She turned her head away as she spoke.

"Oh, my darling, the dogs; that recalls something to my mind. Minerva
has had four pups, elegant little creatures, thoroughbred, every one of
them. Dennis telegraphed their arrival to me last night."

Janet thought this information highly uninteresting, but Biddy's
cheeks quite flamed with excitement. She asked innumerable and eager
questions, and absorbed all Lady Kathleen's attention until they
reached the gay hotel where the lady was staying at Eastcliff.

Lady Kathleen Peterham had a suite of rooms to herself, and no pains
were spared to make these as luxurious and beautiful as possible. The
wide balconies of her drawing room, which looked directly over the
sea, were gay with many brilliant and lovely flowers. They were also
protected from the rays of the sun by cool green-and-white striped
awnings.

Lunch was ready when the girls arrived, but immediately afterward Lady
Kathleen took them out to sit on the balcony with her.

"We will have our ices and coffee here, Johnson," she said to the
servant who waited on them.

As she spoke, she sank into a comfortable chair, and taking up a large
crimson fan, began to move it slowly backward and forward before her
somewhat heated face.

Lady Kathleen was still a very handsome woman. Her blue eyes resembled
Bridget's in their brightness and vivacity; but her skin, brows,
and hair were much darker, and her expression, although vivacious
and winning, had not that charming innocence about it which marked
Bridget's young face.

Lady Kathleen was a woman of about five-and-thirty. She was made on a
large scale, and the first slenderness of youth was already lost. She
had seen a great deal of what she called "life," for she had married
early, and had lived almost ever since in Paris with her husband.

Hers was a somewhat frivolous nature. She was imprudent, injudicious,
incapable of really guiding the young; but, at the same time, she was
the soul of good nature, and would not willingly have hurt the smallest
living creature.

Janet could not help being greatly impressed by Lady Kathleen. If there
was one point more strongly developed than another in Janet's character
it was her worldliness. She was a lady by birth, but she was poor. Some
day Janet knew that she would have to earn her own living. She had
the most intense respect, therefore, for those people who were blessed
with an abundance of this world's goods. Hers was naturally a cold,
cynical, and calculating nature. Bridget was, in reality, not in the
least to her taste, but the rumors of Bridget's wealth had always been
pleasant to listen to. On account of these rumors, Janet had done what
she considered good service to the willful and headstrong schoolgirl.

She felt highly pleased now with her own worldly wisdom, as she sat
under the shelter of the green-and-white awning, and ate strawberry
ices, and sipped her coffee.

Lady Kathleen was, in all respects, a woman to Janet's taste. She had
the _savoir faire_ which impresses young girls. Janet's respect for
Bridget increased tenfold when she saw that she was related to such
a woman, and she wondered to herself how the aunt could have so much
style and the niece be so _gauche_.

Lady Kathleen, who was determined to make the day delightful to her
young companions, questioned Janet eagerly with regard to her school
and school pursuits.

"Now, my darling," she said, "you must tell me about your little world.
I know what school is. I was at school myself for many a weary year. At
school there always is a big excitement going on. What's the present
one?"

Biddy had seated herself close to the edge of the balcony, and
was looking out over the sea. She was thinking of the Castle, and
of Minerva, and of the cherished litter of pups; of her father's
excitement, and Pat Donovan's raptures, and Norah Mahoney's comments.

She saw the Irish serving man and woman gesticulating and exclaiming;
she saw her father's white hair and weatherbeaten, eagle face, and
could almost hear his deep tones of satisfaction as he bent over
Minerva, and patted her wise head.

"Biddy!" shrieked Lady Kathleen; "Biddy, child, wake up! What in the
world have you gone off into one of those brown studies for? Here's
this dear little Janet telling me that you're going to have a Fancy
Fair at Mulberry Court."

"Oh, yes, Aunt Kathie," said Bridget; "I believe we are."

"Well, child, and isn't that a bright, lively sort of amusement for
you? And the bazaar is to be for a charitable object, too? Splendid!
splendid! Why, Dennis will be quite delighted when I tell him. I always
said the Court was the right school for you, Biddy. It gives a sort
of all-round training. It isn't only accomplishments--tinkle, tinkle
on the piano, and that sort of thing--hearts are also thought of, and
trained properly to think of others. Well, darlings, I'm very much
pleased about the bazaar, and this good little Janet tells me that it
is her idea; most creditable to her. You are the head of the whole
thing, are you not, Janet?"

"No," said Janet, trying to speak in a calm, indifferent voice; "of
course _I_ don't mind; I _can't_ mind, but one of Mrs. Freeman's
strictest rules is that seniority goes before all else. I am not the
head girl of the school, Lady Kathleen; the head girl's name is Evelyn
Percival, and, although I was the one to think of the Fancy Fair, and
although Evelyn was away from the school during the first two or three
weeks while the matter was being planned out and we were getting
materials ready for our stalls, still, the moment she came home, Mrs.
Freeman insisted on our asking her to join the committee, and since
then she has taken the lead, and hers will be the principal stall on
the day of the fair."

"And you'll be nowhere, so to speak?" said Lady Kathleen.

"Well, I don't know that; I hope to have a pretty stall too; Bridget is
helping me with my stall; aren't you, Biddy?"

"I don't know that I am," replied Bridget. "Father sent me a little
money to buy a few pretty things, and that was about all that I could
do. I love pretty things, but I am no worker."

She turned away as she spoke, and once more looked out over the sea
with longing in her eyes.

Lady Kathleen had a keen perception of character. Janet had spoken
in a very quiet, subdued voice, but the fact was by no means lost on
the good lady that she was terribly chagrined at the position she was
obliged to occupy at the fair.

"Confess, my little one; you don't like being second," she said,
bending over her and tapping her fair head with the large crimson fan.

Janet colored faintly. "'What can't be cured,'" she said, shrugging her
shoulders.

Lady Kathleen took up the proverb and finished it. "'Must be endured,'"
she said. "But I don't believe that this position of affairs can't be
cured. It strikes me as extremely unfair that you should have had the
trouble of getting up this fair, and then that you should be pushed
into a second position. I don't care if fifty Mrs. Freemans say you
are not to be first. I don't choose that my niece, Bridget O'Hara,
should have anything to do with a second-rate stall; or a second-rate
position. Wake up, Biddy, child, and listen to me; I insist upon one
thing--you and Janet are to be first on the day of the fair."

Janet's eyes began to sparkle, and the faint glow in her cheeks grew
bright and fixed. Her eager expression spoke volumes, but she did not
utter a word. Bridget, however, exclaimed wearily:

"Oh, what does it matter who is first! Besides, whether you like it or
not, Aunt Kathie, you can't alter matters. Mrs. Freeman is mistress in
her own school; and if she decides that Evelyn is to take the lead,
Evelyn will take the lead, no matter whether you wish it or not, fifty
times over."

"My good little Biddy, you are a bit of an innocent for all you are
growing such a fine big girl--the pride of your father's heart, and
the light of your old auntie's eyes! Little Janet has more wisdom than
twenty great handsome creatures like you. Now, my pets, you listen to
me; we'll manage this matter by _guile_. Miss Percival may have the
first stall at the bazaar, if she likes. Who cares twopence about that?
You, Janet, and you, Biddy, will have the stall that all the visitors
will flock to. You leave me to manage the matter; I'll make your stall
so lovely that all the others will sink into insignificance."

"Oh, will you?" exclaimed Janet; "how--_how_ good you are!"

"I will do it, my dear, I certainly will; the honor of the O'Haras is
involved in this matter. Now, girls, you just put on your hats, and
we'll go round Eastcliff, and see if we can't pick up a basketful of
pretty trifles for you to take home with you this evening. Of course,
they will be nothing to what will presently follow, but they'll just do
for a beginning. You leave it to me, my loves; leave it all to me. This
great, grand, wise Evelyn Percival can't compete with Paris and the Rue
Rivoli; you leave it all to me."

"How kind you are," said Janet again.

"Don't thank me," said Lady Kathleen, rising; "it's for the honor of
the O'Haras. Whoever yet heard of an O'Hara eating humble pie, or
taking a second position anywhere? Now, girls, run into my room, and
make yourselves smart as smart can be, for we have plenty to do with
our time, I can assure you."

The rest of the day passed for Janet in a sort of delicious dream.
Money seemed as plentiful to Lady Kathleen Peterham as the pebbles
on the seashore. Janet almost gasped as she saw the good lady take
one gold piece after another out of her purse to expend on the merest
nothings. Lady Kathleen had exquisite taste, however, and many useless
but beautiful ornaments were carefully tucked away in the large basket
which was to be taken to Mulberry Court that evening.

"I shall go to Paris on Monday," said Lady Kathleen; "I will telegraph
to my husband to expect me. When is your bazaar? next Thursday? I shall
be back at Eastcliff on Wednesday at the latest. One day in Paris will
effect my purpose. I mean to attend this bazaar myself, and I mean to
bring several friends. Do your best, loves, in the meantime to make as
creditable a show as possible, but leave the final arrangements, the
crowning dash of light, color, and beauty to me."

When the two girls were starting for Mulberry Court in the evening,
Lady Kathleen opened her purse and put five golden sovereigns into
Biddy's hand. "I don't know how you are off for pocket money, my pet,"
she said, "but here's something to keep you going. Now, good-night,
dears; good-night to you both."




CHAPTER XIII.

PEARSON'S BOOK OF ESSAYS.


Now that the break-up day was so near, nothing was talked of in the
school but the coming examinations, the prizes, and the delightful fair
which was to bring such honor and renown to Mulberry Court. The school
resembled a little busy hive of eager, animated workers. Even play
during these last days was forgotten, and everyone, from the eldest to
the youngest, was pressed into the service of the fair.

When the matter was first proposed, Mrs. Freeman had said to the girls:
"You are abundantly welcome to try the experiment. My share will
consist in giving you a large marquee or tent; everything else you must
do yourselves. I shall invite people to see your efforts and to buy
your wares. Each girl who contributes to the bazaar will be allowed to
ask two or three guests to be present; the only stipulation I have to
make is that you don't produce a failure; you are bound, for the honor
of the school, to make the fair a success."

The programme for the great day was something as follows: The
examinations were to be held in the morning. Immediately afterward the
prize-winners would receive their awards; there would be an interval
for dinner; and at three o'clock the great fair would be opened, and
sales would continue until dusk.

The girls who were to sell at the stalls were all to be dressed in
white with green ribbons. Mrs. Freeman had herself selected this quiet
and suitable dress; she had done this with a special motive, for she
was particularly anxious that Biddy should have no opportunity of
displaying her finery.

The evening before the great and important day arrived. Evelyn had
purchased a great many useful and beautiful articles for her stall.
She and Dolly were to be the saleswomen; and Mrs. Freeman had arranged
that the principal stall should be at the top end of the large marquee.
Janet felt a sarcastic smile curling her lips when this arrangement was
made.

"It does not really matter," she said to herself; "Bridget's and my
stall will be exactly in the center. The light from the entrance to
the tent will fall full upon it. After all, we shall have a better
position, even than that occupied by the head stall." She kept her
thoughts to herself. Her spirits had never been better, her manners
never more amiable, than since the day of her visit to Lady Kathleen.
The girls who were working under her were very busy, and much delighted
with the basket of beautiful things which had been brought from
Eastcliff, but about any further contributions Janet was absolutely
silent.

On the afternoon of the day before the bazaar, Bridget came into the
bedroom which was shared by Janet and one other girl. "Mrs. Freeman
tells me that you are going into Eastcliff," she said.

"Yes," replied Janet, "I'm to drive in with Marshall. There has been
a mistake about some of the confectionery, and Mrs. Freeman wants me
to go to Dovedale's, in the High Street, without delay, to order some
more cheese cakes, creams, and jellies. Frances Murray ought really
to attend to this, for she is to manage the refreshment stall, but
she happens to be in bed with a stupid headache. What's the matter,
Bridget? How excited you look! and, good gracious, my dear! you have
been crying; your eyes have red rims round them."

"I have had a letter from home," said Bridget, "and Pat Donovan is ill:
he fell off the ladder and hurt his back. Norah Mahoney wrote about
him--she's awfully troubled. Poor Norah, she is engaged to Pat, you
know; she's says he's very bad, poor boy!"

"Who in the world is Pat Donovan? and who is Norah Mahoney?" asked
Janet, as she hastily drew on her gauntlet gloves. "Friends of yours,
of course. But I never heard of them before."

"They are very dear friends of mine," replied Bridget; "they are two
of the servants; I love them very much. Poor, poor Pat! Norah has been
engaged to him for years and years, and now only to think of his being
hurt so dreadfully! Norah wrote me such a sad letter. I'll read it to
you, if you like."

"No thanks, my dear; I really have no time to listen to the sorrows
of your servants. It is too absurd, Bridget, to go on like that! Why,
you're crying again, you great baby! I thought, when you spoke of them,
that you meant people in your own rank."

"I won't tell you any more!" said Biddy, coloring crimson. "You have no
heart, or you wouldn't speak in that horrid tone! Dear, dear Pat! I'm
ten thousand times fonder of him than I am of anyone else in the world,
except father and the dogs, and, perhaps, Aunt Kathleen. I used to
ride on his shoulder all over the farm when I was quite a little tot!"

"Well, my dear, I must run now. I am sorry that I can't sympathize with
you."

"Yes; but, Janet, one moment. I want to send a little present to Pat;
I can, for Aunt Kathleen gave me five pounds. I want to send him a
post-office order for two pounds, and I want to know if you will
get it for me. Here's the letter, all written, and here are the two
sovereigns. Will you get a postal order and put it into the letter for
me, Janet, and then post it at Eastcliff?"

"But you are going home yourself in a couple of days."

"Oh! that doesn't matter; I wouldn't leave Pat a hour longer than I
could help without his letter. You may fancy how fond I am of him, when
I tell you that he has the care of Minerva and the pups."

"I think you're a great goose," said Janet. "But there's no time to
argue. Give me the money, child, and let me go."

"Be sure you post the letter in good time," said Bridget. "Here it is;
I haven't closed it."

She laid the directed envelope on Janet's dressing table, put the two
sovereigns on the top of it, and ran off.

The whole place was in bustle and confusion. Many of the girls were
packing their trunks preparatory to the great exodus which would take
place the day after to-morrow. Evelyn and her favorite friends were
sitting in the large summerhouse which faced the front of the house.
They were chatting and laughing merrily, and seeing Biddy they called
to her to come and join them. Her impulse was to rush to them, and pour
out some of her troubles in Dolly's kind ears; but then she remembered
certain sarcastic sayings of Janet's. Janet's many insinuations were
taking effect on her.

"They all look good enough up in that summerhouse," she said to
herself; "but according to Janet they are each of them shams. Oh, dear,
dear, what a horrid place the world is! I don't think there's anyone
at all nice in it, except father and the dogs, and Pat and Norah. Aunt
Kathie is pretty well, but even she is taken in by Janet. I don't
think school is doing me any good; I hate it more and more every day.
I shan't join the girls in the summerhouse; I'll go away and sit by
myself."

She turned down a shady walk, and presently seating herself under a
large tree, and, clasping her hands round her knees, she began to think
with pleasure of the fast approaching holidays.

While Bridget was so occupied, two ladies passed at a little distance
arm in arm. They were Miss Delicia and the English mistress, Miss Dent.
These two were always good friends; they were both kind-hearted, and
inclined to indulge the girls. They were great favorites, and were
supposed to be very easily influenced.

When she saw them approach, Bridget glanced lazily round. They did not
notice her, but made straight for the little rustic bower close to the
tree under which she was sitting.

"I can't account for it," said Miss Dent. "Of course, I have always
found plenty of faults in Bridget O'Hara, but I never did think that
she would stoop to dishonor."

Bridget locked her hands tightly together; a great wave of angry color
mounted to her temples. Her first impulse was to spring to her feet, to
disclose herself to the two ladies, and angrily demand the meaning of
their words. Then a memory of something Violet had said came over her;
she sat very still; she was determined to listen.

"I think you must be mistaken, Sarah," said Miss Delicia to her friend.
"I know my sister, Mrs. Freeman, thinks that Bridget, with all her
faults, has a fine character. I heard her saying so to Patience one
day. Patience, poor dear, just lacks the very thing she was called
after, and Henrietta said to her: 'The material is raw, but it is
capable of being fashioned into something noble.' I must say I agreed
with Henrietta."

"My dear Delicia," responded the other lady, "am I unjust, suspicious,
or wanting in charity?"

"No, Sarah; Patience--poor Patience--does fail in those respects
occasionally; but no one can lay these sins to your door."

"I am glad to hear you say so. Now you must listen to the following
facts. You know what a queer medley that poor girl's mind is in;
she has a good deal of knowledge of a certain kind: she has poetic
fancy, and brilliant imagination, she has a lovely singing voice, and
the expression she throws into her music almost amounts to genius;
nevertheless, where ordinary school work is concerned, the girl is an
absolute ignoramus. Her knowledge of geography is a blank. Kamschatka
may be within a mile of London, for all she knows to the contrary,
Africa may be found at the opposite side of the Straits of Dover; her
spelling is too atrocious for words. As to arithmetic, she is a perfect
goose whenever she tries to conquer the smallest and simplest sum."

"Well, my dear," interrupted Miss Delicia, "granted all this, the poor
child has been sent to school to be taught, I suppose. I can't see why
she should be accused of dishonor because she is ignorant."

"My dear friend, you must allow me to continue. I am coming to my point
immediately. When Bridget first came to school, she was placed in the
lowest class in the middle school. She was with girls a couple of years
her juniors. Mrs. Freeman was much distressed at this arrangement, for
Bridget is not only fifteen--she arrived at that age since she came
to school--but she is a remarkably developed, grown-up-looking girl
for her years; to have to do lessons, therefore, with little girls of
twelve and thirteen was in every way bad for her.

"There was no help for it, however, and we had really to strain a point
to keep her out of the lower school.

"For two or three weeks Biddy did as badly as any girl with a
reasonable amount of brains could. Each day we felt that we must take
her out of the middle school. Then occurred that unfortunate accident,
when Evelyn Percival was so nearly hurt. That seemed to bring things to
a crisis. Bridget was punished, you remember?"

"Yes," said Miss Delicia, nodding her wise head, "I remember perfectly."

"Bridget was punished," continued Miss Dent, "but on that day also she
submitted to authority. The next morning she took her usual place in
class, but--lo and behold! there was a marked and sudden improvement.
Her spelling was correct, the different places in the world began to
assume their relative positions. Her sums were more than good. In two
or three days she had risen to the head of her class; she was moved
into a higher one, and took a high place in that also. This state of
things continued for a fortnight; we were all in delight, for the girl
had plenty about her to win our interest. All she wanted to make her
one of the most popular girls in the school was attention to the rules,
and a certain power of getting on at her lessons.

"This golden fortnight in Biddy's life, however, came to an end. Her
aunt, Lady Kathleen Peterham, called a week ago, and took her and
Janet May to Eastcliff. On that very morning Bridget had absolutely no
lessons to say; she had not written out her theme, she had not learned
her geography; her sum book was a blank. From that day she has returned
to her normal state of ignorance; her lessons are as hopelessly badly
learnt as ever."

"Well, well," said Miss Delicia, "I am sorry for the poor child. That
rather silly aunt of hers probably turned her brain, but I cannot even
now see how you make her conduct dishonorable. She's a naughty child,
of course, and we must spur her on to greater efforts next time; but as
to her being wanting in _honor_, that's a strong word, Sarah."

"Wait a minute," said Miss Dent. "You know the girls have to give up
all their exercise books a couple of days before the examinations?
Bridget handed me hers a couple of days ago. Her books were
disgraceful--blotty, untidy, almost illegible. I examined them in
hopeless despair. Suddenly my eyes were arrested; I was looking through
the English themes.

"'Ah!' I said, 'here is the little oasis in the desert; these are the
exercises Biddy wrote during the fortnight she was so good.'

"I suppose it was the force of the contrast, but I looked at these
neatly written, absolutely correct, well spelled pages in astonishment.
Busy as I was, I felt obliged to read one of the little essays over
again; the subject was 'Julius Cæsar.' Bridget went up to the top of
her class for the masterly way in which she had worked out her little
essay. I read it over again, in perplexity and admiration. The English
was correct, the style vigorous; there were both conciseness and
thought in the well turned sentences. One phrase, however, struck on my
ear with a curious sense of familiarity. At first I said to myself, 'I
remarked this sentence when Bridget read her theme aloud, that is the
reason why it is so familiar,' but my mind was not satisfied with this
explanation. Like a flash I remembered where I had seen it before. I
said to myself the child has got this out of Pearson's book of English
extracts. Her essay is admirable, even without this concluding thought.
I must tell her to put marks of quotation another time when she uses
phrases not her own. I rose and went to the bookcase, and taking down
Pearson, looked out his remarks on Julius Cæsar. My dear Delicia,
judge of my feelings; the little essay was copied word for word from
Pearson's book! It was a daring act, and, putting the wickedness out
of sight, almost a silly one, for to quote from such a well-known
author as Pearson was naturally almost to invite discovery. All the
good, carefully written essays were copied from the same volume. I can
at last understand why Bridget has fallen back into her old state of
hopeless ignorance. I can also, alas! understand that golden fortnight
of promise."

"But this is dreadful!" said Miss Delicia. "What have you done; have
you told my sister yet?"

"No, I wanted to consult you before I spoke to anyone else on the
matter."

Bridget got up slowly and softly, and moved away down the shady path;
the two ladies did not see her as she went. She soon found herself
standing on the open lawn in front of the house. The great marquee was
being put up there; several workmen were busy, and little girls were
fluttering about like gay, happy butterflies. Alice, Violet, and two or
three more ran up to her when they saw her. "We are making wreaths of
evergreens; won't you help us, Bridget?" they exclaimed.

"No," she said; "I have a headache--don't worry me." She turned
abruptly away and walked down the avenue.

She had no longer any wish to break the rules, but she thought she
would wait about near the entrance gates, in order to catch Janet on
her way back from Eastcliff.

The girls were all busy round the marquee, and Bridget had this part
of the avenue to herself; she went and stood near an ivy-covered
wall; leaned her elbows against the trunk of a tree, and waited; a
motionless, but pretty figure, her gay ribbons streaming about her, her
hat pushed back from her forehead, her puzzled, troubled eyes looking
on the ground.

Bridget knew that Janet would be back within an hour. It mattered very
little to her how long she had to wait; she felt too stunned and sore
to be troubled by any keen sense of impatience.




CHAPTER XIV.

"I'M BIG--AND I'M DESPERATE."


As soon as Janet found herself alone in the pony trap, she took a
letter out of her pocket, opened it, and read its contents with
eagerness. These were the words on which her eyes fell:


    MY DEAR, GOOD LITTLE JANEY:

    I am afraid I cannot take your advice; I cannot exercise the virtue
    of patience another day. Mine has run its course, my dear, and the
    whole stock is exhausted. I have resolved to leave my situation on
    Saturday. I have given Miss Simpkins notice--she does not believe
    me, of course, but she'll know who's right when Saturday comes,
    and she has no one to hector and bully and make life a misery to.
    I wonder where you are going to spend your holidays. Don't go to
    Aunt Jane's, I beg of you; I know she has sent you an invitation,
    but don't accept it. Now, couldn't you and I go off for a little
    jaunt together to Margate, and have some fun? And look here, dear,
    _will_ you send me two pounds by return of post? I absolutely must
    have the money, for Miss Simpkins paid me in full a week ago, and
    I shan't have a penny when I leave, as of course, the little I get
    from her--she is the stingiest old wretch in existence!--naturally
    goes to keep your humble servant in dress, stamps, paper, etc.,
    etc. Lend me two pounds, like a darling. I'll pay it back when I
    can. I do not want to go to Aunt Jane's, and I will have to do it
    if you cannot oblige me, Janey; but if you can I will go to Margate
    and take a bedroom there, which you can share, my love, and we'll
    have some fun, if it's only for a couple of days.

    Your loving sister,

    SOPHIA.


"Poor Sophy," exclaimed Janet. She folded up the letter and placed it
in her pocket. "I wonder where she thinks I'm going to get two pounds
from?" she muttered. "I am as hard up as a girl can be. Sophy might
have stayed with Miss Simpkins, but she's a sort of bad penny; always
returning on one's hands when one least expects her. Well, I don't see
how I'm going to help her. It would be very nice to go to Margate with
her, but what would Mrs. Freeman say? No, I think I know a better plan
than that. I am not going to Aunt Jane's for the holidays; I am going
to have a good time, but it won't be at Margate. Suppose Sophy came,
too? she's very pretty, and very clever, and I think Lady Kathleen
would like her awfully. I must think over this. Oh, here we are at
Eastcliff. Now, my dear little Biddy, the first thing to be done is
post your letter, but if you think I am going to get that postal order,
and place it in it, you are vastly mistaken. I do not at all know that
I shall send the two sovereigns to Sophy, but it is convenient to have
them at hand in case of need."

Janet was always very cool and methodical in her movements. She never,
as the phrase goes, "lost her head." She could also make up her mind
clearly and decidedly. Having done so, she now proceeded to act. She
slipped her sister's most troublesome letter into her pocket, and
driving to the pastry cook's, ordered the creams, jellies, and other
refreshments necessary for the next day's entertainment. She then went
to the post office and wrote a few lines.


    MY DEAR SOPHY [she wrote]: How am I to get two pounds? You must be
    mad to think that I can send you so large a sum of money. If Aunt
    Jane pays for my schooling, she takes very good care to stint my
    pocket money. You had better be wise and go straight to her when
    you leave Miss Simpkins. I _may_ have a nice plan to propose in a
    day or two, but am not sure. You may be certain I'll do my best for
    you, only do be patient.

    Your affectionate sister,

    JANET MAY.


This letter was sealed and directed, and in company with Bridget's
found its way into one of Her Majesty's mail bags; then Janet stepped
once again into the pony carriage, and desired the coachman to drive
her back to Mulberry Court.

The two sovereigns were snugly placed in her purse. She had not yet
quite made up her mind to steal them, but she liked even the temporary
sense of wealth and possession that they gave her.

The wickedness of her own act did not trouble her hardened conscience;
she sat lazily back in the snug little carriage, and enjoyed the
pleasant feel of the summer breeze against her forehead. A passing
sense of annoyance swept over her as she thought of Sophy. Sophy was
nineteen; a very pretty, empty-headed girl. She had not half Janet's
abilities. She was really affectionate, but weak, and most easily
led. Janet was three years younger than her sister, but in force of
character she was several years her senior. The two girls were orphans.
They had lived a scrambling sort of life; tossed about when they were
little children, from one uncomfortable home to another. Finally,
at the ages of fourteen and eleven, they found themselves with a
very strict and puritanical old aunt. Her influence was bad for both
of them, particularly for Janet. Old Aunt Jane was a very good and
excellent woman, but she did not understand the two badly trained and
badly disciplined girls. She was by no means rich, but she struggled
to educate them. Sophy was not clever enough to undertake the somewhat
arduous duties required from governesses in the present day, but Miss
Laughton took great pains to get her a post as companion. Janet had
plenty of abilities, and she was sent to Mulberry Court to be trained
as a teacher.

The girls were fond of each other. Perhaps the only person in the
wide world whom Janet really loved was this frivolous and thoughtless
sister. She ruled Sophy, and, when with her, made her do exactly
what she wished; but still, after a fashion, she felt a very genuine
affection for her.

"Sophy might have stayed at Miss Simpkins's," muttered Janet, as she
drove back to the Court; "but as she has given notice, there's no help
for it. I must get Lady Kathleen to invite her to Ireland when I go.
I'm determined to manage that little affair for myself, and Sophy may
as well join in the fun."

The carriage turned in at the white gates of Mulberry Court, and
Bridget sprang forward to meet it.

"Get out, Janet!" she said, in an imperious, excited voice; "get out at
once; I have something to say to you."

"Stop, Jones," called Janet to the driver. "If you want to speak to me,
Bridget, you had better jump into the carriage, for I mean to go back
to the house; I want to speak to Mrs. Freeman."

"You won't do anything of the kind," said Bridget; "you have got to
speak to me first; if you don't, I'll go straight to Miss Delicia
and Miss Dent and tell them everything. I know now about Pearson's
extracts, and I'll tell about them; yes, I will; I won't live under
this disgrace! You had better jump out at once, and let me speak to
you, or I'll tell."

Bridget's eyes were flashing with anger, and her cheeks blazing with
excitement.

In this mood she was not to be trifled with.

Janet could not comprehend all her wild words, but she guessed enough
to feel an instant sense of alarm. There was danger ahead, and danger
always rendered Janet May cool and collected.

"My dear child," she exclaimed, "why do you speak in such a loud,
excited voice? Of course, I'll go and talk to you if you really want
me. Jones, please take this basket carefully to the house, and if you
see Mrs. Freeman tell her that I shall be with her in a few minutes,
and that everything is arranged quite satisfactorily for to-morrow.
Don't forget my message, Jones."

"No, miss; I'll be careful to remember." The man touched his hat. Janet
alighted from the pony trap, and, taking Bridget's hand, walked up the
avenue with her.

"Now, you dear little Quicksilver," she exclaimed, "what is the matter?
I posted your letter, my love, so that weight is off your mind."

"Thank you, Janet," exclaimed poor Bridget; "you did not forget to
put the postal order in, did you?" Janet raised her delicate brows in
well-acted astonishment.

"Is that likely?" she exclaimed. "But now, why this excitement? Have
you heard fresh news of that valuable Pat, and that delightful Norah?"

"Janet, you are not to talk of the people I love in that tone; I won't
have it! I quite hate you when you go on like this. I'm not mean, but
I know what you are wanting, and I shall speak to Aunt Kathleen and
ask her not to invite you to Ireland if you go on in this way. Aunt
Kathleen likes you because she does not know you, but I can soon open
her eyes."

