"But James Dunovan will have shut up the office," exclaimed Pat; "and if we are absent from supper what will father say?"

"Old Jim knows us; he'll open fast enough when he hears that we two lads have come on business."

"But they can't send the telegram after the office is shut."

"Don't make difficulties, Pat. I tell you this is a serious business. You don't want to be banished from the country do you? We'll go to the post office at once, and see that the message is sent to Kitty the very first thing in the morning. Come, what are young lingering for?"

"Supper is waiting, and Aunt Bridget will make a fuss. You know we are not allowed to be out after ten at night."

"Bother!" cried Laurie. "Well, then, we must go home first. What a nuisance. We'll have a bite, and then slink out. The dad can think we have gone to bed. Why, Pat, old boy, I met Wheel-about to-day, and he was like a mad man. He told me he had collected all that money for his funeral. What apes we were to touch the coat!"

"Sure, it's unlike Kitty not to write," said Pat. "She is the last in the world to leave a fellow in the lurch."

"Don't I know that? Who's fault it is it isn't hers, poor old girl. Something has happened to the letter. Now, Pat, let us get supper over, for we have no time to lose."

As Laurie spoke he fastened the little boat securely by a rope to a stone near by, and then the lads turned their backs upon the silver-burnished lake, and strode into the darkness of a narrow mountain defile. The path was steep, and they had to scramble up, doing so with the agility of young ponies.

"It is the thought of Wheel-about that bothers me entirely," said Laurie, after a pause. "I don't want to have it lying on my soul—upon my honor I don't—that I turned the poor old chap's brain still crazier."

"Oh, the money will come along before Saturday," said Pat; "and you know you told him he must wait until Saturday. Don't you worry, Laurie. Come on, I tell ye; there's the gong sounding at the Castle."

The deep notes of a very sonorous old gong were distinctly borne on the breeze; the boys ran, hurrying and panting. A few moments later they had climbed an almost inaccessible rock, had tumbled over each other up a lawn, and entered a huge hall, where supper was spread. Squire Malone was seated at the head of the table; down both sides were crowded guests and different retainers—Squire Malone's cousins, all of them, some to the fifth or sixth removed. Miss Honora Malone was at the foot of the table, and Miss Bridget presided at the tea tray at one of the sides.

"Sit down, you lads," roared the squire when he saw his sons; "you have been keeping us waiting. Now take your places and fall to."

The boys dropped into the seats reserved for them without a word. They were hungry, and enjoyed the abundant fare provided. Miss Honora began to address them with a volley of words.

"Ah, then, boys," she said, "it is ashamed of you I am. Why should you come in to supper like that, without your hair brushed or your hand washed and looking as rough as a pair of young colts? Look at me, now, how neat I am—I have changed my dress for the evening." As she spoke she glanced at her thin arms, bare to the elbow, and touched the gold chain that encircled her scraggy throat. "You'll never get Dublin manners, you two," she continued, "and what will you do when you go into society? Ah, it is enough to break the heart to look at ye."

Laurie winked boldly at her; Pat laughed, and helped himself so some potatoes.

"Dennis," called out the lady, addressing her brother, "don't you agree with me that it is very bad manners on the part of the boys to come to supper without so much as washing their hands or brushing their hair? Ought they not to put on evening clothes now that they are almost assuming manhood's estate?"

"Oh, leave 'em alone, Honor," was the reply. "Boys will be boys, and Castle Malone is Liberty Hall. Time enough a few years hence to put on that high-faluting style. I like 'em as they are: rough diamonds no doubt, but diamonds all the same."

The old man looked fondly at his sons. He was a picturesque-looking figure, with snow-white hair.

"What will you do, lads, when I send you to England to school?" he said.

"England, father?" said Pat, turning pale. "It would kill me to leave the soil on which I was born. Ah, now, father, I could not live through it; and as to Laurie, why he would—Laurie, you know what you would do."

"Oh, father's joking," said Laurie, but his face went a little white, and as he drained off a great glass of ice-cold water his hand trembled a trifle.

"It would not be for the making of our happiness, father," he said, just glancing at his father. "Pat is right—it would about kill us both."

"You young beggars, kill you, indeed!" cried the squire. "Well, I have not made my plans yet. I am thinking of it, and you may as well know it. I have sent the girleen away, and if you can't stand what she can, why, I don't think you have much grit in you. As to Pat, when he's a little older he'll have to prepare for the army."

"Ay, and that's a fine polishing up," said Aunt Bridget, bridling as she spoke, and arranging the set of her very fashionable sleeve. "My jewel of a lad, you'll know what life is like then. You'll think a deal of your clothes, and of the sort of thing that will kill the girls then. Why, if you know how to manage, and with my help I dare say I can contrive it for you, you'll get easily into the very height of Dublin society, and be petted, and spoiled, and coaxed no end. I wonder, now, how that girleen is conducting herself. Sometimes, Dennis when I look at you and think how your heart is wrapped up in her and how she is so to speak the jewel of your eye and the core of your heart I wonder how you had the courage to let her go."

"Don't you worry me about it," cried the squire. "I did it for her good. Laurie, where are you off to?"

"I have had about enough supper," answered Laurie. Pat also scrambled to his feet.

"You are as ill-mannered a pair of young cubs as I ever came across," cried Miss Honora, now really angry. "Why, the syllabub is coming on soon, and the trifle, and the cream that I whipped myself. Well, Pat, you'll have to mend your manners when you get into the army; and as to you Laurie, you'll never be as good a squire as your father, try hard as you may."

A loud laugh at the head of the table interrupted the good lady's flow of words.

"Honora, my woman, you are talking to the air," called out the squire. "The boys are out of earshot. Bless 'em can't you let 'em be? They are hearty lads, and I don't think I'll send either of them out of the country unless they happen to displease me."

Meanwhile the lads had gone down to the lake, unshipped the little boat, and were by this time half across the Coulin. They soon reached the opposite shore, jumped to land, pulled up the boat, fastened it, and started along a long narrow and mountainous path which was the shortest cut to Ballyshannon. They walked so quickly and the hill was so steep that they had little or no time for words. Nor were they boys who talked much when they were alone. Laurie was given to his own meditations. Pat was always planning some scheme which should circumvent Aunt Honora, who lived with them, and annoy Aunt Bridget, who nearly lived with them, although not quite. Aunt Bridget was the most fashionable member of the family; her real home was in Dublin. She was the one who had worked upon the squire's feelings until he had decided to send Kitty to an English school. Pat was not fond of either of his aunts, but he disliked Aunt Bridget the most. After an hour-and-a-half's brisk walking they reached Ballyshannon, knocked up the postmaster, who had gone to bed, asked him to let them in, and confided to him what they wanted. He was a hearty-looking Irishman, and was soon as much interested in the telegram which Laurie was to send as the boy was himself.

"You have heard what a scrape I have got into?" said Laurie.

"About that poor, mad fellow?" said James Dunovan.

"Yes; some other fellows and I stole his coat away in a fit of frolic that day when we were out in the crazy boat on the Coulin. A sudden breeze got up and the boat upset; and the coat—bad luck to it—sank to the bottom like a stone. We have tried to get it up, but it is all no go; it has got right into the mud, and not all the boys in Ireland could move it. If the squire heard we had played a trick on Wheel-about he would just do what I don't want him to."

"And what may that be, Master Laurie?"

"Why, Jim, he would banish me to England. You think of that!"

"Ah, to be sure, sir; and it would be a hard punishment entirely, and all for a boy's freak. But how can you circumvent him, sir? that's the puzzle, for old Wheel-about is as sly a fellow as walks. He knows his power with the squire—there's a story about, but I have not got the rights of it. Anyhow, the squire is always trying to help him. If he cannot get his coat in which he has hidden all his money he will go raving mad about the country, and the squire will soon get at the bottom of the mischief."

"Oh, that's all right," answered Laurie. I saw there was no help for it, and I took Wheel-about into my confidence. He promised if I gave him ten pounds by Saturday next to let the matter of the coat slip by. He said he would never tell."

"I wonder now if the craychur is to be trusted," muttered Jim, in a thoughtful tone.

"Oh, yes, he is, Jim; don't you meet trouble halfway. If once he gets the money everything will be as right as possible. But this 'gram must go off, and you must see to it for me."

"I'll do that, sir, and welcome, the very moment the office opens its doors in the morning."

"How soon do you think it will reach my sister?"

"Well, to be sure, I expect in about half an hour or an hour at the most. I often think I'd like to see them messages a-tumbling along the wires. Do you believe as they go by the wires sir?"

"Oh, I suppose so; I don't bother my head about it. Now, then, Jim, hand us a form and we'll fill it in. What do you think we had best say, Pat?"

"Make it strong," said Pat.

"Yes, I know that." Laurie stood biting the end of his pencil and considering the blank form which Jimmy had provided him with.

"We must make it powerful strong," he said after a pause. "If dad hears this, we two are about done, Pat. He's the easiest old boy in the world, but when once he takes the bit between his teeth he is just like Slieve Loon, our new mare. But I must not keep you up Jim; you are wanting to get back to your bed."

"It don't matter, sir; don't you hurry yourself. I told the wife it was two of the young gentlemen from Castle Malone, and she said I wasn't to mind how much time I spent with you; it was only proper respect to the family."

"All right Jim. Now, then, Pat, what shall I say?"

"Hurry up," said Pat; "if you're not sleepy I am, and the whole house will be locked up if we are not quick."

