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 Q E B T Y. 
 
 " Eye hath not seen nor ear heard aught of the country where Ada is now. How 
 faithfully her memory and her love are kept by the friend she left behind."— 
 Papt 3t6
 
 ADA AND GERTY; 
 
 OR, 
 
 ianfo in |)ant) Jijeabeittoarb. 
 
 By 
 
 LOUISA M I GRAY. 
 
 LONDON: THOMAS NELSON AND SONS. 
 EDINBURGH AND NEW YORK. 
 
 I88 5 .
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 #art Jtrst. 
 
 I. HANDS JOINED FOR THE FIRST TIME, ... 
 II. DRAWING NEARER TOGETHER, 
 in. SOME GLANCES HEAVENWARD, 
 
 iv. a weary traveller on the narrow wav, ... 
 v. a terrible fall for ada and gertt, 
 
 vi. mary carr proves a friend in need, 
 vii. ada's search for the right road, 
 VIII. the two friends looking different ways, 
 
 IX. ONE ALONE ON THE HEAVENWARD ROAD, 
 X. THE OTHER STILL HOLDING BACK, 
 XI. HANDS CLASPED AND TOGETHER AGAIN, 
 XII. COMING CLOSE TO ANOTHER TRAVELLER, 
 
 XIII. A STUMBLE THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN WORSE, ... 
 
 XIV. ONWARD AGAIN, 
 XV. STILL ONWARD, 
 
 XVI. A VERY PLEASANT PART OF THE WAY, 
 
 XVII. SMOOTH PLACES FOR EMILY GORDON, ... 
 
 XVIII. THE LITTLE FRIENDS ARE PARTED FOR A WHILE, 
 
 XIX. MEETING AGAIN, 
 
 7 
 
 16 
 
 23 
 
 30 
 
 36 
 
 48 
 
 50 
 
 60 
 
 80 
 
 89 
 
 99 
 
 111 
 
 122 
 
 114 
 
 150 
 
 165 
 
 169 
 
 184 
 
 196
 
 VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XX. VERT CLOSE TOGETHER, 
 XXI. THROUGH THE DARK VALLEY, 
 XXII. HANDS UNCLASPED AT HEAVEN'S GATE, 
 
 219 
 230 
 
 I. THE MEMORY OF A PROMISE, ... 
 
 II. THE GIRLS WHO WERE GOOD TO GERTY, 
 
 III. A LEADER'S PLACE, AND ITS DIFFICULTIES, 
 
 IV. WALKING IN PERPLEXING PATHS, 
 V. THE TRIAL GERTY HAD FEARED, 
 
 VI. A TIME OF SUSPENSE, 
 
 VII. THE VICTORY THAT WAS GIVEN TO GEKTY, 
 
 240 
 259 
 271 
 283 
 305 
 317 
 327
 
 ADA AND GERTY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HANDS JOINED FOR THE FIRST TIME. 
 
 T was a sunny day in the end of April when Gerty 
 Stuart first went to school at Miss Martyn's; 
 and it seemed to her, in her misery and home- 
 sickness, as if the bright weather mocked her. She was 
 only eleven years old, poor child ! and had never been 
 away from home before ; and though her father's house 
 was not many miles out in the country, she felt it very far 
 off then. Her mother kissed her and bade her good-bye 
 in Miss Martyn's prim drawing-room ; then Gerty heard 
 the hall door shut, and the cab drive away to the station. 
 She was alone in a new world. 
 
 There was a large mirror just opposite her, which re- 
 flected the stiff, handsome furniture, and her own discon- 
 solate little figure sitting all alone on the sofa : a plain child, 
 looking almost boyish with her rough jacket and short-cut 
 hair. Miss Maria Martyn had left the room with her 
 mother, so she was quite by herself, but she struggled hard 
 to keep from crying — not so much from bravery or pride,
 
 8 IN A NEW WORLD. 
 
 as from a feeling that once begun she would not be able to 
 stop. And when Miss Maria came back, she found Gerty 
 sitting motionless, looking straight before her with her 
 mouth tight shut. Miss Maria thought she looked rather 
 stupid and sulky, and spoke very coldly when she said she 
 would take her to her room ; while Gerty in her shyness 
 felt the greatest awe of the tall dark-eyed lady, who was the 
 first of her governesses she had seen. 
 
 She rose without speaking, or even daring to lift her eyes, 
 and followed Miss Maria to a large, bright room looking out 
 on gardens at the back, which was much pleasanter than 
 the drawing-room. Gerty's boxes had been brought up 
 here, but she was told she need not unpack till after tea, 
 when the elder Miss Martyn would show her where to put 
 her things, and tell her which of the little iron beds was to 
 be hers. So she had nothing to do but take off her hat and 
 jacket; then she followed Miss Maria down a loug passage 
 to the class-rooms. As she came nearer she was very much 
 astonished to hear the merry sound of girls' voices and 
 laughter. " How can girls laugh and be happy at school ! " 
 thought poor Gerty. 
 
 But the noise abruptly ceased as Miss Maria opened the 
 door of a large schoolroom. In the middle of the floor 
 was piled a huge heap of lesson-books, and round about the 
 pile five or six girls were executing a fantastic and original 
 dance. Several of the elder pupils, who were quite grown- 
 up young laches in Gerty's eyes, had turned round from 
 their desks to watch and applaud ; and even the little 
 French governess was looking on with undisguised amuse- 
 ment. When Miss Maria entered there was a general rush 
 of the girls to their seats, the dancers giggling and pushing 
 against each other in an alarmed way. Only one held her 
 ground — a slender, brown-eyed child about Gerty's own age,
 
 A SCENE IN THE SCHOOLROOM. 9 
 
 who had made a pause just opposite her governess, and 
 still stood in the middle of the floor, spreading out her 
 dress with her fingers. And on her Miss Maria's wrath 
 first fell. 
 