Janet put on a mock tone of alarm.

"You must not crush me, my dear," she exclaimed; "it _would_ be a trial
not to go to the Castle. There, there, I don't want really to tease
you, my love. Now, what is the matter? Why have you been making those
extraordinary remarks about Pearson? Who _is_ Pearson?"

"You know better than I do, Janet. I'll tell you what has happened. You
copied a lot of themes, and gave them to me as if they were your own
to put into my exercise book. It was very, very wrong of me to let you
help me at all, but, of course, I thought that you had done so without
referring to books."

"My dear little saint! I don't see what difference that makes!"

"I don't suppose it makes any difference in the wickedness," retorted
Bridget; "but it certainly does in the chance of being found out.
I overheard Miss Dent and Miss Delicia talking in one of the
summerhouses; Miss Dent has discovered that my essays were copied
from Pearson's extracts, and she's awfully angry, and Miss Delicia is
horrified. I won't live under it! no, I won't! I was awfully wicked
ever to allow it, but I'd much, much rather confess everything now. I
am an idle, scapegrace sort of a girl; but I can't think how I ever
submitted to your making me dishonorable. I'm horribly dishonorable,
and I could die of the shame of it! I'll go straight this very minute
to Mrs. Freeman, and tell her to punish me as much as ever she likes.
The only thing I shall beg of her is not to tell father, for this is a
sort of thing that would break my father's heart. You must come with
me, of course, Janet; you must come at once and explain your share in
the matter. That's what I waited for you here for. It is most important
that everything should be told without a minute's delay."

Bridget's words were poured out with such intense passion and anguish
that Janet was impressed in spite of herself. She was not only
impressed; she was frightened. It took a great deal to arouse the sense
of alarm in her calm breast, but she did realize now that she had got
herself and the young Irish girl into a considerable scrape, and that,
if she did not wish to have all her own projects destroyed, it behooved
her to be extremely wary.

"Let us go down and walk by the sea, Biddy," she said. "Oh, yes,
there's plenty of time; meals will be quite irregular to-day. Why, how
you tremble, you poor little creature!"

"I'm not little," said Bridget; "I'm big, and I'm desperate. The time
has gone by for you to come round me with soft words, Janet. Why am I
to go and walk with you by the sea? The thing to be done is for us both
to find Mrs. Freeman, and tell her, without mincing words, how wicked
we are."

"Have you really made up your mind to do this?" said Janet.

She turned and faced her companion. The color had left her cheeks, her
lips trembled, her eyes were dilated.

"Do you positively mean to do this cruel thing?" she repeated.

"Cruel?" said Bridget, stamping her foot; "it's the only bit of justice
left; it's the one last chance of our ever retrieving our position. Oh,
do come with me at once; there's just time for us to see Mrs. Freeman
before tea."

"You can go, Bridget," said Janet. "If you are determined to go I
cannot prevent you. You can make all this terrible mischief if you
like; but you must do it alone, for I shall not be with you. The
effect of your confession will be this: you will suffer some sort of
punishment, and by and by you will be forgiven; and by and by, too, you
will forget what you now consider such an awful tragedy; but what you
are now doing will ruin me for all my life. I am only sixteen--but no
matter. However long I live I shall never be able to get over this step
that you are taking. If you go--as you say you will--to Mrs. Freeman,
there is only one thing for me to do, and that is to run away from
school. I won't remain here to be expelled; for expelled I shall be if
you tell what you say you will of me. They'll make out that I am worse
than you, and they'll expel me. You don't know the effect that such
a disgrace will have on my future. I am not rich like you; I have no
father to break his heart about me. The only relations I have left in
the world are an old aunt, who is very stingy and very hard-hearted,
and who would never forgive me if I did the smallest thing to incur her
displeasure; and one sister, who is three years older than myself, and
who is very pretty and very silly, and who has written to me to say she
has lost her situation as companion. If you do what you are going to
do, Bridget, I shall walk back to Eastcliff, and take the next train
to Bristol, where Aunt Jane lives. You will ruin me, of course; but
I don't suppose that fact will influence your decision. I did what I
did for you out of a spirit of pure kindliness; but that, too, will be
forgotten, now that your conscience has awakened. I am just waiting for
you to choose what you will really do, Bridget, before I run away."

When Janet finished speaking she moved a few steps from her companion.
She saw that her words had taken effect, for Biddy's determined
expression had changed to one of indecision and fresh misery; her
troubled eyes sought the ground, her red lips trembled.

"I see you have made up your mind," said Janet. (She saw quite the
reverse, but she thought these words a politic stroke.) "I see you have
quite made up your mind," she continued; "so there is nothing for me to
do but to go. Good-by! I only wish I had never been so unlucky as to
know you."

Janet turned on her heel, and began to walk down the avenue.

"You know you can't go like this," Bridget called after her. "Stop!
Listen to me! You know perfectly well that, bad as you are, I don't
want to ruin you. I'll go by myself, then, and say nothing about you.
Will that content you?"

"I see you are going to be reasonable," said Janet, returning, and
taking her companion's arm. "Now we can talk the matter out. Come down
this shady walk, where no one will see us. Of course, the whole thing
is most disagreeable and unpleasant, but surely two wise heads like
ours can see a way even out of this difficulty."

"But there is no way, Janet, except by just confessing that we have
behaved very badly. Come along, and let us do it at once. I don't
believe you'll get into the awful scrape you make out. I won't let you!
I'll take your part, and be your friend. You shall come to Ireland
with Aunt Kathleen and me, and father will be ever so kind to you, and
perhaps--I'm not sure--but _perhaps_ I'll be able to give you one of
the dogs."

"Thanks!" said Janet, slightly turning her head away; "but even the
hope of ultimately possessing one of those valuable quadrupeds cannot
lighten the gloom of my present position. There is no help for it,
Biddy, we must stick to one another, and resolve, whatever happens,
_not_ to tell."

"But they know already," said Bridget. "Miss Delicia and Miss Dent know
already! Did I not tell you that I overheard them talking about it?"

"Yes, my dear, you did. It is really most perplexing. You must let me
think for a moment what is best to be done."

Janet stood still in the center of the path; Bridget looked at her
anxiously.

"What a fool I was," she murmured under her breath, "to use that
extract book. It was just my laziness; and how could I suppose that
that stupid Miss Dent would go and pry into it? It will be a mercy if
she does not discover where some of my own happy ideas have come from.
If I trusted to my own brains I could have concocted something quite
good enough to raise poor little Biddy in her class. Discovery would
then have been impossible. Oh, what a sin laziness is!"

"What are we to do?" said Bridget, looking anxiously at her companion.
"We have very little time to make up our minds in, for probably before
now Miss Dent and Miss Delicia have told Mrs. Freeman. I do want, at
least, to have the small merit of having told my own sin before it has
been announced by another. There's no way out of it, Janet. Come and
let us tell at once!"

"How aggravating you are!" replied Janet. "There is a way out of it.
You must give me until after tea to think what is best to be done.
Ah! there's the gong! We _can't_ tell now until after tea, even if we
wished to. Come along, Bridget, let us return to the house. I'll meet
you in the South Walk at seven o'clock, and then I shall have something
tangible to propose."

Bridget was obliged very unwillingly to consent to this delay. Hers was
a nature always prone to extremes. She thought badly of her conduct
in allowing Janet to help her with her lessons ever since the moment
little Violet had given back the waxen doll, but even then she did not
know the half of the sin which she and another had committed. It only
needed Miss Dent and Miss Delicia to open her eyes. A sick sense of
abasement was over her. Her proud spirit felt humbled to the very dust.
She was so low about herself that she looked forward to confession with
almost relief.

Janet's nature, however, was a great deal firmer and more resolute
than Bridget's. There was no help for it: the Irish girl was bound to
comply with her decision. The two walked slowly up to the house, where
they parted, Janet running up to her room to take off her hat, wash her
hands, and smooth her hair, and Biddy, tossing her shady hat off in the
hall, and entering the tea room looking messed and untidy. On another
day she would have been reprimanded for this, but the excitement which
preceded the grand break-up prevented anyone noticing her. She sank
down in the first vacant seat, and listlessly stirred the tea which she
felt unable to drink.

Janet's conduct in this emergency differed in all respects from
Bridget's. No girl could look fresher, sweeter, or more composed than
she when, a moment or two later, she entered the long room. Mrs.
Freeman was pouring out tea at the head of the table. Janet went
straight up to her, and entered into a lucid explanation of what she
had done at Eastcliff, and the purchases she had made.

"Very nice, my dear! Yes, quite satisfactory. Ah! very thoughtful of
you, Janet. Sit down now, dear, and take your tea."

Janet found a place near Dolly. She ate heartily, and was sufficiently
roused out of herself to be almost merry.

When the girls were leaving the tea room, Janet lingered a little
behind the others. Her eyes anxiously followed Miss Delicia, who, with
a flushed face and dubious, uncertain manner, was watching her elder
sister, Mrs. Freeman. Miss Dent had not appeared at all at tea, which
Janet regarded as a very bad sign, but she also felt sure, by the head
mistress's calm expression, that the news of Bridget's delinquencies
had not been revealed to her. Janet saw, however, by Miss Delicia's
manner that this would not long be the case. Janet had thought the
matter over carefully, and had made up her mind to a determined and
bold stroke.

Miss Delicia, who had, as usual, been hopping about during the meal,
attending to everyone's comforts, and quite forgetting her own, was now
seen by Janet to walk up by the side of the long table, evidently with
the intention of waylaying Mrs. Freeman as she left the room.

With a sudden movement Janet frustrated her intentions. Mrs. Freeman
passed out through the upper door of the tea room, and Miss Delicia
found herself coming plump up against Janet May.

"Oh, I want to speak to you!" said Janet.

"Pardon me," said Miss Delicia, "I will attend to you in a moment; but,
first of all, I wish to say a word to my sister; she will shut herself
up in her own room, for she is going to be very busy over accounts,
if I don't immediately secure her. I'll be back with you in a moment,
Janet, after I have spoken to Mrs. Freeman."

"Please forgive me," said Janet, "but what I have to say is of very
great importance. Perhaps you won't want to speak to Mrs. Freeman after
you have talked to me."

"Now, my dear, what do you mean?"

Miss Delicia raised her kind, but somewhat nervous eyes. She was a
little round body, nearly a head shorter than tall Janet May.

"I want to speak to you by yourself," said Janet; "it is of great
importance--the very greatest. Please talk to me before you say
anything to Mrs. Freeman."

"Come to my private room," said Miss Delicia, taking Janet's hand
in her own. "Come quickly before Patience sees us. Miss Patience is
very curious; she will wonder what is up. Ah, here we are with the
door shut; that is a comfort. Now, my dear, begin. Your manner quite
frightens me."

"I have something most important to say. I am very glad--very, very
glad--that it is to you, Miss Delicia, that I have got to say this
thing. Your kindness is--is well known. Each girl in the school is well
aware of the fact that you would not willingly hurt anyone."

"My dear, none of us would do that, I hope." Miss Delicia drew her
little figure up. "We are Pickerings; my sister, Mrs. Freeman, is a
Pickering by birth; and the Pickerings have been in the scholastic line
from time immemorial. Those who guide the young ought always to be
tolerant, always kind, always forbearing."

"Yes, yes," interrupted Janet, "I know that, of course, but some people
are more forbearing than others. Mrs. Freeman, Miss Patience, and you
are loved and respected by us all; but you are loved the most, for you
are the kindest."

Miss Delicia's little face flushed all over.

"I am gratified, of course," she said, "but _if_ this is the general
feeling, I shall be most careful to keep the knowledge from my sisters
Henrietta and Patience. Now, Janet, what is it you want to say to me?"

"I want to speak to you about Bridget O'Hara."

Miss Delicia felt the color receding from her cheeks.

"Oh!" she exclaimed; "what about her? I may as well say at once that I
am not happy with regard to that young girl."

"I know," said Janet, "I--I know more than you think; that is what
I want to speak about. Biddy has told me; poor Biddy, poor, poor
misguided Biddy."

"Bridget O'Hara has told you? Told you what, Janet? It is your duty to
speak; what has she told you?

"The truth, poor girl," said Janet, shaking her head mournfully.
"I'll tell you everything, Miss Delicia. Biddy, through an accident,
overheard you and Miss Dent speak about her this afternoon."

"Then she's an eavesdropper as well as everything else," said Miss
Delicia. "Oh, this is too bad. I did not suppose that such an
absolutely unprincipled, wicked girl ever existed; with her beautiful
face too, and her kind, charming, open manners. Oh, she's a wolf in
sheep's clothing, she will be the undoing of the entire school. It
is very difficult, Janet, to rouse my anger, but when it is aroused
I--I--well, I feel things _extremely_, my dear. I must go to Mrs.
Freeman at once; don't keep me, I beg."

Janet placed herself between Miss Delicia and the door.

"I must keep you," she said. "You are not often angry, Miss Delicia; I
want you on this occasion to be very forbearing, and to restrain your
indignation until you have at least listened to me. Biddy did not mean
to eavesdrop."

"Oh, don't talk to me, my dear!"

"I must, I will talk to you. Please, please let me say my say. Biddy
behaved badly, disgracefully, but she did not mean to listen. She was
in trouble, poor girl, about a friend of hers, a servant who was ill in
Ireland. She was sitting in the shrubbery thinking about it all when
you and Miss Dent came and sat in the summerhouse near by. You spoke
her name, and said some very plain truths about her. She forgot all
about going away and everything else in the intense interest with which
she followed your words. She rushed away at last, and waited near the
gates in the avenue to unburden herself to me. Whatever you may have
said to Miss Dent, Miss Delicia, the effect on Bridget was really
heartrending; she told me that you had opened her eyes, that she saw
at last the disgrace of her own conduct. I never could have believed
that the poor girl could get into such a state of mind; I really felt
quite anxious about her. I don't think my sympathies were ever more
thoroughly aroused, and you know that I am not easily carried away by
my feelings."

"That is certainly the character you have received in the school, Janet
May."

"It is true," repeated Janet, in her steady voice; "I am not
demonstrative. Therefore, when I am roused to pity, the case which
arouses me must be supposed to be extreme. Poor Biddy is in the most
terrible anguish."

"Did she tell you, did she dare to tell you, that she copied her
extracts from Pearson?"

"She did, she told me everything. She says she is quite sure that Mrs.
Freeman will expel her, and that, if so, her father will die of grief."

"Oh, she has deputed you, then, to plead for her?"

"She has not; it has never occurred to her that anyone should plead for
her. She does not feel even a vestige of hope in the matter; but I do
plead for her, Miss Delicia. I ask you to have mercy upon her."

"Mercy," said Miss Delicia, "mercy! Is this sort of thing to go on in a
respectable high-class school? We are not going to be heartlessly cruel
to any girl, of course, but my sisters Henrietta and Patience must
decide what is really to be done."

"I have come to you with a bold request," said Janet. "I will state it
at once frankly. I want you not to consult your sisters about Bridget
until--until after the festival to-morrow."

"I can't grant your request, my dear."

"But please consider. I am taking great and personal interest in
Bridget; you know that I am very steady."

"You are, Janet; you are one of the best girls in the school."

"Thank you," said Janet, "I try to do my duty; I take a great interest
in Bridget, and I have an influence over her. You know how badly she
has been brought up; you know how reckless she is, how untaught, how
affectionate and generous she can be, and yet also how desperate and
defiant. There are only two people in the world whom she greatly loves;
her old father is one; oh, she has told me lovely, pathetic stories
about her gray-headed old father; and her aunt, Lady Kathleen Peterham,
is the other. To-morrow is to be a great day in the school, and if
Bridget is to be in disgrace and publicly held up to opprobrium, you
can imagine what Lady Kathleen's feelings will be--what Bridget's own
feelings will be. What will be the effect? Bridget will be taken away
from school and in all probability never educated at all."

"But, my dear--you are a remarkably wise girl, Janet--my dear, the
fact of my sisters knowing the truth about Bridget O'Hara need not be
followed by public and open disgrace. We three must consult over the
matter and decide what are the best steps to take."

"Forgive me," said Janet, "you know--you must know what Mrs. Freeman's
and Miss Patience's sentiments will be. If you, who are so gentle and
charitable, feel intense anger, what will their anger be? Reflect, Miss
Delicia, you must reflect on the plain fact that they will feel it
their duty publicly to disgrace Bridget."

"For the sake of example," murmured Miss Delicia.

"Precisely," said Janet, "for the sake of example; and Biddy's
character will be ruined forever. Lady Kathleen will take her from
school, and all chance of making her what she may become, a brave and
noble woman, will be at an end."

"If I thought that----" said Miss Delicia.

"It is true. I assure you, it is true!"

"What do you want me to do then, Janet?"

"Simply to keep your knowledge to yourself for twenty-four hours."

"I am much puzzled," murmured Miss Delicia. "You're a queer girl, Janet
May, but I will own there is wisdom in your words."

"How sweet you are, Miss Delicia! You will never, never repent of this
forbearance."

"But there is Miss Dent to be thought of, my love. She is most unhappy
about the whole thing."

"You will talk to her," said Janet; "you will talk to her as if from
yourself; you will, of course, not mention me, for who am I? nothing
but a schoolgirl. You will tell Miss Dent that you have thought it
wisest to defer saying anything to Mrs. Freeman until the anxieties
of to-morrow are over. Oh, it does seem only right and natural; I am
so deeply obliged to you. May I kiss you? This lesson in Christian
forbearance will, I assure you, not be thrown away on me, and will,
doubtless, be the saving of poor, poor Biddy."

Janet ran out of the room; Miss Delicia pressed her hand in a confused
way to her forehead.

"Have I really promised not to tell?" she murmured; "I suppose so,
although I don't remember saying the words. What a queer, clever girl
that is, and yet, at the same time, how really kind. It is noble of
her to plead like that for Bridget! Well, after all, twenty-four hours
can't greatly signify, and the delay will certainly insure Henrietta
and Patience a peaceful time. Now, I must go and talk to poor, dear
Sarah Dent."




CHAPTER XV.

BRIDGET O'HARA'S STALL.


"And now, my dears," said Mrs. Freeman, addressing her assembled
school, "we have come to the end of our school term; the prizes
have been distributed; the examinations are over. To those girls
who have succeeded in winning prizes, and who have, in consequence,
been raised to higher classes in the school, I offer my most hearty
congratulations; they have worked well and steadily, and they now reap
their due rewards. You, my dears"--the head mistress waved her hand in
the direction of the successful girls who were each of them pinning
a white satin badge into their dresses, and were standing together
in a little group--"you, my dears, will wear the badge of honor all
through the remainder of this day; may honor dwell in your hearts,
and may success attend you through life; that success, my dear girls,
which comes from earnest living, from constant endeavor to pursue the
right, from constant determination to forsake the wrong. You have been
successful in this day's examinations; you have every reason to be
pleased with your success; but, at the same time, it must not render
you self-confident. In short, my dear girls, you must ask for strength
other than your own to carry you safely though the waves of this
troublesome world. I now want to say a word or two to those girls who
have not to-day earned prizes. I want you, my dear children, not to go
away with any undue sense of discouragement. If, through carelessness
or inattention, you have not got the prize you coveted, you must
try very hard to be careful and attentive next term; you must also,
however, remember that every girl cannot win a prize, but that patience
and constant endeavor will secure to each of you the best rewards in
due time. On the whole, the term's work has been satisfactory, and the
progress made in every branch of study gratifying. I now declare the
school closed as far as lessons are concerned. Some of you will go away
to your own homes to-night; some to-morrow morning. We shall all meet
again, I hope, in September; and now there is a very happy time before
us. To the courage and the thoughtfulness of a young girl in this
school whom you all know--I allude to Janet May--we are going to have
a Fancy Fair for the benefit of a child who has none of the advantages
which you one and all possess. Evelyn Percival, as the head girl of the
school, and as my special friend and right hand, will hold the first
stall at the Fancy Fair; this, of course, is her due--but, that every
justice should be done, I wish you all, girls, now to acknowledge that
the first thought of the fair was due to Janet. Shall we cheer her?"

A chorus of applause followed the head mistress's speech. Janet, in
her white dress with green ribbons, the glistening satin badge of a
prize-winner pinned on her breast, stood pale and slender, a little in
advance of the other girls who had also won prizes. A brief gleam of
triumph filled her dark, steel-blue eyes; she glanced at Evelyn, who,
next to her, occupied the most conspicuous position; her breath came
fast; her lips trembled. The burst of applause was delicious to her.

The girls were all clapping and stamping vigorously. Their "hip, hip,
hurrrah!" echoed through the large hall where the examinations had just
been held.

Raising her eyes suddenly, Janet perceived that Bridget O'Hara stood
motionless. She was in front of a group of smaller girls; her lips were
shut; neither hands nor feet responded to the volume of applause which
was echoing on all sides for Janet May.

"Now we'll cheer our head girl," said Mrs. Freeman. "We are thankful
for her restoration to health, and we wish her long to remain an inmate
of Mulberry Court. Now, girls, with all your might, three cheers for
Evelyn Percival, the school favorite!"

The burst of applause was deafening; the old roof rang with the
exultant young voices. Evelyn, in her turn, proposed some cheers for
the head mistress and the other teachers, after which the school broke
up.

"Why didn't you cheer Janet May, Biddy?" asked Violet, when the girls
were streaming out of the hall. "I noticed that you didn't say a word,
and that you neither clapped your hands nor stamped your feet. I was
surprised, for I thought you were so fond of her."

"I'm not fond of her at all," said Bridget. "Don't bother me, Vi; I
must run down now to the marquee to see about my stall."

Violet's little face looked mystified. She turned to say something to
her chum Alice, and Bridget ran down the lawn to the marquee.

The school was broken up by twelve o'clock, but the Fancy Fair was not
to be opened until three.

Evelyn Percival's stall had been fully dressed the night before. It
looked very lovely and inviting, and although Janet's and Bridget's
stall also looked pretty, the stall of the head girl took the shine out
of all the others.

When Bridget found herself standing by the marquee she looked around,
to find no one present but Janet.

"I suppose you are satisfied now?" she said, giving Miss May a slightly
contemptuous glance. "You had your desire; you were publicly honored
and clapped by the whole school."

"Well, my dear love," retorted Janet, who was most anxious to be
friendly with Bridget, "don't be vicious about it. I noticed that you
didn't clap me, nor cheer me. Why was that, _chérie_? Your conduct
didn't look at all amiable."

"I was to clap you for being good and honorable. As I happen to know
you are not at all good, and most frightfully dishonorable, it was
impossible for me to join in the applause."

"Oh, now, my dear Bridget, if you are going to preach!"

"I to preach? Certainly not! I need someone to preach _me_ sermons.
When are we to see Mrs. Freeman?"

"I told you not before this evening. Why will you worry me with that
unpleasant subject? We have enough on our hands now in getting the fair
well through."

"I wish it were over; I hate the Fancy Fair! I saw Miss Delicia looking
at me, and Miss Dent's eyes were so red, while Mrs. Freeman was talking
of the goodness of her girls. I never felt smaller nor meaner in my
life. If Mrs. Freeman had known everything, you would not have been
standing where you were, Janet, with all that false glory shining
about you. I couldn't have taken it, if it were me; but you didn't seem
to mind."

"Mind, dear? I like it, I assure you! I mean to have some more of that
sort of glory before the day is out. Ah, and here they come! I knew
they would not fail us."

Janet's eyes glistened with delight; she forgot all Biddy's unpleasant
words in the ecstasy of this moment. Two men were seen walking across
the lawn, each of them bearing a large hamper. They laid them down on
the grass beside Janet and Bridget.

"These are from Lady Kathleen Peterham," the foremost of the men said.
"She desired that they should be delivered without delay to Miss
Bridget O'Hara and Miss Janet May."

"This is Bridget O'Hara, and I am Janet May," exclaimed Janet.

The man touched his hat.

"That's all right, then, miss. There are four more hampers to be
brought along; we has 'em in a cart at the gate. My mate and me'll go
back and fetch 'em, miss; and Lady Kathleen said that one of us was to
stay and help you to open them."

"Yes, yes," said Janet eagerly. "Bring the hampers round, please,
to the back part of the marquee. We shall have the place quite to
ourselves, for the girls do not think there is anything more to be
done, and they are busy finishing their packing. Now, Biddy, Biddy,
help me! let us set to work. Oh, Glory and Honor, we shall have
something more to do with _you_ this day!"

Janet's delicate complexion began to flame with excitement; her hand
shook with eagerness. She fastened a large brown holland apron over
her pretty white dress, and with the aid of one of the men, who was
very handy and efficient, began to take out the contents of the hampers.

Bridget stood aside without offering to help. Janet gave her one or two
indignant glances, and then resolved to waste no further time on her.

The lovely things which Lady Kathleen had purchased in Paris were so
varied and so dazzling that the home-painted fans, and the various home
articles of beauty and art were pushed hastily out of sight, and the
stall practically redecked.

Lady Kathleen had evidently spared neither time nor money. Her
magnificent contribution to the Fancy Fair consisted of necklets,
bangles, scarfs, handkerchiefs, aprons, ties, every conceivable house
ornament, gay butterflies for the hair, bewitching little Parisian
bonnets; in short, a medley of fashion and beauty which intoxicated
Janet out of all reason. She clapped her hands, and laughed aloud, and
even Bridget so far forgot her sorrows and the gloom and disgrace which
each moment was bringing nearer, to exclaim at the treasures which were
taken out of the wonderful hampers.

Evelyn's really beautiful stall sank into complete insignificance
beside the stall which was decked with the rare articles of beauty
from the choicest Parisian shops. Evelyn might be head of the fair,
but Lady Kathleen would certainly have her wish, for no one with eyes
to see, and money in her pocket, would linger for a moment beside
the home-decked stall when the sort of fairyland which Bridget's and
Janet's stall now presented was waiting within a stone's throw for
their benefit.

Lady Katherine, remembering the wants of the children, had supplied
endless toys and bonbon boxes. In short, no one was forgotten. From
the youngest to the oldest a fairy contribution could be found on this
wonderful stall.

Lady Kathleen's final act of beneficence was shown in her having marked
an exceedingly low price on each of the beautiful articles. In short,
a whim had seized her ladyship. Money was of no moment to her; she
had spent lavishly, and gone to enormous expense. If every article on
the stall were sold, about half the money she had expended would be
realized, but that fact mattered nothing at all; her object being not
to benefit little Tim Donovan, but to bring honor and renown to her
beautiful niece Bridget.

Janet had great taste. She knew in a moment where to place each article
to the best advantage; she grouped her colors with an eye to artistic
effect; every touch from her deft fingers told. She was so excited and
intoxicated with the cheers she had received in the school, and now
with this fulfillment of her dearest dream, that her natural talent
arose almost to genius. Even Biddy could not help exclaiming with
wonder at the results she produced.

"Whatever you are, Janet, you're clever!" she said. "I never saw
anything more lovely than this stall; never, never, in all my life!"

"Well," said Janet, "if you admire it, Bridget, be good-natured about
it. Whatever is going to happen in the next few hours, let us be happy
while the bazaar is going on. Nothing can take place to disturb or
frighten us during that time. Let us, therefore, be happy."

"Lady Kathleen Peterham said, miss," remarked one of the men, now
approaching Janet, and touching his hat respectfully, "that this box
was to be given most especial to you and the other young lady when the
stall was decked. Lady Kathleen said you would know what was in it when
you opened it, and she'd be sure to be here herself in good time for
the fair. Is there anything more that me and my mate can do for you
both, young ladies?"

"No, nothing further," said Janet, "we are much obliged. Please
clear away the hampers and the pieces of paper and wool in which the
different things were wrapped, and if you return to Lady Kathleen say
that everything is most satisfactory."

Janet had assumed a slightly commanding air, which suited her well. The
men were under the impression that she must be Lady Kathleen's niece.
They respectfully attended to her bidding, and, holding the box in her
hand, she and Bridget walked round to the other side of the marquee.

It was a large box, and at another time Janet would have been
disinclined to burden herself with anything so heavy; but she was in
too good a humor now to think of small inconveniences. Attached to the
box was pinned a little note. It was directed to Bridget.

"Here!" said Janet, handing it to her. "This is from your aunt; you had
better read it at once."

"I don't suppose it matters," said Biddy.

"Of course it matters. I never saw anyone so dull and stupid! Shall I
read it to you?"

"If you like."

Janet tore the note open. Her eyes rested on the following words; she
read them aloud:


    DARLING BIDDY:

    I am told that Mrs. Freeman wishes all the stall-holders to wear
    simple white with green ribbons, but there are different degrees
    and qualities of this charming combination. I have selected
    something very simple for you and your friend Miss May to wear
    on this auspicious occasion. You will find your dresses in the
    accompanying box. I can promise that they will fit you perfectly.


"O Biddy, Biddy!" said Janet, in excitement, "was there ever anyone so
kind as your Aunt Kathleen? Let us bring this box into the house at
once, and look at our finery."

Even Bridget was not proof against the charms of a new dress. She
had a great love for gay clothing, and one of the small things that
fretted her on the occasion of the Fancy Fair was having to wear a book
muslin dress, made after a prescribed pattern, with a simple sash of
apple-green round her waist.

She, therefore, willingly helped Janet to convey the big box to the
house.

In the general excitement and disturbance the girls had no difficulty
in conveying it unobserved to Bridget's bedroom, where they eagerly
opened it, and pulled out its contents.

Lady Kathleen Peterham had been careful to obey Mrs. Freeman's commands
to the letter. The Parisian frocks were also of book muslin, and the
sashes to be worn with them were of apple-green. But very wide was the
difference between the dresses made by a home dressmaker at Mulberry
Court and those which two pairs of eager eyes now feasted on.