"I cracked a pane of glass in our window on purpose this morning," said Laurie. "I thought it might turn out convenient."

Pat laughed. Laurie, his face flushed, bent over the telegraph form. After a time, during which beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, the following message was transcribed:

"Miss Kitty Malone, care of Mrs. Denvers, Franklin Avenue, Middleton, London, S.E.—Wake up, old girleen; hurry with the tin.—Laurie."

"That's the time of day," he said. "You read it, Jim. Can you make out the address plain?"

"Yes, to be sure," answered Jim. "Very well, sir; this shall go. I am sorry you're in trouble, sir; but I know the squire sends a lot of money to Miss Kitty, for he is always coming here for postal orders."

"Oh, I am safe to have it," said Laurie. "Well, good-night Jim, and long life to you."

The boys left the office and retraced their steps across the mountain. They had gone about halfway home when they were interrupted by a curious sort of sound, something between a croon and a chant. It came nearer and nearer, and the next moment a grotesque figure showed clearly in the moonlight. This was no other than Paddy Wheel-about himself. He was a tall man, with a long shaggy beard, penthouse eyebrows, and eyes which were lit now with a fitful and uncertain gleam. He was dressed in rags, his hat was pushed far back on his head, his hair streamed over his shoulders. The savage and yet pathetic-looking creature stopped now before the two boys.

"I say, Paddy, it is all right," said Laurie, going up to him and laying his hand on his shoulder. "You'll get the tin I promised either to-morrow morning or the day after. I have just sent a telegram to the girleen in England. Why, Kitty wouldn't let you suffer; no, not if it were to break her heart."

A wild and yet softened look came into the man's eyes.

"It is because of the girleen I'm fretting," he said. "Listen, you two, I feel fit to die sometimes when I think the coat is lost, and it is all on account of the girleen herself. Why, it was she put in the last patch and a bit of gold was hidden in it; yes, and she sewed it round with her own pretty hands, the darling."

"We'll get back the coat some day, see if we don't," said Laurie. "And meanwhile Paddy, you are safe to have your money on Saturday."

"All right if I do," said Paddy; "if not it is all wrong. I go to Squire Malone. Yes, I go to Squire Malone; but I'll wait until Saturday. I promise that much, and I'll keep my word."

"You'll keep your word for Kitty's sake?" said Laurie.

The man nodded; again his eyes softened and changed in expression, the next moment he had turned on his heel and was out of sight.

"I do believe the only person he cares for in the world is Kitty," said Laurie. "Do you remember when he was so ill he would only allow Kitty to visit him? I say, Pat, we must get back that coat somehow; but in the meantime the ten pounds will keep matters quiet."



CHAPTER XVII.

"WE ARE BOTH IN THE SAME BOAT."

Gwin had explained all her points, and Miss Sherrard had listened to her with indulgence, sympathy, and comprehension. They were seated together in Miss Sherrard's charming little sitting-room.

"I am glad you take such an interest in Kitty," she said when the girl had stopped speaking.

"I do. She is uncommon; she is unlike anybody else," said Gwin Harley. "I hope," she added, looking anxiously at the head-mistress, "that you will feel it right so far to mitigate her punishment as to allow the Tug-of-war girls to talk to her. This seems just the time for a society of this sort to help its members.

"There's a great deal in what you say, Gwin; but all the same, to my regret, I am obliged distinctly to refuse your request."

Gwin's face, which had been slightly flushed, now turned pale. She rose to her feet.

"Don't be hurt with me, dear," said the mistress in a gentle voice. "I admire you for your kindness, Gwin, and I can also see the thing from your point of view; but all the same Middleton School is a very important one; there are from six to seven hundred girls here. Most of these girls have got parents; all have got guardians and friends. It would not do for them to know that such a wild and reckless act as Kitty Malone has perpetrated should be passed over without a severe punishment. Kitty will live through this week of isolation and be all the better for it. At the end of that time you Tug-of-war girls can do all in your power to help her. For this one week I must insist on her living in Coventry. She will do her lessons, of course, for it would not be at all wise to give her a holiday; but no girl belonging to the school with the exception of Alice must speak to her."

"I am sorry; and you will forgive me for saying, without any disrespect to you, that I think you are wrong," answered Gwin. She now held out her hand to Miss Sherrard. Miss Sherrard took it and pressed it gently.

"You are a very good girl, Gwin; and I wish with all my heart and soul that I could grant your request."

Meanwhile Kitty had returned to the Denvers' house in a whirl of passionate protest and indignation. She could not understand why she had been punished. The sin she had committed did not seem to be any sin at all to her. What did it matter how she dressed or when she went out? The fact that she had broken a very strict rule of Middleton School did not affect her. She was now seriously unhappy—the fetters with which she was surrounded tortured her. How could she live through the terrible week of isolation? And what made her more wretched than anything else was the fact that she could not see Elma in order to get the money from her to send to Laurie.

Kitty and Laurie had always been more than ordinary friends. The thoughts of each were known to the heart of the other. If there was one person in the wide world whom Kitty loved with passion, almost with idolatry, it was her handsome brother Laurie. The bare idea that Laurie should plead to Kitty to help him, and that Kitty would be obliged to turn a deaf ear to his entreaties was enough to madden the reckless girl.

The whole of that afternoon she spent in her bedroom, pacing up and down like a young caged tiger. Mrs. Denvers went to talk to her, but Kitty would not speak. She would pour out her troubles to no one. Her proud Irish heart felt as if it would burst from misery; but she would not stoop to the sympathy of those who, she felt, could not possibly understand her.

Of all the Denver family, she liked Fred the best; and when he ventured to knock at her door in the course of the evening she did not refuse to open it to him.

"Come along downstairs at once, Kitty," said Fred, holding out his hand to her.

"I would rather stay where I am, Fred, asthore."

"I say it's a beastly shame to have you treated like this."

"Oh, don't begin to sympathize with me," said Kitty; "if you do, I'll cry the ocean full of tears. I am holding them back hard now. You don't know what a thing it is when an Irish girl fairly gives way."

"Well, they're beastly hard on you; but I'm sure I would not cry if I were you," said Fred. I'd just be too proud. But come downstairs to my den, Kitty; I have made it awfully comfortable."

"Your den?" said Kitty, her eyes lighting up; "have you got one?"

"Yes; it's not in the house; it's in the garden, at the further end. It's a shed; but I have made it waterproof, and I have got a little lamp, an oil one; and we can sit there and have a jolly talk."

For a moment Kitty's eyes sparkled with renewed hope. "And I have still got some chocolates in my drawer," she exclaimed. "We might eat them together and have a real good time. But oh, that money! it's the money that's bothering me entirely. Oh dear! dear! I'll let the whole thing out if I talk any more to you Fred. Fred, it's the true comfort you are to me, and I'll never forget it to the longest day I live; but I can't go to that shed with you, gossoon asthore, for if I did I'd let out everything."

"But why shouldn't you let out everything?" said Fred. "There's something bothering you, and you're keeping it all to yourself."

"But I promised I wouldn't tell, and I don't want to break my word. I said when she asked me, 'No; I can't keep secrets;' but then it was put in such a way that I must keep it. I can't go with you Fred; pray don't ask me again. Good-by to you, and thank you, thank you."

Kitty ran into her room, shut the door, locked it, and retreated to the window, to be as far as possible from Fred's insinuating voice and ways.

Mr. and Mrs. Denvers were out again that night, and the time dragged terribly. Kitty wondered how she was to live through a whole week of this torture.

"I promised Elma that I would not tell about her asking me for that money," she said to herself. "I wish I hadn't said so now; but she seemed so earnest, and I really thought nothing of it at the time. Oh dear, dear! I wonder she does not bring it to me. She must be the meanest of the mean. I never liked her; but now I hate her. Poor, poor, dear old Wheel-about! Don't I know what he is feeling, and what Laurie is feeling, my broth of a boy, my Laurie, asthore! Oh, to think that he is in trouble, and I can't help him! How I wish I was back in Ireland now! This will break my heart—it will break my heart."

Tears filled her eyes; but she was too proud to let them roll over.

"I will keep them back if I die for it," she said to herself. "I am Kitty Malone, and they will break my heart if this goes on; but I won't cry. No, that I won't."

While these thoughts were coursing through the poor girl's brain, there came another knock at the door; an insistent and somewhat fierce one this time. The handle was sharply turned, and the clear voice of Alice was heard.

"Open the door at once, please, Kitty," she said.

Kitty crossed the room, turned the key in the lock, and allowed Alice to enter.

"I must beg of you, Kitty," said Alice, "not to lock the door again."

"And why not, pray? You locked it last night. It was on account of that I am now in all this trouble."

"Really, Kitty, you are quite too ridiculous; as if I were the cause of your trouble. You are in trouble because you disobeyed a strict rule; and my locking the door or not had nothing whatever to do with it. You are quite the most tiresome, inconsistent girl I ever came across."

"Well, it is nothing to you what I am," said Kitty. She sank down on a chair by the side of her little bed as she spoke; her expression was so woe-begone, her face so pale, the droop of her eyes so pathetic, that Alice was slightly touched in spite of herself.

"I am going to see Bessie Challoner," she said. "If you were different I would not leave you."

"Oh, never mind me, pray."

"All the same, I would not leave you, Kitty; for remember I am the only girl belonging to the school who may speak to you for the next week; but, really, your ways are so unpleasant——"

"And I so infinitely prefer your absence to your company," retorted Kitty. "So you may go with quite an easy mind."