 "Miss Godfrey, as usual/" said she, with a sarcasm 
 which Gerty thought terrible, but which seemed to fall 
 very harmlessly on the culprit. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, why do you allow this 1 ?" she continued, 
 turning to the governess. 
 
 " It is ze first day, and ze young ladies have nozing to 
 do," said Mademoiselle, coming forward and speaking in a 
 deprecating tone. 
 
 " If any young lady has nothing to do," said Miss Maria 
 sternly, " I will be most happy to give her something to do. 
 Every one ought to have some employment, although there 
 are no lessons to prepare for the masters. Ada, pick up 
 all those books and put them in their places. As for you, 
 I know you always employ your time in mischief, whether 
 you have anything to do or not." 
 
 There was dead silence in the room now. The girls, in 
 terror of Miss Maria's threat of " giving them something 
 to do," had hastily got their needlework, or begun to write 
 letters, with their heads bent low over their desks. Miss 
 Maria walked majestically across the room, and introduced 
 Gerty to Mademoiselle, who looked rather mortified at the 
 reception her well-meant excuse for the misdeeds of her 
 pupils had met with. All was quiet till Miss Maria swept 
 out of the room again ; then the naughty Miss Godfrey, 
 who had been rapidly putting away the ill-used books in 
 the desks, uplifted a huge dictionary and threatened to 
 throw it after her retreating figure. Every one drew in 
 their breath with horror, but happily the lady did not turn 
 round, and after the door was shut there was a laugh. " Ada i
 
 10 ANOTHER INTERRUPTION. 
 
 Ada!" cried Mademoiselle with pathos in her tones, " is it 
 impossible that you can be good 1 ?" 
 
 " Quite, Mademoiselle," said one of the elder girls. " She 
 couldn't if she would, and she wouldn't if she could." 
 
 " Thank you, Miss Carr," said Ada Godfrey, dropping a 
 courtesy till her short dress swept the ground. Then she 
 began to dance again ; but Mademoiselle, who had been 
 gravely pondering over Miss Carr's answer, was not in a 
 mood to allow any more play. 
 
 " I do not understand you, Miss Carr," said she, — " but 
 it matters not. Ada, I command you, sit yourself down 
 and be quiet; I will not allow such noise." 
 
 Ada accordingly seated herself at the desk next to Gerty's 
 and began to write ; while Gerty turned away, and leaning 
 her elbows on the window-sill, gazed vacantly out. She 
 was not accustomed to girl -companions, for she had no 
 sister, and] had always lived in the country, so she had no 
 idea how to make acquaintance with her schoolfellows ; 
 besides, she was too miserable even to wioh to do so. 
 Silence and order reigned in the classroom now, and no 
 one spoke for a long time, except Mademoiselle and some 
 of the elder girls, who were gathered in a group at one of 
 the windows, and talked together in French. All at once 
 the company was startled by Ada falling fiat on the floor, 
 chair and all, with a noise that would certainly have 
 brought Miss Maria back to the room, if she had been 
 within hearing. As it was, Mademoiselle was seriously 
 alarmed, and determined to execute justice immediately. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Ada, voulez-vous quitter lachambre!" 
 said she in her sternest voice. 
 
 " Mais, Mademoiselle," said Ada, picking herself up, and 
 replying in French which Gerty could not help thinking 
 very curious, "co n'est pas ma fautc que j'ai tumble.
 
 AT THE TEA-TABLE. 11 
 
 C'est ma misfortune. Je ne pouvais pas l'aider. Je crois 
 que je suis serieusement bless^e. Est-ce que vous n'avez 
 pas pitie - sur moi, Mademoiselle?" 
 
 " Quittez la chambre," repeated Mademoiselle firmly, 
 taking no notice of the laughter of the other girls. 
 
 But Ada triumphed. "H faut all of us quitter la 
 chambre," said she coolly; "there's the tea-bell." 
 
 So all the girls trooped off two and two ; Ada with the 
 tall bright-haired young lady who had said she never could 
 be good. Mademoiselle, satisfied that Miss Maria had not 
 been in the near neighbourhood, was content to let the 
 tumble, whether fault or misfoi'tune, pass without further 
 notice. 
 
 " We will go togezer," said the little Frenchwoman good- 
 naturedly, linking her arm with Gerty's. 
 
 Miss Maria did not appear at tea, but the elder Miss 
 Martyn presided at one end of the table, and at the other 
 her mother, a very stout good-natured poking old lady. 
 The German governess, Fraulein Framm, sat opposite Gerty, 
 who gazed with wonder at her broad face and colourless 
 hair. The whole of the fifteen boarders were assembled ; 
 most of them much older than Gerty, who could only pick 
 out one girl smaller than herself, a fat round ball of a child 
 called Molly Smith. 
 
 But to poor Gerty's mind this schoolroom tea-table 
 brought back the image of another, where her place was 
 empty. " Mamma" would be home now ; the little boys 
 would have met her in the garden, and " papa" would havo 
 been waiting at the door ; now they would be all together 
 in the dear cozy parlour. Oh ! what she would give to be 
 there ! The boys would miss her, she knew, and baby — 
 how could they make him understand where his sister had 
 gone 1 ? A great lump rose in Gerty's throat, and one or two
 
 12 A PLAIN QUESTION. 
 
 tears had fallen, when a little hand clasped hers under the 
 table. She could not have borne a word of consolation just 
 then, but Ada's first remark was eminently commonplace. 
 
 " We get jam to tea on Sunday nights, and bread and 
 butter every other night. On birthdays we sometimes 
 have a cake ; — what sort of cake do you like best?" 
 