Lady Kathleen was quite right when she said that there are many kinds
of simple costumes. The quality of this book muslin was of the finest;
the embroidery and lace of the most exquisite; the puffings and
frillings, the general cut and arrangements, were made in the newest,
the most stylish and the most becoming fashion. There was something
piquant about these dresses, which removed them many degrees from those
which Evelyn Percival, Dorothy Collingwood, and the other girls would
wear. There were white silk stockings for the girls' dainty feet, and
little apple-green satin shoes with pearl buckles and high heels for
them to wear with the stockings; there were rows of shining green beads
to clasp round their slender throats; and last, but not least, there
were the cunningest and most bewitching little headdresses in the world
to perch on their heads of sunny hair.

"Let us dress quickly," said Janet. "Let us slip the dresses on and run
down to the marquee and stay there. Oh, what _does_ dinner matter? no
one will mind whether we dine or not to-day. Let us stay in the marquee
until the fair opens; then, even if Mrs. Freeman should disapprove,
there won't be time for us to change. O Biddy, can it really be true
that I am not only to wear this exquisite costume, but to keep it? Oh,
what a woman your Aunt Kathleen is; she is really better than any fairy
godmother."

Bridget laughed, and cheered up a good deal while she was putting on
her beautiful dress. The two girls dressed with great expedition, and
ran down to the marquee, where they amused themselves flitting about
from one stall to another until half-past two.

The fair was to open at three, and at half-past two Mrs. Freeman,
the numerous teachers belonging to the school, and the rest of the
stall-holders streamed down in a body from the house. The white canvas
which concealed the front of the tent was removed, and the different
girls bustled to their stalls to give the finishing touches to
everything.

Bridget was feeling hungry for want of her dinner, but Janet was too
excited and too triumphant to feel the pangs of healthy appetite.

She stood a little in the shadow, a slight tremor of nervousness
running through her, notwithstanding her delight.

Mrs. Freeman was the first to enter the marquee; she was accompanied by
Evelyn and Dorothy; they all walked straight up to Evelyn's stall. It
was in the best position, and commanded the first view as one entered
the tent.

Mrs. Freeman had not hitherto seen the stalls; her hand was drawn
affectionately through Evelyn's arm, she had a careless and relieved
expression on her face which made her look years younger. As she had
just remarked to one of the teachers:

"I am like a schoolgirl myself to-day. I mean to slip away from dull
care for the next seven weeks."

Mrs. Freeman was a very handsome woman, and in her gray silk dress, and
a prettily arranged black lace scarf over her shoulders, she presented
a striking and impressive appearance.

"So this is our _first_ stall," she exclaimed; "very nice; very nice
indeed, Evelyn. I knew you had great taste, dear. I must now see what
Janet and Bridget have contrived between them."

Janet took this opportunity to step forward.

The shadow caused by the interior of the tent prevented Mrs. Freeman
from at once noticing the marked difference in her dress; she only
observed a very graceful girl, whose eyes were shining with happiness,
and cheeks flushed with natural excitement.

"Will it not be a good plan," said Janet, "to have the side canvas
removed also from the marquee. Visitors can then come in from both
sides, and there will be no sun round at this angle. Bridget's and my
stall is a good deal in shadow; we should like to have the side canvas
removed."

"Certainly," said Mrs. Freeman, "give your own directions, Janet."

Janet ran away, called to one of the gardeners, spoke to him quickly
and eagerly, ran up a step ladder herself to show him exactly what was
to be done, then, springing to the ground, she caught hold of Bridget's
hand and waited with a beating heart for the result.

What might have happened can never be known, but at the very moment
when the side canvas dropped, and the full glories of the Parisian
stall and the exquisitely dressed girls were exposed to view, a gay,
high voice was heard in the distance, and a lady was seen tripping with
little runs across the lawn, and advancing rapidly in the direction of
the marquee.

Mrs. Freeman at once went to meet this lady. Dorothy, Evelyn, Frances
Murray, and the many school teachers stood motionless, transfixed with
astonishment.

"Well, after that!" said Dolly at last, "are there fairies alive?
Janet, I think you are bewitched; what a stall!"

"I never saw anything so beautiful in my life," said Evelyn; "only I
think I ought to have been told."

"It's a nasty, mean trick!" said Frances Murray, "and I for one am not
going to be dazzled. It's enchantment, but it's not going to overcome
me." She turned away as she spoke; she realized the meaning of the
whole thing more quickly than the other two girls.

"Janet, come here," said Evelyn, running up to her, and pulling her
forward. "You are dressed in white muslin and green ribbons, but--O
Dolly! look at these girls' dresses. There is nothing whatever for us
to do but to hide our diminished heads."

"Not a bit of it!" said Dorothy in a stout voice. She turned away; her
cheeks were flushed with anger; she had never felt in a greater passion
in her life.

"It's a trick to humiliate you, Eva," she said in a whisper. "I might
have guessed that Janet would have been up to something; she never
wanted you to have anything to do with the fair. You would not have
been asked to join at all but for Mrs. Freeman's command, and now she
has invented this way to spite us both. I am not going to be cowed, of
course; but I never felt so plain and dowdy in my life. I see now why
she has taken up with that wretched little Bridget. Oh, why did we clap
Janet in the hall just now?"

"Never mind, dear," said Evelyn. "It does not really matter, of course,
whose stall is first. In my heart I never in the least cared to take a
prominent place in the bazaar. It was just Mrs. Freeman's wish."

"Just Mrs. Freeman's wish!" echoed Dorothy. "It was your right, Evelyn;
you know that perfectly well."

"Well, darling, my rights have been taken from me; not that it matters
in the very least. Please don't think that I am angry. Don't let us
seem sorry, Dolly; let us resign ourselves to the second position with
a good grace."

"Never!" said Dorothy, stamping her foot. "This is the first stall and
you are at the head of the fair, whether people buy from us or not.
What--is that you are saying, Janet? I don't want to listen to you."

"Only," said Janet, "you must not suppose this is my fault. I heard you
two muttering together, and I suppose you feel vexed that Bridget's and
my stall should be more beautiful than yours. If anyone is to blame in
the matter, it's Lady Kathleen Peterham. She said the other day she
would give us a contribution from Paris. It arrived this morning. How
could we possibly tell that it would be so large and magnificent?"

"And I suppose she sent you those dresses, too?"

"She did, quite unsolicited. Don't you admire them?'

"Go away! I don't want to speak to you!"

"You are making poor Bridget quite unhappy, Dorothy. Biddy, never mind,
dear; we will both do our utmost to keep in the shade, and, of course,
our stall is the second one, not the first. Whoever thought of its
being anything else?"

Janet turned away as she spoke. The rest of the children were now
pouring down from the house, and more and more guests were arriving
each moment. Lady Kathleen, after keeping Mrs. Freeman talking outside,
until the very last instant, now rushed in to survey the premises.

"Ah, my love!" she exclaimed, running up to her niece; "you do look
charming! I knew that cut about the shoulders, and that arrangement
of sleeve would suit you, Bridget. Come here, my treasure, and let
me look at you, and little May, too; sweet, dear little Mayflower. My
darling, let me whisper to you, you look most _recherchée--recherchée_,
yes, that is quite the word. Dear loves, your stall does us three
immense credit, does it not? Who talks of anyone else being first
now--eh, little Mayflower, eh?"

Janet laughed, flushed, and tripped about. Bridget threw her arms round
Lady Kathleen, and gave her a hug. Her presence slightly cheered her.
The bazaar now really began, and Janet's tact during the long hours of
hard work which followed never deserted her.

If Mrs. Freeman were angry she had no opportunity of showing her
feelings; neither Bridget nor Janet saw anything of Dolly and Evelyn;
they were surrounded by a stream of eager, worshiping, excited,
enthusiastic buyers. The dense mob which surrounded this one stall
seemed never for a moment to lighten. The girls worked with a will, and
money dropped into their boxes unceasingly.

Once Janet could not resist raising herself on tiptoe, and then
springing on an empty box, to see how Dolly's and Evelyn's stall was
faring.

Two or three sensible old ladies were calmly scrutinizing some
well-made children's frocks and pinafores; no one else seemed to be
buying; Dorothy and Evelyn did not look at all overworked. Turning her
head in another direction Janet saw that even the refreshment stall was
in nothing like the favor that her own stall was in. It was not only
the very beautiful things to be purchased, but the young stall-holders
were so piquant. One of them was so strikingly beautiful, and both
presented such an altogether uncommon appearance, that people pressed
forward to obtain a sight of them, and to wonder who they could be.

Finding that the work was too much even for the two indefatigable young
sellers, Lady Kathleen herself at last donned a green ribbon badge,
and tying on an apron, stepped behind the counter to help the sale.
Her good nature, her fun, her quick repartees, made her even a greater
favorite than the two girls. The excitement rose now fast and furious.
Never, in short, had there been a greater success than Bridget O'Hara's
stall.




CHAPTER XVI.

STILL IN THE WOOD.


But in the midst of all the fun Janet's heart was not easy.

Last night she had managed very cleverly to induce Miss Delicia to keep
silence. She felt as she worked hard at the Fancy Fair, as she made
bargains with customers, and laughed and joked and looked the very
personification of light-heartedness and gayety, that she must set her
wits to work again to-night. Miss Delicia had only promised to keep
silence until the fair was over; but Janet was determined that, come
what would, Bridget should leave school before Mrs. Freeman knew of her
delinquencies.

People were already beginning to depart, when Janet stole up to Lady
Kathleen, who was standing in the shade fanning herself with a huge fan.

"Oh, my darling, what a success the whole thing has been," said that
good lady. "Aren't you proud, my little Mayflower, of having won
the day? I fear the head girl of the school was simply nowhere on
this occasion. I am really sorry for her, poor girl. I saw a dowdy,
pale-faced, uncouth-looking creature standing by an equally dowdy stall
at the other end of the marquee. Is _she_ the school favorite--the
school _queen_, my love?"

"Yes," said Janet, in a low voice; "but please don't speak against
her, she is a very dear, very sweet girl. I really felt sorry for her
and her friend Dolly Collingwood to-day."

"Dolly Collingwood was, I presume, that stout, bouncing looking young
person with the red cheeks. I thought she looked very cross. It's sweet
of you, Mayflower, to stand up for them both; but if you think that
I could allow Bridget O'Hara, my niece, to be overshadowed by girls
of that sort, you are pretty well mistaken. Thank goodness, the whole
affair has gone off splendidly. You look a little tired, Mayblossom,
but very, very sweet. Your dress is most becoming. I am so delighted
to find that the new way of puffing the drapery over the shoulders
suits a little _mignonne_ thing like you. As to Bridget, she is a
radiant creature--something like the sun in his strength. You, my dear,
resemble the pale moon; but don't be vexed, _chérie_, the moon, too, is
very lovely."

"I want to speak to you," said Janet, laying her small hand on the
great lady's sleeve. "No, of course, I am not the least bit vexed. How
could I be vexed with anything you do? You are quite the kindest friend
I have ever come across; but I want to talk to you about Bridget."

"Mercy, child, how solemn you look! What about my lovely girl?"

"It is just this: I don't think she is well. She has a great color in
her cheeks, it is true, and her eyes shine; but she has eaten nothing
all day, and just now when I touched her hand it burned. I am sure she
is feverish, and over-excited. I wish, Lady Kathleen--I do wish, most
earnestly--that you would take her from the school to-night."

"To-night!" said Lady Kathleen; "you quite alarm me, Janet May. If
Biddy is going to be ill there'll be a frightful to do. Why, she's
the only descendant we have any of us got; positively the last of the
family; the apple of her old father's eye, the core of my heart. Oh, my
colleen, let me get to her at once!"

"Please, please," said Janet, "will you let me speak to you?"

"Yes, you dear little anxious creature, I will. Why, there are
positively tears in your eyes! I never saw anyone so tender-hearted.
Oh, bother that Fancy Fair, I am sick to death of it! Let us walk here
in the shade. Now, my dear love, what is it?"

"I happen to know," said Janet, "that Bridget is perplexed and unhappy;
she has taken some morbid views with regard to certain matters, and her
illness of body is really caused by the unrestful state of her mind. It
would be very bad for her if anyone noticed that she were not well, but
if anyone with tact--like yourself, for instance, Lady Kathleen--were
to take her right away from the school to-night, she would probably get
quite well at once. I cannot reveal to you what is worrying her, and I
must beg of you not to allude to the subject to her. In many ways she
is a most uncommon girl, and she is new to the sort of things that go
on here. She is quite morbid, poor dear, because she has not got up
higher in her classes, and has not won a prize; but it would _never_ do
to mention this to her. Only, Lady Kathleen, please, please, take her
away to-night."

"I will," said Lady Kathleen; "I most undoubtedly will. Mum's the
word with regard to the reason, of course; but out of this Biddy goes
to-day, whatever happens. I don't stir until she goes with me. But
there's just one thing more, my sweet little Janet. When are you going
away? where are you going to spend your holidays?"

Janet's eyes drooped.

"I--I don't quite know," she said.

"But I do, my darling. I would not part Biddy from such a
tender-hearted, affectionate little friend as you are for the world. If
Biddy and I leave Mulberry Court to-night, you leave it to-morrow; and
I know where you are going to spend your holidays; at Castle Mahun, in
dear old Ireland, with Biddy and her father and me. You'll like that,
won't you, sweet Mayflower?"

"But I--I am a poor girl," said Janet, coloring.

Lady Kathleen placed her hand across Janet's lips.

"Not another word," she said; "you are my guest, and I pay for
everything. Now, run along, dear, and help Biddy with her packing, you
had better not mind the bazaar any more. I'll go and tell her that I am
going to take her away with me this evening."

Janet ran off with a beating heart.

She saw daylight in the distance, but she also knew that she was by
no means yet out of the wood. Miss Delicia was the most good-natured
of women, but she was also not without a strong sense of justice; and
even if Miss Delicia could have been induced to keep silence, there
was Miss Dent, the English teacher, to be considered. Miss Dent looked
fierce and uncomfortable all day. An angry glitter had shone in her
eyes whenever she turned them in Bridget's direction; this Janet had
not failed to observe. Yes, it was all very well to get Bridget away
that evening, and to go with her herself; but she might as well spare
all her pains if before they left Mulberry Court Miss Delicia had an
opportunity of telling her story to Mrs. Freeman.

As Janet was running to the house she met the post boy; he handed
her the bag, which happened to be unlocked. In the confusion of the
morning the key had got mislaid. Janet took it from him, and, opening
it, looked eagerly at its contents. There were only two letters; one
for herself, the other, in deep mourning, addressed to Mrs. Freeman.
The moment Janet saw this letter she knew what it contained; she also
knew that here was an open way out of her difficulty. Mrs. Freeman
had a first cousin in Liverpool, who was very, very ill. She was
intensely attached to this cousin, whose husband wrote to her almost
daily with regard to her health. Janet had often seen the letters, and
knew the handwriting. Now, when she saw the black-edged letter with
the Liverpool postmark on it, she guessed at once that Mrs. Freeman's
favorite cousin was dead.

"I know what I'll do," said Janet to herself; "I'll take this letter to
Miss Delicia; I'll tell her how I came by it, and beg of her not to let
Mrs. Freeman see it until the worries of the day are over. Miss Delicia
will be so pleased with me for this thoughtfulness that, perhaps, she
will agree that it is best not to worry Mrs. Freeman about Bridget's
naughtiness; at any rate, to-night. This is a bit of luck for me! I'll
go and find Miss Delicia at once."

It was not easy to discover that most good-natured, bustling, and
obliging little woman. Her movements were so quick, her anxiety to make
everyone happy so intense, that she had almost the faculty of being in
several places at the same time.

After several minutes' active search, Janet found her in one of the
attics, cording a schoolgirl's trunk herself.

"Oh, my dear, what is it?" she said, when the girl entered. "How pretty
you look in that stylish frock, Janet! I know Henrietta will scold you
for wearing it, but I must own that it is becoming. I am to see my
sister on that other unpleasant matter about seven o'clock. Now, what
is wrong, my dear?"

"I--I have brought you this," said Janet, her face turning pale, and
her voice trembling. "I--I am very sorry, but I thought perhaps you
would rather Mrs. Freeman did not have this letter just at present; it
came in the post bag, which was unlocked. The post boy gave me the bag,
and I looked in. There were only two letters, one for me, and this;
I--forgive me, Miss Delicia; it has the Liverpool postmark."

"Good gracious!" said Miss Delicia, "a black-edged letter, and from
Liverpool; then it is all over; poor Susan is gone. The will of the
Lord be done, of course, but this will be a sore blow to Henrietta."

"I--I thought you'd keep it, and give it to her by and by," said Janet.

"Thank you, my dear; very thoughtful of you; very thoughtful, but I
think she must receive it at once, for she will probably wish to go to
Liverpool to-night. Poor Susan's husband will--will want her. Oh, this
is very, very sad; my dear, loving sister, what a blow I shall have to
deal to you!"

"You," said Janet; she came up and laid her hand on Miss Delicia's arm;
her face turned ashy white, so much depended on this moment; "you--you
won't tell about--about Bridget, at the same time," she gasped.

Miss Delicia stared back at Janet in amazement.

"Of course not!" she said. "Who could be so heartless as to worry
Henrietta about school matters at a moment like this?"

"You won't tell Miss Patience, either?"

"I shall, probably, say nothing until Henrietta returns to the Court.
How queer you look, Janet; are you ill?"

"No, no, I am very well indeed," said Janet. She bent forward and
kissed Miss Delicia on her forehead, and then ran out of the room.




CHAPTER XVII.

PERSIAN CATS.


Lady Kathleen Peterham had not much difficulty in inducing Bridget to
return with her to Eastcliff. The young girl was in a state of intense
nervous excitement. She was making up her mind to face disgrace.
All through the triumph and supposed pleasure of the Fancy Fair she
kept seeing the indignant face of Mrs. Freeman when she heard of the
wicked trick which she and Janet had played upon her. She saw her Aunt
Kathleen with her shocked, incredulous, unbelieving expression; and
last, but not least, she saw her gray-headed old father when the news
reached him that the last of the O'Haras--the very last of all the
race--had stooped to dishonor.

These thoughts took away Biddy's enjoyment. She became so wretched at
last that she almost wished for the crucial hour to be over.

Janet came up to her as the last of the guests were departing.

"It's all right," she whispered. "I have not time to explain matters
now, but you have nothing whatever to fear. Leave things in my hands,
and don't be nervous, for I assure you everything will be as right as
possible."

Bridget had no time to ask Janet to explain her strange words, for the
next moment she had turned away to say something with eagerness to
Lady Kathleen.

Lady Kathleen nodded, and looked intensely wise and affectionate.

An hour later Bridget found herself driving away from Mulberry Court,
her last frantic endeavors to see Mrs. Freeman by herself having proved
utterly fruitless.

"I can't make out what's the matter with you, Biddy!" said her aunt.
"Why are you flushing one moment and growing pale the next? I hope to
goodness you haven't caught anything. You look quite feverish."

"Oh, I'm all right, Aunt Kathie!" said Bridget. "Please don't worry
about my looks; they don't signify in the least."

"Your looks don't signify, Bridget? That's a strange thing to say
to me, who was born a Desborough. You are a Desborough yourself,
Bridget, on your poor mother's side, and have we not been celebrated
for our beauty through a long line of distinguished ancestors? Never
let me hear that kind of nonsense fall again from your lips, Biddy.
Heaven-born beauty is a gift which ought not to be lightly regarded."

"I have a headache, then," said Bridget. "I suppose I needn't talk if I
don't want to?"

"Of course you needn't, pet; and when we go back to the hotel you shall
go straight to bed. Oh, how pleased your father will be when we get
back to the Castle!"

In reply to this speech Bridget burst into a sudden flood of tears.

"I can't bear it!" she sobbed. "Oh, Aunt Kathie, I have been so
naughty! I wanted to see Mrs. Freeman to tell her everything; but she
had just had some bad news, and no one would let me go near her. Oh,
I am so miserable! I do hate school most dreadfully. Aunt Kathie, you
wouldn't love me if you knew what a bad girl I have been."

"Now, my pet, that is nonsense. I'd just love you through everything.
I suppose you have got into a little school scrape? Bless you, Biddy,
all the girls do that. Now dry your eyes, and let us think no more
about trifles of that sort. Here we are at the hotel, and your holidays
have begun. I promise you, you'll never have gayer ones. I have a nice
little surprise in store for you, but you are not going to get it out
of me to-night."

Bridget did not betray any inordinate curiosity with regard to her
aunt's surprise. She cheered up a little, and after a slight supper
retired to bed.

In the meantime, Janet May was in her own room at the Court, busily
concluding her packing.

The girl who shared her room with her had left that evening. Janet,
therefore, had the apartment to herself.

Two letters had come by that evening's post; one which brought to her
at least some days of respite, for she was now quite sure that nothing
further would be done with regard to Miss Dent's discovery for a week
or ten days. It was even possible that the thing might remain in
abeyance until the school reassembled.

In any case Janet had now time to breathe.

Two letters had, however, come by the post, and while one gave her
relief, the other added to her perplexities.

The other letter was from her sister Sophy.


    DEAR JANET [this sister had written] I am waiting anxiously for
    the moment when the post will bring me your letter with a couple
    of pounds in it. I simply cannot do without it, as Miss Simpkins
    has turned me out of doors. I am writing from a little stationer's
    shop quite close, and I have bribed Annie, the housemaid, to bring
    me your letter the instant it comes. I have exactly one shilling
    in my pocket, so you may suppose that I am brought to a low ebb.
    Miss Simpkins is the very crossest old cat that ever breathed,
    and I could not help giving her cheek this morning, so she turned
    me out, and refused to pay me my week's salary. It isn't worth
    fighting with her, and, of course, I am willing to admit that there
    were faults on both sides. The stationer's wife will give me a bed
    to-night, but what _am_ I to do afterward? Of course, the money
    will come from you, you dear, and then I shall immediately start
    for Margate, and look for you to meet me there. Mrs. Dove, the
    stationer's wife, knows of a nice little room, which we could share
    together, for ten shillings a week--that is dirt cheap, as you must
    know. The address is Mrs. Dove's, 9 Water Street, South Parade.
    It's a top room--I suppose that means an attic; but, never mind; as
    Mrs. Dove says, "the higher up you are, the better the air."

    Your devoted sister,

    SOPHY.

    P. S.--Oh, you cruel, cruel Janet! You heartless monster! The post
    has come and your letter, and _no inclosure_. Mrs. Dove will let me
    sleep here to-night--she is a kind soul; but, remember, I have only
    got one shilling in the world, and I vow I will never ask Aunt Jane
    to help me.


Very early the next morning Janet rose, and going downstairs met one of
the servants in the hall.

"I'm going to walk to Eastcliff," she said. "I have got all my boxes
packed and directed. They are to be sent by the carrier to-day to the
railway station, where they are to be left for me until I send further
orders. They will be put into the booking office of course."

"Very well, miss," said the servant, "but you'll want some breakfast of
course."

"No, no, I am in a great hurry; I can't possibly wait."

"Have you seen Miss Delicia, Miss May?"

"It's all right," repeated Janet, not heeding this remark. She walked
through the hall as she spoke, opened the door herself, and let herself
out.

She was neatly dressed in pale gray alpaca; her little sailor hat, with
a plain band of white ribbon round it, looked neat and girlish; she
carried a thin dust cloak on her arm.

No one could look nicer or sweeter than Janet. She had a sort of good
heroine air about her, and this fact struck Lady Kathleen Peterham
most forcibly when about eight o'clock that morning the young lady was
admitted into her bedroom.

Lady Kathleen was not an early riser.

She was, indeed, sound asleep when her maid brought her a little note
on a silver salver. The note contained a few piteous lines from Janet.


    I am in great trouble and perplexity [she wrote]; will you see me
    for one minute?


"The little dear, of course I'll see her," said Lady Kathleen. She had
herself arrayed in a rose-colored silk dressing gown, and was sitting
up in the shaded light when Janet tripped into the room.

"Oh, how kind of you to let me come," said the girl.

"My love," said Lady Kathleen, "I was expecting you between ten and
eleven. I have not broken the news of our charming arrangement yet to
Biddy; I know well how delighted she'll be when I do tell her. Why
have you come so early, little Mayflower, and what is all this trouble
about? You look very nice, my love, notwithstanding your perplexities."

"I am very anxious," said Janet; and then she proceeded to tell a
long and pathetic story about Sophy; Sophy was so pretty, but also so
willful; she was older than Janet, but she also leaned upon her. She
had just been turned out of her situation owing to the cruelty of her
employer, and--and--of course Janet could not go to Ireland and leave
her dear older sister in such a plight; she had saved a few shillings,
and she was going to take the very next train to Bristol to see her.

The words that Janet hoped Lady Kathleen would utter fell at once from
the good lady's lips. "My darling," she said, "you and this naughty,
pretty little sister of yours shall both come to Castle Mahun. My
brother-in-law, dear fellow, will give you the best of Irish welcomes;
of course he will, you sweet little brave soul; why it's a heroine you
are, and no mistake."

Janet replied in a very humble and pretty manner to these gratifying
words of praise, and soon a plan which she had already sketched out in
her own mind was proposed to her by Lady Kathleen.

"You and your sister can cross over from Bristol to Cork," she said.
"From there it is only a short distance to Castle Mahun. Biddy and I
will start for home to-day, and we'll expect you in a day or two after.
Oh, my dear, you want a little money; I know you're poor, darling, and
I am rich, so where are the odds? It's no worry to me, but a pleasure
to help you. Give me your address in Bristol, and I'll send you a
postal order before Biddy and I leave Eastcliff to-day."

Janet's eyes fell, and her heart sank a trifle.

It would have been so much nicer to have got the money now; she did not
want to spend Biddy's two pounds if she could help it. Her intention,
indeed, had been to get a postal order to send off to Pat Donovan
before she left Eastcliff, but Lady Kathleen, who had risen to all
Janet's other suggestions, failed her in this.

There was no help for it, therefore, she must spend part of the two
pounds in taking her railway ticket to Bristol, and could only trust
that Biddy would never hear of the non-reception of her gift.

Janet bade Lady Kathleen an affectionate good-by and tripped off on her
errand of sisterly mercy.

She sent a telegram to Sophy, and found her standing on the platform at
Bristol waiting to receive her.

Sophy was smaller than Janet, a plump, softly rounded little person,
with wide-open eyes of heavenly blue, rosebud lips, and masses of
shining golden hair. At the first glance people as a rule fell in love
with Sophy; how long they continued in this state of devotion was quite
another matter, but the impression she made with those large-eyed
innocent glances was always favorable, and served her in good stead as
she fought her way through the world.

She was not nearly as clever as Janet, but that very fact added to
her charms, for she had a way of confiding her troubles, of looking
pathetic and asking such touchingly simple questions with regard to
her future that, unless the person she addressed was very suspicious
indeed, the little good-humored pretty creature was taken at once to
the heart of her sympathizer.

"Oh, here you are, Janey," she exclaimed, rushing up to her sister now
and clasping a plump little hand affectionately through her arm.

She was really fond of Janet, and Janet really cared for her, but as
the two were perfectly open with each other it was unnecessary in
Janet's opinion to waste time in sentiment.

"Yes, I have come," she said, "and very troublesome it is to me to have
to come. Why couldn't you keep your situation, Sophy?"

"Oh, my darling," exclaimed Sophy, "if you had been me! you don't
know--you can't possibly know what Miss Simpkins is like. She is
full of the most awful fads, and she fusses so about the cats. There
were four cats when I first went to her, and now there are six, all
Persians, and every one of them affected with the most terrible
bronchitis. They have to be doctored and medicined and their hair
combed out, and watched like any number of babies. I do think, Janey,
I really do think that I might have a higher vocation in life than
looking after Persian cats."

"That's stuff," said Janet. "Don't you prefer looking after Persian
cats to living with Aunt Jane?"

"I am not quite sure, Janet."

"But I am!" said Janet, favoring her sister with a quick, angry glance.
"I wouldn't eat the bread of dependence for anybody; but now let's come
back to Mrs. Dove's and have a talk."

"Is there any money, Janey?" whispered Sophy, in an appealing tone.
"I told you that I had only a shilling, and it is absolutely true. I
ought to pay something for my bed, and she gave me some tea and a nice
new laid egg, lightly boiled, for breakfast. If I pay her the whole
shilling it will be cheap; very cheap, for what she has done for me. I
do trust and hope you have brought a little money with you, Janet!"

"I have brought a little. It was very hardly come by, I can tell you,
and will have to go a tremendous long way. I may get into an awful
scrape about that money, and I really don't see why I should run such
risks for your sake."

"O Janey, Janey, and you know I'd do anything in the world for you."

Sophy's lovely eyes slowly filled with tears. Janet gave her a quick
half-contemptuous, half-affectionate glance.

"There," she said, "you needn't fret; I daresay everything will be all
right, and I have something very jolly to tell you in a minute or two.
Only let us get to your lodgings first, for we can't talk comfortably
in this noisy street."

The girls presently reached the poky little house where Sophy had spent
her night. They went up at once to a tiny room with a sloping roof, and
there Janet proceeded to administer a very sound lecture to her sister.

"I have something unpleasant to talk about before I say anything nice,"
she began. "You must first hear me out, whether you like it or not, for
if you cry until your eyes are sunk into your head it won't make the
least bit of difference to me. Speak I will, for it is for your good
and mine."

No one could cry more copiously than Sophy on occasions, but she also
had a certain power of self-control. If her tears could effect no
object there was not the least use in her spoiling her pretty eyes, so
she sat very still now on the edge of the small hard bed, and gazed at
Janet, who sat opposite to her on a cane-bottomed chair.