"Thanks awfully," replied Alice, with a sneer. Her momentary good-nature had dried up like the dew. She put on her hat, wrapped a shawl round her shoulders and left the room.

Kitty returned to her place by the window. It was now between eight and nine o'clock. She had refused both dinner and tea, and was in consequence feeling weak and faint. There was a giddy sensation in her head to which she was not accustomed. She did not connect it with the fact that she was starving, and wondered what was the matter with her. She was too excited and wretched to feel her ordinary appetite. She had gone through a great deal, and her nerves were reminding her of the cruel trick she was playing on them. It was very dull in her room; the gas jet shed a hideous glare over the place. The room in itself was by no means pretty, for the paper was the worse for wear, and the paint was nearly worn through to the woodwork. The hangings to the windows and to the two little beds were of an ugly drab color; and the view out of these windows only revealed a narrow street. At Kitty's own home she had a bedroom in the Castle end; the paper hung in ribbons, the door was draughty, the bedstead rickety and old; but what a view there was from the windows! A view of Lake Coulin and the mountains in the distance, and the park lying verdant and green between the lake and the house. What a breeze blew in at those windows!

"Oh, I should never be dull if I were locked up in the dear old bedroom at home," thought the girl. "But here! here it is enough to madden one; and yet I must stay here, for I cannot talk to the others. I will not allow Fred to guess my secret. Oh, what a miserable, unhappy, wretched girl I am! I am a prisoner. Oh, if only Laurie saw me! Dear Laurie; the darling, the treasure that he is! It would break his heart if he knew what I am suffering."

There were no books at all interesting to Kitty in the room, so she could not while away the lagging hours with a novel. As a rule the arranging of her wardrobe, the trying on of her many dresses, gave her pleasant occupation; but she was in no humor to make herself smart that evening.

"I suppose the love of dress is a sin," she said to herself; "although it is one of the rules of the Tug-of-war Society that the girls are to be fashionably dressed. Anyhow, it seems to have been my undoing, for if I had only gone out in somber ugly attire last night I might have the money now for my darling Laurie; and this heavy, heavy weight would be off my mind, and I should not be in disgrace at Middleton School—not that that much matters."

She went to the window, flung it open, and looked out. It was a clear, starlit night. She could see the sky from between the long rows of houses. She looked up at it, and then put in her head again.

"I shall suffocate if I stay any longer in this room," she said to herself. "After all, why should I obey Miss Sherrard? She spoke about my word of honor; but I have not given it. I was silent—I was silent on purpose. If I could only see Elma and get my money back all would be right, and I could really bear the rest of this terrible week. I have a great mind to risk it and go to her."

No sooner had the thought entered the head of the wayward girl than she proceeded to act upon it. She put on a long cloak which reached nearly to her feet, a little cap of blue cloth was secured over her mass of curling hair, and then going cautiously across the room, she took the key out of the lock, unfastened the door, shut it behind her, locked it from the outside, put the key in her pocket, and ran downstairs.

"If the servants or Alice come up they will think I have gone to bed. What fun if I keep Alice out of her bed for an hour or two!" laughed Kitty. She was now once more in high excitement and pleasure. It never took long to raise her volatile spirits. "I hope Fred won't be about. I don't want to get the poor darling into mischief," she said to herself. There was no one in sight, however. The younger children were away in another part of the house, Mr. and Mrs. Denvers were out, the servants were in the kitchen, Alice was with Bessie Challoner, and Fred was down in his shed mourning the absence of Kitty, whose bright ways were fascinating him more and more.

"It's all right," thought the girl. She left the house, and a few moments later was walking at a rapid pace in the direction of Constantine Road. The thought of her disobedience, of the daring of her own act, but added zest and pleasure to her walk.

"How happy I shall be when I get the money," she said to herself. "I'll coax Fred or Mrs. Denvers to get me a postal order to-morrow, and I'll send it to Laurie at once. Oh, what a weight will be off my mind! Why, I'll almost feel inclined to turn good again!"

The walk to Constantine Road was a long one, and Kitty on this occasion was determined to avoid the neighborhood of the "Spotted Leopard." In preference she took the short cut across the common. It was very lonely here, but she had no fear of ghosts or bogies. She walked with her upright, young carriage, her quick, alert, dancing step. It was ten o'clock however, before she reached Constantine Road. She ran up the steps of No. 14, and rang the bell. The door was opened to her by the servant, Maggie.

"Oh, Miss Malone," cried that young woman, "is that yourself, miss? I has got into the most terrible trouble."

Maggie's face was flushed and blistered with crying.

"They has took away my wiolets, miss, and I call it a bitter, cruel shame."

"Never mind that now, Maggie," answered Kitty, "I want to see Miss Elma. Is she in?"

"That she is, miss, and she shan't escape you this time. Come right into the parlor, and I'll send her down to you."

Kitty danced into the house. As far as her appearance now went she had never known a sorrow nor a care in her life. She stood in the center of the room, waiting impatiently for Elma to appear.

Maggie having shut her in, went cautiously upstairs. Elma and Carrie were in their bedroom. Carrie was already in bed.

Maggie, who seemed to scent mischief all round, thought she would now act with considerable guile. She knocked a low and gentle knock on the panel of the door. Elma came to open it.

"What is it, Maggie?"

"Miss Helma, will you come outside on the landing for a minute?"

Elma went out.

"I have a bit of news about that money, miss. If you'll come right down to the dining-room I'll tell you there."

"News about my money, Maggie? Oh, impossible!" But hope, ever ready to dawn in the human breast, could not help rising now on poor Elma's horizon. It all seemed utterly impossible; but what earthly sense would there be in Maggie telling a lie.

"I was just getting into bed," she said. "Can't you tell me here?"

"No, miss, it's not me at all; it's news of the money you'll get if you just come down to the dining-room, and be quick about it."

"Well, I may as well go. Is there anybody there?"

"You go and find out, miss."

"Oh!" thought Elma, "Sam Raynes has repented. He was able to find money after all, and has brought it to me. This is nice."

"What's the matter, Elma?" called Carrie from her bed.

"Nothing, Carrie. I'll be back in a few moments."

Elma hastily refastened her dress; put up her hands to her hair to smooth it, and tripped downstairs, full of expectation and hope. Maggie had relit the gas in the dining-room. Elma bounded into the room.

"Well, Sam," she exclaimed. Then she stepped back a couple of paces; she was confronted not by Sam, but by Kitty Malone herself.

"Kitty!" cried Elma. There was a faintness in her voice, which Kitty had no time to remark.

"Yes, Elma, I have come. I have broken my word of honor; but after all, I never really gave it. I dare say I shall get into a worse scrape than ever; but I can't help it. I came to you, Elma, because I must have that money. Will you let me have it now at once please—my eight sovereigns—will you give them to me now? If I had seen you last night I should not have been so miserable. I was coming to you when Fred and I passed the 'Spotted Leopard.' Oh, please, Elma, give me my money at once!"

Elma's face could scarcely turn whiter. She looked piteously at Kitty.

"I wish I could give it to you," she began; "but——"

"What do you mean; can't you let me have my own money? You have not spent it, not all of it, have you?"

"Yes, I—I spent it."

"You spent all that money! all those eight sovereigns? Oh, Elma, you must be joking. Can't you let me have some of it back? Please, Elma, don't say no. It is for Laurie; he is in the most awful trouble. I must have the money, and at once."

"I can't give it to you," said Elma. "I am awfully sorry. Sit down, please, Kitty. Oh, Kitty, you won't tell on me?"

"I don't know what I'll do," said Kitty. "I am nearly distracted."

"But you promised you would not tell. You don't know what an awful scrape I shall get into if you do. And you—oh, yes—you shall have the money soon."

"What do you mean by soon; to-morrow? Shall I have it to-morrow?"

"Not quite so soon as that. Give me a week, Kitty."

"I can't," answered Kitty. "It is a case of life or death to Laurie. Your mother must give it to me if you cannot; but have it I must."

"But you are rich; surely you can manage without it for one week."

"It is not that, and I am unable to explain. Laurie must have the money. He wants me to help him about something, and I must send it to him to-morrow."

"I wish I could give it to you," said Elma. "I would do anything in all the world to let you have it back; but it isn't my fault."

"What did you spend it on? Dress?"

"Oh, in different ways." Elma had made up her mind not to tell about Carrie and Sam Raynes.

"I'll let her think that I spent the money on finery," she said to herself. "She is sympathizing about dress. I'll let her think that."

Kitty's hands had dropped to her sides; a look of despair filled her face.

"What is to be done?" she said. "I never thought for a moment you could not let me have it back."

"You shall have it in a week; that I promise you faithfully."

"But a week will be no good, Elma. Oh! Elma, Elma, Laurie will suffer for this. They will take his freedom from him; he will be like a chained lion; he will lose his spirit; perhaps—perhaps he will die. I cannot stand it, Elma, I cannot."

Kitty covered her face with both her hands, and the tears which with difficulty she had been keeping back all the evening burst forth in torrents. Kitty did not cry as an English girl might. She cried with the wild, passionate sobs of those who have seldom exercised self-control. Elma was dreadfully frightened.

"Do stop, Kitty," she said. "You make so much noise; mother and Carrie will hear you. Carrie will come down."

"What if she does?" cried Kitty. "Oh, Laurie, Laurie! this will break your heart. You are ruined; ruined for life!"