 But Gerty was as yet unable to answer, so Ada chattered 
 on. " I like gingerbread — gingerbread best of all cakes, 
 and raspberry jam best of all jams. Strawberry jam is nice 
 too. You're to be in our room, do you know 1 ? Nobody 
 told me, but there's another bed put in our room, and you're 
 the only new girl who has come this Easter. So I guessed 
 it! Molly Smith is in our room, and Janie Leslie — that 
 <nrl there with the green ribbons in her hair — she takes 
 such a time to plait her hair at nights, and take it out in 
 the morning ! Isn't Miss Maria nice?" 
 
 This last question was asked very suddenly, and Gerty, 
 somewhat taken aback, could only stammer out, " I — I don't 
 know." 
 
 " Ah ! you'll know very soon," said Ada, with a sort of 
 wondering pity for Gerty 's innocence. " She gave me 
 twenty lines in the holidays, more than once!" 
 " Twenty lines?" 
 
 " Yes, twenty lines of French prose to learn by heart. 
 Well, I was naughty, you know, but then I was so lonely." 
 "You didn't go home in the holidays!" said Gerty, 
 aghast at such a dreadful idea. 
 
 " No, not just now. In the long holidays I go to 
 grardmamma or my aunt in England. Papa and mamma 
 are in India ; and in six years — when I am seventeen — I'm 
 going to India too. It won't be veiy long now !" 
 
 " It seems a long time," said Gerty, who was not sure 
 whether to consider Ada very brave or very heartless.
 
 GERTY FINDS A FRIEND. 13 
 
 " It does seem a long time sometimes, but then I have 
 letters, — and see here ! this is what mamma gave me when 
 she went away. This is mamma." And she touched the 
 spring of a little locket round her neck, leaning nearer 
 Gerty to let her see the picture in it, a tiny photograph of 
 a pale, pretty lady, with soft eyes like Ada's own. 
 
 "Do you always wear it?" 
 
 " Yes, all night and all day. And I kiss it for mamma 
 every day. I wrote her that in one of my letters, and she 
 said she was glad. Miss Maria said she would be gladder 
 if she wrote her that I was getting on well with my lessons, 
 but I don't know about that. What do you think?" 
 
 " I don't know ; but I'm very sorry for you," said Gerty, 
 forgetting her own trouble in her pity for the girl whose 
 parents were in India, and who stayed at school during 
 the holidays. After a little she went on : "I don't know 
 what I'd do if papa and mamma were far away. Burnside 
 — our house — is only twelve miles from here. I'm going 
 home every month." 
 
 Hand in hand the two children went back to the school- 
 room together, Gerty's heart full of gratitude to this odd 
 little comforter, who had come to her in her trouble. 
 Gerty's nature was one of those which are apt to be content 
 with loving a few friends intensely, and looking with com- 
 parative indifference on the rest of the world. Till now, 
 she had been almost entirely wrapt up in her home-life, 
 caring for no other companionship than that of her parents 
 and brothers : now, when she was separated from them, 
 she turned to Ada, in her loneliness, with a love which 
 coloured all her school-life. Henceforth what Ada did was 
 right, simply because Ada did it. As she had been the 
 first in all the school to show Gerty kindness and sym 
 pathy, the mischievous tendencies Miss Maria had accused
 
 14 MORE TROUBLES. 
 
 her of, and her impertinence to Mademoiselle, which Gerty 
 would very likely have blamed in any other girl, became 
 amusing, and even praiseworthy. 
 
 For the rest of the evening the home-sick child was com- 
 forted, and she unpacked her things and arranged them in 
 the drawers with a heart that was almost light. But when 
 prayers were over, and the girls had all gone to their rooms, 
 her troubles began again. That afternoon in the drawing- 
 room, when Miss Maria had left the mother and daughter 
 alone together, Mrs. Stuart had asked a promise from her 
 little girl. 
 
 " And whatever the other girls do, my darling, will you 
 read your Bible and say your prayers every night and 
 morning?" 
 
 Gerty had answered " yes" without even thinking of it. 
 Now for the first time she saw that there might be some 
 difficulty in doing at school what she had been accustomed 
 always to do at home, Janie Leslie had placed herself 
 before the glass, and was engaged in the lengthened opera- 
 tion of hair-plaiting which Ada had spoken of. Little 
 Molly Smith was seated on the floor, slowly unfastening 
 her dress. Ada, comb in hand, danced and jumped about 
 the room, as she related the history of her adventures in 
 the holidays to the other two, who were listening with the 
 greatest interest. No one spoke to Gerty, and she un- 
 dressed quickly, and sat down on her bed to think. Even 
 if she had courage enough to kneel down alone befoi-e her 
 companions, how could she possibly read or pray in the 
 midst of the romping and chatter that were going on around 
 her! So she sat quietly on, and wished and waited for 
 silence. But she wished and waited in vain. At last the 
 servant came to turn out the gas, when Janie was just 
 putting the finishing touches to her hair. Nobodv wop
 
 A SORROWFUL LITTLE GIRL. 15 
 
 undressed except Gerty, but the others seemed to find 
 nothing very unusual or disagreeable in going to bed in 
 the dark : only Janie grumbled a little. But Ada and 
 Molly went on talking and laughing till some time after 
 they were in bed. 
 
 It was not till Gerty was sure they were all asleep that 
 she slipped softly out of bed and knelt down in the dark. 
 She did not think of the Saviour as a Friend who was 
 always near, and could help and comfort her now when her 
 father and mother were away, and she was alone among 
 strangers. She had read and heard of the Lord Jesus all 
 her life, but the story had veiy little interest for her ; and 
 though she always read a few verses of the Bible, and 
 knelt to pray before she went to bed, she regarded it as 
 rather a disagreeable duty. Still it was a duty, and she 
 would be very uncomfortable if she neglected it ; besides, 
 there was her promise to her mother. 
 