"The first thing to be done is this," said Janet; "I must see Miss
Simpkins, and ask her if she will take you back after the holidays are
over."

"I won't go!" said Sophy, clenching her fist.

"That is nonsense, Sophy; you will either have to go to Miss Simpkins
or to Aunt Jane. Aunt Jane will half starve you, and give you no money
at all; Miss Simpkins will feed you well--I know she does that, or
you'd be sure to tell me the contrary--then Miss Simpkins gives you
fifteen pounds a year. That being the case, there is no choice at all
between the two posts. Miss Simpkins's, notwithstanding the Persian
cats, is much the best place for you to live at."

"Oh, you don't know," said Sophy; "it's the most horrid life. Besides,
she wouldn't have me again; I know she wouldn't. We were both
frightfully impertinent to each other. We were like two cats ourselves.
Miss Simpkins was the old tabby, and I was the angry, snarling kitten.
I have claws, you know, Janet, although I do look so velvety."

"I know perfectly well that you have claws, my dear, but you must keep
them sheathed. As to going back to Miss Simpkins, I shall see her
myself, and I am sure I can manage that part. You have got to come with
me there after we have finished our present conversation, and you have
got to beg her pardon in the most humble and proper fashion."

"I really don't know how I am to do it, Janey."

"But I do, love; you must just lean on me, and do exactly what I
advise; it won't be for the first time."

"I know that," said poor Sophy, "and you are three years younger than
me, and all. I didn't think you'd be such an awful tyrant; it seems
rather hard to bear from one's younger sister."

"But I am older in mind, darling."

"Yes, yes, and much cleverer; but after all a worm _will_ turn. Suppose
I refuse to go back to Miss Simpkins?"

"Then, my love, I will try and screw together sufficient money to send
you back third class to Aunt Jane's."

"Oh, I can't; I won't do that; it would be too horrible!"

"Listen to me, Sophy. I always said I would help you. You are very
pretty, but you are not clever. You have not been educated up to the
required standard; you have no chance whatever of getting a situation
as governess. In these days it is the most difficult thing in the world
for lady-girls who are not educated, and have not got special talents,
to find anything at all to do. You are in great luck in getting this
situation as companion, and I am absolutely determined that you shall
not lose it. In two years' time I shall have left school. My object
then is to get a good situation as English and musical teacher in one
of the high schools. When I have got such a post, I may want you to
live with me, Sophy, as housekeeper; there is no saying. You would like
that, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, shouldn't I! What larks we'd have."

"Yes, we'd have a jolly time together; but there's not the least use in
thinking about it if you don't do what I tell you now. Put your hat on
straight, Sophy, and don't let your hair look quite so wild and fluffy,
and we will go across to Miss Simpkins's without delay. I have a very
jolly plan to propose to you after you have made your peace with the
old lady and the Persian cats, but not even a hint with regard to it
shall drop from my lips until you have been a good girl."

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Sophy, "I don't know how I am ever to face
the old tabby cat again."

"That's a very improper way to speak of your employer, and I'm not
going to laugh. Come; are you ready?"

"I wish you weren't such a Solon, Janet."

"It is well I have got some brains; I don't know where you and I would
be if I hadn't. Now, come along."

"But I am not to go back and live with her to-day?"

"No, no, I'll manage that; you shall have your bit of fun first, poor
Sophy. Now come at once, we have not a moment of time to lose."

Sophy straightened her hat very unwillingly, brushed back her
disordered locks with considerable rebellion in each movement, but
finally followed Janet down into the street and across the narrow road
into the fashionable locality where Miss Simpkins and the Persian cats
resided.

Miss Simpkins lived in a small house, which was kept scrupulously clean
and bright. There were flower boxes in all the windows, and the shining
brass knocker and handles of the door reflected the faces of the two
girls like mirrors.

A neat but severe-looking servant answered Janet's rather determined
ring. She scowled at Sophy, but replied civilly to Janet's inquiry if
Miss Simpkins was at home.

"Yes, miss," she replied; "my missus is in her morning room, very
particularly occupied."

"I should like to see her for a few minutes," said Janet.

"I am afraid, miss, that if you have come on behalf of that young lady,
the late companion, that you may spare yourself the trouble, for the
missus won't have nothing to say to her nor her belongings."

"I have come on that business," said Janet. "I am much shocked at what
has occurred, and have come to offer apologies. My sister, Miss May,
has behaved with great indiscretion."

Poor Sophy gasped.

Janet did not pay the smallest heed to Sophy's indignant expression.
Her smooth young face looked full of shocked virtue. It impressed the
servant, who nodded back a sympathetic reply, and telling the girls to
wait a minute, walked sedately across the hall and into the morning
room.

She returned in a few moments with the information that Miss Simpkins
would see the younger of the young ladies.

"I can put you, Miss May," she said, turning to Sophy, "into the hall
room while the other young lady talks to my missus."

"Yes, Sophy, go there and wait," said Janet; and Sophy went.

Janet tripped lightly across the tiled hall.

The servant opened the door of the morning room and then turned to
inquire the young lady's name.

"Miss Janet May," was the response.

"Miss Janet May!" shouted the servant, and Janet found the door closed
behind her.

A severe looking woman, primly dressed, was seated by a round mahogany
table. In the center of the table sat a snow-white and very beautiful
Persian cat; a dark tabby of the same species was lapping a saucer of
milk also on the table; some Persian kittens gamboled about the room.
Miss Simpkins was bending over the tabby. She raised her eyes now and
murmured, half to herself, half to Janet, "She has taken exactly a
tenth of a pint of milk! That is a great improvement on yesterday."

"I am sure of it," said Janet, entering into the spirit of the thing
without a moment's delay; "and what an exquisite cat! and oh! what a
beauty that white one is! I do admire Persian cats!"

"Do you, my dear?" said the old lady. "This cat--Cherry Ripe I call
her--has won several prizes at the Crystal Palace. This tabby--his name
is Pompey--will also, I expect, be a prize-winner. These two kittens
that you see on the floor, Marcus Aurelius and Mark Antony, have been
sent to me direct from Persia. They are most valuable animals. The
Persian cat is a curious and remarkable creature. Don't you think so?
so sadly delicate! so fragilely beautiful! so sensitive and refined in
every movement! Breed is shown in each of its actions. These cats are
lovely--almost too lovely--and yet, my dear, whatever care you take of
them, they all suffer more or less from bronchitis! they all swallow
their long hairs when they wash themselves! and they all die young.
Beautiful darlings! it is too touching to think of your inevitable
fate!"

Miss Simpkins, as she spoke, stroked the snow-white Persian with her
long, slender fingers.

Janet murmured some words of rapture, and the old lady asked her to
seat herself.

The subject of Sophy was introduced in a few moments, and here Janet
showed that talent for diplomacy which always marked her actions. Miss
Simpkins found, as she listened to the admirable words which dropped
from the lips of this young girl, her anger fading. After all, Sophy
had some good points. The white Persian cat liked to nestle on her
shoulder, and rub its soft head against her soft cheek. Miss Simpkins
fancied that the cat looked melancholy since Sophy's departure. In
short, knowing well in her heart that she would find it extremely
difficult to get anyone else to take the much-enduring Sophy's place,
she consented to have her back again on trial.

"But not at once," said Miss Simpkins, "for I have just let this house,
furnished, to a friend. I don't really know what your sister will do,
Miss May, but Barker and I and the cats are quite as many as can travel
comfortably together. I shall be back here by the end of September, and
will receive your sister, if she faithfully promises to behave herself."

These terms being quite to Janet's satisfaction, she closed with Miss
Simpkins's offer, and left the house in Sophy's company in high good
humor.

"Now you have behaved well, and you shall hear of the treat I have in
store for you," she said to her sister. "But, first of all, let us
go to one of the shipping offices to find out at what hour the next
steamer sails for Cork."




CHAPTER XVIII.

AN IRISH WELCOME.


Castle Mahun was the sort of old place which can be met in many parts
of Ireland. It consisted of almost innumerable acres of land, some
cultivated, some wild and barren, and of a large, rambling, and, in
parts, tumble-down house. Castle Mahun stood on rising ground which
faced due west. The ground was beautifully shaped, with many gentle
undulations and many steep and bold descents. It was thickly wooded,
and some of these forests of almost primeval trees sloped down to the
edge of a deep, wide lake of nearly two miles in length and half a mile
in width. This lake was the pride of Castle Mahun. In sunshiny weather
it looked blue as the sea itself; in winter its waters became dark
and turbid, the high waves tossed them and made themselves at times
as angry as if they were really influenced by the many currents and
the tides of ocean. The lake had two names. The owners of the property
called it Lake Crena, but the poor people--and they abounded all over
the lands of Castle Mahun--spoke of it as the Witch's Cauldron, and
said that although it was fair enough, and pleasant enough to live by
in summer, in winter it was haunted by a black witch, and woe betide
anyone who attempted to boat on its surface or fish in its waters at
that time of year.

The Castle, or rather old house--for it bore little pretensions to
its name--hung partly over the lake. There were sloping lawns, badly
tended, but very picturesque in appearance, running down to the waters,
and a steep path, about three feet in width, with a sheer precipice at
one side, and a thick, heavy belt of forest trees at the other, running
right round the lake from one side of the old house.

This was called the terrace walk, and it was here Dennis O'Hara took
his evening promenade, accompanied by the dogs.

He was a handsome, picturesque looking man, with silvery white hair,
very piercing dark eyes, and aquiline features. He had a stentorian
voice, which he used to good effect on all those who came within
his reach; but he had also a kindly twinkle in those dark eyes, and
a kindly expression round his handsome, well-cut lips, which kept
the poor folks at Castle Mahun from fearing the master's indignant
bursts of strong language, and which made him one of the most popular
landlords all over the country.

To-night there was great excitement at Castle Mahun, for the banished
princess, as the people chose to consider Bridget O'Hara, was coming
home from foreign parts. Bonfires were lit all along the hills in her
welcome. O'Hara had not gone himself to the nearest railway station,
twenty miles off, to meet his daughter, but he knew by the thin smoke
on a distant peak that the jaunting car, drawn by faithful Paddy, his
favorite chestnut horse, and driven by Larry O'Connor, was bearing his
darling back to him as quickly as the ill-kept roads would permit.

"She's coming, masther," shouted a ragged little urchin, dashing up to
the squire, and then rushing frantically away again; "the first fire's
built, and me and Molly can see the smoke. Oh, come along, Molly!
and let's run down the road to ketch a sight of her. Oh, glory! the
darlint! and won't we be glad to have her back again."

The child disappeared. There were some more wild shouts in the
distance; a troop of children, all ragged and bronzed and barefooted,
were seen rushing down the avenue, and then disappearing along the
dusty road. They carried branches of trees and old kettledrums, and
made a frantic noise as they ran in the direction which the jaunting
car would take.

"Ah! here they are!" exclaimed Lady Kathleen from her seat on the car.
"Here are your villagers, Bridget, rushing to welcome you. And do you
see those fires lit in your honor? Watch the hills, child. There's a
fire on every hilltop. Now you'll be yourself again."

Bridget's eyes were shining like stars. She turned and gripped Lady
Kathleen's hand with a fierce embrace.

"I feel nearly mad with delight!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I say, Larry, do
drive faster. Gee-up, Paddy! Gee-up, old dear! Don't you think I might
take the reins, Larry? You can get down from your seat on the box, and
sit here to balance Aunt Kathleen, and let me jump up and take the
reins."

"To be sure, miss," said Larry. He sprang lightly from his seat, and
Biddy, notwithstanding Lady Kathleen's bursts of laughter and futile
objections, took the seat of honor, and with a light, smart touch of
the whip sent Paddy spinning at a fine rate over the roads.

"Hurrah!" she shouted when she came in sight of the motley crowd.
"Here I am back again, and driving Paddy as if I'd never set foot off
Irish soil. Welcome to you all! Good-evening, Dan; how's your lame
foot? Good-evening Molly, acushla macree. Good-evening, good-evening,
Jane and Susan and Norah. Now, then, let me drive quickly. I must get
to my daddy before I touch the hands of one of you."

Bridget stood up on the driving seat, tightened the reins with energy,
gave Paddy another well-aimed delicate stroke just where it would
quicken his movements without irritating either his skin or his temper,
and the laughing, shouting, joking cavalcade--for the children and
the men and women were rushing after the car, and some of them even
clinging on to it--turned in at the gates, and up the steep avenue
which led to the Castle.

"Now, then; three cheers for the old home! Let every one of us shout
with a will!" exclaimed Bridget. "Oh, it is nice to be back again."

"You'll frighten the horse, Biddy!" exclaimed Lady Kathleen. "I do
think you have taken leave of your senses, child. Oh, don't set them
off shouting; Paddy really won't stand it; and at this steep part, too!"

"Paddy is Irish," said Bridget, with some contempt. "He knows what an
Irish shout is worth. Now, then! Three cheers--Hip, hip, hurrah! Hip,
hip, hurrah!"

Bridget held the reins with one hand, the other was waved high in the
air. She looked like a radiant, victorious young figure standing so,
with the crowd of welcoming, delighted faces surrounding her. Her
traveling hat had long ago disappeared, and her chestnut curls were
tumbling about her face and shoulders.

"Hip, hip, hurrah!" she shouted again. "Three cheers for the Castle!
Three cheers for the master! Three cheers for the dogs! Three cheers
for old Ireland! and three cheers for the boys and girls who live at
Castle Mahun!"

Frantic yells responded to Bridget's eager words. These were
intermingled by the yelping and barking of about a dozen dogs, who
rushed on the scene, and jumped all over Bridget in their ecstasy,
nearly dragging her from her eminence on the car.

"Take the reins, Larry!" she exclaimed, tossing them to her satellite.
"Now then, do get out of the way, Bruin! Clear out, Mustard, my pet, or
I'll tread on you. Now then for a spring!"

She vaulted lightly to the ground, and the next instant was in the arms
of her white-headed old father.

"Eh, my colleen, my colleen," he murmured. He pressed her to his heart;
a dimness came over his eyes for a minute; his big, wrinkled hand
touched her sunny forehead tenderly. "You have come back," he said. "I
have had a fine share of the heart-hunger without you, my girleen."

Bridget laid her head on his shoulder.

"Oh, daddy," she exclaimed, in a sort of choked voice, "it is too good
to feel your arms about me again; I am too happy."

"Don't you want to see Minerva's pups, miss?" asked the small and
rather officious little ragged girl called Molly.

"Yes, to be sure. And she has had four, the darling; the dear, noble
pet. Do take me to the litter at once, won't you, father?"

The mention of Minerva and her progeny was so intensely exciting that
even sentiment was put aside, and the Squire, Biddy, Lady Kathleen, and
all the retainers went in a motley procession to the stables, where
the little red-tipped pups were huddled together, and the proud Minerva
was waiting to show off their many beauties.

Biddy made several appropriate observations; not a point about the four
little dogs was lost upon her. She and her father grew almost solemn in
the earnestness with which they discussed the virtues and charms of the
baby pups.

Minerva was petted and praised; hunger and fatigue were alike forgotten
in the exciting and delicious task of examining the valuable puppies.
Bridget knelt on the ground, regardless of her pretty and expensive
traveling dress. A pup's short, expressive nose rubbed her cool cheek,
Minerva's head lay on her knee; the animal's beautiful, expressive eyes
were raised to hers, full of maternal pride and melting love. Another
little pup lay on the Squire's big palm, a third nestled on Biddy's
shoulder; a fourth tried to yelp feebly as it was huddled up in Molly's
ragged apron.

Lady Kathleen stood over the group of adorers laughing and ejaculating.
Somebody screamed in the distance that supper was ready, and that a
feast was waiting in the kitchen for all the retainers in honor of Miss
Bridget's return.

There was a scamper at this; even Molly put the cherished pup back into
its basket, and Bridget, her father, and aunt entered the house arm in
arm.




CHAPTER XIX.

"BRUIN, MY DOG."


Two days afterward Lady Kathleen called Bridget aside, and, linking her
hand through her arm, said in an affectionate tone:

"If you can spare me five minutes, Biddy, I have a pleasant little bit
of news to give you."

Bridget O'Hara had resumed all the finery which had been more or less
tabooed at school. The time was seven o'clock, on a summer's evening.
She had on a richly embroidered tea gown of pale green silk, a silver
girdle clasped her slim waist, the long train of her dress floated out
behind her; it was partly open in front, and revealed a petticoat of
cream satin, heavily embroidered with silver.

Strictly speaking, the dress was a great deal too old for so young a
girl; but it suited Biddy, whose rich and brilliant coloring, and whose
finely formed and almost statuesque young figure could carry off any
amount of fine clothing. She and Lady Kathleen were standing on the
terrace walk, which looked down on the lake. Its waters were tranquil
as glass to-night; a few fleecy clouds in the sky were reflected on its
bosom. A little boat with a white sail, which flapped aimlessly for
want of wind to fill it, was to be seen in the distance. The Squire was
directing the boat's wayward course, but it was making its way after a
somewhat shambling fashion to the nearest landing-place. Bridget waved
a handkerchief in the air.

"Turn the boat a bit, daddy, and the sail will fill," she shouted.
"Now, then, Aunt Kathleen, what is it you want to say to me?"

"If you will only attend, Biddy," said Lady Kathleen. "Your thoughts
are with your father, child; he's as safe as safe can be. Hasn't he
sailed on the waters of Lake Crena since he was a little dot no higher
than my knee?"

"But it is called the Witch's Cauldron, too," said Bridget, her eyes
darkening. "They say that misfortune attends on those who are too fond
of sailing on its waters."

Lady Kathleen laughed.

"You superstitious colleen," she said; "as if any sensible person
minded what 'they say.'"

"All right, Aunt Kathleen, what's your news? what are you exciting
yourself about?"

"I'm thinking of you, my pet, and how dull it must be for you after all
the young companions you had at school."

"Dull for me at the Castle?" exclaimed Bridget, opening her big eyes
wide. "Dull in the same house with daddy, and the servants, and the
dogs? I don't understand you!"

"Well, my darling, that's just your affectionate way. You are very fond
of your father and the dogs, of course. The dogs are the dogs, but you
needn't try to blind me, my dearie dear. To the end of all time the
young will seek the young, and boys and girls will herd together."

"Well, there are my cousins, Patrick and Gerald, coming next week."

"Just so. Fine bits of lads, both of them; but, when all is said and
done, only lads. Now, girls want to be together as well as boys; they
have their bits of secrets to confide to one another, and their bits of
fun to talk over, and their sly little jokes to crack the one with the
other; they have to dream dreams together, and plan what their future
will be like. What a gay time they'll have in the gay world, and what
conquests they'll make, and whose eyes will shine the brightest, and
whose dress will be the prettiest, and which girl will marry the prince
by and by, and which will find her true vocation in a cottage. Oh,
don't you talk to me, Bridget; I know the ways of the creatures, and
the longings of them, and the fads of them. Haven't I gone through it
all myself?"

"You do seem excited, Aunt Kathleen, but you must admit too that there
are girls and girls, and that this girl----"

"Now, I admit nothing, my jewel. Look here, my cushla macree, you're
the soul of unselfishness, but you shall have your reward. You shall
have girls to talk to and to play with, and by the same token they are
coming this very moment on the jaunting car to meet you."

"Who are coming on the jaunting car?" asked Bridget, in a voice of
alarm.

"Well now, I knew you'd be excited; I knew you better than you knew
yourself. Your face tells me how delighted you are. That dear little
Janet May, that sweet little friend of yours, the girl you are as thick
as peas with, is going to spend the holidays at Castle Mahun. I sent
Larry off with the jaunting car after the early dinner to the station
to meet her. She'll be here in a minute or two with a sister of hers
whom she's nearly as fond of as she is of yourself. Now, isn't that a
surprise for you, my pet?"

"It is," said Bridget, in a low voice.

It was against all the preconceived ideas of the O'Haras to show
even by the faintest shadow of discontent that they were wanting in
hospitality. Bridget felt that the high spirits which had been hers
during the last two days, which had lifted the weight of care, and the
dreadful sensation of having done wrong, from her young heart, had
now taken to themselves wings, and that the awful depressed sensation
which used to try her so much at Mulberry Court must be once again her
portion.

"You're pleased, aren't you, Biddy?" said Aunt Kathleen.

"Of course," said Bridget, in an evasive tone, "but there's daddy just
landing, let me run to him."

She flew away, skimming down the steep ascent with the agility of a
bird. She was standing by her father's side, flushed and breathless,
when he stepped out of the little boat.

"Eh, colleen," he exclaimed, "what do you say to coming for a sail with
me?"

"Give me a hug, daddy."

"That I will, my girl; eh, my jewel, it's good to feel your soft cheek.
Now, then, what are you rubbing yourself against me for, like an
affectionate pussy cat?"

"Nothing. I can't go for a sail, though; it's a bother, but it can't be
helped."

"And why can't it be helped, if we two wish it, I want to know?"

"There are visitors coming to the Castle; we'll have to entertain them,
daddy."

"Visitors! of course, right welcome they'll be; but I didn't know of
any. Who are they? Do you think it's the O'Conors now, or may be the
Mahoneys from Court Macherry. What are you staring at me like that for,
child? If there are visitors coming, you and I must go and give them a
right good hearty welcome; but who in the world can they be?"

"One of them is a schoolfellow of mine, her name is Janet May."

"Janet May," repeated the squire; "we don't have those sort of names
in Ireland. A schoolfellow of yours? Then, of course, she'll be right
welcome. A great friend, I suppose, my pet? She'll be welcome; very
welcome."

"Look at me, daddy, for a minute," said Bridget, speaking quickly and
in great excitement. "Let us welcome her, as of course all true Irish
people ought to welcome their guests, but don't let's talk about her
when you and I are alone. She has a sister coming too, and there's Aunt
Kathleen waving her hands to us, and gesticulating. They must have
arrived. If I had known it, I'd have ordered the bonfires to be lit on
the hilltops, but I did not hear a thing about it until aunty told me a
few minutes ago."

"It was remiss of Kathleen, very remiss," said the squire. "It is
positively wanting in courtesy not to have the bonfires lit. Let's go
up at once, Biddy, and meet your guests in the porch."

Squire O'Hara took his daughter's hand. They climbed the ascent swiftly
together, and were standing in the porch, Lady Kathleen keeping them
company, when the jaunting car drew up.

To an Irish person bred and born there is no more delightful mode of
locomotion than this same jaunting car, but people fresh to the Emerald
Isle sometimes fail to appreciate its merits.

The jaunting car requires an easy and yet an assured seat. No clutching
at the rails, no faint suspicion on the countenance of its occupant
that there is the least chance of being knocked off at the next abrupt
turn of the road, or the next violent jolt of the equipage. You must
sit on the jaunting car as you would on your horse's back, as if you
belonged to it, as the saying goes.

Now, strangers to Ireland have not this assured seat, and although
Janet was too clever and too well bred to show a great deal of the
nervousness she really felt, she could not help clinging frantically to
the rail at the end of her side, and her small face was somewhat pale,
and her lips tightly set. She had maneuvered hard for this invitation,
she had won her cause, all had gone well with her; but this awful,
bumping, skittish rollicking car might after all prove her destruction.
What a wild horse drew this terrible car! What a reckless looking
coachman aided and abetted all his efforts at rushing and flying over
the ground! Oh, why did they dash down that steep hill? why did they
whisk round this sudden corner? She must grasp the rail of her seat
still tighter. She would not fall off, if nerve and courage could
possibly keep her on; but would they do so?

Janet had plenty of real pluck, but poor Sophy was naturally a coward.
They had not gone a mile on the road before she began to scream most
piteously.

"I won't stay on this awful, barbarous thing another minute," she
shrieked. "I shall be dashed to pieces, my brains will be knocked out.
Janet, Janet, I say, Janet, if you don't get the driver to stop at
once I'll jump off."

"Oh, there aint the least soight of fear," said Larry, whisking his
head back in Sophy's direction with a contemptuous and yet good-humored
twinkle in his eyes.

"I can't stay on; you _must_ pull the horse up," shrieked the
frightened girl. "I can't keep my seat; I am slipping off, I tell you I
am slipping off. I'll be on the road in another minute."

"Here then, Pat, you stay quiet, you baste," said Larry.

He pulled the spirited little horse up, until he nearly stood on his
haunches, then, jumping down himself, came up to Sophy's side.

"What's the matter, miss?" he said; "why, this is the very safest
little kyar in the county. You just sit aisy, miss, and don't hould on,
and you will soon take foine to the motion."

"No, I won't," said Sophy. "I'll never take to it; I am terrified
nearly out of my senses. I'll walk to that Castle of yours, whatever
the name of it is."

"You can't do that, miss, for it's a matther of close on twenty mile
from here."

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" Sophy began to cry. "I wish I'd never come to
this outlandish, awful place!" she exclaimed, forgetting all her
manners in her extremity. "Janet, how heartless of you to sit like
that, as if you didn't think of anyone but yourself! I'd much rather be
back with Aunt Jane, or even taking care of those horrid Persian cats.
Oh, anything would be better than this!"

"Don't you cry, miss," said Larry, who was a very good-natured person.
"The little kyar is safe as safe can be; but maybe, seeing as you're
frightened, miss, you'd like to sit in the well. We has a pretty big
well to this jaunting car, and I'll open it out and you can get in."

The well which divided the two seats (running between them, as anyone
who knows an Irish jaunting car will immediately understand) was a very
small and shallow receptacle for even the most diminutive adult, but
"any port in a storm," thought poor Sophy. She scrambled gratefully
into the well, and sat there curled up, looking very foolish, and very
abject.

The two travelers were therefore in a somewhat sorry plight when they
arrived at the Castle, and Sophy's appearance was truly ridiculous.

Not a trace of mirth, however, was discernible on the faces of the kind
host, his sister-in-law, and daughter as they came out to meet their
guests.

Dennis O'Hara lifted Sophy in a twinkling to the ground. Janet devoutly
hoped that she would not be killed as she made the supreme effort of
springing from the car. Then began a series of very hearty offers of
friendship and hospitality.

"Welcome, welcome," said the squire. "I'm right glad to see you both.
Welcome to Castle Mahun! And is this your first visit to Ireland,
Miss--Miss May?"

"Yes," said Janet, immediately taking the initiative, "and what a
lovely country it is!"

"I agree with you," said the squire, giving her a quick, penetrating,
half-pleased, half-puzzled glance. "I must apologize for not having
bonfires lit in your and your sister's honor; but Lady Kathleen didn't
tell me I was to have the pleasure of your company until a few minutes
ago."

"I kept it as a joyful surprise," said Lady Kathleen; "but now, Dennis,
let the two poor dear girls come in. They look fit to drop with
fatigue. And so this is your little sister Sophy, Mayflower! I am right
glad to see you, my dear. Welcome to Old Ireland, the pair of you; I
will take you up myself to your room. Biddy, darling! Biddy!"

But, strange to say, Biddy was nowhere to be seen.

There was a little old deserted summerhouse far away in a distant part
of the grounds, and there, a few minutes afterward, might have been
heard some angry, choking, half-smothered sobs. They came from a girl
in a pale green silk dress, who had thrown herself disconsolately by
the side of a rustic table, and whose hot tears forced themselves
through the fingers with which she covered her face.

"I can't bear it," she said to herself. "I can't be hospitable, and
nice, and friendly, and yet I suppose I must. What would father say if
one of the O'Haras were wanting in courtesy to a visitor? Oh, dear!
how I _hate_ that girl! I didn't think it was in me to hate anyone
as I hate her! I hate her, and I--I _fear her_! There's a confession
for Bridget O'Hara to make. She's afraid of someone! She's afraid of
a wretched poor small specimen of humanity like that! But it is quite
true; that girl has got a power over me. She has got me into her net.
Oh, what induced Aunt Kathleen to ask her here? Why should the darling
beloved Castle be haunted by her nasty little sneaking presence? Why
should my holidays be spoiled by her? This is twenty times worse than
having her with me at school, for we were at least on equal terms
there, and we are not here. She's my visitor here, and I must be
polite to her. I don't mind that abject looking sister of hers, who
sat huddled up in the well of the car, one way or the other; but Janet
is past enduring. Oh, Aunt Kathleen, what have you done to me?"

Bridget sobbed on stormily. The old sensation of having lowered
herself, of being in disgrace with herself, was strongly over her.
She hated herself for being angry at having Janet in the house, for
so strong were her instincts of hospitality that even to think an
uncourteous thought toward a visitor seemed to her to be like breaking
the first rules of life.

She had rushed to the summerhouse to give herself the comfort of a
safety valve. She must shed the tears which weighed against her eyes.
She must speak aloud to the empty air some of the misery which filled
her heart. She was quite alone. It was safe for her to storm here; she
knew that if she spent her tears in this safe retreat she would be all
the better able to bear her sorrows by and by.

As she sobbed, thinking herself quite alone, the little rustic door of
the old summerhouse was slowly and cautiously pushed open, and a dog's
affectionate, melting eyes looked in.

The whole of a big shaggy head protruded itself next into view, four
big soft feet pattered across the floor, and a magnificent thoroughbred
Irish greyhound laid his head on the girl's knee.

"O Bruin, Bruin; oh, you darling!" exclaimed Bridget. "I can tell _you_
how sorry I am! I can tell _you_ how mean and horrid and contemptible I
feel! Kiss me, Bruin; let me love you, you darling! you darling! You'll
never tell that you found me like this, will you, Bruin?"

"Never!" said Bruin's eyes. "Of course not; what can you be thinking
about? And now cheer up, won't you?

"Yes, I will," said Bridget, answering their language. "Oh, what a
great comfort you are to me, Bruin, my dog!"




CHAPTER XX.

THE SQUIRE AND HIS GUESTS.