"There are more than Laurie ruined for life, it seems to me," said Elma. "Kitty, I am ever so sorry; but if you will only be patient I will try and think of some plan of helping you. Now, please, please, promise me one thing—you won't tell that I asked you for this money?"

"Why not? I must tell some one. I must get the money somehow."

"But you made me a promise you would not tell. It is very wrong to break a promise."

"I don't care whether it is right or wrong. I cannot keep this secret, Elma. I must remember Laurie, Perhaps Mr. Denvers will lend me the money. I must think of Laurie first."

"Please, Kitty, listen to me. If you will promise to keep my secret I'll manage to get you the money somehow."

"But how, Elma?"

"Oh, I'll think out some plan. Do promise me that you'll keep my secret. It would be my ruin if it were known. Do promise, Kitty; do, please."

"I cannot," said Kitty. She walked restlessly to the door. "I must go," she said; "if I don't they will discover that I am out."

"And if they do you'll get into an awful scrape."

"Oh, it doesn't matter; I can't be worse off than I am. My one hope now is that they will expel me; then I'll have to return to Ireland; and perhaps I may coax father not to be too hard on Laurie."

"Then Kitty, you have quite made up your mind to tell all about me?"

"I think so. I cannot imagine why it matters."

"But it does, and I must give you the reason. I did wrong, dreadfully wrong, ever to ask you for that money. I broke one of the strictest rules of the school."

"What do you mean?"

"It is one of the strictest rules of Middleton School that no schoolgirl must ask another to lend her money. The governors are terribly particular. If it is ever known I shall be most likely expelled. Anyhow, my character will be gone, and I shall be ruined for life. Oh, Kitty, you have not such a hard life as I have. Do have pity on me."

Kitty stood silent; she was thinking deeply.

"You'll promise; won't you?" repeated Elma.

"I can't say. I scarcely know what I am doing at the present moment."

"Then listen to me. If you tell about the money I'll tell about this visit. There; don't you see now we are quits."

"You tell! That would be mean of you."

"Yes. I'll tell that you broke your parole."

"But I never gave it."

"Oh, that is only begging the question, Kitty. Miss Sherrard understood that you had given it. When you came here you broke it. You'll get into a terrible scrape."

"And you spoke to me, Elma; so you too will get into a scrape."

Kitty's tears stopped like summer rain, and a flash of sunshine flew across her charming face.

"Poor Elma, you will be in hot water too," she said. "What a muddle everything is in."

"You see, Kitty, we must cling together, for we are both in the same boat. I'll do my utmost to get you that money. I am sure I can manage somehow. But you must not tell."

"All right. I'll keep the secret until after school to-morrow. Good-by, Elma."

She left the house, and Elma returned to Carrie.

"Who were you talking to all that time?" exclaimed Carrie.

"That unfortunate girl, Kitty Malone."

"You mean to say she was here?"

"Yes; she came about the money. I am miserable about it. I promised to get it for her by hook or by crook. How can I manage?"

"Look here," said Carrie after a pause, during which she was sitting up in bed and thinking intently. "You say that Kitty Malone is very rich?"

"Yes, of course she is. She has more money than she knows what to do with. Why, I tell you, Carrie, the day she lent me those eight sovereigns I saw fifteen in her purse. Fancy a girl having fifteen sovereigns just to do what she liked with? I could scarcely realize it. I took the money before I knew what I was doing. She did tempt me so sorely when she showed me her purse."

"Oh, I'm not a bit surprised," said Carrie. "If I had been in your shoes I'd have taken the whole fifteen sovereigns just as soon as the eight. But listen to me, Elma; I have a plan in my head. I'll talk it over with Sam to-morrow; perhaps we can get the money; but there's no saying. I'll talk it over with Sam."

"I wish you would not. I would rather not get it through his means."

"What a dislike you have to him."

"I have. He is not good enough for you, Carrie. Oh, Carrie, dear, I vow and declare that I'll work for you and mother; I'll work my very fingers to the bone; I'll do anything for you. Only don't marry that horrid fellow."

"How excitable you are, Elma, and queer. Sam suits me very well. Oh, if you don't want his help you need not have it—remember it is your scrape, not mine."

"It is your scrape, too, Carrie. You stole the money and gave it to Sam Raynes. You are a thief, and you have ruined your sister."

"If you begin abusing me I shall certainly not stay awake any longer," said Carrie; "I'm dead with sleep as it is. Now, do put out the candle, like a good girl. I'm off to the Land of Nod."

Carrie pulled the clothes over her head and struggled down among the pillows. Elma stood and stared out of the window.

"I wonder if I could do it," she said at last to herself. "It might be the best plan; and Gwin is very kind and very rich. I wonder if I dare. Anything seems better than my present predicament."



CHAPTER XVIII.

"I CANNOT HELP YOU."

Elma scarcely slept that night. At an early hour on the following brilliant summer's morning she stole softly out of bed, glanced for a moment at Carrie, as she lay sleeping the sleep of the just, with her towzled hair tossed about the pillow, and then, getting deftly into her own clothes, left the room without arousing the sleeper. She had made up her mind very definitely what to do. Without even waiting to get any breakfast, she unfastened the hall door, opened it, and stepped out into the full radiance of the summer's morning. A quick walk brought her in a little over half an hour to Harley Grove. When she went up the ponderous flight of steps which led to the principal door of the mansion a clock far away struck the hour of seven.

"It is terribly early," she said to herself, "terribly early to disturb her; but it is my only chance. I must have time; I cannot rush this thing. If she can help me I believe she will; and anyhow, I do no harm by what I intend to say to her."

Elma rang the bell, but her early summons was not immediately attended to. Presently a servant girl, who looked as if she might be one of the under-housemaids, unbolted and unbarred the door, and opened it a few inches. "When she saw a neat-looking girl, in all probability a schoolgirl, standing outside she opened it a little further and her jaw dropped in some astonishment.

"I have come here," said Elma to know if I can see, Miss Harley immediately on very special business."

"I don't know, miss, I am sure," answered the girl, who was a stranger in those parts. "I can't say that you can see Miss Harley now, for I think she is fast asleep and in bed, miss."

"It is of the utmost importance or I would not disturb her," said Elma. "I have brought a note with me; can you manage in some way to have it delivered to her? I can wait downstairs in any of the rooms until I get her answer."

As Elma spoke she slipped a little three-cornered note into the girl's hand, at the same time placing in it one of her own most valuable and very few and far between shillings.

"Can you manage it for me?" she said. "It is really of the utmost importance."

A shilling was a small bribe; but the housemaid was young and tender-hearted. She looked again once or twice at Elma, who could wear a most pleasing expression when she chose, and then, ushering her into a small room to the left of the wide entrance hall, departed slowly upstairs on her errand.

While she was away Elma fidgeted, walking from end to end of the little room into which she had been admitted. All depended, or so she imagined, on her note reaching its destination. She knew Gwin's kind heart; she was certain that if Gwin received the note, however tired and sleepy she was, she would at least see her for a few minutes. Elma had worded it craftily.

"I am in great trouble," she had written. "It is connected with Kitty Malone. I see my way to helping Kitty if you, Gwin, can help me. But I must see you now at once. Let me come to your bedroom. I would not disturb you if it were not a matter of life or death."

This note, sufficiently startling in its contents, was given by the under-housemaid to Gwin's own special maid. The girl, after some deliberation, said she would venture to give it to Gwin, early as the hour was. Accordingly she stole into the shaded bedroom, drew up one of the blinds, and when Gwin opened her sleepy eyes presented her with the little three-cornered note on a salver.

"There's a young lady, a Miss Lewis, waiting downstairs. She brought this note and begged that it should be delivered to you at once, miss. I ventured under the circumstances to wake you, as the young lady seemed from all accounts to be in a desperate way."

"What can it mean?" said Gwin. She sprang up in bed, tore open the note, and read the contents.

"Is my cold bath in the room, Simpson?" she asked of her maid.

"Yes, miss; in your dressing-room."

"Well, I shall dress at once. Go down, please, to Miss Lewis and tell her that I'll be ready to see her in my study in twenty minutes."

The maid departed on this errand, which brought much relief to poor Elma.

In less than the time named she was summoned by Gwin's maid to come with her to Miss Harley's study. There a moment later she and Gwin were clasping each other's hands. Gwin was in a long white dressing-gown; her hair streaming over her shoulders.

"Well, to be sure, Elma," she exclaimed, "you are an early bird. Now, what do you want with me? I am full of curiosity. You are in trouble, and it is something connected with Kitty Malone?"

"Yes," said Elma. "I am desperate, and I have come on a desperate errand, Gwin. Can you manage, somehow or other, in some fashion, to let me have the use of eight pounds for—for say a fortnight?"

Gwin Harley gasped; not only at the magnitude of the sum demanded, but also at Elma's audacity in asking for it.

"You want eight pounds," She exclaimed. "But, Elma, you know the rule?"

"Oh, yes, I know the rule; and it is because I am fairly desperate I apply to you. You might lend the money to my sister Carrie; or perhaps mother would be best. It might be managed so that I didn't appear to borrow it. I would not ask for it if—if the trouble were not terrible; and—and the secret belongs to another."

"What do you mean?"

"It belongs partly to Kitty Malone."

"I cannot help you," said Gwin decidedly.

"Why? Oh Gwin, I did not know you could be so cruel."

"You don't understand, Elma. I am surprised that you should ask me. How could I break one of the strictest rules of the school?"