 It was impossible to read now, but on her knees, at her 
 bed-side, she repeated a psalm — the Twenty-third — care- 
 fully and conscientiously, but with very little sense of the 
 meaning of the familiar words. Then, with her head bent, she 
 whispered the Lord's Prayer, and the petitions for blessings 
 on herself and her relations her mother had taught her long 
 ago. But the mention of the dear names was too much. 
 The tears Gerty had struggled against so bravely all day 
 would no longer be kept back, and clutching the bed-clothes 
 in her poor little hands, she sobbed and cried as if her heart 
 would break. Utterly worn-out and cold, at last she crept 
 back to bed, and drawing the blankets over her head, 
 sobbed on till she fell asleep.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DRAWING NEARER TOGETHER. 
 
 ERTY did not wake up next morning to wonder 
 where she was. The miserable sense of being 
 away from home continued even in her sleep, and 
 she was not at all surprised when she opened her eyes to 
 find herself in the unfamiliar room. She raised herself up 
 on the pillow, and looked about her. The morning light 
 was still gray, and Janie and Molly were sleeping soundly. 
 But Ada, whose bed was next the window, had drawn up 
 the blind, and was stretched on the top of the clothes, with 
 her feet on the pillow, intent on a book. She did not look 
 up when Gerty moved, and Gerty, afraid of disttxrbing the 
 others, made no sign of being awake. Presently it occurred 
 to her that this would be a good time to get her devotions 
 over without being noticed or disturbed. Nobody moved 
 as she got out of bed as softly as she could. It did not 
 take very long to repeat her prayers and read a few verses, 
 but she was conscious of hurrying through them, in case 
 the other girls would wake up, or the servant come in to 
 call them. As she closed her Bible she looked up, to see 
 a pair of brown eyes fixed on her earnestly. Ada said 
 nothing, however, but turned back to her book; and Gerty 
 crept into bed, feeling vexed and ashamed, she scarcely 
 knew why. 
 
 The servant appeared in a few minutes to say it was 
 
 1584)
 
 ADA AND THE BOOK 17 
 
 half-past six, but it was some time after that before any 
 one except Gerty began to dress. Janie Leslie was the 
 first, and in a few minutes Molly tumbled herself out of 
 bed on the floor, looking very cross and sleepy. 
 
 " Oh ! I wish I was at home !" wailed she, as she drew on 
 her stockings. " There I didn't have to get up till nearly 
 nine, if I didn't want to." 
 
 " Of course we all wish we were at home," said Janie 
 Leslie snappishly. 
 
 But Ada still continued reading ; and at last, after the 
 clock had struck seven, Gerty ventured to say, — "Haven't 
 we to be ready at half-past seven? Won't Ada be late?" 
 
 Janie turned round from the glass, to look first at Gerty, 
 then at Ada. 
 
 " Never mind her, Miss Stuart," said she, rather ungra- 
 ciously ; " you won't be so early yourself after a little. 
 You'd better get up, Ada — Ada!" And then, as Ada 
 neither spoke nor moved, she went on, " Where in all the 
 world did she get that book, Molly?" 
 
 " Miss Carr," said Molly shortly. 
 
 " Well, it's very wrong of Mary Carr. — Ada, you're sure 
 to be late." 
 
 But Ada was obstinately deaf, and it was not till Gerty 
 was expecting the bell to ring for prayers, that she made 
 a flying leap out of bed, and tossed her book into a drawer. 
 Then she began to dress with a rapidity which moved the 
 admiration of the new-comer ; but, in spite of all her haste, 
 she was not nearly ready when the bell rang, and the three 
 other girls went off to the schoolroom. 
 
 " I told you how it would be," said Janie Leslie, as she 
 shut the door. 
 
 But, happily for Ada, the ceremony of bidding good 
 morning to Mrs Martyn and her daughters occupied a 
 
 (584) 2 
 
 1
 
 I 
 
 18 gerty's first letter home. 
 
 little time ; and, to Gerty's great relief, she appeared at last. 
 Miss Martyn had just opened the Bible when the audacious 
 young person came in, and sitting down near the door, out 
 of Miss Maria's sight, buttoned her dress during the read- 
 ing of the chapter. 
 
 It was raining hard that day, and there was no walk in 
 the forenoon, so after twelve o'clock, when morning lessons 
 were over, Gerty sat down at her desk to write her first 
 letter home. 
 
 My own dear Mamma, — I was very miserable yester- 
 day. It will only be 28 days till I come home. I counted 
 in my bed this morning. I think I shall like my lessons 
 very much. We have French lessons from a French master 
 and a French governess too. I got to the top of my English 
 class for dictation. One of the girls had twenty-five errors. 
 I like one of the girls very much. I am very sorry for her. 
 Her name is Ada Godfrey. Her parents are in India. 
 Mrs. Martyn is nice so is Miss Martyn. I don't like Miss 
 Maria she is not nice at all. How are the boys. Give my 
 love to nurse and Mary and Sarah and kisses to Freddy 
 and Robbie and baby. Love to yourself. Good-bye. 
 Your affectionate daughter-, 
 
 Gertrude Mary Stuart. 
 
 P.S. — I forgot love to papa but I mean it all the same. 
 
 It was neither well-written nor well-composed, and the 
 punctuation was defective ; but Gerty had no doubt of the 
 welcome it would receive at Burnside. Written in Gerty's 
 large round -hand, it looked a very long letter, and her 
 thoughts went back to it with considerable satisfaction in 
 the evening when all her lessons were over.
 