The great bell clanged out its hospitable boom for supper. Supper
was a great institution at the Castle. It was the meal of the day.
A heterogeneous sort of repast, at which every conceivable eatable,
every available luxury, graced the board. From tea, coffee, and bread
and butter to all sorts of rich and spiced dishes, nothing that the
good-humored Irish cook could produce was absent from the squire's
supper table.

It was the one meal in the day at which he himself ate heartily. The
squire ate enough then to satisfy himself for the greater part of the
twenty-four hours; for, with the exception of a frugal breakfast at
eight in the morning, which consisted of tea, bread and butter, and
two new-laid eggs, he never touched food again until the great evening
meal, which was tea, supper, and dinner in one.

People had easy times at Castle Mahun. There was no stiffness
anywhere. The rule of the house was to go where you pleased, and do
what you liked. Once a visitor there, you might, as far as Squire
O'Hara was concerned, be a visitor for all the rest of your natural
life. Certainly no one would think of hinting at the possibility
of your going. When you did take it into your head to depart, you
would be warmly invited to renew your visit at the first available
opportunity, and the extreme shortness of your stay, even though
that stay had extended to months, would be openly commented upon and
loudly regretted. But, as in each fortress there is one weak spot, and
as in every rule there is the invariable exception, the Squire did
demand one thing from his own family and his visitors alike, and that
was a punctual attendance in the lofty dining hall of the Castle at
suppertime.

Bridget heard the bell twanging and sounding, and knew that the summons
to appear at supper had gone forth. She mopped away her tears with a
richly embroidered cambric handkerchief, stuffed it into her pocket,
looked with a slight passing regret at some muddy marks which Bruin had
made on her silk dress, and prepared to return to the house.

"I wonder, Bruin," she said, "if my eyes show that I have been crying?
What a nuisance if they do. I'd better run down to the Holy Well before
I go into the house, and see if a good bathe will take the redness
away. Come along, Bruin, my dog, come quickly."

Bruin trotted on in front of Bridget. He knew her moods well. He had
comforted her before now in the summerhouse. No one but Bruin knew
what bitter tears she had shed when she was first told she must go to
England to school. Bruin had found her in the summerhouse then, and she
had put her arms round his neck and kissed him, and then she had mopped
her wet eyes and asked him as she did to-night if they showed signs of
weeping, and also as to-night the dog and the girl had repaired to the
Holy Well to wash the traces of tears away.

Bruin went on in front, now trotting quickly, and never once troubling
himself to look back. They soon reached the little well, which was
covered with a small stone archway, under which the water lay dark
and cool. Rare ferns dipped their leaves into the well, and some wild
flowers twined themselves over the arch, which always, summer and
winter, kept the sun from touching the water. It was a lonely spot not
often frequented, for the well had the character of being haunted, and
its waters were only supposed to act as a charm or cure on the O'Hara
family. Bridget, therefore, stepped back with a momentary expression of
surprise when she saw a woman bending down by the well in the act of
filling a small glass bottle with some of its water.

She was a short, stout woman of between fifty and sixty. Her hair was
nearly snow-white; her face was red and much weather-beaten; her small
gray, twinkling eyes were somewhat sunk in her head; her nose was broad
and _retroussé_, her mouth wide, showing splendid white teeth without a
trace of decay about them.

The woman looked up when she heard a footstep approaching. Then, seeing
Bridget, she dashed her glass bottle to the ground, and rushing up to
the young girl, knelt at her feet, and clasped her hands ecstatically
round her knees.

"Oh, Miss Biddy, Miss Biddy!" she exclaimed. "It's the heart-hunger I
have been having for the sake of your purty face. Oh, Miss Biddy, my
colleen, and didn't you miss poor Norah?"

"Of course I did, Norah," said Bridget. "I could not make out where you
were. I asked about you over and over again, and they said you were
away on the hills, sheep-shearing. I did think it was odd, for you
never used to shear the sheep, Norah."

"No," said Norah, "but I was that distraught with grief I thought maybe
it 'ud cool me brain a bit. It's about Pat I'm in throuble, darlin'.
It's all up with the boy and me! We has waited for years and years, and
now there don't seem no chance of our being wedded. He's no better,
Miss Biddy. The boy lies flat out on his back, and there aint no
strength in him. Oh! me boy, me boy, that I thought to wed!"

"And where _is_ Pat, Norah?" said Bridget. "I asked about him, too, and
they said he had been moved up to a house on one of the hills, to get a
little stronger air. I was quite pleased, for I know change of air is
good for people after they get hurt. And why can't you be wed, Norah,
even if Pat is hurt? I should think he'd want a wife to nurse him
very badly now. Why can't you have a wedding while I'm at home, Norah
macree?"

"Oh, me darlin'--light of me eyes that you are--but where's the good
when the boy don't wish it himself? He said to me only yesterday, 'Me
girl,' said he, 'it aint the will of the Vargen that you and me should
wed this year, nor maybe next. We must put it off for a bit longer.'
I'm close on sixty, Miss Bridget, and Pat is sixty-two, and it seems as
if we might settle it now, but he don't see it. He says it was the will
of the Vargen to lay him on his back and that there must be no coorting
nor marrying until he's round on his feet again. I am about tired of
waiting, Miss Bridget; for, though I aint to say old, I aint none so
young nayther."

"But you have a lot of life left in you still, Norah," said Bridget.
"I'll go and talk to Pat to-morrow, and we'll soon put things right. I
was so dreadfully sorry to hear that he was hurt. And did you get my
letter that I wrote to you from school?"

"To be sure, darlin'! and why wouldn't I? and it's framed up in Pat's
cottage now, and we both looks at it after we has said our beads each
night. It was a moighty foine letter, Miss Biddy! Pat and me said that
you was getting a sight of larning at that foreign school."

"And did you get the money I sent you, Norah? I sent you and Pat two
whole pounds in a postal order. I was so glad I had it to give you. Two
pounds means a lot of money to an Irish boy and girl. Weren't you glad
when you saw it, Norah? Didn't it make you and Pat almost forget about
the accident and the pain?"

"Oh, Miss Bridget, alanna!" Norah's deep-set, good-natured, and yet
cunning eyes were raised in almost fear to the young girl's face. "Miss
Bridget, alanna, there worn't never a stiver in the letter. No, as sure
as I'm standing here; not so much as a brass bawbee, let alone gold.
Oh, alanna, someone must have shtole the beautiful money. Oh, to think
of your sending it, and we never to get it; oh, worra, worra me!"

Bridget turned rather pale while Norah was speaking.

"I certainly sent you the money," she said. "Didn't I tell you so in
the letter?"

Norah fumbled with her apron.

"Maybe you did, darlin'," she said evasively.

"But don't you _know_? It was principally to tell you about the money
that I wrote."

"Well, you see, darlin'--truth is best. Nayther Pat nor me can read,
and so we framed the letter, but we don't know what's in it; only we
knew from the foreign mark as it was from that baste of a school, and
that it must be from you."

"I think I must run in to supper now, Norah; there are some visitors
come to the Castle, and I'm awfully late as it is, and father may
be vexed. I'll ride up on Wild Hawk to-morrow to see Pat, and you
had better be there, and we'll find out where that money has got to.
Good-night, Norah; but first tell me what you were doing at the Holy
Well?"

"Don't you be angry with me, Miss Biddy. I thought maybe if I brought
a bottle of the water to Pat, and he didn't know what it was, and he
drank some as if it was ordiner water, that it would act as a love
philter on him, and maybe he'd consint to our being married before many
months is up. For I'm wearying to have the courtship over, and that's
the truth I'm telling ye, Miss Bridget. I am awfully afraid as Pat has
seen me gray hairs, and that they are turning the boy agen me, and that
he'll be looking out for another girl."

"If he does I'll never speak to him again," said Bridget slowly. "You
so faithful and so good! but now I must go in to supper, Norah."

Bridget ran scrambling and panting up to the house. Bruin kept her
company step by step. He entered the large dining hall by her side,
and walked with her to the head of the board, where she sat down in a
vacant chair near her father's side.

"You're late, alanna," he said, turning his fine face slowly toward her
with a courteous and yet reproachful glance.

She did not reply in words, but placed her hand on his knee for a
moment.

The touch brought a smile to his face. He turned to talk to Janet, who,
neatly dressed, and all traces of fatigue removed, was sitting at his
other side.

Lady Kathleen was attending to Sophy's wants at the farther end of the
table; but between them and the squire were several other visitors.
These visitors were now so accustomed to paying long calls at Castle
Mahun that they had come to look upon it as a second home. They were
all Irish, and most of them rather old, and they one and all claimed
relationship with Squire O'Hara. Nobody said much to them, but they ate
heartily of the good viands with which the table was laden, and nodded
and smiled with pleasure when the squire pressed them to eat more.

"Miss Macnamara, I _insist_ on your having another glass of sherry!"
the squire would thunder out; or, "Mr. Jonas O'Hagan, how is your lame
foot this evening? and are you making free with the beef? It is meant
to be eaten, remember; it is meant to be eaten."

Jonas O'Hagan, a very lean old man of close on seventy, would nod back
to the squire, and help himself to junks of the good highly spiced beef
in question. Miss Macnamara would simper and say:

"Well, squire, to _oblige_ you then, I'll have just a _leetle_ drop
more sherry."

The business of eating, however, was too important for the squire to do
much in the way of conversation.

Janet's small-talk--she thought herself an adept at small-talk--was
kindly listened to, but not largely responded to.

Bridget whispered to herself, "I must really tell Janet another day
that father must be left in peace to eat the one meal he really does
eat in the twenty-four hours."

Bridget herself did not speak at all. She scarcely ate anything, but
leaned back against her chair, one hand lying affectionately on Bruin's
head. Anxious and troubled thoughts were filling her young mind. What
had become of the two pounds she had given Janet to put into Norah's
letter?

She felt startled and perplexed. It was an awful thing to harbor bad
feelings toward a visitor. All Bridget's instincts rose up in revolt at
the bare idea. She thought herself a dreadful girl for being obliged to
rush away to the old summerhouse to cry; but bad as that was, what was
it in comparison to the thoughts which now filled her mind? Could it be
possible that Janet, sitting there exactly opposite to her, looking so
neat, so pretty, so tranquil, could have stolen those two sovereigns?
Could the girl who called herself Bridget's friend be a thief?

Oh, no, it was simply impossible.

Bridget had already discovered much meanness in Janet May. Janet, with
her own small hand, had led Bridget O'Hara into crooked paths.

But all that, bad as it was, was nothing--nothing at all in Bridget's
eyes, to the fact that she had stooped to be just a common thief.

"I thought that only very poor and starving people stole," thought the
girl to herself, as she broke off a piece of griddle cake and put it
to her lips. "Oh, I can't--I won't believe it of her. The postal order
must have been put into the letter, and someone must have taken it
out before it reached Pat's hands. Perhaps the postal order is in the
envelope all this time. When I ride over on Wild Hawk to-morrow to see
Pat I'll ask him to show me the envelope. It would be a good plan if I
took Janet with me. I can soon judge by her face whether she stole the
money or not. Of course, if she did steal it, I must speak to her, but
I can't do it on any part of the O'Hara estate. It would be quite too
awful for the hostess to accuse her visitor of theft."

"Biddy, alanna--a penny for your thoughts," said the squire, tapping
his daughter on her cheek.

"They are not worth even a farthing," she replied, coloring, however,
and starting away from his keen glance.

"Then, if our young friends have done their supper, you'll maybe take
them round the place a bit, colleen; they'll like to smell the sweet
evening air, and to---- By the way, are you partial to dogs, Miss May;
we have a few of them to show you if you are?"

"Oh, I like them immensely," said Janet. ("Horrid bores!" she murmured
under her breath.) "I don't know much about them, of course," she
added, raising her seemingly truthful eyes and fixing them on the old
squire. "I had an uncle once; he's dead. I was very fond of him; he had
a deerhound something like that one."

She nodded at Bruin as she spoke.

"Ah," said Mr. O'Hara, interested at once, "then you can appreciate
the noblest sort of dog in the world. Come here, Bruin, my king, and
let me introduce you to this young lady. This is a thoroughbred Irish
deerhound, Miss May; I wouldn't part with him for a hundred pounds in
gold of the realm."

The stately dog, who had been crouching by Bridget's feet, rose slowly
at his master's summons and approached Janet. He sniffed at the small
hand which lay on her knee, evidently did not think much of either it
or its owner, and returned to Biddy's side.

"You won't win Bruin in a hurry," said the squire. "I doubt if he could
take to anyone who hasn't Irish blood; but for all that, although he
won't love you, since I have formally introduced you to each other he'd
rather die than see a hair of your head hurt. You are Bruin's guest
now, and supposing you were in trouble of any sort during your visit
to Castle Mahun, you'd find out the value of being under the dog's
protection."

"Yes," said Janet, suppressing a little yawn. She rose from her seat as
she spoke. "Shall we go out, Biddy?" she said. "Will you take Sophy and
me round the place as your father has so kindly suggested?"

"Certainly," said Bridget; "we'll walk round the lake, and I'll show
you the view from the top of the tower. There'll be a moon to-night,
and that will make a fine silver path on the water. Are you coming too,
Aunt Kathleen?"

"Presently, my love, after I have been round to look at Minerva and the
pups."

The three girls left the hall in each other's company.

Sophy began to give expression to her feelings in little, weak,
half-hysterical bursts of rapture. "Oh, what a delightful place!" she
began, skipping by Bridget's side as she spoke. "This air does revive
one so; and _what_ a view!" clasping her two hands together. "Miss
O'Hara, how you are to be envied--you who live in the midst of this
beauty. Oh, good Heavens, I can't stand all those dogs! I'm awfully
afraid; I really am. Down, down! you _horrid_ thing, you! Oh, please,
save me; please, save me!" Sophy caught violent hold of Bridget's
wrist, shrieked, danced, and dragged her dress away.

About a dozen dogs had suddenly rushed in a fury of ecstasy round the
corner. Some of them had been chained all day, some shut up in their
kennels. All were wild for their evening scamper, and indifferent in
the first intoxication of liberty to the fact of whether they were
caressing friends or strangers. They slobbered with their great mouths
and leaped upon the girls, licking them all over in their joy.

The charge they made was really a severe one, and Sophy may easily have
been forgiven for her want of courage.

Janet, who disliked the invasion of the dogs quite as much as her
sister, favored that young person now with a withering glance; but
Bridget spoke in a kind and reassuring tone.

"I'm so sorry they should have annoyed you," she said; "I might have
known that you weren't accustomed to them. Daddy and I like them
to jump about in this wild fashion, but I might have known that it
wouldn't be pleasant to you. Down, this minute, dogs; I'm ashamed of
you! Down, Mustard; down, Pepper; down, Oscar; down, Wild-Fire. Do you
hear me? I'll use the whip to you if you don't obey."

Bridget's fine voice swelled on the evening breeze. Each dog looked at
her with a cowed and submissive eye; they ceased their raptures, and
hung their drooping heads.

"To heel, every one of you!" she said.

They obeyed, and the girls entered the shady but steep walk which hung
over the lake.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE HOLY WELL.


"You won't forget, girls," said Lady Kathleen the next morning when
breakfast was over, "that Patrick and Gerald are coming to stay here
to-day?"

"Hurrah!" said Bridget; "we'll have some shooting and fishing then."

"You can't shoot at this time of year," said the squire.

"I don't mean to shoot game, father," she replied. "I want to learn
proper rifle shooting. What do you say, Janet; wouldn't you like to
handle firearms?"

Janet hesitated for a moment; she saw disapproval on Lady Kathleen's
face, and took her cue from her.

"I don't think I'm strong enough," she said. "Shooting with firearms
seems just the one accomplishment which a girl _can't_ manage; at
least, I mean an ordinary girl."

Lady Kathleen clapped her hands.

"Hear to you, Mayflower," she said. "Right you are; I go with you, my
dear. Firearms are downright dangerous things; and if I had my will,
Biddy should never touch them. Do you hear me, squire?"

"Pooh!" said the squire; "what harm do they do? A girl ought to know
how to defend herself. As to the danger, if she uses her common sense
there is not any. I grant you that a foolish girl oughtn't to touch
firearms; but give me a sensible, strong-hearted colleen, and I'll
provide that she handles a gun with the precision and care of the best
sportsman in the land. Biddy here can bring down a bird on the wing
with any fellow who comes to shoot in the autumn, and I don't suppose
there is Biddy's match in the county for womanly graces either."

"You spoil her, Dennis," said Lady Kathleen. "It's well she's been sent
to school to learn some of her failings, for she'd never find them out
here. Not but that I'm as proud as Punch of her myself. For all that,
however, I'd leave out the shooting; and I'm very much obliged to
little Mayflower for upholding me."

"You haven't a wrist for a gun," said the squire, glancing at Janet's
small hands. "Your vocations lie in another direction. You must favor
me with a song some evening. I guess somehow by the look of your face
that you are musical."

"I adore music," said Janet with enthusiasm.

"That's right. Can you do the 'Melodies'?"

"The 'Melodies'?"

"Yes; 'She is far from the Land,' and 'The Minstrel Boy,' and 'The Harp
that once through Tara's Halls'; but it isn't likely you can touch
_that_. It requires an Irish girl born and bred, with her fingers
touching the strings of an Irish harp, and her soul in her eyes, and
her heart breaking through the beautiful birdlike voice of her, to give
that 'Melody' properly. We'll have it to-night, Biddy, you and I. We'll
get the harp brought out on the terrace, and when the moon is up we'll
have the dogs lying about, and we'll sing it; you and I."

"Dear, dear, squire," said Lady Kathleen, "if you and Biddy sing 'The
Harp that once through Tara's Halls' as you _can_ sing it, you'll give
us all the creeps! Why, it seems to be a sort of wail when you two
do it. I see the forsaken hall, and the knights, and the chieftains,
and the fair ladies! Oh, it's melting, _melting_! You must provide
yourselves with plenty of handkerchiefs, Mayflower and Sophy, if we are
going to have that sort of entertainment. But here comes the postbag; I
wonder if there's anything for me."

The door of the hall was swung open at the farther end, and a man of
about thirty, with bare feet, and dressed in a rough fustian suit,
walked up the room, and deposited the thick leather bag by the squire's
side.

"Now what did you come in for, Jonas?" he asked. "Weren't any of the
other servants about?"

"I couldn't help meself, your honor," said Jonas, pulling his front
lock of hair, and looking sheepishly and yet affectionately down the
long table. "I was hungering for a sight of Miss Biddy. I hadn't
clapped eyes on her sence she came back, and I jest ran foul of them
varmints, and made free of the hall. Begging your honor's parding, I
hope there's no harm done."

"No, Jonas, not any. Make your bob to Miss Biddy now, and go."

The man bowed low, flashed up two eyes of devotion to the girl's face,
and scampered in a shambling kind of way out of the room.

"Good soul, capital soul, that," said the squire, nodding to Janet.

"He seems very devoted," she replied, lowering her eyes to conceal her
true feelings.

The squire proceeded to unlock the letter-bag and dispense its
contents. Most of the letters were for himself, but there was one
thick inclosure for Lady Kathleen.

Janet sprang up to take it to her. As she did so she recognized the
handwriting and the postmark. The letter came from Eastcliff, and was
from Mrs. Freeman.

Janet felt her heart beat heavily. She felt no doubt whatever that this
letter, so thick in substance and so important in appearance, contained
an account of poor Biddy's delinquencies.

Lady Kathleen received it, and laid it by her plate.

"Who's your correspondent, Kathleen?" asked the squire, from the other
end of the table. It was one of his small weaknesses to be intensely
curious about letters.

Lady Kathleen raised the letter and examined the writing.

"It's from Eastcliff," she said, "from Mrs. Freeman; I know by the way
she flourishes her t's. The letter is from Mrs. Freeman," she repeated,
raising her voice. "A thick letter, with an account, no doubt, of our
Biddy's progress."

Bridget, who was standing by her father's side, turned suddenly pale.
Her hand, which rested on his shoulder, slightly trembled; a sick fear,
which she had thought dead, came over her with renewed force. She had
forgotten the possibility of Mrs. Freeman writing an account of her
wrong doings to Lady Kathleen. Now she felt a sudden wild terror,
something like a bird caught for the first time in the fowler's net.

Squire O'Hara felt her hand tremble. This father and daughter were
so truly one that her lightest moods, her most passing emotions were
instantly perceived by him.

"You are all in a fuss, colleen," he said, looking back at her; "but if
there is a bit of praise in the letter, why shouldn't we hear it? You
open it, and read it aloud to us, Kathleen. You'll be glad to hear what
my daughter has done at school, Miss Macnamara?"

"Proud, squire, proud," retorted the old lady, cracking the top off
another egg as she spoke.

"Please, father, I'd rather the letter wasn't read aloud. I don't think
it is all praise," whispered Biddy in his ear.

The Squire's hawk-like face took a troubled glance for a quarter of a
minute. He looked into Biddy's eyes and took his cue.

No one else had heard her low, passionate whisper.

"After all," he said, "the colleen has a fair share of womanly modesty,
and I for one respect her for it. She can handle a gun with any man
among us, but she can't hear herself praised to her face. All right,
colleen, you shan't be. We'll keep over the letter for the present, if
you please, Kathleen."

"That's as you please, Dennis. For my part, I expect it's just the
school bills, and there is no hurry about them. I want to go and speak
to Molly Fitzgerald about preserving the late raspberries, so I shan't
read the letter at all at present."

She slipped it into her pocket, and, rising from the table, set the
example to the others to follow her.

The three girls went out on the terrace. Janet walked by Bridget's
side, and Sophy ran on in front.

"I can't believe," said Bridget, looking at Sophy, "that your sister
is older than you. She has quite the ways and manners of a very young
girl, whereas you----"

"Thank you," said Janet. "I know quite well what you mean, Biddy. I
know I'm not young for my age. I needn't pretend when I am with you,
Biddy," she continued, speaking with a sudden emphasis; "you wouldn't
be young, either, if you had always had to lead my life. I have had
to do for myself, and for Sophy, too, since I was ever so little. I
have had to plot, and to plan, and contrive. I never had an easy life.
Perhaps, if I had had the same chances as other girls, I might have
been different."

"I wish you would always talk like that," said Bridget, an expression
of real friendliness coming into her face. "If you would always talk
as you are doing now--I mean in that true tone--I--I could _bear_ you,
Janet."

"Oh, I know what your feelings are well enough," said Janet. "I am not
so blind as you imagine. I know you hate having me here, and that if
it wasn't for--for _something_ that happened at school you wouldn't
tolerate my presence for an hour. But you see something did happen at
school; something that you don't want to be known; and you have got to
tolerate me; do you hear?"

"You're mistaken in supposing that I would be rude to you now you
have come," said Bridget. "I don't think I should have invited you; I
didn't invite you. My aunt didn't even tell me that she had done so.
She thought we were friends, and that she was giving me a nice surprise
when she told me that you were coming."

"I took care that you didn't know," said Janet in a low tone, and with
a short little laugh. "You don't suppose Lady Kathleen would have
thought of the nice little surprise by herself? It was I who managed
everything; the surprise, and the gay jolly time we are to spend at the
Castle, and all."

"You are clever," said Bridget, "but I don't think I envy you your kind
of cleverness. All the same, now that you are here you are my visitor,
and I shall do what I can to give you a good time."

"Thanks," said Janet, "I dare say I can manage that for myself. By the
way, did you notice that a letter has come from Eastcliff?"

"From Mrs. Freeman; yes, what of that?"

"There is no good in your saying 'What of that?' so calmly with your
lips, Bridget, when your heart is full of the most abject terror.
Didn't I see how your face changed color this morning when you saw the
letter, and didn't I notice you when you whispered something to your
father? You are very, very sorry that letter has come. It would be very
terrible to you--very terrible for you, if its contents were known."

Sophy was still flitting on in front. The sunshine was bathing the
sloping lawns, and the dark forest trees, and the smooth bosom of
Lake Crena. It seemed to Bridget for the first time in her young life
that sunshine, even when it fell upon Irish land, was a mockery and a
delusion.

"I do not want my father to know," she said, with a break in her voice.
"It would kill me if he knew. You see what he is, Janet, the soul of
all that is noble and honorable. Oh, it would kill me if he knew what I
have done; and I think it would kill him also. O Janet, why did you get
me into such an awful scrape?"

"You didn't think it so very awful when you were knowing all your
lessons, and getting praise from everyone, and mounting to the head of
your class. It seemed all right to you then, and you never blamed me at
all; but now that the dark side of the picture comes, and you are in
danger of discovery, you see your conduct in a different light. I have
no patience with you. You have the appearance of being a very brave
girl; in reality you are a coward."

"No one ever said that to me before," said Bridget, clenching her hand,
her eyes flashing.

"Well, I say it now; it's very good for the petted, and the courted,
and the adored, to listen to unvarnished truths now and then. Oh, so
you have come back, Sophy. Yes, those are pretty flowers, but perhaps
Miss O'Hara doesn't wish you to pick her flowers."

"Not wish her to pick the flowers," said Bridget, "and she a visitor!
What nonsense! Oh, you English don't at all know our Irish ways."

"I think you have quite lovely ways," said Sophy. "I never felt so
happy in my life. I never, never was in such a beautiful place, and I
never came across such truly kind people."

"Well, run on then," said Janet, "and pick some more of the flowers."

"There's one of those awful jaunting cars coming up the avenue," said
Sophy.

"Then the boys have come," exclaimed Bridget. "I must fly to them."

She rushed away, putting wings to her feet, and the two May girls were
left standing together. Janet was absorbed in a brown study. Sophy's
eager eyes followed the car as it ascended the steep and winding avenue.

"I wonder if we'll have any fun with the boys," she said, "and who are
the boys? I hope they are grown up."

"You can make yourself easy on that score," said Janet, "they are only
lads--schoolboys. They live on the O'Mahoney estate, about eighteen
miles away. Their names are Patrick and Gerald, and I expect they are
about as raw and uninteresting as those sort of wild Irish can be. Now,
Sophy, do continue your pretty kittenish employment; skip about and
pick some more flowers."

"I think I will be kittenish enough to run down the avenue and see what
the boys are really like," said Sophy. "I'll soon know whether there is
any fun to be got out of them."

She ran off as she spoke, and Janet found herself alone.

She stood still for a minute, irresolute and nervous. The arrival of
the letter by that morning's post had given her great uneasiness. She
was a young person of very calm judgment and ready resource, but as
matters now stood she could not see her own way. The next step was
invisible to her, and such a state of things was torture to a nature
like hers. Oh, if only she could secure that letter, then how splendid
would be her position. Bridget would be absolutely in her power. She
could do with this erratic and strange girl just what she pleased.

Four gay young voices were heard approaching, some dogs were yelping
and gamboling about, boyish tones rose high on the breeze, followed by
the light sound of girlish laughter.

"Talk of Bridget really feeling anything!" murmured Janet; "why, that
girl is all froth."

She felt that she could not meet the gay young folks just now, and
ran round a shady path which led to the back of the house; here she
found herself in full view of a great yard, into which the kitchen
premises opened. The yard was well peopled with barefooted men, and
barefooted girls and women. Some pigs were scratching, rolling about,
and disporting themselves, after their amiable fashion, in a distant
corner. Some barn-door fowls and a young brood of turkeys were making
a commotion and rushing after a thickly set girl, who was feeding them
with barley; quantities of yellow goslings and downy ducklings were to
be seen making for a muddy looking pond. Some gentle looking cows were
lowing in their sheds. The cart horses were being taken out for the
day's work.

It was a gay and picturesque scene, and Janet, anxious as she felt,
could not help standing still for a moment to view it.

"And now, where are you going, Mayflower? and why aren't you with the
others?" exclaimed a gay voice.

Janet hastily turned her head, and saw Lady Kathleen, with her rich,
trailing silk dress turned well up over her petticoat, a gayly colored
cotton handkerchief tied over her head, and a big basket in her hand.

"Why aren't you with the others, Mayflower?" she repeated. "Are they
bad-hearted enough, and have they bad taste enough, not to want you, my
little mavourneen?"

"I don't know, Lady Kathleen," said Janet, raising eyes which anxiety
had rendered pathetic. "I don't know that I am really much missed; some
people whom Bridget speaks of as 'the boys' have just arrived, and
she----"

"Oh, mercy!" interrupted Lady Kathleen, "and so the lads have come. I
must go and talk to them as soon as ever I have helped cook a bit with
the raspberries. We are going in for a grand preserving to-day, and
cook and I have our hands full. Would you like to come along and give
us a bit of assistance, Mayflower!"

"You may be sure I would," said Janet.

"Well, come then," said Lady Kathleen. "You can eat while you pick.
I can tell you that the Castle Mahun raspberries are worth eating;
why, they are as large as a cook's thimble, each of them; I don't mean
a lady's thimble, but a cook's; and that's no offense to you, Molly
Malone."

Molly Malone, who resembled a thick, short sack in figure, spread out
her broad hands and grinned from ear to ear.

"Why, then, you must be always cracking your jokes, me lady," she said,
"and fine I likes to hear you; and it's the beautiful, hondsome lady
you is."

"Get out with you, Molly," said Lady Kathleen; "don't you come over me
with your blarney. Now, then, here we are. Isn't it a splendid, great,
big patch of berries, Mayflower?"

"I never saw raspberries growing before," said Janet; "how pretty they
look!"

"They look even prettier when they are turned into rich red jam. Now,
then, we must all set to work. Put your basket here, Molly, and run
and fetch us some cabbage leaves; we'll each have a cabbage leaf to
fill with berries, and when our leaves are full we'll pop the berries
into the big basket. Oh, bother those brambles, they are tearing and
spoiling my dress; I wish I hadn't it on. It is quite a good silk, and
I know it will get both stained and torn, but when the notion came to
me to help Molly Malone with the preserving, I really could not be
worried changing it."