"Oh, but you need not really break it; I mean it could be managed in this way: Would not your father lend mother the money? You need not do it at all; all you have to do is to ask him."

"You must tell me everything, Elma. This is most mysterious. Why do you want money? Is it for yourself? You must tell me every single thing."

"I cannot tell you, because the secret is not mine."

"You say Kitty is mixed up with this?"

"Yes, yes."

"And you will not tell why?"

"I cannot. I wish I could."

"Then, Elma, I also must be firm. I cannot help you."

"You will not ask your father?"

"How could I? It would be a subterfuge—the whole thing would be a subterfuge. I must have nothing to do with it. I am sorry, Elma, for I see you are in great trouble; but I am powerless."

"Then I am ruined," said Elma. She covered her face with her hands, and the tears trickled slowly between her fingers.

"I wish I could help you," said Gwin kindly. "Is there any other way?"

"No other way. I want eight pounds for a fortnight—I want it desperately. You could manage to let me have it without breaking the rules of the school, but you will not."

"I am truly sorry, but—I will not."

"Oh, Gwin, if you would only trust me. We were always friends, were we not?"

"Yes," answered Gwin slowly. "I have always liked you, Elma."

"We were friends," continued Elma, wiping the tears passionately from her cheeks; "and I did think last night, when I was in such trouble, that perhaps you could come to my aid. I thought you would trust me without my telling you everything."

"I cannot, Elma," said Gwin again.

"Why?"

Elma now looked steadily into Gwin's face. Gwin looked gravely into hers. After a time Gwin spoke slowly:

"Because," she said—"forgive me, Elma—you are not trustworthy."

"Oh!" said Elma. She turned first pale and then red.

"There is no use in my staying," she said, after a pause. "I am sorry I got you up so early."

"Oh, that does not matter," said Gwin, in an altered tone. "I would do what I could to help you; but I cannot do the impossible."

"I see that I was mistaken in you."

"Not at all," replied Gwin. "You found me what I have always been. I am naturally careful. I never jump to wild conclusions; I am not impulsive. I have liked you, and I shall go on liking you in the future."

"Even though I am not trustworthy?"

"Yes; I shall like you for what you are. You have always been nice to me, and I wish to be nice to you. Please understand that this will make no difference."

"And you won't tell what I came about?"

"No, I shall never mention it. Now, must you go?"

"I must," said Elma.

The full morning light fell upon her face as she spoke, and Gwin noticed that it looked small, pinched, and thin.

"You must have some breakfast first," she said. She walked across the room and sounded the bell. The servant appeared in a moment.

"Order breakfast to be served here this morning," said Miss Harley, "for two, please." The maid withdrew. Gwin opened the window and looked out.

"I am very sorry for Kitty," she said, after a pause.

Elma did not reply. After a time she said slowly:

"Did you see Miss Sherrard last night?"

"I did; but it was useless. She won't retract her mandate."

A sigh of relief came from Elma's lips.

The servant again appeared with breakfast. Gwin poured out tea for her friend. Elma drank a cup, her throat felt dry. She saw no way out of her difficulty. She could scarcely bring herself to eat.

A few moments later she was on her way back from Harley Grove. She hesitated whether to go straight to the school and wait there until nine o'clock or to return to Constantine Road. After a little reflection she decided on the latter course. She reached home hot and weary between eight and nine o'clock. Carrie was seated at the breakfast table; a letter lay on Elma's plate.

"Why, Elma, what have you been doing out and about at this unearthly hour?" said Carrie, as she cracked the shell of an egg by no means fresh.

"Where is mother?" remarked Elma, as she seated herself at the table.

"She has a bad headache. I have sent up her breakfast. Are you going to see her?"

"No, I think not. I shall just have time to eat something—not that I am specially hungry—and then start for school."

"There's a letter on your plate. Why don't you read it?"

"I know; it's from Aunt Charlotte."

"Well, well, and you are interested in Aunt Charlotte more than I am," said Carrie. "Do read your letter."

Elma somewhat languidly tore open the envelope. The next moment she uttered an exclamation, and her face went first red and then pale.

"Aunt Charlotte writes to say she is coming here to-day."

"To-day! Good gracious!" said Carrie. "She doesn't want me to stay in, does she?"

"Oh, no; but this is terribly awkward."

"Why so, Elma? Why shouldn't you ask her to lend you the money?"

"Ask Aunt Charlotte! I may as well put my hand into the fire."

"Well, suppose I were to help you," said Carrie, after a time.

"You, Carrie; how could you?"

"But suppose I were to—I am not the sort of person who does anything for nothing. What would you give me if I got you out of this?"

"But how could you get me out of it?"

"Why, I suppose by giving Kitty the money."

"Carrie, you talk nonsense. Unless, indeed, you were to persuade Sam Raynes——"

"Oh, it's useless to worry poor Sam. He has speculated with that money, and if he doubles it we shall have it back. I think when that time comes the very least you ought to do, Elma is to give me half of the balance over and above what you borrowed. That would be three pounds ten, for me quite a nice little sum. It would keep me in ribbons, gloves, and boots for a bit. I get such a very small salary."

"Well, the money has not been doubled; it's time enough to talk of our chickens when they are hatched," said Elma. She rose from her seat, looking despairingly at the open letter which she held in her hand.

"After all, I may as well take this up to mother," she said.

"One moment before you go, Elma. Would you like me to help you, or would you not?"

"If you could help me, Carrie, of course I should be obliged."

"And what is the punishment they have inflicted upon that Irish lass?"

"Oh, dear me, Carrie, I told you all about that yesterday; she is in Coventry—we are none of us allowed to speak to her."

"All the same, you did speak to her last night, don't forget."

"Yes, I could not help myself; but if it was found out it would go hard with us both."

"Then I am the one to interfere," said Carrie sotto voce. "I'll do my best, Elma, and trust to you to make it up to me when I have got you out of this scrape."

"I wish you would do something, Carrie; but I don't suppose you can. It's awful to think of Aunt Charlotte coming now. If I can't help Kitty, Kitty is sure to tell, and then it will be all over the school. They won't blame her so much as they'll blame me. Oh dear, dear! if you would do something!"

"Well, I promise that I just will," said Carrie. "Now go off to school with an easy mind."



CHAPTER XIX.

KITTY TELLS THE TRUTH.

Early the next morning Kitty received her telegram. It certainly was not at all calculated to soothe her. She was restless and miserable before; now her hands shook so violently that she could scarcely eat her breakfast.

Alice acted somewhat the part of a jailer; she had to convey the disgraced girl to Middleton School.

"I am ill; I won't go," said Kitty, bursting into tears.

"You had much better come, Kitty," said Alice, speaking almost kindly for the first time in her life; she really pitied poor Kitty at that moment. "If you will only take your punishment patiently it will soon be over, and I know for a fact," she continued, "that many of the girls are only too anxious to make it up to you by and by."

"Oh, it's not that," said Kitty; "it is because I am so wretched. I have a great trouble at home; but there, there's no use in talking to you about it, Alice."

"So you always say," answered Alice. "Whenever I want to be the least bit good to you, you put me off; but never mind, I am sure I can do without your friendship. Anyhow, I think you must come to school unless you are so ill that mother will be obliged to send for the doctor."

"Oh, I don't want that," said Kitty, "I never had a doctor in my life. If you'll wait for me, Alice, I'll go upstairs and put on my hat."

She rushed to her room, flung herself on her knees for a moment by her bedside, and uttered a frantic prayer to Heaven.

"Oh! God, in your mercy, keep Laurie from doing anything desperate," cried the unhappy girl. She then joined Alice downstairs. Her face was white; there were heavy black lines under her eyes; she had never looked prettier, more pathetic, more likely to win sympathy from the other girls.

At prayers that morning all eyes were directed to Kitty Malone. She was not allowed to sit with the others, but was given, a place on the bench with the teachers. Here she faced the rest of the school. It would have been a cruel position for another girl; but it did not matter to Kitty, for she saw no one present. Her eyes, with that queer inward look in them, were gazing straight, not at the scene before her, but at the old home in Ireland. The squire, whom she so passionately loved, roused to the last extremity of anger; the boy, whose heart was hers, crushed, trapped, imprisoned, his liberty taken from him. Kitty trembled from head to foot; she could scarcely restrain her terrible emotion.

After school she accompanied the others to the classroom, but in absolute silence. She was given her usual lessons to do, but at a table by herself. Her punishment was to be carried out in all its fullness; but, dreadful as it would seem to most, it did not touch her at all to-day. Her head ached, her eyes felt dim. Laurie's telegram, which lay in her pocket, seemed to scorch into the very depths of her heart. She had not even been allowed to answer it; the whole weight of her trouble lay unrelieved upon her. The poor child was unaccustomed to such anguish, and her self-control was in danger moment by moment of giving way.