 WAITING FOK TEA. 19 
 
 It was damp and chilly, and a fire had been lighted in 
 the large schoolroom, round which most of the girls were 
 gathered, waiting for tea. Gerty, leaning against the mantel- 
 piece, gazed into the fire, and thought over the events of 
 the day, which had not been such a long one after all. She 
 had got on well in her classes, and now that her lessons for 
 the next day were all learned, she felt just weary enough 
 to enjoy being idle for a little. Then Ada had told her 
 that after tea the younger girls were free to play, and had 
 all sorts of games in the schoolroom. To be sure, the 
 thought of home always brought a pang ; but then hei 
 letter would arrive that night, and her mother would be 
 assured she was well, and not more miserable than was to 
 be expected. School was not so intolerable after all, Gerty 
 was thinking just then. 
 
 Suddenly Ada came up behind her, and putting her 
 hands on the back of the chair, swung herself over Gerty's 
 shoulder and asked, — 
 
 "And now, Miss Stuart, isn't Miss Maria nice 1 ?" 
 
 " Oh ! don't call me Miss Stuart j I don't like it at all," 
 protested Gerty. 
 
 " No ; of course you don't. Nobody calls me Miss 
 Godfrey, except Miss Maria sometimes. When Made- 
 moiselle is angry she says, ' Mademoiselle Ada.' But how 
 can I call you anything but Miss Stuart, when I don't 
 know your real name 1 " 
 
 " My name is Gertrude, but I'm always called Gerty. 
 Gerty is what I like to be called." 
 
 "Well, then, Gerty, isn't Miss Maria nice?" 
 
 " You're not going to get off, you see," said Miss Carr 
 from the other side of the fireplace. 
 
 " I don't want to get off," Gerty answered indignantly. 
 " 1 think Miss Maria is cross and nasty, and finds fault
 
 20 GERTY FINDS SHE HAS MADE A MISTAKE. 
 
 when there's no need to. I don't like her at all, and I said 
 so to mamma in my letter to-day." 
 
 " You said that in your letter 1 " said Ada, with dancing 
 eyes. 
 
 "Yes, I did. Of course I did," repeated Gerty, in 
 amazement at the burst of laughter with which this an 
 nouncement was received. " I tell everything to mamma. 
 What's the matter 1 Why are you laughing 1 " 
 
 Ada was jumping about the room in an ecstasy of 
 delight, and the other girls seemed scarcely less amused. 
 Gerty could get no explanation for some time. 
 
 " Poor innocent ! " said one. " Serves Miss Maria right," 
 remarked another emphatically. " How could you be such 
 a fool 1 " asked Janie Leslie. 
 
 Mary Carr was the first to take compassion on Gerty, 
 and explain. " Why, my dear child," said she, " don't you 
 know that Miss Maria reads all the letters 1 " 
 
 Passion prevented Gerty from speaking for a moment 
 at last she said, very vehemently, but in a choked voice, 
 "I hate her — I do hate her with all my heart." 
 
 " Calm yourself," said another of the elder girls, rather 
 contemptuously. " You must submit to it, like the rest. 
 Ada, you needn't jump about in that absurd way ; your 
 friend has done Miss Maria no harm, only got herself into 
 rather an awkward scrape." 
 
 "What will Miss Maria do, Kate?" asked Mary. 
 " Will she consider it more dignified to take no notice, do 
 you think 1 Well, I do say the reading of the letters is a 
 most shocking shame ; and if it goes on next year, I'm not 
 coming back, that's all." 
 
 Mary Carr was a motherless girl, and much indulged by 
 her father, so no one doubted her being allowed to do as 
 she chose about leaving school.
 
 TALKING THE MATTER OVER. 21 
 
 " But what right," said Gerty, her voice still trembling 
 — " but what right has Miss Maria to do anything so low 
 and mean 1 ?" 
 
 " I quite agree with you that it is low and mean," said 
 Mary Carr. 
 
 Kate M'Kenzie interrupted her, by saying something in 
 German in a warning tone ; but her friend was not to be 
 silenced. 
 
 "I don't care who hears it, Kate ; you won't stop my right- 
 eous indignation that way. I say it is a shocking shame." 
 
 " I think we have heard that remark before. It is the 
 rule of the school that the letters are written on Saturday 
 morning, and then given to Miss Maria to correct. There 
 are generally a great many mis-spellings in the children's 
 letters." 
 
 " There are none in mine ! " said Gerty proudly ; but 
 Kate took no notice of the interruption. 
 
 "Very likely Miss Maria will think it beneath her to 
 take any notice of what's in your letter, Miss Stuart, 
 especially as it's the first one. But I advise you to find 
 out the rules of the school, as it's rather inconvenient not 
 to know them. Ada there will be able to teach you; she 
 has been punished so often for breaking them, she ought 
 to know them now." 
 
 " I wish I had never come to this horrible school !" 
 
 " Never mind, dear Gerty," said Ada, coming to her and 
 stroking her hand ; "we have a great many ways of posting 
 letters." 
 
 " Which are all more or less deceitful," said Miss 
 M'Kenzie, coolly finishing her sentence. 
 
 "Oh no!" said Ada earnestly; "everybody does it 
 except Emily Gordon." 
 
 " What everybody does is not necessarily right, Pussy."
 
 22 WHAT HAPPENED AFTER TEA. 
 
 " Now, Kate, you are really too bad," said Mary Carr. 
 " If we are deceitful, it is Miss Maria that makes us so ; 
 and you know that you yourself very often — " 
 
 " My dear Mary, I don't set myself up to be perfection." 
 
 When the other girls left the dining-room after tea, Miss 
 Maria told Gerty to remain behind. The little girl fully 
 expected to be taken to task for the contents of her letter, 
 but the governess only said, — " Your letter was very ill- 
 written, Miss Stuart, and blotted in several places. The 
 next one must be better; and remember in future that 
 Saturday is the time for letter- writing, and it is against 
 rules to do it during the week." 
 