Janet made no remark, and Lady Kathleen quickly busied herself with the
raspberry briars. She was a very expert picker, and filled two or three
leaves with the luscious, ripe fruit while Janet was filling one.

"Why, my dear," she said, "what are you about? Those small fingers of
yours are all thumbs. Who'd have believed it? Oh! and you must only
pick the ripe fruit; the fruit that almost comes away when you look
at it. Let me show you; there, that's better. Now you have gone and
scratched your hand, poor mite; it's plain to be seen you have no Irish
blood in you."

Janet looked at her small wounded hand with a dismal face.

"As I said a minute ago, I never saw raspberries growing before," she
said.

"You needn't remark that to us, my love; your way of picking them
proves your ignorance. Now, I tell you what you shall do for me. This
silk skirt that I have on is no end of a bother. I'll just slip it off;
there'll be no one to see me in my petticoat, and you can run with it
to the house and bring back a brown holland skirt which you'll find in
my wardrobe. Run straight to the house with the skirt, Janet, and I'll
be everlastingly obliged to you. Anyone will show you my bedroom; it
is at the end of the Ghost's Corridor. Run, child, run; put wings to
your feet. Well, you are a good-natured little thing; your eyes quite
sparkle with delight."

"I am very glad to oblige you, Lady Kathleen," said Janet. Her
eyelashes drooped over her bright eyes as she spoke. Lady Kathleen
flung the rich silk skirt carelessly over her arm, and she ran off.

"Be sure you bring me the brown holland, my dear, with the large fruit
stain in front; there are two of them in the wardrobe, and I want the
one with the fruit stain," shouted the good lady after her.

Janet called back that she would remember, and, running faster, was
soon lost to view.

When she could no longer get even a peep at Lady Kathleen she stood
still, and, slipping her hand into the pocket of the rich silk skirt,
took out the thick letter with the Eastcliff postmark on it. This was
transferred to her own pocket; then, going on to the house, she found
Lady Kathleen's bedroom, took down the holland skirt with the stain on
it, and was back again with the good lady after an absence of not more
than ten minutes.

"That's right, my love, that's right," said Lady Kathleen; "you are
like that dear, little, old Greek god, Mercury, for swiftness and
expedition; and now, as you don't seem to care to pick raspberries, you
can go and join your young friends. They are safe to go on the lake
this morning, and I have no doubt you'll enjoy a row."

"Oh, thank you," said Janet, "I love the water."

She turned away, and soon found herself outside the great kitchen
garden and walking down the steep path which led directly to the lake.
She heard gay voices in the distance, and was willing enough to join
the young party now. Her heart felt as light as a feather. It was
delicious to know that she had, by one dexterous stroke, saved Bridget,
and, at the same time, put her into her power.

"I am made for life," whispered Janet, as she stepped along. "Who
would have thought half an hour ago that such a lucky chance was to be
mine? I know perfectly well that Biddy hates me, but she would rather
conceal her hatred all her life than let her father know the contents
of the letter which I have in my pocket. I am not the least afraid of
Lady Kathleen suspecting me of having taken it. She is so erratic and
careless herself that she has probably quite forgotten that she ever
put Mrs. Freeman's letter into her pocket. Oh! I am as safe as safe can
be, and as happy also. I cannot stay long in this wild, outlandish sort
of place, but it is very well for a short time; and as I mean to make
plenty of use of Lady Kathleen in the future, I may as well cultivate
her all I can now. It would be rather a nice arrangement if poor little
Sophy were made Bridget's companion by and by; of course I can make any
terms with Bridget that I like, as I shall always keep the letter as a
rod in pickle to hold over her devoted head. Bridget will be so much
afraid of me that she will do exactly what I please, and it would be
nice for Sophy to live with her.

"As to myself, I mean to go to Paris with Lady Kathleen. I shall go to
Paris and have a really gay and fine time; I mean to go, and I mean
also to wear some of the lovely Parisian dresses which are showered
in such profusion on that tiresome, stupid Biddy, which she can't
appreciate, and won't appreciate, but which I should make a fine
harvest out of. Oh, yes! oh, yes! my future is secure. Who would have
thought that in one little short half hour Dame Fortune would have so
completely turned her wheel?"

Janet skipped and ran down the winding path. She presently came to the
neighborhood of the Holy Well. She knew nothing about the well. It
had no history whatever to her; but as she felt hot and thirsty, and
a little wooden cup was hanging by a chain to the arched stone roof,
and the water looked dark and clear and cool beneath, she stooped,
intending to take a long draught of the cold water. Going close to
the well, she held up her dress, and walked on the tips of her dainty
shoes. Bending forward, and stretching out her hand, she was about to
take the little wooden cup from its hook, and to dip it into the well,
in order to get a good draught of the delicious water, when a voice
suddenly said to her:

"Why then, missy, if you drink that wather, you that don't belong to
the quality what lives at the big house, you'll have no luck all the
rest of your born days."

The sound of this voice was so unexpected that Janet stepped back,
startled.

A thickly set woman, with white hair, was standing near the well.

"That wather is only for the O'Haras," she said. "They and their
kinsfolk can drink it, and it brings them a power of luck, but if
so be as strangers so much as wets their lips with it, why, a curse
enters into their bones with every dhrop they takes. That's thrue as I
am standing here, miss, and you had better be warned. Wance the curse
enters into you, you dwindles and dwindles till you dhrops out of sight
entirely."

Janet gave a mocking laugh.

"Oh, you _are_ a silly old woman," she exclaimed. "And do you really
think that I am going to be taken in by nonsense of that sort? I'll
show you now how much I believe you."

She filled the wooden cup to the brim, then, raising it to her lips,
took a long, deep draught.

"Am I beginning to dwindle already?" she asked, dropping a courtesy to
the angry looking Irishwoman. Without waiting for a reply she turned on
her heel, and ran down the slope.

The woman followed her retreating form with flashing eyes.

"I can't abide her!" she muttered. "She's an Englisher, and I can't
abide them Englishers. I hope she will dwindle and dwindle. Oh! me boy,
me boy! you as was a follower of the family--you and your forbears
before you--you ought to get good from this holy wather, and, oh! if it
would turn your heart to the breaking heart of your Norah, how happy
I'd be."




CHAPTER XXII.

WILD HAWK.


The boys Patrick and Gerald were jolly, good-humored, handsome lads,
with not a scrap of affectation, but with rather more than the average
amount of boy mischief in their compositions. They were quite inclined
to be friendly with the two English girls whom they found established
at Castle Mahun, but that fact would by no means prevent their taking a
rise out of them at the first opportunity which offered.

Sophy was full of little nervous terrors. She shrank back when they
offered to help her into the boat; she uttered a succession of little
shrieks as she was conveyed to her seat in the stern. Patrick winked
at Gerald when she did this, and they both made a mental resolution to
cajole the unfortunate Sophy into the boat some day when they could
have her all to themselves. They would not endanger her life on that
occasion, but unquestionably they would give her an exciting time.

They meant to play some pranks on Sophy; but at the same time they
regarded the pretty, helpless, nervous little English girl with a
certain chivalrous good nature, which by no means animated the feelings
with which they looked at Janet.

Janet was not at all to their taste. She had a supercilious manner
toward them, which was most riling. They were shrewd enough to guess,
too, that Bridget, notwithstanding her gentleness and politeness, in
her heart of hearts could not bear Janet. As Patrick and Gerald would
both of them have almost died for their cousin Bridget, the knowledge
that she was not fond of Janet was likely to give that young lady some
unpleasant experiences in the future.

Although Bridget was in apparently gay spirits during the morning
of this day, she was in her heart of hearts extremely anxious and
unhappy. The fatal letter had arrived; the story of her deceit and
underhand ways would soon be known to her father and to Aunt Kathleen.
Aunt Kathleen might, and probably would, quickly forgive her; but
Squire O'Hara, although he forgave, would, at least, never forget.
Forever and forever, all through the rest of his days, the shadow of
Bridget's dishonor would cloud his eyes, and keep back the old gay and
heart-whole smile from his lips. He would love her, and pity her, and
be sweet to her, but never again would she be as the old Biddy to him.
Now he looked upon her as a pearl without a flaw, as the best of all
created beings; in the future there would be a dimness over her luster.

While the poor young girl was laughing with her cousins, and trying to
make her visitors happy, these thoughts darkened and filled her mind.
She had also another care.

She must discover if Janet had really taken the two pounds. It would be
too awful if she were really proved to be nothing better than a common
thief. Bridget intended to ask Janet to accompany her to Pat's cottage
on the hills that afternoon. The postal order might all the time be
safely tucked away in the envelope of the unread letter. If so, all
would be well; but if, on the other hand, it was nowhere to be found,
Bridget felt sure that she could, to a great extent, read the truth in
Janet's face. It would be impossible for her to speak to Janet on the
subject while she was in her father's house, or even in any part of the
grounds; but out on the hills, away from the O'Hara estate, she might
tell her plainly what she thought of her conduct.

When the early dinner was over, Bridget called Janet aside and spoke to
her.

"I am going to ride on my pony Wild Hawk," she said. "I am going to see
some poor people who live up in the hills. I don't want the boys to
come, but they can amuse Sophy if you like to ride with me, Janet. You
told me once at school that you were very fond of riding."

"That is true," replied Janet. "I used to ride in Hyde Park when I was
a very little girl, but that, of course, is some years ago."

"Oh, that doesn't matter, the knowledge will remain with you. We have a
very nice, quiet lady's horse, called Miss Nelly, in the stables; you
shall ride her."

"But I haven't a habit," said Janet.

"I have a nice little one which I have quite outgrown. Come to my room,
and let me try if it will fit you; I am almost sure it will."

"All right," replied Janet; "I should enjoy a ride very much."

She hoped that during this ride she would be able to tell Bridget that
she had secured the obnoxious letter, and the first step of putting
the young girl completely in her power would begin.

She went with Miss O'Hara to her bedroom--an enormous room furnished
with oak, and strewn all over with costly knickknacks and ornaments.
The three large windows commanded an extensive view. They were wide
open, and Bridget when she entered the room went straight up to the
center one, and, clasping her hands, said in a low voice of passion:

"How I love you!"

"What do you love, Bridget?" asked Janet.

"My land--my Ireland," she said. "Oh, you can't understand. Please help
me to open this long drawer. I'll soon find your habit."

Janet assisted her with a will; the heavy drawer was tugged open, and a
neat dark blue habit, braided with silver, was pulled into view.

Janet slipped it on, and found that it fitted her perfectly.

"Take it to your room," said Bridget. "I am very glad it fits you; you
may want it many times while you are here."

"Yes, and I may want to take it away with me, too," murmured Janet in a
whisper to herself.

She went to her room, put on the dark, prettily made habit, and
looked at herself with much satisfaction in the glass. With a little
arrangement, Bridget's childish habit fitted Janet's neat figure like
a glove. She had never looked better than she did at this moment. The
rather severe dress gave her a certain almost distinguished appearance.
She ran downstairs in high spirits. Bridget was standing in the hall,
and the squire was also present to help the two girls to mount their
horses. He looked with pleasure at Janet, and said in a hearty tone:

"I am very glad that you can ride, my little girl. It isn't often that
Bridget gets anyone at all her equal in horsemanship to accompany her."

"Oh, father, you make a great mistake," exclaimed Bridget; "I have you."

"What's an old boy worth to a young colleen," he replied; but he smiled
at her with fond affection, and the horses being led up by a shabbily
dressed groom, Bridget sprang lightly into her seat on Wild Hawk's back.

He was a thoroughbred little Arab, with an eye of fire, a sensitive
mouth, and a jet-black shining skin. Miss Nelly was a pretty
roan-colored horse, but not a thoroughbred like Wild Hawk.

"You'll be thoroughly safe on Miss Nelly," said the squire to Janet.
"Yes, that's right, now take the reins, so! You had better not use the
whip, but here is one in case you happen to require it."

Janet nodded, smiled, and cantered after Bridget down the avenue.

Her heart was beating fast. She was not exactly nervous, but as her
riding in old times had been of the slightest and most superficial
kind, she was truly thankful to find that Miss Nelly was gentle in
temperament, and not thoroughbred, if to be thoroughbred meant starting
at every shadow, and turning eyes like dark jewels to look at the
smallest obstruction that appeared on the road.

"It's all right," said Bridget, noticing the uneasiness in Janet's
face. "Wild Hawk is a bit fresh, the beauty, but he'll quiet down and
go easily enough after I have taken it out of him a bit."

"What do you mean by 'taking it out of him,' Bridget? He does not seem
to care much for this easy sort of trot, and he really does start so
that he is making Miss Nelly quite nervous."

"Substitute Miss Janet for Miss Nelly," said Bridget, with a saucy curl
of her lips, "and you will get nearer to the truth. As to its being
taken out of the horse, you don't call this little easy amble anything?
Wait until we get on to the breezy hill, and then you will see what
kind of pranks Wild Hawk and I will play together."

"But nowhere near Miss Nelly, I hope," said Janet.

"Nowhere near Miss Nelly?" replied Bridget. "Dear me, Janet, you don't
suppose I am taking you out like this to lead you into any sort of
danger? I am not mean enough for that."

"Some girls would be mean enough," said Janet, almost in a whisper.

"Would they? Not the sort of girls I would have anything to do with.
Now, here we are on the top of the hill. Do you see these acres
and acres of common land which surround us, and do you notice that
small cottage or hovel which looks something like a speck in the far
distance? It is in that hovel that the poor people live whom I am going
to see. Now I mean to ride for that hovel straight as an arrow from a
bow. There are fences and sunk ditches in the way, but Wild Hawk and
I care for none of these things. You, my dear Janet, will follow this
little stony path on Miss Nelly's back; it is a considerable round to
the hovel over there on the horizon, but it is very safe, and you can
amble along as slowly as you please. I shall be at the cottage nearly
half an hour before you get to it, but what matter? Now then, Wild
Hawk, cheer up, my king; go like the wind, or like the bird after whom
you are named, my darling."

Bridget rode on a few paces in front of Janet; then she suddenly bent
forward, until her lips nearly touched Wild Hawk's arched neck. Janet
thought that the wild Irish girl had whispered a word to the wild
horse; the next moment the two were seen flying through space together.
The horse seemed to put wings to his feet, his slender feet scarcely
touched the ground. With the lightness and sureness of a bird he
cleared the fences which came in this way. Janet could not help drawing
in her breath with a deep sigh--half of envy, half of admiration.

"How splendid Bridget O'Hara is," she murmured; "such a figure, such a
face, such a bold, brave spirit! There is something about her which,
if the Fates were at all fair, even I could love. But they are not
fair," continued Janet, an angry flush filling her cheeks; "they have
given her too much, and me too little. I must help myself out of her
abundance, and there's noway of doing it but by humbling her."

So Janet rode gently along the stony path, and in the course of time
found herself drawing in her reins by the low mud hovel, which looked
to her scarcely like a human habitation.

The moment she appeared in sight two lean dogs of the cur species came
out and barked vociferously. Miss Nelly was, however, accustomed to the
barking of dogs, and did not take any notice. At the same instant a
stoutly built, gray-headed woman rushed out of the cabin and helped her
to alight.

Janet felt a slight sense of discomfort when she recognized in this
woman the person who had warned her not to drink the water of the Holy
Well. It was not in her nature, however, to show her discomfort, except
by an extra degree of pertness.

"How do you do?" she said, nodding to the woman, and springing to the
ground as she spoke. "I have not begun to dwindle yet, you see."

"Why, me dear, it is to be hoped not," answered Norah, in quick retort;
"for, faix! then, you are so small already that if you grow any less
there'll be nothing for the eye to catch hould of. But come into the
cottage, missy; Miss Biddy is sitting by Pat, and comforting the boy a
bit with her purty talk."

"Pat!" whispered Janet to herself. Her feeling of discomfort did not
grow less. The name of Pat seemed in some queer way familiar, but it
did not occur to her to connect it with the friends about whom Bridget
had cried at Mulberry Court.

She had to stoop her head to enter the hovel, and could not help
looking round the dirty little place with disgust.

"I have come, Biddy," she exclaimed. "I don't suppose you want to stay
long; this cottage is very, very close. I don't care to stop here
myself, but I can walk about while you are talking to your friends."

"Oh, pray, don't!" said Bridget, springing to her feet; "I want to
introduce you to Pat. Come here, please!" She seized Janet's small
wrist, and pulled her forward. "Mr. Patrick Donovan--Miss Janet May.
This man, Janet, whom I have introduced to you as Patrick Donovan, is
one of my very dearest friends."

"At your sarvice, miss," said Pat, blushing a fiery red, and pulling
his forelock awkwardly with one big, rather dirty hand.

He was a powerfully built man, with great shoulders, long legs, and
grisly hair curling round his chin and on his head. His eyes were dark
and deep-set; capable of ferocity, but capable also of the affectionate
devotion which characterizes the noblest sort of dog. He looked askance
at Janet, read the contempt in her glance, and turned to look at
Bridget with a humble, respectful, but adoring glance.

Norah had also entered the room; she was standing looking alternately
from Pat to Biddy. She was as plain as Patrick was the reverse, but the
love-light in her eyes, as she glanced at her suffering hero, would
have redeemed and rendered beautiful a far uglier face than hers.

"It's all right then, Pat," said Bridget, "we'll have the wedding next
week; you'll be fit to be moved then, and you shall come down from the
hills on a litter, and the wedding shall be at Castle Mahun, and the
feast shall be in our kitchen, and I'll give you your bride my own
self."

"Oh, Miss Biddy, long life to ye; the Heavens above presarve ye,"
murmured poor Norah, in a voice of ecstasy. "Oh, me boy, me boy, to
think as in the long last we'll be wed!"

"It's all right, Norah," said Pat, touching her forehead for a moment
with his big hand; "don't make a fuss, colleen, before the quality.
Keep yourself to yourself when there's strangers looking on."

"Who talks of Miss Biddy as a stranger?" said Norah, with fierce
passion.

"No one," said Pat; "but there's the young Englisher lady; may the God
above bless her, if she's a friend of yours though, Miss Biddy."

Bridget made no response to this. She rose and offered her chair to
Janet.

"Sit, Janet," she exclaimed; "there's a little matter I want to talk
over before we leave the cottage. You remember my telling you at
Mulberry Court about Pat's accident; you remember how troubled I was.
I wrote a letter to Pat and Norah, and you posted it. I gave you two
sovereigns to get a postal order to put into the letter. Now, a very
queer thing has happened. The letter arrived quite safely; here is the
letter; you see how neatly Pat has framed it; but the postal order
never arrived."

"That's thrue, Miss Biddy," exclaimed Norah. "Here's all as was in the
letter, as sure as I'm standing up in my stockinged feet this minute."

"I put the postal order in," said Janet, in a careless voice; "what
else should I do? I suppose your postmen here aren't honest."

"Why then, miss, that's a bould thing to say of Mike Carthy," answered
Pat, in a low, angry voice, which resembled a growl.

"I thought you might be able to throw some light on the matter," said
Bridget, "but it seems you cannot. We must be going home now, so I
shall have to say good-by, Pat. Norah, you can come down to the Castle
for some fresh eggs to-morrow, and I'll get Molly Malone to make up a
basket of all sorts of good things to strengthen Pat for his wedding."

"You won't forget a wee dhrop of the crathur, lady?" muttered the
giant, looking up into Biddy's face.

"No, no, that I won't, Pat, my poor fellow."

Bridget wrung her retainer's hand, and a moment or two later she and
Janet were on their homeward way.

"Now, look here," said Bridget, when the girls had gone a little
distance in almost unbroken silence; "I wish to say something; I shan't
talk about it when we get home, but out here we are both on equal
ground, and I can talk my mind freely and fully. I watched your face
when we were in that little cottage, Janet, and I am quite certain you
know something about those two sovereigns which I gave you to post to
Pat Donovan."

"What if I do?" retorted Janet.

"You have got to tell me the truth," answered Bridget. "If what I
suspect is the case, I shall not ask Aunt Kathleen to do anything to
shorten your stay at Castle Mahun; I shall not breathe the knowledge
that is given to me, to a soul in the house; but I myself will never
speak to you again. A few bare civilities it will be necessary for me
to offer, but beyond this I shall never address you. My silence will
not be noticed, for everyone else will be kind; but I--I tell you
plainly that, if what I suspect is true, I will _not_ associate with
you."

"Will you kindly tell me your suspicions?" replied Janet.

"I think--oh! it's an awful thing to say--I think that you took those
two sovereigns and put them into your own pocket."

"And because of that, supposing it to be true, you will not speak to
me?"

"I will not!"

"But I tell you that you will; you will speak to me, and pet me, and
fawn on me, even though you regard me as a thief--there!"

"I won't, Janet; I am a proud Irish girl, and I can't."

"You are a very cowardly, mean Irish girl. You are not a bit the sort
of creature that people imagine you to be!" replied Janet, who was now
almost overcome by the passion which choked her. "You talk of speaking
quite openly and frankly, because we are on the hills together. I, too,
will give you a piece of my mind out here, with no one to listen to us."

"No one to listen to us!" said Bridget, her face growing pale; "oh,
you forget, you must forget, there is Nature herself, her voice in the
breeze, and in the twitter of the birds, and her face looking up at us
from the earth, and her smile looking down at us from the sky. I should
be awfully afraid to tell a lie out here, alone with Nature."

"My dear, I have no intention of telling any lies to you. I do breathe
tarradillies now and then; I am not too proud to confess it. You would,
too, if you were situated like me; but I don't waste them on people
whom it is necessary to be honest with. I did keep that money; it was
far more useful to me than it would be to that Patrick of yours. He
didn't want it, and I did. You were full of pity for him, but you had
not a scrap of pity to bestow on me, so I had to pity myself, and I did
so by taking your money. I found it most useful. But for it, Sophy and
I would not now be at Castle Mahun. I hoped what I did would never be
discovered. Well, it has been, but it does not greatly matter, as you
are the one to make the discovery."

"What do you mean? what can you mean?"

"What I say; you can send me to prison, of course, and ruin me for
life, but you won't, for your own sake. See what I have done to save
you!"

Janet put her hand into her pocket and pulled out the Eastcliff letter.

She held it aloft, and laughed in her companion's face. "You won't be
hard on me now, Biddy," she said, in the tones of one addressing an
equal. "If I have been a thief--it is an ugly word, and there is no
use in speaking it again; if I have been a thief, you, too, have done
something which you are ashamed of. That something has been discovered
at Mulberry Court, and this letter contains a full account of it. Your
aunt, Lady Kathleen, was to read it first, and then, of course, in the
ordinary course, your father would have heard the whole disgraceful
story. Little as you think of me, I have saved you from disgrace,
Biddy, my love. You are fond of Nature, but Nature won't tell tales. If
you will promise to respect the secret you have discovered about me, I
will respect your secret; I will tear up this letter, here on this wild
hilltop, and Nature shall bury the tell-tale pieces as she wills and
where she likes. Here is the letter, Biddy; I have saved you. Ought you
not to be obliged to me?"

A queer change came over Bridget while Janet was speaking; a certain
nobleness seemed to go out of her figure; she looked less like part of
Wild Hawk than she had done five minutes ago; the color receded from
her cheeks; her eyes lost their proud fire, her lips their proud smile.

"How did you manage to get that letter?" she whispered in a low tone.

"I am not going to tell you, my darling; I have got it, and that ought
to be enough for you. Now, are we each to respect the secret of the
other, or not?"

"Oh, I don't know; it seems so dreadful."

"It is rather dreadful, dear; I admit that. If you go and tell your
father and Lady Kathleen about me, and about what I have just confessed
to you, I shall have a very uncomfortable time. I shall be thoroughly
and completely ruined, but in my ruin I shall pull you down too,
Bridget, from the pedestal which you now occupy. It would be easy for
me to put this letter back where Lady Kathleen will be able to lay her
hands on it; in that case she will read it, and your father will know
everything. I shall be ruined, and you will have a very unpleasant
time. You must choose now what you will do; shall we both go on
appearing what we are not? I, a modest, good-natured little girl, who
never did an underhand trick in my life, and you--you, Biddy, the soul,
the essence of what an Irishman calls honor."

"Oh, don't," said Bridget, "you make my eyes burn; you make me feel
so small and wicked. Janet, why do you tempt me so awfully? Janet, I
wish--I wish that I had never, never known you."

"My dear, I can't echo your wish. I am glad that I have met you, for
you can be very useful to me; but now you have got to choose; shall I
put the letter back in Lady Kathleen's room, or shall I tear it up?"

"But, even if you do tear it up," said Bridget, "the evil day is only
delayed. When my aunt does not reply to Mrs. Freeman's letter, she will
soon write her another, and Aunt Kathleen will perhaps find out that
you took the letter."

"I don't think she will; she is the kind of erratic person who won't in
the least remember where she put her letter, and not having a clew, why
should she suspect me of taking it?"

"But Mrs. Freeman will write again."

"When she does there will be time enough to consider the right steps to
take. She won't write for a week or a fortnight, and a great deal can
happen in that time. If the worst comes to the worst, it will be quite
possible for me to obtain possession of her next letter."

"O Janet, I can't listen to you; your suggestions are too dreadful."

"All right, my dear." Janet slipped the letter into her pocket. "I
know Lady Kathleen's room," she continued, "and I shall manage to put
this letter back on her dressing table when I go in. Who's that coming
to meet us? Oh, I declare, it is Squire O'Hara! How well your father
rides, Bridget! what a handsome man he is!"

Bridget felt as if she should choke; the squire's loud, hearty voice
was heard in the distance.

"Hullo, colleens; there you are!" he shouted. "I thought I'd bring the
General round in this direction; I had a curiosity to see how you were
managing Miss Nelly, my dear." He bowed as he spoke to Janet. "I see
you keep your seat very nicely. And you, Biddy--eh, my jewel--why, you
look tired. Has Wild Hawk been too much for you?"

"Not a bit, father; I am as right as possible." Bridget turned swiftly
to Janet as she uttered these words.

"I will give you your answer to-morrow," she said in a low tone; "give
me until to-morrow to decide."




CHAPTER XXIII.

UNDER A SPELL.


Lady Kathleen did not make much fuss over the loss of her letter.

"It's a queer thing," she said that evening to the squire, as they all
sat round the supper table, "but I can't lay my hand on the letter with
the Eastcliff post-mark. I made sure that I slipped it into the pocket
of the striped lilac silk dress I wore this morning; but I didn't, and
I can't imagine where I dropped it."

"Well, my dear, we had better send someone to look for it," said the
squire. "That is the letter with all the praise of Biddy in it, isn't
it?"

"Squire, you're nothing but a doting old father," replied Lady
Kathleen; "you think no one looks at that girl of yours without making
a fuss over her. She's a good bit of a thing--I am the last person to
deny that; but from the little I saw of Mulberry Court she was no more
than any other girl there--indeed, I think our little Janet had wormed
herself more into the good graces of the school than my jewel of a
Biddy. It's my opinion that the letter contained no more and no less
than just the account of the term's expenses, and a request for a check
in payment."

"Oh, then, if that's all, it can keep," said Squire O'Hara. "Mr.
O'Hagan, I'll trouble you to pass me the whisky bottle, sir. What's
that you are saying, Kathleen?"

"I may lay my hand on it in some out-of-the-way corner," said Lady
Kathleen; "if not, I'll write in a day or two to Mrs. Freeman, and tell
her that it just got lost. Letters are no end of bother, in my opinion;
busy people have really no time to read them. Now, my colleen, what
ails you? Why, you're quite white in the cheeks, and you're not eating
your usual hearty supper! Don't you fancy that sweetbread, Bridget?"

"Yes, Aunt Kathleen, I am enjoying it very much," said Bridget. "I am
quite well, too," she added under her breath.

The next morning Janet came into Bridget's room.

"I won't stay a minute," she said; "but I just thought I'd save you the
trouble of a decision, so I tore up the letter last night, and burnt
the bits in my candle before I went to sleep. You can't get it back
now, even if you wish to be honorable--which I know you don't--so there
is a weight off your mind. I told you how Lady Kathleen would take it.
What a blessing it is that she is that scatter-brained sort of woman!"

"You oughtn't to speak against her," began Bridget in a feeble tone.

"Oh, oughtn't I, my love? Well, I won't another time. Now we are all
going for a pleasure party on the lake; won't you join us?"

"I don't think so," said Biddy; "you two girls and Patrick and Gerald
can do very well without me. I want to see my father about Pat
Donovan's wedding, and----"

"By the way," said Janet, "is it true that we are all going out to high
tea at some outlandish place ten miles away?"

"It is true that we are going to Court Macsherry," said Bridget; "but I
don't think you will call it an outlandish place when you see it."

"I can't say," retorted Janet; "and, what is more, I do not care. Your
wild Ireland does not come up to my idea at all. I don't care twopence
about natural beauties. But I have a little bit of news for you, my
pet. Who do you think we'll see at Court Macsherry?"

"The Mahonys and their guests," replied Bridget. "I don't know of
anyone else."

"Well--you'll be rather startled--Evelyn Percival is there! I had
a letter this morning from Susy Price, and she told me so. Now, of
course, I don't care in the very least about Evelyn. I dislike her
quite as much as you dislike her; but I want to look very smart and
fresh when I go to Court Macsherry, and I want my poor little Sophy
also to look as trim and bright as a daisy; so, as you are going to
stay at home this morning, Biddy, you might look out for some little
ornaments to lend us both."

"Ornaments to lend you!" retorted Bridget, opening her eyes. "What do
you mean? Even if I wished to lend you my clothes they would not fit
either of you."