As she strove to get that dull piece of English history into her head, as she endeavored to follow the rules of syntax, as the knowledge that she never, never to the longest day of her life, would understand what was meant by the possessive case, alongside with these feeble little efforts to follow her lessons, ran the dark thought of how, by what possible means, she could help Laurie. And more and more as the time went on she felt that she could not keep her promise to Elma. Elma had been cruel to her; she had borrowed her money when she knew she had not the most remote chance of paying it back; she had spent it according to her own saying in the most frivolous way. Now, for the first time, Kitty learned to despise dress. How could Elma spend the money which was to save Laurie in anything so contemptible as ribbons and finery? Kitty looked down at her own neatly-appointed clothes; her perfect little shoes peeped out from beneath the frill of her dress. Notwithstanding her misery she was as neat as usual in her attire; but now she had no heart to appreciate gay clothes, good looks, pretty ribbons—any of the things which usually delighted her. Laurie seemed to cry to her; she fancied she could hear his voice coming across the waters to her ears—Laurie, who had always trusted to her, who, strong as he was, was not quite so strong as Kitty when scrapes and troubles were about. Oh! if only she could go to him! If only she might relieve her feelings and tell the exact truth to Miss Sherrard! What kept her back? Nothing whatever but the thought of Elma. She had given Elma a promise, and, tempted as she was, she must not break it.

As this thought came to her she remembered that she had only promised Elma to keep the secret until after morning school. That time would soon be up.

"Once Miss Sherrard knows I am certain she will help me," thought Kitty, "though I don't want to excuse myself; yet I know that a great deal of the blame of my proceedings will be lifted from my shoulders to Elma's. Why should I go through all the suffering, and Elma sit there looking so calm, and quiet, and still?"

As these thoughts rushed through Kitty's mind she glanced up for the first time, and calmly surveyed the great room full of her fellow-students. As if with one impulse all the girls raised their eyes and looked back at her. There was pity on most of the faces, amusement on a few, curiosity on a few others; but on Elma's face alone was an expression of intense anxiety and misery. Kitty had the kindest heart in the world. The moment she saw this expression the idea of betraying Elma melted from her mind.

"She does look wretched," she said to herself. "I must not speak to her; I dare not, and yet—yet—I should like her to know that I am not going to be hard on her."

Kitty tore off a piece of her exercise book and managed, when she thought no one would see, to write a little note to Elma. In this she said, "Don't be afraid, Elma; I have made up my mind not to tell."

This note she twisted up, and, as the girls were going to the playground for recess, managed to flash an intelligent glance toward Elma. Elma approached close to her table, Kitty stretched out her hand, and Elma's fingers were just about to close over the note, when, by an unlucky chance, there came a breeze through the window, and the note, for some inconceivable reason, fluttered from Kitty's hand to the floor. In an instant Miss Worrick had seen it. She was just stepping forward when Elma like a flash caught it up and tore it into fragments. She would not for the world have the note seen. Miss Worrick, filled with anger, came up to Kitty.

"You are a bad girl, the worst girl I know," she said. "You are not even honorable. Did you not give your parole that you would not hold communication with another girl in the school, and yet you have been trying to communicate with Elma Lewis by means of writing?"

"Writing is not speaking," said Kitty, now standing up very erect and proud, and replying to Miss Worrick as pertly as she could.

"Don't answer me, miss; you grow worse and worse. Elma Lewis, do you know anything about that note?"

Kitty looked full at Elma. If she was going to be true to Elma, would Elma be equally true to her?"

"I know nothing about it," said Elma promptly.

Kitty's eyes filled with withering scorn; an expression of disdain curled her pretty lips.

"You are quite certain, Elma? Kitty Malone seems to have a great anxiety to communicate with you. Can you throw any light on the scrape she has got into?"

"I know nothing whatever about her secrets; I—I have nothing to do with them," said Elma in an agitated voice, which she endeavored in vain to render calm.

Gwin Harley, who had stopped on her way out of the classroom, paused to listen to Elma's words.

Kitty's face was now white as death. She did not glance at Elma; she was looking the other way.

"Leave us, girls," said Miss Worrick.

The next moment the great classroom was empty, with the exception of Miss Worrick and Kitty Malone. Kitty was standing upright as a dart.

"Take me to Miss Sherrard; I want to speak to her," she said.

"I am certainly going to take you to her. You are a very, very wicked girl. I doubt not you will be expelled."

"Oh, I hope I shall," said Kitty. "I should like nothing in all the world better."

"You would? You are quite incorrigible. Do you know, you wretched girl, what it means?"

"No," answered Kitty; "I wait for you to tell me. What does it mean, Miss Worrick?"

"That you are tainted for life, disgraced for life. Wherever you go it will be always remembered to you that your conduct was so bad at school that you were obliged to be expelled."

"But that won't matter in old Ireland," said Kitty with a hollow, forced laugh.

"Yes, it will; it will break your father's heart. There are no people so proud as the Irish. They can stand a good deal; but any cloud on their honor——"

"Ah, you are right," cried Kitty, standing still, and a queer change coming over her face. "Our honor—no one ever touched that yet."

"It will have a nice blow when you are dismissed from Middleton School," said Miss Worrick, glad to find a point in Kitty's hitherto invulnerable armor. "Come with me at once, you bad girl. I must explain your conduct to Miss Sherrard."

"I have something on my own account to say to Miss Sherrard," answered Kitty in a proud voice; "something which will explain a good deal."

"I am glad to hear it; but I scarcely think any words of yours can remove the stigma on your character. But come; I have no time to argue with you further."

Miss Worrick now led the way into Miss Sherrard's little sitting-room. Miss Sherrard was standing near the window; she turned quickly when she saw Miss Worrick, and a displeased and withal a troubled glance filled her eyes as they rested upon Kitty."

"Anything fresh?" she said, turning to the teacher with a weary expression in her voice.

"Only just what I expected," said Miss Worrick with bitterness. "Kitty Malone is not to be trusted. Yesterday she gave her word of honor——"

"I didn't," interrupted Kitty.

"Kitty my dear, allow your teacher to speak."

"She gave her word of honor, or equivalent to it, that she would submit to the punishment which you rightly inflicted upon her. Well, I found her just now in the act of smuggling a note into Elma Lewis' hand."

"Oh, but this is very bad, Kitty," said Miss Sherrard. "Did you not know what your word of honor meant?"

"I never promised anything," replied Kitty. "You spoke; but I was silent."

"Pardon me, my dear; that is begging the question. You were told that you were not to communicate with any of your fellow-pupils. Your silence signified consent. Kitty, I am ashamed of you."

"As you know so much you may as well know all," said Kitty, desperation in her tone. "I did far worse than you think. Last night I went out again after dark by myself to see Elma Lewis. I had an interview with her. I talked to her, and she talked to me. That was not exactly her fault; for I forced her to speak. Now, you know how very bad I am. Expel me if you wish. I know you will after this. I am in dreadful disgrace. I only wish I were dead."

"Leave us, Miss Worrick," said Miss Sherrard.

The door was closed behind the governess; and the head-mistress, taking one of Kitty's cold hands, led her to a seat near herself on the sofa.

"There is more behind," she said. "Kitty, you must tell me the truth."

"I long to tell you," answered Kitty. "A short time back I had made up my mind to conceal it because the telling would make another girl miserable—miserable for life. Now my feelings are changed."

"I am glad that you are at last willing to confide in me," said Miss Sherrard in a kinder tone. "Tell me everything, Kitty, and as quickly as you can."

Thus counseled, Kitty's reserve absolutely gave way. The whole miserable story was quickly revealed: Elma Lewis' request for money; Kitty's generous response; Laurie's passionate and anguished letter; Kitty's desire to help him; her reasons, which had almost driven her mad, for seeking Elma; her desperate resolve at last to go to her late at night; then Elma's passionate beseeching of her to keep the secret; Kitty's promise that she would do so until after morning school that day; then her further resolve, when she saw the look of misery on Elma's face, to keep it altogether even at the cost of breaking Laurie's heart; then Elma's conduct when the note was discovered.

"I scorn her now," said Kitty. "I don't regard any promise I ever made to her. I am glad to tell. She is false, cowardly, and I scorn her. Miss Sherrard, you know everything; expel me if you must."

"Yes, I know everything," replied Miss Sherrard. She sat still for a few moments, lost in anxious thought. She blamed Kitty still, but she also deeply pitied her. Her feelings toward Elma were so strong that she could scarcely trust herself to speak of them at the present moment.

"My honor is gone, and my heart is broken," continued Kitty. "Of course you will expel me after this; and, indeed, I want to go home. Please, Miss Sherrard, let me go home; I cannot stay any longer at school."

"My dear Kitty," said Miss Sherrard, "I am very sorry for you. I am certainly glad at last to know the truth. You, poor child, have been more sinned against than sinning. I cannot tell you what I think about Elma. Such a girl does more mischief in a school than twenty like you. Stay, my dear; stop crying. Kitty, Kitty, what is it?"

"I feel nearly mad—Laurie is in such trouble. May I not at least answer his telegram?"

"Yes, here is a telegraph form. Fill in what you like; I will send it at once to the post office."

"Miss Sherrard, would it be possible for you to lend me the money?"

Miss Sherrard shook her head.

"I could not do it, Kitty; nor would it be right. Your brother has done distinctly wrong; and if you telegraph to him now I hope you will counsel him to go straight to your father and confess everything. There is never the least use in concealment where wrong-doing is concerned, my dear."

But Kitty's eyes had now blazed again with renewed passion.

"You are not a Malone nor an Irishwoman," she cried. "You do not know Ireland, or you would not speak in that tone. I counsel Laurie to tell father what he did to poor Paddy Wheel-about! I counsel him to say that he took the old man's coat—stole it from him! Miss Sherrard, you don't know father. Laurie did it, it is true, in a fit of bravado; but father would never understand. He would be furious, wild; Le would punish him severely. Oh, I must get that money somehow, in some fashion!"