 Gerty listened sulkily, and when Miss Maria had finished 
 speaking, she went out of the room without a word. Ada 
 was waiting for her in the passage, anxious to know what 
 had happened. When Gerty told her, she said, — " You 
 needn't be vexed, Gerty ; we can easily get letters posted 
 when the girls go out to spend days. The way is this, — 
 You must write a short, proper copy-book letter for Miss 
 Maria to see ; and if you want to say anything particular, 
 write another when she's out of the way." Mary Carr was 
 passing just then, and the words of her little favourite 
 struck her with a painful sense of the truth of what Kate 
 M'Kenzie had said. She stopped for a moment; but Gerty 
 and Ada, intent on their own conversation, had gone into 
 the schoolroom, and the elder girl quieted her conscience 
 with the argument she had used in the afternoon : " If we 
 are deceitful, it is Miss Maria that makes us so."
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 SOME GLANCES HEAVENWARD. 
 
 N fine Sunday afternoons it was the custom for 
 Miss Martyn's pupils to spend the time between 
 afternoon church and tea in the gardens. Though 
 each of the houses in the ten-ace had a back gate opening 
 into these gardens, the girls had them pretty much to 
 themselves, and regarded the nursemaids and children who 
 sometimes appeared as unwarrantable intruders. These 
 Sunday afternoons were all the pleasanter, because the 
 girls were generally only accompanied by Mrs. Martyn, an 
 indulgent old lady, who was a great favourite with them 
 all. Except when any of them happened to be ill, she 
 seldom took any charge of the pupils, as she found enough 
 to do in the housekeeping of the establishment. Ada had 
 long ago nicknamed her Mother Hubbard; and when Gerty 
 asked her why, had explained, " Because she's always going 
 to the cupboard, you know. In the holidays I follow her 
 about, and she goes from one cupboard to another cupboard, 
 and takes out sugar, and sago, and tea, and all sorts of 
 things. Oh ! Mother Hubbard has very nice things in her 
 cupboards ! " 
 
 " Then she can't be exactly like the real Mother Hub- 
 bard," said Gerty; "for her cupboard was bare." 
 
 On the first Sunday Gerty spent at school, she had 
 wandered away from her companions, and was lying on
 
 24 IN THE GARDENS. 
 
 the grass thinking. Her thoughts were not happy ones, 
 poor child ! Every remembrance of home was mingled 
 with the bitter consciousness of her broken promise. For 
 every evening had been like the first one, — with this differ- 
 ence, that Gerty had joined in the laughter and romping 
 in her room ; and in the morning she had never again 
 wakened soon enough to read her Bible while the others 
 were sleeping. So it happened that until to-day, when she 
 took it out before going to church, her Bible had lain 
 unused in her drawer. Gerty thought, with bitter self- 
 reproach, that she had been growing wicked very fast since 
 she left home. "What would her father and mother say, if 
 they knew she had given up the habit of her childhood ? 
 For it was only of her earthly parents Gerty thought, and 
 not of that other Father up in heaven, who had done so 
 much more for her. Yet her love for them was strong 
 enough to make her resolve that, rather than grieve her 
 father and mother, she would brave the laughter of the 
 other girls — only it would be very hard. Perhaps it would 
 be better to tell Ada first ; then she would only have to 
 encounter the surprise and ridicule of Janie and Molly in 
 the evening. It was even possible that Ada would not 
 laugh. At any rate, it was worth while to try the experi- 
 ment of taking her into her confidence. And in the midst 
 of Gerty's musings, Ada came running along the garden 
 path, and sat down on the grass beside her. 
 
 When Ada appeared, Gerty's courage failed her. She 
 said nothing for a little, and at last made up her mind 
 there would be plenty of time to consult her after tea. Ada 
 for once did not seem in a talkative mood, and it was Gerty 
 who spoke first, though not about the subject which had 
 been so much in her thoughts. 
 
 " What funny hair you've got, Ada ! I see all sorts of
 
 A NEGLECTED DUTY. 25 
 
 different colours in it besides brown ; there are gold threads 
 and red threads." 
 
 " Oh no ! not really. Only when the sun is on it," said 
 Ada. 
 
 " But my hair is always plain brown, whether the sun 
 is on it or not," said Gerty, rather sadly ; " yours is very 
 pretty hair, and it's nice and long too." 
 
 " Well, if you call it nice to be long," — and Ada gave a 
 vicious toss to the hair in question, — " it gives me a great 
 deal of trouble to comb. You haven't half so much to do 
 at night and morning, because your hair is short." 
 
 Gerty was silent, for this brought back her unpleasant 
 memories. At last she said, speaking very fast, — " There's 
 one thing I ought to do night and morning, and I don't. 
 And I promised mamma I would, and I must keep my 
 pi'omise. I'm afraid you'll laugh, but I can't help it. It's 
 to read my Bible every day ; I promised mamma I would." 
 
 Ada had turned round to Gerty, and was looking at her 
 with grave eyes. 
 
 " And you've only done it once ! " said she, reproachfully. 
 
 Gerty held down her head with a keen sense of shame. 
 Ada had been watching her ; had seen her read that first 
 morning; and instead of wondering that she did it then, 
 only wondered that she had done it but once. 
 
 " I'm very sorry," said she, penitently. " You didn't do 
 it — and none of the others did. But if you won't laugh, 
 it will make it much easier for me." 
 
 " I'll read with you, if you'll let me," said Ada. " There 
 are Bibles in our seat in church, and I read them when the 
 minister preaches, if I'm not beside Miss Maria. I think 
 the Bible is very interesting. Mamma gave me a beautiful 
 one before she went away, but grandmamma took it from 
 me, to keep till I was older. She said I would spoil it at
 
 26 GERTY IN A NEW CHARACTER. 
 
 school. Miss Maria said I ought to have a Bible, and she 
 would get me one ; but I suppose she forgot. But if you 
 will let me read with you from your Bible, I would like it 
 so much." 
 