"Your dresses wouldn't fit us, of course; but there are lots of other
things--sashes, for instance, and necklets, and hats, and we wouldn't
mind a pretty parasol each, and we should feel most grateful for some
of your embroidered handkerchiefs. I have got that sweet, pretty dress
Lady Kathleen gave me for the bazaar, but poor little Sophy has really
nothing fit to appear in; and you must admit that she's a pretty little
creature, and would look sweet if she were well dressed. I dare say you
have got some white embroidered dresses you used to wear before you
grew so tall and gawky, and if there were a tuck put into one of them,
little Sophy would look very well in it. I should like her to have a
pale blue sash to wear with it, and some large blue Venetian beads to
put around her neck. Oh, a young girl needn't have much dress, if it's
good. You'll see about it, Bridget, won't you, and have it ready in our
room when we come back from our boating expedition?"

Janet ran out of the room as she spoke, slamming the door rather
noisily behind her.

Bridget, whose face was white with passion, felt quite too stunned even
to move for a minute or two. Then she clenched her hands, walked to the
window, and looked out.

"What have I done?" she murmured. "How can I allow myself to get into
that horrid girl's power? Oh, surely it would be much, much better to
tell my father everything."

She leaned out of the open window, and looked down on the terrace. Her
father was lounging on one of the rustic benches. He was smoking a
pipe, and Bruin was lying at his feet. Looking at him from her window,
Bridget fancied that his old figure looked tired, more bent than usual,
more aged than she had ever before noticed it.

"I can't, I won't give him pain!" murmured the girl fiercely. "I'd
rather be under the power of twenty people like Janet than break his
heart. But, O Biddy, Biddy O'Hara, what a wicked, senseless girl you
have been!"

"Is that you, acushla?" called the squire up to her. "Come right
downstairs this minute, and let me hear all your fine plans for Norah's
and Pat's wedding. What a colleen you are for planning and contriving!
But come away down at once, and let me hear what's at the back of your
head."

"Yes, father, in a minute!"

Bridget rushed over to her glass. She looked anxiously at her fair,
bright face; it reflected back little or nothing of the loathing with
which she regarded herself.

"Oh, what a living lie you are!" she said, clenching her fist at it.
"Oh, if father but knew what a base daughter he has got! But he mustn't
know. He must never, never know!"

She ran down and joined her father on the terrace.

He put his arm round her, made room for her to seat herself by his
side, and the two began eagerly to talk and to make arrangements for
the coming wedding.

"But you're out of spirits, my darling," said Dennis O'Hara suddenly.
"Oh, you needn't try to hide it from me, Biddy. Your heart and soul
aren't in your words; I can tell that in the wink of an eye. What's up
with you, mavourneen?"

"I'll tell you one thing, daddy; I hate--I loathe school!"

"Well, now," said the squire, "I have no fancy for schools myself;
it was your aunt's wish. But your aunt, Biddy"--here a twinkle came
into his eye--"your aunt rules us, not with a rod of iron--oh, by no
means--but just with the little, soft, coaxing, and yet determined ways
which no one can withstand. She worked on my feelings for nearly two
years, Biddy O'Hara. She said you were a fine girl, and a good one, but
that you knew nothing, and that if you were ever to be of any use in
the world you must go to school."

"Well, father," said Bridget, "did you really think in your own heart
when you and I were alone at Castle Mahun that I knew nothing? What
about the music we made in the old hall in the winter evenings? and
what about that time when I saved Minerva's life, and what about my
dancing? I think, somehow or other, I have a little bit of education,
father, and I doubt very much if I have really learned anything at
school."

"But you will, my pet, you will. These are early days, and you will
learn at school. You will learn that sort of things that will make you
a fine lady by and by."

"Father," said Bridget, "I don't want to be a fine lady."

She put her arms suddenly round his neck, and looked into his eyes.
"Fine ladies are not good, father--they are not good. A girl can be
wild and ignorant, and yet good, very good; but a fine lady--oh, I hate
the thought of her!"

"How excited you are, Biddy mavourneen, and how strangely you are
talking! Whoever thought of your not being the best sort of fine lady,
and what fine lady, except your poor Aunt Kathie, have you ever seen,
child?"

"I have never seen any; but I feel down in my heart what they are like;
and I will never resemble them, even if I spend fifty years in school.
Now let us talk of Minerva and her pups. What are you going to do with
the pups?"

The conversation turned into channels of a purely domestic nature, and
Biddy, as she talked, forgot the cares which harassed and filled her
soul.

The young people soon returned from their expedition on Lake Crena.
Patrick and Gerald both seemed very much excited, Janet looked resolved
and defiant, Sophy alarmed.

"What's the matter with you, Patrick?" said the squire. "I see mischief
in that eye of yours. What are you after?"

"Oh, nothing, uncle, nothing," replied the lad. "It is only that Miss
Janet May has been rubbing me up. She doesn't believe any of the
stories I tell her about Lake Crena."

"Of course I don't," said Janet. "Who would believe a schoolboy's wild
chattering nonsense?"

Patrick's black eyes flashed.

"Come, come," said the squire soothingly, and looking with half appeal
at Janet; "this fine lad is close on seventeen. He is scarcely to be
termed a schoolboy."

"Oh, well, it does not matter what he is called," continued Janet. "If
I thought he were only joking, I shouldn't mind; but when he tells me
in sober earnest that a witch does live in the island in the center of
the lake; that she comes out on winter nights and curses the people who
sail on the lake; and, in short, that she's a sort of malevolent old
dame who belongs to the Dark Ages, I simply refuse to believe him."

The squire looked rather startled while Janet was speaking.

"You shouldn't talk of these things," he said to Patrick. "It's all
stuff and nonsense. Lake Crena is Lake Crena, the sweetest, sunniest
spot in the world all through the summer months; in the winter she is
the Witch's Cauldron, and we leave her alone, that's all. Now, young
folks, come in to lunch."

Janet did not say anything further, but when in the course of the
afternoon the whole party were driving in a great big wagonette to
Court Macsherry, Patrick and she found themselves side by side.

"Look here," he said to her then, "are you willing to stick to your
word?"

"To what word?" she asked.

"Why, you said that you didn't believe in the Witch?"

"No more I do. How could I be so silly?"

"Hush! Don't talk so loud; Uncle Dennis will hear us. Well, now, I'll
put faith in your bravery if you'll stick to what you said. You said
you wouldn't mind spending from nine till twelve any night alone on the
Witch's Island. Will you do it?"

"As far as the Witch is concerned, I certainly will."

"What do you mean by 'as far as the Witch is concerned'? There is
certainly no one else likely to trouble you. There is a little
broken-down arbor on the island where you can sit, and Gerald and I
will row you over, and come for you again after midnight."

"But," said Janet, "if I promise to do this, you and Gerald won't play
me any trick, will you? I know what schoolboys are capable of. I used
to stay at a house once where there were lots of boys. I was a little
tot at the time, but they did lead me a life."

"I should rather think they did," said Patrick, winking one of his
black eyes solemnly at his brother, who was regarding the two from the
opposite side of the wagonette with suppressed merriment.

"Well," said Janet, "I know quite well what boys are like; and I'm
not going to give myself up to their tender mercies. Of course I
don't believe in that silly, stupid story about the Witch, but I do
think that you and that fine Gerald of yours over there would be
quite capable of playing me a trick, and dressing up as the Witch, or
something of that sort. If you both promise on your honor--and Irishmen
seem to think a great lot of their honor--if you'll both promise that
you'll do nothing mean of that sort, why I'll go to the Witch's Island
any night you like, and stay there from nine till twelve o'clock."

"That's all right," said Patrick. "Gerry and I will give you our solemn
promise that we'll take you there and go away again, and come back at
midnight to fetch you, and that we won't do anything to frighten you
ourselves, nor, as far as we can tell, allow anyone else to play a
trick on you. There, now, are you satisfied?"

"I suppose I am."

"What night will you go?"

"To-morrow night, if you wish."

"That will do finely. The moon will be at her full from nine till
twelve to-morrow night, and if the Witch comes out of her lair you will
have a grand opportunity to get a good view of her. Well, then, that's
all right; only you mustn't tell anybody what you're going to do, for,
hark ye, Miss May, my Uncle Dennis over there believes in that Witch as
he believes in his own life. You wouldn't catch _him_ spending three
hours alone on that island; no, not for anybody under the sun."

Bridget had felt very angry when Janet had coolly proposed that she and
her sister should be decked out in her finery; but, angry as she was,
the spell which was over her was sufficiently potent to make her comply
with the audacious request which had been made to her. Accordingly,
Janet and Sophy looked wonderfully smart when they took off their light
dust cloaks in the enormous square oak hall at Court Macsherry. There
is really very little difference between one soft coral pink sash and
another, between one row of sky-blue Venetian beads and another row;
and although Aunt Kathie, with one flashing glance of her bright eyes,
discovered that the sashes with which the May girls were ornamented,
and the beads which encircled their pretty throats, belonged to
Bridget, no one else guessed this for a moment. The Mays looked extra
smart and extra pretty, but Biddy had taken less pains than usual with
her own dress. It was rich and expensive in texture, as almost all
her clothes were, but it was put on untidily, and was too heavy and
hot-looking for this lovely summer evening. Her cheeks were flushed,
too, and her eyes too bright. She looked like a girl who might be ill
presently, and when Evelyn Percival, running down to meet her friends,
asked Biddy if she had a headache, she had to own to the fact that
this was the case.

Evelyn was not a pretty girl, but her sweet, kind face looked full
of pleasantness to Bridget to-night. Her eyes had such an open,
truthful way of looking at one, her lips were so kindly in their
curves, her voice so pleasant in its tone, that Squire O'Hara, as he
said afterward, fell in love with her on the spot. There were several
handsome young Irish girls living at Court Macsherry, and Evelyn looked
only like a very pale little flower among them; nevertheless, the
squire singled her out for special and marked approval.

"So you are one of my colleen's schoolfellows!" he said. "Well, well,
everyone to their taste, but I should have thought Lady Kathleen would
have asked _you_ to come and stay with us at Castle Mahun."

"I shall be very glad to come over with my cousins to see you some
day," replied Evelyn. "I am not Irish, but I love Ireland, and I think
Court Macsherry the sweetest place in the world."

"Oh, it isn't bad," said Dennis O'Hara. "I am not going to deny that it
is a fine bit of land, and notwithstanding those big bogs to the left
there, well cultivated. It might be improved by a bit of water, for
instance, but it isn't for me to disparage my neighbor's property."

"My Cousin Norry has been telling me about your Lake Crena," said
Evelyn. "I should like to see it!"

"So you shall, my dear; you'll admire it fine. It is as good as the
sea to us; there isn't its like in all the country round. When the
sun shines on its bosom it is a sight to be remembered, and as to the
moonlight effects, why they're just ravishing. Come and take a walk
with me on this terrace, my dear; I want to ask you about my girl
Biddy. She don't seem to take to that English school of yours, and I
must own that I'm scarcely surprised. That colleen of mine is a wild
sort of bird-like thing, and if you have a good many primity ways at
school, I don't wonder she can't abide them. Do you see much of her,
Miss Percival? You look about the same age, and I suppose you are in
the same class."

"I am older than Bridget," said Evelyn Percival. "Bridget is a great
deal taller and bigger than any other girl of fifteen in the school."

"Well, do you see much of her?"

"Not as much as I should like. The fact is----"

"What is it, my dear? you might confide in the colleen's father; if
there is anything I ought to know.

"I can't exactly say there is, except--oh, perhaps I ought not to say
it."

"But, indeed, you ought. I can see by your eyes that you are a
truthful, good sort of girl, and though I have only known you ten
minutes, I'd like my wild colleen to be friends with you. What is it
now? What's in your mind?"

"I don't at all like to tell you; but the fact is, I was most anxious
to be fond of Biddy."

"Yes, my dear, yes; I'm scarcely surprised at that."

"I felt attracted to her the moment I saw her; she was so different
from the other girls. Of course, she didn't know the meaning of rules,
but there was something about her wonderfully fresh and pleasant, and I
and my friend Dorothy Collingwood would have done anything in our power
to make school life easy to her."

"You don't mean to tell me that it wasn't easy? Why, she's about as
clever a bit of a thing as you could find."

"I don't think anyone denies that; she has not been taught in the
ordinary way, so, of course, she could not get into a high class; but
that is not the point. I'd have been friends with her, the best of
friends, if she hadn't repulsed me."

"Biddy repulse you! She never repulsed mortal in her whole life, the
poor darling!"

"I don't think it was her fault; indeed, I am sure it was not, but--and
this is the thing that I don't at all like to say--she was, I am
convinced, influenced against me by another."

"By another? Who? If you have a nasty sort of girl at the school, she
ought to be got rid of. Whom do you mean?"

"I can't bear to tell you, and I may be wrong, but we do think, Dorothy
and I, that Biddy would be much, much happier at Mulberry Court but for
Janet May."

"Phew!" the Squire drew a long breath; "that pretty little visitor
of mine? Lady Kathleen invited her and seemed much taken with her.
She told me that Janet was Biddy's dearest friend; but, now that you
mention it, I do not see the colleen much with her. You don't mean to
tell me?--oh, but I mustn't hear a word against one of my visitors."

"I don't want to say anything, only that Dolly and I are sorry about
Bridget, and we are--I must say it frankly--not at all fond of Janet."

"Maybe you're prejudiced; she's a pretty creature, and seems to mean
well."

The great bell in the yard at Court Macsherry sounded a tremendous peal
for supper.

"That's right," said the squire heartily; "that's a grateful sort of
sound when a man is starving, as I happen to be. Let me give you my
arm, Miss Percival. I'll never breathe what you have said, of course;
but I should be glad if you could do a kindness to my girl next term."

"I will do my very utmost to help her," said Evelyn heartily.

The guests had now assembled in the great dining hall, where a groaning
board awaited them.

The squire looked down the long table. Biddy was nowhere to be seen.

"Where can the girl be?" he said under his breath. Somebody else
remarked her absence, and Patrick immediately started up to go and look
for her.




CHAPTER XXIV.

NORAH TO THE RESCUE.


Bridget had wandered away by herself. She knew her cousins, the Mahonys
of Court Macsherry, too well to stand on the least ceremony with them.
The load which crushed against her heart seemed to grow heavier each
moment. Her only desire was to be alone.

She knew a spot where no one was likely to disturb her, and, catching
up the long train of her rich dress, she ran swiftly until she found
a solitary tree which stood a little apart from its fellows, and hung
over the borders of the great, big bog which formed a large portion of
the Court Macsherry estate.

Bridget climbed up into the hollow of the oak tree, and leaning back
against its big trunk, looked out over the dismal, ugly bog. Her brows
were drawn down, her beautiful lips drooped petulantly, she pushed
back her rich hair from her brow. Her quaint many-colored dress, the
background formed by the oak tree, the effect of the wild country which
lay before her, gave to her own features a queer weirdness; and a
passing traveler, had any been near, might have supposed her to be one
of the fabled hamadryads of the oak.

No travelers, however, were likely to see Bridget where she had now
ensconced herself. She sat quite still for nearly an hour, then
dropping her head on her hands she gave way to a low, bitter moan.

She had scarcely done so before there was a rustling sound heard in
the grass. It was pushed aside in the place where it grew longest and
thickest, and a woman raised her head and looked up at her.

"Eh, mavourneen?" she said, in a voice of deep love and pity.

The woman was Norah Maloney. She had seen Biddy as she ran across the
grass to her seat in the oak tree, and had crept softly after her,
happy and content to lie silent and unobserved in the vicinity of her
adored young mistress.

Norah was a _protégée_ of the Mahonys as well as the O'Haras, and
thought nothing of walking from one estate to the other. She crouched
motionless in the long grass, scarcely daring to breathe or discover
her vicinity in any way, until Biddy's heartbroken moan reached her
ears.

Uncontrollable pity then overcame all other feelings. Her child, her
darling was unhappy. Come what might, Norah must comfort her.

"Eh, mavourneen?" she said then. "Core of me heart, you're in throuble!
What can Norah do for yez?"

"I am unhappy, Norah!" said Bridget. She sprang out of the oak tree as
she spoke. "O Norah, Norah!" she exclaimed, clasping the old servant's
horny hand; "don't tell anyone--don't, don't for the life of you,
Norah; but I hate Janet May."

"That young Englisher colleen?" said Norah, her eyes flashing angry
fire. "Eh, but she's a cowld-hearted foreigner. Eh, but it isn't me nor
Pat nayther that's took with her ways."

"It's dreadful of me to say anything," continued Bridget. "She's my
visitor, and I have told you that I hated her. Forget it, Norah--forget
it."

"Secret as the grave I'll keep it," replied Norah, with emphasis.

Bridget ran back to the house, and the old servant, with a certain
stealthy movement, which was more or less habitual to her, glided away
through the long grass. She walked two or three hundred yards in this
fashion, then she came to a stile which led directly to the dusty and
forsaken highroad. Here Norah stooped down and carefully removed her
thick hobnailed shoes and coarse, gray woolen stockings. She thrust
the stockings into her capacious pocket, and tying the shoes together
with a coarse piece of string, slung them over her arm. After this, she
kilted her petticoats an inch or two higher, and the next moment began
to run swiftly and silently over the dusty road. Her movements were
full of ease, and even grace. Her bare feet quickly covered the ground.

She ran with a certain swing, which did not abate in speed as she flew
over the road. Mile after mile she went in this fashion, never once
losing her breath, or appearing in the least inconvenienced by her
rapid motion. At last she turned up a narrow mountain path. Here the
ground was very rough, and she was obliged to go slowly, but even here
her bare feet carried her with unerring surety. She neither slipped nor
stumbled, and never once faltered in her swift upward course.

After going up the mountain for nearly half a mile, she came suddenly
upon the little shanty or mud hut where Pat, the boy whom Norah loved,
lay flat on his back on a rude bed of straw.

Norah lifted the latch of the door, and came in.

"Here's poor Norah back, Pat," she said. "And how are you, alanna? Is
it dhry ye feels and lonesome? Well, then, here's Norah to give wather
for your thirst, and news to fill your heart."

"Why, then, Norah, you look spent and tired," said Pat. "And what's up
now, girl, and why did you come up the cliff as if you had the hounds
at your heels?"

"Bekaze I had some news," said Norah, "and my heart burned to tell it
to yez. I have gone over a good bit of ground to-day, Pat, and I put
two and two together. I said the young Englisher wasn't afther no good,
and well I knows it now. It's our Miss Bridget has a sore heart; and
why should she have it for the loikes of her?"

Pat Donovan was a man of very few words, but he raised his big head now
from its pillow, and fixed his glittering black eyes on the old and
anxious face of Norah with keen interest.

"Spake out what's in yer mind, girl," he said. "Thim what interferes
with our Miss Biddy 'ull have cause to wish themselves out of Ould
Oireland before many days is over."

"Thrue for yez, Pat," said Norah; "and glad I am that I has come to a
right-hearted boy like yourself, for I knew as you'd see the rights of
it, and maybe rid Miss Bridget of an enemy."

"Spake," said Pat, "and don't sit there running round and round the
subject; spake, Norah, and tell me what you're after!"

"Well, then, it's this," said Norah. "Be a token which I can't reveal,
for I promised faithfully I wouldn't, our Miss Biddy is fit to break
her heart bekaze of that young Englisher. Now, I know that to-morrow
night Miss Janet May is going to the Witch's Island, jest for the sake
of brag, and to prove that she don't hould by no witches nor fairies,
nor nothing of that sort; and the young gentlemen'll take her over
to the island at nine o'clock, and they'll go to fetch her again at
twelve, and what I say, Pat, is this----"

"Whist!" said Pat, raising his big hand, and a look of mystery coming
over his face; "whist, Norah, mavourneen, you come over here and sit
nigh me, and let's talk the matter over."




CHAPTER XXV.

HER MAJESTY THE WITCH.


Janet enjoyed the feeling that Bridget was now in her power. She had
something of the cat nature, and she liked to torture this very fine
and rare specimen of mouse which she had unexpectedly caught. She was
so clever, however, that no one suspected her of anything but the
heartiest friendship for Bridget. Even the squire, whose eyes were more
or less opened by Evelyn's talk, and who watched Janet now with intense
scrutiny, could see nothing to object to in her.

"It is a pity that other nice colleen should have those jealous
thoughts," he said to himself; "that little Miss May is as nice and
good-hearted a bit of a thing as I have come across for many a day.
I can see by the very way she walks, and eats, and looks, that she's
just devoted to Biddy; and, for the matter of that, who can wonder, for
everybody likes my colleen."

The weather was very beautiful just now, and the young people spent
almost all their time in the open air. Bridget, who had avoided
the society of the other young folks yesterday, seemed quite to
have recovered her good spirits to-day, and merry laughter made the
beautiful old place seem more gay and cheerful than ever. Patrick,
however, and Gerald, for some reason or other, as the day advanced, did
not look quite at ease. Supper was at eight at Castle Mahun, and it
was arranged that immediately after that meal the boys should row Janet
over to the island and leave her there. The secret was to be revealed
to no one, but for some reason it did not give them the complete
satisfaction it had done yesterday.

They were kind-hearted lads, and although they had plenty of mischief
in their composition, would not willingly hurt anyone. They were
as superstitious as Irish lads could be, and as the fateful hour
approached Patrick called his younger brother aside.

"Have you anchored the boat quite snug under the big willow," he asked,
"where Uncle Dennis won't get a glimpse of it? He'd be sure to be mad
if he thought we were going on Lake Crena to-night."

"And why to-night," asked Gerald, "more than any other night? The lake
is as safe a place as your bed, except from September to March. Why
shouldn't we have a row on Lake Crena to-night, Pat?"

"For the best of good reasons," said Pat. "The full moon is just
beginning to wane to-night; that is the only night in the month when
the Witch gets restless. I am sorry, for my part, that I asked Miss May
to go to the island. I made sure, of course, that she'd funk it when it
came to the point; I never guessed that she'd go on with it. Whatever
she is, she's plucky; I'll say that for her."

"I don't see that she's so plucky," retorted Gerry; "she doesn't
believe in the Witch, you know--she laughs when we speak about her."

"But suppose--suppose she--she sees her," said Patrick, his big black
eyes growing full of gloom, and even fear. "Gerry, I'd never forgive
myself if I did such a dastardly thing as to give a poor girl like that
a real fright."

Gerald looked reflective.

"I don't think the Witch walks about until past eleven," he said, "and
why shouldn't we go back for Janet at eleven? She'll have spent two
hours on the island then, and will be quite satisfied with herself."

"Yes, that's all very fine, and then she'll boast to the end of her
days that we haven't got a witch."

"Well, even that is better than to give her such a rousing fright that
she'll be deprived of her senses. There's the supper gong, Pat; we must
go into the house. Uncle Dennis will suspect something if we are not
tucking-in as hard as possible in a minute or two from now."

"I can't help it, I am too anxious to eat," said Pat. "I wish I hadn't
thought of the thing. Of course, I see we must go through with it now;
she'd brag all her days that we had only pretended about the Witch if
we didn't. But I vow I'll--I'll stay somewhere near and--and watch--I
vow I will. Come along into the house, Gerry, and keep your own
counsel, if you can; you have such a way of getting your face full of
your thoughts that people can almost read them."

"If there is roley-poley pudding for supper," said Gerry, "I'll get my
thoughts packed full of that, and my face too. The roley-poley pudding
expression is innocent enough, isn't it?"

Pat gave his brother a playful cuff on the ear, and they went into the
house together.

Janet was seated near Lady Kathleen. Her face was absolutely tranquil.
So unconcerned and serene was its expression that Gerry, as he passed
her chair, could not forbear bending forward and whispering in her ear:

"I guess you're funking it."

Janet's blue-gray eyes looked calmly up at him.

"I have nothing to funk," she replied, in the same low tone.

The squire shouted to Gerald to take his seat, and the meal proceeded.

Very soon after supper Gerald and Patrick disappeared. They ran down a
shady walk, and soon reached the old willow tree under which the boat
was moored.

"She'll funk it for sure and certain," said Gerry again.

"No, that's not her," replied Patrick; "and, hark! do you hear her
footstep? Here she comes! For my part, I wish we were well out of this."

"There's no help for it now," retorted Gerald; "she'd laugh at us all
our born days if we didn't go on with it. Well, Miss May, and so your
ladyship is pleased to accept our escort to the Witch's Island."

Gerry made a low bow as he spoke, and pulling off his somewhat tattered
straw hat, touched the ground with it ere he replaced it on the back of
his curly head.

Janet was seen leisurely approaching. She carried a little white shawl
over her arm, and a yellow-backed novel in her other hand.

"I say," exclaimed Patrick, coming up to her, "you don't mean to tell
me you are going to read?"

"And why not?" replied Janet; "it would be rather dull work sitting
for three hours in that island doing nothing. See what I have also
brought--a box of matches and a piece of candle. You say there's a
little old summerhouse there--in that summerhouse I'll sit and read
'Pretty Miss Neville.' I assure you, boys, the time will pass very
quickly and agreeably."

"You have some spunk in you," said Patrick, in a tone of genuine
admiration. His black eyes flashed fire with the admiration he felt for
the slim pale girl who was brave enough to despise the superstitious
terrors which overmastered himself.

There was no horse in the country round about that Patrick O'Mahony
would not have mounted; the most terrible danger could not have daunted
his spirit. His physical courage had never known the point where fear
could conquer it; but he owned to himself that he would have shrunk
in abject terror from the very simple feat of sitting for three hours
alone in the Witch's Island.

"If you'd like to get out of it," he said suddenly, "Gerry and I will
never tell--will we, Gerry?"

"No, truth and honor!" replied Gerald.

"You see you have proved your pluck," continued Patrick. "It would be
awfully dull for you staying for three hours alone on the island."

"Not at all, I assure you," replied Janet; "I have my book and my
candle. Help me into the boat, please, gentlemen, or I shall begin to
think you are a fine pair of little humbugs."

"Oh, if that is your way of putting it," said Patrick, his quick temper
easily roused, "we had better start at once. Come along, Gerry; help me
to unmoor the boat. Now, Miss Janet, jump in, if you please."

Five minutes later, Janet May found herself alone on the tiny patch of
ground which went by the name of the Witch's Island.

It consisted of a thickly wooded piece of land rising up in the very
center of Lake Crena, and about three-quarters of an acre in size.
There was a little landing-place where some of the thick trees had been
cleared away. Here, high and dry, and well out of reach of the water,
stood a rude summerhouse. Janet waited alone on the little strip of
quay until the boat, turning a tiny headland, was lost to view; then
she went into the summerhouse, and lighting her candle sat down on a
broken-down bench, placed the candle securely on a small stone slab
by her side, and opening her novel began to read. The courage she had
shown was not in the least assumed. This enterprise simply amused her;
she expected to find the time dull--dullness was the worst enemy that
could possibly visit her.

"Pretty Miss Neville," however, was quite to her taste, and turning
its leaves quickly, she soon lost herself in a world far away from
the Witch's Island, and much more in harmony with her own ambitious
and eager spirit. She, too, would win her triumphs, and have her
lovers in the not too distant future. Oh, how splendidly she had
managed everything! How nice it was to have a girl like Bridget
O'Hara completely in her power! Janet's thoughts after all proved
more delightful than her book. She closed it, and coming out of the
little stuffy summerhouse stood on the tiny quay and looked around
her. The moon was getting up slowly, and was shedding silver paths of
shimmery light over beautiful Lake Crena. The scene was so lovely,
so exquisitely soothing and peaceful, that a girl with a different
order of mind might have felt her thoughts rise as she looked at that
moonlight path, and some aspirations for the good, the true, the noble,
might have filled her breast. Janet was not without imagination as she
looked at that long silver path which stretched away from her very feet
onward to the distant horizon, but it only brought to her visions of
Paris and Lady Kathleen, and what she would do to aggrandize herself in
the delightful future which was so near.

Her meditations were suddenly disturbed by a slight noise to her right.

She looked around her carelessly. "Can the Witch be coming?" she said,
with a slight laugh.

At that moment the great clock in the stable at Castle Mahun struck
ten; the deep notes swelled and died away on the evening breeze.

"That noise can't be caused by the Witch," thought Janet, "for the
boys say that she seldom deigns to put in an appearance before eleven
o'clock; oh, dear! oh, dear! have I two more hours to spend on this
detestable spot? When will they have passed away? What shall I do to
kill time? I had better go back and go on with my book." She was about
to re-enter the little summerhouse when the distinct splash of an oar
on the water reached her ears.

She could not help giving a start, and then exclaimed with a sigh of
relief:

"Is that you, Pat? But you need not come back yet. I assure you I am
thoroughly comfortable. I am waiting in state for her majesty Mrs.
Witch to visit me."

There was no reply whatever to Janet's gay sally. She entered the
summerhouse and, rearranging her candle, opened her book, and went on
reading.

Again there was a sound on the island; this time it was the cracking of
a bough.

"A bird or a rabbit, or some small inoffensive creature of that sort,"
murmured the girl; but, for the first time, her heart beat a little
more quickly.

"It is absurd," she said to herself. "One would absolutely suppose, to
look at me now, that I gave credence to the boys' ridiculous tales.
Well, this is a very dull escapade at best, and catch me going in for
anything of the kind again. I must make the best of it now, however."

She turned another page of her book, found that the plot was thickening
and the situation becoming more exciting, and forgot herself in Miss
Neville's sorrows.

She was soon startled back to consciousness of present things, however.
She not only heard another bough crack, and a low, thick shrub rustle,
but she also distinguished a sure and unmistakable "Whist! whist!" in
a man's deep tones. It was plain, therefore, that she was not alone on
the island. Even now she was not afraid of the witch; but she had a
very substantial fear of human foes, and she already guessed that more
than one of Bridget's lawless friends would be quite capable of doing
her an ill turn.