"Kitty, you are speaking disrespectfully," said Miss Sherrard, "and I cannot allow it. I am sorry for you, my dear; you are dreadfully overcome at present. Go home now; I will see you again in the afternoon."

Poor Kitty left the room without even bidding her teacher good-by.



CHAPTER XX.

AN EYE-OPENER.

In her own room the miserable child fell on her knees, and gave way to a burst of passionate weeping. She cried as she had never cried in the whole course of her life before; her tears seemed as though they could not cease. She was so exhausted at last that, kneeling by her little bed, she fell into a sound sleep. In her sleep she dreamed that she was home again; but all was confusion, worry, distress. Laurie was going to a school in England; Laurie's heart was broken. Old Paddy Wheel-about was dead; the squire was so upset and so angry that he would not even allow Kitty herself to comfort him. Aunt Honora was grumbling and going from room to room in the old Castle. Aunt Bridget was talking about dress, and scolding Kitty with regard to the state of her wardrobe. Kitty's head ached, and she felt a sense of irritation.

"And it's so pretty," said Aunt Honora. "Those ruffles round the skirt are done in such a dainty manner, and—oh, I won't disturb you if you'll allow me just to take the pattern. I can in a moment—don't move, don't move!"

Kitty opened her eyes in some bewilderment, and gazed full into the fat and somewhat red face of Carrie Lewis. It was Carrie's voice she had heard, piercing through her dreams. It was Carrie who was bending by her side and holding up a length of her skirt in her hand.

"Oh, don't move, pray; I have just got the set of it; it's very curious and very fashionable. I know Sam would like it awfully."

"Who are you, and what do you want?" said Kitty, jumping to her feet and confronting her unwelcome visitor with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.

"I knocked at your door several times, and you didn't answer," said Carrie; "so then I opened it softly and came in, and you were half-sitting, half-kneeling by your bed, sound asleep; and your skirt did look so very fashionable that I was tempted!—oh yes, I have taken the pattern in my mind's eye. I'll alter my blue nun's-veiling. I can easily get a bit more of the stuff to match, and it will make it quite comme il fait,"

"But who are you?" said Kitty, who had never laid eyes on Carrie before.

"I'm Elma's sister. Now you know."

"Elma's sister?" said Kitty. "But what have you come to my room for? What do you want here?"

"To speak to you. I want to help you if you'll let me."

"To help me?" said Kitty languidly. "I would much rather you went away. You cannot help me; you know nothing whatever about me. I am in great great trouble, and I would much rather be alone."

"You would not rather be alone if you could be helped," said Carrie. "I know all about it. You have got a brother in Ireland who has got into a scrape. Bless you, I know all about the scrapes of young men. Now, poor Sam Raynes, he——. Yes, what is it, Miss Malone?"

"I wish you would leave me," said Kitty in a haughty tone. "I am not friends with Elma just now, and I would rather not see any of her family."

"Yes, but I think you'll see me when I tell you my errand," said Carrie, in no way abashed by Kitty's manner. She crossed the room as she spoke, and deliberately placing herself in the one easy-chair the room possessed, crossed her legs, and leaning back, looked fixedly at Kitty.

"Very well, if you won't go, then I must," said Kitty. "I don't understand English people. They talk a great deal about manners; but no Irishwoman, none that I ever heard of, would dream——"

"Oh, bosh! Stop all that," said Carrie in her rudest voice. "I have come here to help you, and I see that I must explain myself. You want some money, don't you?"

"Yes; but I cannot get it," answered Kitty.

"Oh, my dear, do just stay still a moment. What a sweet little shoe! Did you get it at any shop here?"

"No," answered Kitty, interested for the moment in spite of herself. "Aunt Honora bought these in Grafton Street, Dublin. They have the nicest shoes in that special shop of any place I know. Do you like it?"

"Oh, it is quite sweet; it is the way the heel is arranged, and that little buckle."

"Well, never mind about my shoes now," said Kitty, pushing the attractive little foot well in under her skirt. "What is it you have come to say? Please say it, and then—go."

"I will, if you wish me to. Look here, I know all about your story. You are in dreadful trouble, and so is Elma; but I do declare I think poor Elma's trouble much worse than yours."

"You know nothing about it," cried Kitty, with passion. "Elma in worse trouble! Oh, if you only could guess!"

"I guess well enough," said Carrie, "and so does Elma. You want money, which, evidently, as a rule, is as plentiful to you as blackberries on the hedges in September; and you think, because you cannot lay your hand on that money immediately, the whole world is going to change. But let me tell you that Elma and I want money far, far more badly than you have any idea of. Until you gave Elma that eight pounds, we neither of us ever in our lives had so much in our possession."

"I didn't give it—you make a mistake—I lent it."

"Oh, it is all the same. Elma had it, and, for practical purposes, it was just as valuable as if it were really her own."

"Well, I want her to give it back to me now. I surely have a right to ask for my own money back again?"

"No, you have not—not without reasonable notice. She asked you to lend her some money—she never asked for eight pounds—you let her take it. You said she might have as much as she liked. When she explained the position of things to me, I said: 'Elma, you were a rare fool not to take the whole fifteen.'"

"You must be a very queer girl," said Kitty, astonished at this remarkable specimen of young ladyhood.

"Am I? I don't know. I am frank, and I am generally hard-up. I know, if any one does, where the shoe pinches. Bless you! it would do you good to open your eyes. You don't know what poverty means—a little house, a disgusting little house, shabby paper, dirty ceilings, badly-carpeted floors, the drains wrong, the water-supply as likely to poison us as not, an invalid mother—"

"Oh, have you a mother? Then, I am sure you are not to be pitied," interrupted Kitty.

"Little you know! What good is a mother who is in bed most of the day, a father who—Well, I need not mention him; he is not in the country at any rate. No education to speak of; no dress worth considering; toil, toil from morning till night; and life a mere scramble, a scramble for bread without butter. That's what our life is!"

Kitty had ceased to fidget; she even sank down on the corner of the nearest chair. Her pretty figure, her beautifully-appointed dress, her whole appearance, from the crown of her head to the sole of her foot, betokened what the other girl could never aspire to, never hope to have—abundance of money. And yet at the present moment Kitty was breaking her heart for want of money. No wonder Carrie was puzzled. Kitty's own eyes were opened to an extent they had never been opened before.

"Yes, our life is a rough one," continued Carrie; "very rough indeed; but I don't grumble. I was brought up to it, and use is half the battle, as perhaps you don't know, but you ought. You'll get accustomed to doing without your eight pounds after a bit, and never give it another thought."

"Oh, no, that I won't," said Kitty, now jumping to her feet in her indignation; "and it is not for myself, it is for——"

"Oh, never mind who it is for. You want it, and you think the world is going to stand still because you cannot get it. Well, the world won't stand still. I, who am quite used to doing without money, can assure you as to the truth of that fact. Would you like to know, now, how I spend my days? I teach some horrid children in a small private school from ten to one each morning, and then in the afternoon I go to a family and teach some more little brats; and I am scarcely paid anything for all this toil—starvation wages I call it—and I hate it, hate it. But I have my consolations. I am not overparticular; very small pleasures content me; and there's a fellow whom I love."

"A fellow whom you love?" echoed Kitty; "is it a brother?"

"Bless you, I'm not likely to put myself out about a brother; not that I have one, and so much the better, thank goodness. There's a man whom I love, and a right jolly fellow he is—his name is Sam Raynes. He is not one of your fine, bread-and-butter gentlemen—not he. He is rough and ready, and he has his joke, and he isn't too handsome, although some people admire red hair; but, anyhow, I'm fond of him and he's fond of me, and some day—I don't know when—when we can scrape enough together, we are going to set up housekeeping."

"You are going to marry; is that it?" said Kitty.

"Yes; some day we'll marry. Now, you see, that's a bit of fun for me; and I can go out with Sam on bank holidays and on Sunday afternoons just like any other girl with her young man. Bless you, I don't mind."

"I wonder what all this is leading up to," said Kitty, with a slight yawn. "Of course, it is very interesting to you; but I don't care about your young man."

"No more you do, you haughty little minx; and I wouldn't bother you about him, for, with all his faults, he's too good to have words wasted about him to a little independent chit of a thing like you. But, as I was saying, I'm not talking for nothing, I'm leading up to something. Now, I am content enough with our lot; but Elma isn't. Elma is quite different from me—she has got a great deal of refinement about her."

"Has she indeed?" said Kitty in a voice of scorn.

"Yes, she has, and you needn't contradict me. She's a very clever girl, is Elma. I don't say that she's always as straight as a die—I don't pretend that she is; but she is a clever girl, and she is fond of her books, and she's likely to get on—that is, if you don't spike her guns."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, well, it's only an expression of mine. I heard Sam use it last week. I often copy his phrases, they're so fine and full of flourish. Well, now, if you don't spoil sport, Elma will get into an altogether different circle from your humble servant. Mother and I will go one way, and Elma another. Elma, with her grand notions and her set-you-up sort of airs, will rise in life. She's heartily welcome to go her own way, and I wish her Godspeed, for she is the only sister I have got."

"I don't understand," interrupted Kitty.

"If you'll let me speak I'll soon explain. You don't suppose that girls such as I am are often to be seen at Middleton School?"

"Well, I have not seen any like you," said Kitty, gazing from head to foot at her very peculiar visitor.

"No more you have, bless you; and I'm not the least offended by your very frank stare. Sam admires me, and that's enough for me. Now, Elma looks a lady, doesn't she?"