 " Is your grandmamma a Roman Catholic, then 1 " said 
 Gerty, who had heard that people of that religion were in 
 the habit of taking away Bibles. 
 
 " Oh no ! not this one. My Italian grandmamma, 
 mamma's mother, was a Roman Catholic, though. Have 
 you read much of the Bible, Gerty 1 " 
 
 Gerty nodded. " Most of it over and over again," she 
 said. 
 
 " Then do you know much about heaven, Gerty ? Do 
 you know if children grow up there 1 " 
 
 "What do you mean, Ada?" asked Gerty, in utter 
 amazement. 
 
 " My little sister has been in heaven a long time. She 
 was quite a little baby when she died ; but if people grow 
 up there, she will be almost as tall as I am, for she was 
 only a year younger. And I've looked in the Bible to see 
 if I can find out about heaven, but I never found much. 
 Only I know it is a beautiful place, and Maud is there, for 
 mamma told me so." 
 
 " It doesn't say anything in the Bible about people 
 growing up in heaven," said Gerty, feeling uncomfortable 
 in her new character of religious teacher. " But it says 
 that everybody is happy there, and everybody is good." 
 
 " Yes; I know that," said Ada quickly. "Nobody but 
 good people go there, except babies. I know that very well." 
 
 Somehow the thought seemed to annoy her, for there 
 was a cloud on her face, and she began plucking up the 
 grass and daisies with impatient fingers. 
 
 " Ada," said Gerty, after a pause, " I've got a Testament
 
 IN THE EVENING. 27 
 
 as well as a Bible, and they're both with me here. You 
 can have my Bible to read when you want a whole Bible, 
 but you must take the Testament to keep. Then we can 
 read there at nights, and it will be much more convenient. 
 " It's not the least use to me. I don't care for it a bit," 
 added she, trying to make her gift seem of no value, as 
 well-meaning little girls generally do when they make a 
 present. 
 
 " Thank you, Gerty," said Ada, accepting immediately. 
 
 They sat quiet after that till Mrs. Martyn passed, and 
 called out to them that it was very unsafe to lie on the 
 grass so early in the season. Ada rushed after her to say, — 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Martyn, what sort of jam are we going to 
 have for tea 1 Do let it be raspberry ! You have so many 
 pots of raspberry jam in your cupboard, I know." 
 
 Gerty followed slowly and gravely, but nevertheless 
 feeling much relieved by the unexpected turn things had 
 taken. 
 
 In the evening, when the little girls had both undressed, 
 Gerty fetched out her Bible and Testament, and Ada sat 
 down beside her on her bed. Janie and Molly stared 
 at them with great curiosity; but Ada was quite equal 
 to the occasion. "You two must be quiet," said she 
 imperiously ; " Gerty Stuart and I are going to read the 
 Bible." Janie muttered something inaudible, and Molly 
 sat open-mouthed with astonishment. 
 
 " Shall we begin Matthew 1 " asked Gerty. " I was read- 
 ing in Luke, but we had better begin something quite new." 
 
 " Isn't Matthew the beginning of the Testament 1 " said 
 Ada. "Yes, let us begin there; and we'll read aloud, 
 verse about. You begin, Gerty." 
 
 " Yes ; but we had better not read all these names ! "
 
 28 "WILL YOU BE QUIET?" 
 
 " Oh yes, we will ! Of course we will ! We must begin 
 at the very beginning." 
 
 Gerty yielded, and they read from the beginning of the 
 chapter, — Ada taking great pains with the genealogical 
 names, repeating them over and over again, till she arrived 
 at a pronunciation which satisfied her. And the other two 
 bore it all in silence that first night, even when Ada in- 
 sisted on reading two chapters. But on Monday evening, 
 when Gerty and Ada again took out their Bibles, Janie's 
 patience gave way, and she began whispering to Molly. 
 
 " Be quiet ! " said Ada, stopping in the middle of a verse. 
 
 No answer was given, but the whispering changed to 
 loud talking, and presently there was a laugh. Then Ada 
 turned round again. 
 
 " Do you mean to be quiet 1 " she asked. 
 
 " We've just as much right to talk as you have," said 
 Janie. 
 
 " Will you be quiet 1 " said Ada, more emphatically. 
 
 " No, indeed ! we won't," said Janie ; while Molly Smith, 
 seated on the floor, l-epeated stoutly, " No, we won't ! " 
 
 " Then I know what I shall do;" and Ada made a spring 
 from her bed and opened the door, before Janie and Molly 
 could ask in alarm, " Ada, Ada ! where are you going ? " 
 
 " Upstairs to Miss Maria's study, to tell her you won't 
 be quiet to let Gerty and me read the Bible." 
 
 "But, Ada, what do you mean 1 ? Stay, Ada, I say — Ada ! " 
 
 The little figure in her night-dress made a pause at the 
 door, with the handle in her hand, and one bare foot id 
 che passage. 
 
 " Will you be quiet, or shall I go upstairs 1 " 
 
 "You're not going to be like Emily Gordon. Of all 
 people, to begin telling tales — Ada, for any sake stop ! 
 Come back, Ada ! "
 
 miss carr's opinion. 29 
 
 " Then will you be quiet 1 " 
 
 " Read if you like," said Janie sulkily. " I'll be quiet, 
 if you're going to make such a fuss. Only don't be long." 
 
 " Oh yes, yes ! we'll be quiet, if you won't tell ! " said 
 Molly, shaking with terror. 
 
 " Very well then," said Ada, shutting the door. " Gerty, 
 we'll go on." 
 