With a sudden feeling of satisfaction she remembered that she had a
dog-whistle fastened to her watch-chain. If she blew a shrill blast
with the whistle it would frighten any concealed enemies away, and
bring the boys quickly to her rescue.

She stepped out of the hut, therefore, and put the whistle to her lips.

"No, none of that!" said a voice. "You'll come with me, miss, and the
fewer questions you axes the better."

A rough man of powerful build, with a piece of crape tied across his
eyes, rushed suddenly forward in the moonlight. He drew a thick cloth
over the girl's head and shoulders, a pair of strong arms encircled her
waist; she found herself lifted from the ground, and knew that she was
being carried rapidly away.




CHAPTER XXVI.

A TERRIBLE NIGHT.


There was great fun and excitement at Castle Mahun that night, and
Janet's absence was not in the least noticed.

It was a moonlight night, and the squire's will and pleasure was that
every member of the household who cared to come should assemble on the
wide terrace outside the Castle to hear Biddy play some of the Irish
melodies on her harp.

Biddy's performances were well worth listening to. From far and near
the heterogeneous crowd who were wont to throng to the Castle assembled
to hear her.

"The Harp that once through Tara's Halls" floated on the night breeze.
The wild, sweet melody sounded quite eerie, and caused two excited boys
to shiver as they listened. They were thinking of Janet on the Witch's
Island, and longing for the moment when they might fly down to the
boat, row across to the island, and release her from captivity.

"A jig! Let us have a jig!" shouted the squire. "Come, Biddy, colleen,
you and Pat give us all an Irish jig."

Bridget was nothing loath to obey. Someone scraped the bow of an
old fiddle, and merry, quick music succeeded the more somber notes.
Bridget's and Pat's dance was followed by many others, and the fun
rose fast and furious.

By and by eleven struck from the clock in the courtyard. The boys crept
down unobserved to the shores of the lake, and the rest of the party
went to bed.

Bridget had forgotten all her sorrows in a sound sleep. In her healthy
young slumbers she had not even room for dreams. A smile lingered round
her pretty lips, her dark curly lashes lay heavily on her rose-tinted
cheeks.

"Bang! bang!" There came some pummels at her door, then the handle was
turned, and muffled feet stepped as noiselessly as they could across
the old and creaking boards.

"You wake her, Gerry," said Pat.

"I can't--I don't like to!" said Gerry, with a sob in his throat.

"Well, then, I will. What a little coward you are! Why can't you
control yourself? What is the good of being in such a beastly funk?
It will be all right when Biddy knows. I say, Biddy! Biddy, wake! How
soundly she sleeps! Let's strike a match, and flash it into her eyes,
Gerry."

"No, no; Uncle Dennis will hear us," said Gerry, his teeth chattering
more than ever.

"Let's pull her, then," said Pat. "Let's give a tug at her hair. Oh, I
say, Biddy, you might wake and help a fellow."

These last almost wailing words penetrated the sleeper's dreams. She
opened her eyes with a start, and said aloud:

"I won't get into your power, Janet," and then exclaimed in
astonishment, when she saw her two cousins standing by her bedside,
the moonlight streaming all over them:

"What is the matter?" she said. "You up, Pat, and you, Gerry! What does
this mean?"

The moment her words reached his ears Gerry flung himself on his knees,
buried his head in the bedclothes, and began to sob violently.

"Oh, do shut up, you little beggar!" said Pat. "What is the good of
waking the house? Biddy, we are in an awful mess, Gerry and I, and we
can't talk to you here. Won't you get up and come down to the hall, and
let us tell you what is the matter? Bruin is the only living creature
there, and he'll not let out a sound if we tell him that you are
coming."

"Yes, I'll be with you in a minute," said Bridget.

She rose quickly, dressed almost in a twinkling, and a few minutes
later was standing with her cousins in the great entrance hall of the
Castle.

They quickly told the first part of their tale--all about Janet, and
the challenge which had passed between them. Biddy was just as fearless
as her cousins, but she, too, was superstitious, and she felt a catch
in her breath, and a sudden sensation of respect for Janet, when the
boys told her how absolutely indifferent to fear she was, and how
willing to spend three hours alone on the haunted island.

"We went back for her sharp at eleven. Poor little spunky thing! she
hadn't a scrap of fear when we left her. There she stood, smiling and
nodding to us, with that stupid old novel in her hand, and just making
us believe that she was going to have quite a good time; but when we
went back she was nowhere to be seen. As sure as you are there, Biddy,
there wasn't a sight of her anywhere."

"The Witch came, of course, and took her away," said Gerry. He shook
all over as he spoke.

"Don't be a goose," said Biddy. "Let me think; it _couldn't_ have been
the Witch."

"Why, of course it was, Biddy. Who else could it have been? She's gone;
she's not on the island; and you know the stories of the Witch--how she
does appear on certain nights when the moon is in the full."

"Yes, I know that," said Bridget. "She does appear, and she frightens
folks, and perhaps goes the length of turning them crazy; but she
doesn't spirit them away. How can she? Oh, do let me think. Don't talk
for a minute, boys; I have got to puzzle this thing out."

The boys did not say a word. Gerry stooped crying, and Pat fixed his
big eyes gloomily on his cousin. Biddy was a girl, an Irish girl,
and such are quick to jump to conclusions. The boys watched her face
now with devouring interest. Bruin rose slowly to his feet, pattered
solemnly across the polished floor, and laid his big head on her lap.

Biddy's shapely hand touched his forehead, but her thoughts were far
away. After a time she said quickly:

"There is but one thing to be done: we must find Norah Malone without a
minute's loss of time."

"Norah!" exclaimed both the boys.

"You must have taken leave of your senses, Bridget!" exclaimed Pat.
"What has Norah to do with Janet May and the island?"

"I can't tell you," said Bridget. "I have just a fear in my heart, and
Norah may set it at rest. We must find her. We must go to her at once,
this very night."

"Where is she?" asked Pat. "I haven't seen her for days past."

"She may be up on the mountain with Donovan. You know they are to be
married in a couple of days, and Donovan is to be moved down on a
litter to the Castle. Or she may be sleeping at the Hogans' at the
lodge. We will go to the Hogans' first, and if they can tell nothing
about her we must go up to the mountains. There is nothing whatever
else to be done."

"It seems such a waste of time," grumbled Pat. "It is Janet we want to
find."

"And I tell you it is through Norah we'll find her," answered Bridget,
stamping her foot at him. "Come along, boys, both of you, and Bruin,
you come, too. We have a night's work before us, and we haven't a
minute to lose."

"It is the night when the moon is at the full," said Gerry, "and--and
the Witch may come to us, and--I couldn't _bear_ to look at her."

"Well, go to bed, you little coward!" said Pat, flashing round at him,
and aiming a cuff at his head.

Gerry darted behind Bridget for protection.

"Come, boys, don't quarrel," she said. "Gerry, you know you are not a
real coward. Come along this minute and help us."

She was unbarring the bolts which secured the great front door as she
spoke. The next moment the three young folks were standing on the
terrace.

"The dogs will raise an alarm," said Bridget; "that's the worst of
them. If so, my father will get up, and everything will be known. Stay,
though, I'll send Bruin round to speak to them. Come here, darling, I
want you."

The great dog came up to her.

She knelt on the gravel, with the moon shining all over her, and looked
into his eyes.

"Go round to the dogs, Bruin," she said, "and tell them to be quiet,
and then come back to me. Go quickly."

The deerhound licked his mistress's hand, and then trotted in sober,
solemn fashion round by the shrubbery and disappeared.

The girl and the boys waited anxiously. Not a dog bayed, not a sound of
any sort was audible. Bruin trod on the velvety turf as he returned. He
looked up at Bridget, who bent down and kissed him between the eyes.

"Good King!" she said, and then she and the boys started off as fast
as they could to the Hogans' cottage, where Norah might possibly be
sleeping.

No sign of her there; no tidings of her, either. Hogan got up and put
out a white face of amazement from one of the tiny windows of the
cottage when Bridget made her demand. If he knew anything of Norah's
whereabouts, neither face nor manner betrayed him.

"It's no good, boys," said Bridget, "she is not there; or if she
is, Hogan has got the word not to tell. We might stand and talk to
him forever before he'd let even a wink of an eye betray him. There
is nothing whatever for it but for us to go to the cottage on the
mountains."

Gerry was quite silent now. He took care to keep Bridget between
himself and Pat, and no one particularly noticed when he started at his
own shadow, and when he looked guiltily behind.

Even to ride on horseback to Donovan's cabin, in the midst of the
lonely mountains, took a long time; but to walk on foot in the
uncertain moonlight was truly a weary undertaking.

It was between three and four in the morning when the children,
exhausted and almost spent, stumbled up against the little cabin, to
find the door locked and the house deserted.

Gerry burst out crying, and even Bridget owned that she had come to the
end of her resources.

"Don't talk to me, either of you," she said; "I am more persuaded than
ever that Norah and Donovan are at the bottom of this. There is nothing
for it now but to go home."

"How dare we?" said Pat. "Uncle Dennis will almost kill Gerry and me if
he knows of this."

"We must go home, boys; we must face the thing. We had better step out
now as fast as we can, or the servants will be up."

"I can't tell Uncle Dennis of this," said Pat; "I simply can't."

"Don't say whether you can or cannot now," said Bridget; "let us go
back as quickly as possible."




CHAPTER XXVII.

"SPEAK OUT!"


Squire O'Hara was the first of the family to put in an appearance the
next morning at the breakfast table. He looked round him somewhat
impatiently. He did not count Miss Macnamara, nor old Captain Shand,
nor one or two more of the visitors, as anybody. When they came in he
simply nodded to them, but his impatient eyes looked eagerly at the
vacant places which his own family ought to occupy.

What was the matter with the world?

Where was his sister-in-law Kathleen? She was up too early as a
rule--fidgeting, fussing, talking, and clattering. Where were
those imps, Pat and Gerry? Where were the two nice little English
girls?--and, above all, where was his Colleen, his darling, the apple
of his eye?

"Shall I pour out your tea for you, squire?" asked Miss Macnamara in a
timid voice.

"No, I thank you," he replied; "I'll wait for my family. Help yourself;
help yourself, I beg. Captain Shand, pray tackle the beef; Mr. Jones,
try that kippered salmon. Nobody need wait breakfast who doesn't wish
to; but I'm not hungry. I'll just step out on the terrace for a minute
or two until some of my family choose to put in an appearance."

The squire opened the window as he spoke, and, stepping over the sill,
was just about to call to the dogs to accompany him in his walk when a
little, shabby, gray-haired woman started up almost at his feet, and
raised two blazing black eyes to his face.

"Is that you, Norah?" said the squire. "And may I ask what you are
doing here crouching down among the rose-bushes?"

"Nothing, yer honor; sure as I live I'm doing nothing!" said Norah. "I
was only waiting to catch a sight of Miss Biddy, bless her."

"You surely did not lie in ambush in this absurd fashion to see Miss
Bridget. She does not want people skulking after her like that. There,
my good woman, don't look at me as if I were going to eat you. Go round
to the kitchen and have some breakfast, and you shall see Miss Biddy
afterward."

The squire heard fresh sounds of arrival in the breakfast room at this
moment. In consequence, his voice grew more cordial.

He passed in again through the open window, and Norah quickly
disappeared round by the shrubbery.

"Is that you, Biddy?" he said. "How are you, my love? Oh! and Kathleen,
you have put in an appearance at last; and here the boys, and Miss
Sophy. Come, that's right, that's right. Now let us sit down and enjoy
ourselves. I have been out since six o'clock, and I'm quite disposed to
do justice to my tea and fresh eggs. Here, Biddy, you shall pour me out
a cup with your own fair hands, alanna."

The squire drew up to the table, making a considerable amount of
bluster and noise. Bruin crouched in his usual place by Bridget's
side; Sophy sat near Lady Kathleen; the boys began hungrily to attack a
huge bowl of porridge each, and the meal proceeded.

"You are all very silent," said the squire. "Have none of you anything
to say for yourselves? Not a laugh do I hear--not a whisper. Half an
hour late for breakfast, and everyone coming in as mum as if we were
all a house of the dead! Come, Biddy, come, haven't you a joke to crack
with anyone?"

"Oh, squire," said Lady Kathleen, from the other end of the long board,
"we just want you to drink off your tea first. Oh, oh, oh! Sophy, poor
child, poor child, restrain yourself. There, she can't, the creature,
she can't. Put your arms round my neck, pet, and cry here then; poor
little dear, poor little dear!"

"What in the name of fortune does this mean?" exclaimed Dennis O'Hara.
"Biddy, can you explain it? Why, your face is like a sheet, child. What
can be wrong?"

"I will tell you, Dennis," said Lady Kathleen. "Poor little Janet is
lost. If you hadn't been so taken up with all the singing and the
dancing last night you'd have missed her from our family circle, for
she wasn't there then, and she isn't here now; and what's more, she
hasn't been in her bed the whole of the blessed night, and there's
Sophy fit to break her heart, and no wonder, poor thing, no wonder, for
if there was a nice devoted little sister it was Janet. I am fearing
that the poor child has fallen from a precipice, or gone too far into
one of the bogs. I always told you, squire, that you didn't half drain
those bogs. Now, what is it? Oh, mercy me, what awful thing are you
going to say?"

"I'm going to request you to hold your tongue," said the squire. "We
none of us can hear ourselves speak with you, Kathleen. And a fine,
queer tale you have to tell! Miss Janet May hasn't been in the house
all night! Is that true, Miss Sophy?"

"She wasn't in her room last night," said Sophy, a fresh sob breaking
her voice.

"But this must be looked into at once," continued the squire. "One
of my visitors has been absent from my roof all night, and I am only
told of it now--now--and it past eight o'clock in the morning! _This
is a scandalous shame!_ Why, there isn't a man or boy in the place who
shouldn't have been searching round for the bit of a colleen four hours
past. But, of course, _I'm_ always kept in the dark. Although I am
Squire O'Hara of Castle Mahun, I'm just nobody, I suppose? Now, what is
it, Bridget--what are you going to say? I won't take interference from
anyone when I am roused like this."

The squire was in one of his rare, but terrible passions: his lips
trembled, his eyes blazed, his great hand shook.

"I have got something to tell you," began Bridget.

"Oh, you have, have you? You can throw light on this scandal then?
Speak out, speak out this minute."

"Will you come with me into your study? I'd rather tell you alone."

"I'll do nothing of the kind. You speak out here. It's a nice state
of things when the master of the house is kept in the dark! That girl
should have been searched for last night when she didn't come in. And
of course she _would_ have been searched for if I had been told of it;
but the rest of you must hugger-mugger together and keep me in the
dark. I call this state of things disgraceful. Now what is it you have
got to say, Bridget? Are you a coward too, afraid to tell your own
father? A nice state of things the world is coming to! Speak! are you
_afraid_ of me?"

"I am a coward, and I _am_ afraid of you," said Bridget.

Her words were so absolutely unexpected that every single individual
seated round the breakfast table started back with an astonished
exclamation.

Bridget's own face was white as death. She stepped a little away from
the table; Bruin got up and stood by her side. She was unconscious of
the fact that her hand rested on his great head.

"Speak up," thundered the squire, "I'll have no more shuffling. You
look as if you were ashamed of something. I see it in your eye. You are
my only child--the last of the race, and you are _ashamed_! Good God,
that I should live to see this day. But come, no more shuffling--out
with the truth!"

"I know something about Janet, and so also do Pat and Gerry," continued
Bridget. "I'd rather tell you by yourself, father; I wish you'd let me."

"No, that I won't; if you have done anything wrong you have got to
confess it. A pretty pass we have come to when Bridget O'Hara has to
confess her sins! But, never mind, though you were twenty times my
child, you'll have to stand here and tell the truth _before everyone_.
Now speak up, speak up this minute--Kathleen! if you don't stop
blubbering you'll have to leave the room."

Dennis O'Hara's face was terrible.

He and Bridget were the only ones standing; all the rest remained glued
to their chairs, without speaking or moving.

"Now go on," he said, "we are all waiting to hear this fine confession;
did you spirit Janet May away?"

"No, I didn't. You make me cease to fear you, father, when you speak in
that tone," said Bridget. "I have behaved badly, I--I thought it would
break my heart to tell you; but when you look at me like that----"

"Like what? Go on, Biddy, or you'll drive me mad."

"Well, I know what has happened to Janet. She went over to the Witch's
Island last night. She said there was no witch. Nothing would make her
believe in a witch, and she would go; it was her own desire."

"And you took her there, I suppose?"

"No, I didn't; I had nothing to do with it."

"It was I who did that part, uncle," said Pat, suddenly springing to
his feet. "I won't let Biddy be the only one scolded; I was in an awful
funk when I found what had happened, but I can't stand here and hear a
girl spoken to like this; and Biddy isn't a bit nor a morsel to blame.
It's just Biddy all out to try and shield other people; but it was my
fault, mine and Gerry's. What is it, uncle? what is it you are saying
to me?"

"Come over here this minute," said the squire. "Shake hands with me;
you are a fine lad, you are a very fine lad. Oh, thank Heaven! I
thought the colleen had done something wrong. It isn't a bit of matter
about anybody else. Speak out, Pat, speak out; and, oh! alanna, alanna,
forgive me, forgive me. I thought bad of you, my jewel, my sweet! Come
into my arms, my colleen asthore. What matter who is black, when you
are white as a lily?"

Dennis O'Hara's burst of passion was over as quickly as it had arisen;
he went up to Bridget and folded his great arms round her slight young
figure.

"But I am not white," she said, bursting into sudden uncontrollable
weeping; "oh, I am not white, and you'll never love me any more, and my
heart will break. I can't tell you now, before everybody. I just can't,
I can't. Pat knows all about Janet. Pat can tell _that_ story, and you
are not going to be too angry with him; but I must go away, for I can't
speak of the other thing. There, father, don't kiss me, I cannot stand
it."

She wrenched herself out of his arms and flew from the room.

It was a glorious summer's day; the sun was blazing down from the sky
with a fierce heat. Bridget felt half blinded with misery and confusion
of mind. She put up her hand to her head and glanced up at the sky.

"I must tell my father everything when I see him next," she said to
herself. "Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?"

Footsteps sounded behind her. She felt impatient of anyone seeing her
in her grief and distraction, and, turning to hide herself in the
shrubbery, found that she was face to face with Norah.

"I seen you, me darling," said Norah; "I seen you when you ran out of
the breakfast room all distraught like."

"You saw me? then you were listening, Norah," said Bridget, her tears
drying rapidly in her sudden anger.

"And why not, alanna? and why shouldn't I listen when it was for the
good of my own nursling? The squire says, 'Go and have some breakfast,
Norah'; but what's breakfast to me when the light of my eyes, the child
I helped to rear, is suffering. I listened, Miss Biddy, and when you
run out of the room I followed you. You come with me, alanna. You trust
poor Norah. Norah Malony and Pat Donovan 'ud spill their heart's blood
for you, missie; you trust us both!"

"I thought as much," said Bridget. "Come back here into the shade of
the shrubbery, Norah; I guessed last night that you were at the bottom
of this. Don't you know that you have behaved disgracefully? Do you
think my father will help you to marry Pat after such conduct as this?
No, don't go down on your knees; I am not inclined to intercede for
you at present. I am not inclined to take your part. You must go this
instant to the place where you have hidden Janet May. There is not a
moment to lose; go and bring her back at once!"

Norah began to cry feebly.

"You are hard on me," she sobbed, "and I done it for you--Pat and me,
we done it for you. We meant no harm either. The young Englisher girl
have come to no grief--leastways, nothing but a bit of a fright, and
she'll do what we wants if you don't spoil everything, Miss Bridget."

"I don't understand you, Norah; I don't feel even inclined to listen to
you. You must go this minute and release poor Janet."




CHAPTER XXVIII.

WHAT THE O'HARAS SAID TO ONE ANOTHER.


The race of human beings who can neither read nor write are fast
vanishing from the face of the civilized earth. They used, however, to
abound in great numbers in old Ireland, and, strange as it may seem,
these so-called uneducated people have proved themselves to be some of
the shrewdest in the world.

For, never reading the books of men, they are always perusing the
greater book of nature. Unacquainted with the art of writing, they
trust absolutely to their memories. The observation, therefore, of the
Irish peasant can scarcely be credited by those who have never come
across him.

Norah had made up her mind that Janet should not be released from the
hiding-place to which she and Pat had spirited her until she made full
confession of her own part in making Bridget unhappy. It is true Norah
had never heard the tale, but she seemed to know as much about it as if
she had been in everybody's confidence, and had even joined the Fancy
Fair Committee, and sat in Mrs. Freeman's schoolroom when Bridget,
under Janet's directions, cribbed her lessons.

If Bridget herself, however, wished Janet to be set free, there was no
help for it.

"You wait here, Miss Biddy," she said; "you needn't go for Miss Janet
May. I'll bring her to you in an hour at the farthest."

"Very well, Norah," said Bridget, "I'll wait for you here."

She sat down as she spoke, under the shelter of a large birch tree,
and, leaning her head against its silver stem, fell into a heavy sleep.

She dreamt in her sleep, and these dreams were so disquieting that she
could not help crying out and moaning heavily. She opened her eyes at
last to see her old father standing by her.

For a moment she could not remember where she was, nor what had
happened. The smile which always filled her eyes when she looked at
her dearly loved father came into them now; a gay word banished the
sorrowful lines from round her lips, and, with a little laugh, she rose
to her feet.

"How ridiculous of me to have gone to sleep in the wood," she exclaimed.

Then memory came back. She flushed first, and then turned deadly pale.

"You are in trouble, alanna," said Squire O'Hara. "I know that by the
look you wore in your sleep; I never saw my colleen wear a face so full
of sorrow before. There's something on your mind, acushla, and you are
afraid to tell your father. Maybe I frightened you a bit in the parlor
just now; if so, my heart's core, you must forgive me. I was taken
aback and put out, and we O'Haras are celebrated for our hasty tempers.
I am not angry now, however: my anger has passed like a morning cloud.
You tell me all that is vexing you, Biddy. Put your arms round me, and
whisper your trouble in my ears, my own colleen."

"And why should a beautiful young lady like that have any throuble,"
exclaimed another voice.

The squire and Bridget both started and turned round. Janet May and
Norah were coming up the little path, and even now stood by their sides.

"Here's the young Englisher lady," said Norah. "She's none the worse
for having spent one night with the Irish folk, and there's no
throuble, now that she has come back; is there, Miss Biddy?"

For one instant Bridget was silent.

Janet came up to her and spoke in a gentle, cheerful tone. "I am so
glad to be back with you, dear," she said. "I dare say you and the
squire were uneasy about me. Well, I had an adventure, and am none the
worse. I'll tell you all about it presently. Norah has something, also,
to say for herself; but she, too, will speak presently. Now I have one
request to make of the squire."

"What is that, my dear?" asked Dennis O'Hara.

"It is that no one shall be punished on my account," said Janet, in
her sweet, low tones. "There was just a little bit of a practical joke
played on me. You Irish are celebrated for practical jokes, are you
not? I came to no harm, and if I don't wish anyone to be punished, I
suppose my wishes are worth considering, as I was the only one who
suffered."

"You are by no means the only one who suffered, Miss May," said the
squire. "Look at Biddy, there. Why is her face so pale, and why are her
eyes so heavy? And as to practical jokes, I never heard that it was
the way of the Irish gentry to practice them upon their visitors. My
dear young lady, I appreciate your kind and generous spirit. It does my
old heart good to see you here safe and unharmed, but you must allow
me to deal with this matter in my own way. I am not thinking of it at
present, however. I want to have a word with my daughter Biddy. Will
you go into the house, Miss May? Biddy and I will follow you presently."

"No, Janet, stay here," said Bridget suddenly.

She threw up her head with something of the free action of a young race
horse, tossed her curly hair back from her broad brow, and looked first
at Janet and then at the squire.

There was something in the expression of her eyes which caused Janet,
as she afterward expressed it, "to shake in her shoes."

"Norah," continued Bridget, "you must stay here too. Now, father, I
will tell you something. I will tell you why your Biddy can never,
never again be the old Bridget you used to know and to love."

"Oh, don't," interrupted Janet. "See how hysterical you are, Bridget.
Don't you think, squire----"

"Hush!" thundered the squire. "Let the colleen speak."

"Father," continued Bridget, "I am a very unhappy girl. I have behaved
badly. I have been wicked; I have been dishonorable and--and deceitful."

"No, no, I don't believe that," said the squire. "Whatever you are,
you are not deceitful." Once again his face turned white, and an angry
light leaped out of his eyes.

"It is true," continued Bridget, "and--and _she_ tempted me--she,
Janet May. I never met anyone like her before. She tempted me; I don't
know with what motive. It isn't right to tell tales of a visitor; but
I--I _can't_ bear things any longer, and I have got so confused in
my mind that I don't know what is right and what is wrong. I don't
wish to excuse myself, but I do not think I'd have done the dreadful
things but for her. I wouldn't have done them, because they never would
have occurred to me. Perhaps that is because I am not clever enough.
I don't want to excuse myself, but she tempted me to do wrong, and I
did wrong, frightfully wrong, and I have been, oh, so miserable! And
Norah here--poor Norah--she guessed at my trouble, and she thought
she'd punish Janet. That's why Janet was away last night. It was very
wrong of Norah, too, but she did it out of love to me. Oh, father,
how miserable I am! Why did you send me to that English school? I can
never, never, _never_ again be your old Biddy; never again, father,
never as long as I live."

Here poor Bridget burst into such convulsive weeping that her words
became inaudible.

Suddenly she felt a pair of arms round her neck, and, looking up, her
lips touched her father's cheek.

"Let me go on," she said; "let me get it over."

"Not until you are better, colleen. There is not the least hurry. Come
down and sit with me in the bower near the Holy Well. We shall have it
all to ourselves."

"But the others," said Bridget--"Janet and Norah?"

"I sent them away. Why should they hear what one O'Hara has to say to
the other?"




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE CHILD OF HIS HEART.


Janet ran quickly toward the house. On her way she met one of the
servants, a man of the name of Doolan; she stopped to say a few words
to him eagerly, then, running on, found herself in the great hall,
where Lady Kathleen, Pat, Gerald, and Sophy were all assembled.

Lady Kathleen uttered a scream when she saw her.

"Oh, how glad I am----" she began.

Janet interrupted her hastily.

"Dear Lady Kathleen," she said, "I will speak to you presently. I will
tell you all my adventures presently; but please, please let me go up
to my room now with Sophy; I want to say a word to Sophy. Please let me
pass."

There was an expression about Janet's face which caused Lady Kathleen
to fall back, which arrested a torrent of words on the lips of each of
the boys, and which made poor, frightened Sophy follow her sister out
of the room without a word.

"Come upstairs with me, and be as quick as ever you can," said Janet.

She took her sister's hand as she spoke, rushed up the stairs with her,
and entered the large room which the girls shared together.

"Now, Sophy," said Janet, "how much money have you got? Don't attempt
to prevaricate. I know you received a letter yesterday from Aunt Jane,
and she--she sent you a five-pound note; I know it--don't attempt to
deny it.

"I don't want to deny it," said Sophy. "You--you _frighten_ me, Janet;
we have all been so miserable about you. I could not eat any breakfast;
I was crying as if my heart would break, and now you come back looking
like I don't know what, and you speak in such a dreadful way."

"Never mind how I speak," said Janet; "pack your things; be quick about
it, for we must be out of this place in ten minutes."

"What _do_ you mean?"

"I'll tell you presently. Pack, pack, pack! Fling your things into your
trunk, no matter how--anything to get away. If you are not packed, with
your hat and gloves on, in ten minutes, you shall come away without
your finery, that is all."

"But how are we to get away?" said Sophy. "We can't walk to the
station; it is twenty miles off."

"I know that, but I have arranged everything. Mike Doolan will have the
jaunting car at the top of the back avenue in fifteen minutes from now.
I only want to pack and lock our boxes; they must follow us by and by.
Now, don't waste another moment talking."

Janet's words were so strong, her gestures so imperious, that Sophy
found herself forced to do exactly what she was told. The ribbons,
laces, trinkets, which she and Janet had amassed out of poor Bridget's
stores during their stay at Castle Mahun were tossed anyhow into their
trunks; the trunks were locked and directed, and the two girls had left
the house without saying a word to anyone long before Squire O'Hara and
Bridget returned to it.

Janet was worthless through and through; Sophy was very little better.
The curtain drops over them here as far as this story is concerned.

What more is there to tell?

How can I speak of those events which immediately followed the
departure of Janet May and her sister?--the wonder and consternation
of Lady Kathleen Peterham; the astonishment and curiosity of the
retainers; the secret triumph of Norah Maloney and Pat Donovan; the
intense amazement of the boys!

Amazement had its day, curiosity its hour, and then the memory of the
English girls faded, and the waters of oblivion, to a great extent,
closed over them. Lady Kathleen sent their trunks to the address which
Janet had put upon them. They were addressed to a Miss Jane Perkins,
and Lady Kathleen concluded that she was the Aunt Jane of whom Janet
stood in such wholesome dread.

The squire made an important discovery on that unhappy day. It was
this: O'Hara of Castle Mahun could brook no dishonor in the person of
his nephew, or sister, or cousin; but the child of his heart could be
forgiven even dishonor.

"I will myself write to Mrs. Freeman," he said, after he and Bridget
had concluded their long conference. "O Biddy, child! why did you not
tell me before; could anything, _anything_ turn my heart from thy
heart? But listen, acushla macree, your Aunt Kathleen and Pat and
Gerald must never know of this."

Of Bridget's future history, of her many subsequent adventures, both at
school and at home--are they not written in the book of the future?




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