"I suppose so," said Kitty in a dubious tone.

"You suppose so indeed! Let me tell you that Elma is a born little lady, a real lady, and she looks it, every inch of her. That is why she goes to Middleton School; but now, who do you think pay for her?"

"How can I tell?"

"Do you think mother, or father, or I? Now, who do you think does? I should be interested to know your thoughts."

"I cannot really tell you, Miss Lewis."

"Oh, it does sound fine to hear you Miss Lewising me. My name is Carrie."

"I prefer to call you Miss Lewis."

"Highty! tighty! we are haughty. Well, the person who pays for Elma is our Aunt Charlotte—a certain Mrs. Steward, wife of the Reverend John Steward, rector of St. Bartholomew's, Buckinghamshire. There's a grand enough name for you; and I suppose, being a clergyman, you'll consider that he is a gentleman and that his wife is a lady. Aunt Charlotte happens to be own sister to mother; and when Elma made her little complaint to her she took pity on her; and now she pays all her expenses at Middleton School. And if Elma does well and nothing disagreeable comes to Aunt Charlotte's ears, she will send her presently to Newnham or Girton. Think of that I Elma will be a college girl; she will be an undergraduate of one of the universities—and some day a graduate; and then she will get a first-class post as high-school mistress, or mistress of something or other. But if you tell on her and make things bad, and the truth gets out—You look pale; are you ill?"

"I am all right," said Kitty. She staggered across the room and poured some water into a glass.

"I did not eat much lunch," she continued; "and I am—Never mind; go on."

"Well," continued Carrie, "if nothing comes to Aunt Charlotte's ears to turn her mind the other way, Elma will be all right; she will move in your sphere—yes, she will, whether you like it or not. She is just so clever she is able to do anything. So I have come to say that I hope to goodness you won't split on her, for it would be mighty cruel of you. You would ruin her for life, and that would be a nice consolation for you when you came to die. She did not steal your money, remember; you gave it to her."

"I lent it to her."

"Oh, how you will harp upon that! But you didn't tell her to a day when she was to pay it back again."

"No, I certainly did not; but, of course, I expected that she would return it to me when I asked for it; and then she spent it on dress."

"Spent it on dress? What do you mean?"

"She told me so."

"Oh, naughty, naughty little Elma!" said Carrie, shaking her forefinger in a very knowing manner "She didn't like to tell about Sam, and so she made up that story, did she? Well, it was an untruth. She didn't spend that money on dress; she—well, I will tell you—I stole it from her."

"You!" gasped Kitty, backing away in horror.

"Yes. Good gracious! how scared you are! You don't understand the larks of girls like me. I didn't mean any harm. I took it and gave it to Sam to keep for her."

"Then," said Kitty, coming close up to Carrie, her lips parted, the color flooding her cheeks, her eyes full of light, "then, of course, you, Carrie——"

"Oh, I'm Carrie now, am I?"

"Yes, you are; but never mind. Then, you, Carrie, can get it back for me?"

"So I will, all in good time, my pretty little dear. You shall have the money if you are willing to wait, say a month."

"There's no use at all in that," said Kitty, her voice sounding faint and far away.

"I am afraid there must be, as far as that eight pounds is concerned. The fact is, Sam is speculating with the money, and when we get it back it will be doubled. Elma and I will divide the profits between us, and you shall have your eight pounds back. Now, I think I have told you everything except—"

"And, having told me, I wish you would go away," said Kitty. "I don't know that you have bettered matters in any way. Of course I am sorry for Elma; but it is only right that you should know something. It would be well also for Elma to know the truth. I told her yesterday when I went to your house that I would keep her secret until after morning school."

"Good gracious! You have not blurted out the truth?"

"Wait till you hear. When I was at school this morning I was—oh so miserable! I could not help thinking of—But never mind; you would not understand."

"No, no, of course not; pray proceed."

"I was thinking how soon I might tell."

"Nice sort of creature you are!"

"Why will you interrupt me?" said Kitty. "But then I looked at Elma, and I saw that she seemed very anxious and miserable; and wretched as I was, I made up my mind to be kind to her. I said to myself I will keep her secret; and—and I wrote her a note to tell her so. You would not understand if I said any more; but—but immediately after morning school she—she was false to me; utterly false. You ask her when you see her how she received that letter I wrote to her at the risk of getting into terrible trouble myself. I have been angry, furious, beside myself; and now Miss Sherrard knows everything."

"You don't mean it?" said Carrie. Her florid face had turned perfectly white. She bit her lip and looked out of the window. After a time she looked back again at Kitty, and said slowly:

"You are very cruel, and you have ruined Elma; but after all it is partly my fault. I ought not to have taken that money. Now, look here, shall I tell you what I really came for to-day?"

"If you would do so quickly and then go."

"You won't be in such a hurry to part from me when you know the truth. Now, then, listen. You want some money; I think I see a way to getting it for you."

"Do you really?"

"Yes, I do; that is, if you on your part will do what I want."

"I will do anything to get the money. I want to send it to Laurie if I can this evening. There's nothing I would not give you."

"I will remember that small promise presently," said Carrie in a frank voice. "But now let me tell you what my plan is. You have a great many clothes, have you not?"

"Yes; but please don't bother me about them now. I was always fond of pretty dress; but I should not care if I had to wear rags at the present moment if only I might get that eight pounds."

"If them's your sentiments," said Carrie, "you very soon can have your wish."

"What in the world do you mean?"

"Why, this. If you'll just allow me to take the pick of your wardrobe I can take away the things and sell them. I'll soon bring back the eight pounds—yes, and for that matter ten too."

"Sell my clothes?" said Kitty. She stared at the other girl as if she did not believe the evidence of her own senses.

"Yes. Did you never hear of a pawnshop, you dear little wiseacre?"

"A pawnshop! Do you think I would allow my clothes to go to a pawnshop?"

"I know nothing whatever about it; but I make you the proposal. I will transact the business for you if you'll allow me ten per cent, upon it. I can get you the money."

"Oh, Carrie, it seems such a bitter shame," said Kitty. Her face was crimson; she went to the other side of the room, opened the window and put out her head. She wanted the cool air to soothe her scorched cheeks; her heart was thumping in her breast. Had matters indeed come to this, that she, Kitty Malone, was to pawn her pretty dresses, her trinkets, her whatnots! Alas! she could not do it.

"I have often had to do it," said Carrie. "I know just how to manage. If you'll allow me to select the most suitable of your things, I'll bring you back the money in no time."

"You are sure?" said Kitty, beginning to yield.

"Certain—sure—positive. But you must allow me ten per cent."

"I know nothing about percentage; but you may take every scrap that is over after you have got me the eight pounds."

"Very well, that's a liberal offer," said Carrie. "Now, then, I may as well take a look at your clothes."

"Oh, it seems such an awful thing to do," said Kitty. "Are you sure, quite sure, that no one will find it out?"

"Not a bit of it; that is, if you'll be quick and not allow that other girl—Alice, you call her—to come into the room."

"I'll lock the door," said Kitty. She rushed across the room with new hope, turned the key, and came back again to Carrie.

"I never heard of anything quite so extraordinary in my life," she said. "And you—you call yourself a lady?"

"No, I don't; I call myself a good-natured lump of a girl."

"Well, perhaps you are; but to pawn one's things! Do you mean that I will never see them again?"

"Oh, yes; whenever you like to return the money. They'll be kept safe enough for you. If you don't return the money, of course, they belong to the pawnbroker; but you have lots of time to think of that. Look here, I'll pawn them for a month; that will give you heaps of time to look round."

"So it will," said Kitty. "And are you quite, quite certain that I shall have the money to-night?"

"Oh, yes, if you won't talk so much, only act. Now, then, open your wardrobe."

Kitty unlocked the door of the mahogany wardrobe which she shared with Alice, and Carrie began to pull her choice little garments about.

Kitty went and stood by the window.

"Don't you want to know what I am taking?" said Carrie. "Don't you want to make a selection?"

"No; I'll leave it all to you. I can't bear to see them. Take—take what you want."

"Goodness, what a girl!" thought Carrie to herself. "Here's an opportunity for me."

She made a hasty and very wise selection, choosing the richest dresses, the most stylish jackets, skirts, shoes, ribbons, gloves—clipping the feathers out of the hats and the flowers from the toques—throwing in some of the finest cambric handkerchiefs; and then, taking a sheet of brown paper which she had put into a basket on her arm when she left home, she folded the things into it and fastened her parcel with stout string.

"Here I am," she said; "and this is my parcel. I have looked through your wardrobe; your clothes are neat, fine, some of them gaudy, but all good. I can get from three to four pounds for this lot."

"But why don't you take enough to get the eight pounds?" said Kitty, who had quite made up her mind by this time.

"I could not carry any more. Now, then, open your jewel-case, quick."

"My jewel-case. Oh! I cannot part with my jewels."

"You must, if you want your eight pounds by to-night. I know my pawnbroker. He won't give five pounds for this little parcel. Now then, be quick. Oh, there I see Alice Denvers coming up the road with that other fine young lady, Bessie Challoner. Where's your jewel-case?"

Kitty's face was like a sheet.

"I have not any jewels," she said; "or scarcely any worth mentioning. I didn't bring any jewels with me. But here's my watch; will that do?"

"Do—rather! Why, it's a beauty. Don't say a word to the others; keep your own counsel. Now, then, I'll be off to the pawnshop, and you shall have the money to-night. Au revoir! an revoir!"