 Janie Leslie did not fail to buzz abroad in the school 
 that Gerty Stuart and Ada had taken to reading the Bible 
 at nights. And there was some laughter at their expense, 
 and a few sneers, which annoyed Gerty a good deal. But 
 most of the girls took their part, especially after Miss Can- 
 had announced her opinion, which was very decided, as 
 Miss Carr's opinion always was. 
 
 " I hate all humbug, but I do say every girl ought to 
 read her Bible ; and if any girl doesn't, she ought to be 
 ashamed of herself." 
 
 So Janie Leslie was silenced, and bore the nightly reading 
 with a sort of sullen patience. As for Gerty, her mind 
 was quite at rest about herself, as she thought she had 
 quite checked the wicked tendencies which had alarmed 
 her so much. And except when Ada startled her with 
 some odd question, she read her Bible with as much indif- 
 ference as she had ever done at home.
 
 CHAPTER TV. 
 
 A WEARY TRAVELLER ON THE NARROW WAY. 
 
 jMILY GORDON was perhaps the most unpopular 
 girl in the school, and Gerty had taken up the 
 general prejudice against her. She was a pale, 
 delicate girl of fourteen, wbc stooped very much, and was 
 always unfashionably, and even oddly, dressed. Painfully 
 shy, she kept aloof from the other girls as much as possible, 
 and scarcely ever spoke to them, except when it was abso- 
 lutely necessary. During lesson-hours she pored over her 
 books, and was so nervously anxious about her studies, 
 that she often brought on severe headaches. And in the 
 evenings, when the other girls were romping, she never 
 joined in their games, but sat alone in a corner, sometimes 
 doing nothing, oftener still wearily looking over the lessons 
 she had already conscientiously learned. 
 
 When Emily first came to school, a few months before 
 Gerty's arrival, she had made timid overtures of friendship 
 to her companions; then she had given them deadly offence, 
 and had never been forgiven. 
 
 There was going to be a grand feast at night in one of 
 the bedrooms; the eatables had been all purchased, and the 
 guests invited, Emily Gordon among the number. But, 
 to the surprise and indignation of the girls, she not only 
 refused, but tried to persuade the others to give up the 
 plan. And when they would not listen to her, she went
 
 ABOUT EMILY GORDON. 31 
 
 in tears to Miss Martyn and revealed the whole. Then 
 poor Emily, who had tried to do right for conscience' sake, 
 found herself disliked and avoided on all hands. After a 
 while she gave up all attempts to conciliate her school- 
 fellows, and kept quite by herself, which she could do more 
 easily as she slept in a room alone. 
 
 Ada was the only one of her companions who had ever 
 shown the desolate girl any kindness. One evening Emily, 
 ill with a racking headache, had gone to lie down in her 
 room, which was next the large schoolroom. Ada had 
 then declared that, as noise was the worst thing for head- 
 ache, there was to be no noise that night — blind-man's-buff 
 and all romping games were to be given up. There was 
 some opposition, but she had her way at last. Miss 
 Martyn, alarmed at the dead silence, which she was afraid 
 meant mischief, looked into the schoolroom after a while, 
 and found all the children gathered round Ada, who was 
 relating in a low voice the story of the life and adventures 
 of that wonderful princess, Snowdrop, who " lived in the 
 glen with the seven wee men." Emily heard what had 
 happened from Miss Martyn, and next day thanked Ada 
 with tears in her eyes. Afterwards she often watched her 
 wistfully; and though she seldom spoke to her, she always 
 seemed vexed when Ada got into trouble. 
 
 Emily Gordon was in a higher class than Gerty and Ada ; 
 and Gerty never exchanged a word with her until more 
 than a fortnight after she had gone to school. All the 
 information she had obtained about her was from Janie 
 Leslie, who was exceedingly fond of telling stories about 
 her companions, especially if they were ill-natured ones. 
 
 One Saturday, Gerty had written a short, stiff letter to 
 her mother, which she had delivered to Miss Maria; and 
 also another to her bi-other Freddy, foolish, affectionate
 
 32 WILL SHE DO IT] 
 
 letter, full of home jokes, which she was very anxious to 
 post privately. Accordingly she consulted Ada, when they 
 were in their own room dressing for a walk. 
 
 "I'll tell you one jolly way," said Ada. "At the end 
 of that street behind the gardens there is a pillar post- 
 office. We give all our letters to one of the two girls who 
 walk first, and the pillar is just round the comer, you 
 know. Round goes the girl, and in pop the letters before 
 Miss Maria, or whatever goveimess is at the tail of us, has 
 time to get round and see what's going on. But we won't 
 be able to do that to-day, for Mademoiselle is going with 
 us, and she never goes that way. Some of the girls who 
 are going out to visit will post your letter, though." 
 
 "They're all gone," said Janie Leslie; " Gerty ought to 
 have looked after it sooner." 
 
 "0 Gerty, I'm so sorry!" said Ada, in pity for Gerty's 
 disappointed face. " Are you sure they're all gone, Janie?" 
 
 "Emily Gordon isn't gone; but you needn't ask her, 
 unless you want Miss Maria told." 
 
 " I think we'd better not ask Miss Gordon," said Gerty, 
 rather regretfully; "I think she looks disagreeable." 
 
 It never occurred to Gerty that Emily had fits of home- 
 sickness as well as herself, and that they were harder for 
 her to bear because she had no friends at school. 
 
 " Oh no ! I don't think she's disagreeable," said Ada. 
 " I'm sure she isn't. Let us ask her to post your letter 
 for you; I know she will." And Ada as usual prevailed, 
 
 Emily Gordon, in her walking dress, certainly looked 
 rather an odd figure, when Gerty and Ada burst into her 
 room. Her hah- was plaited and tied behind in an old 
 fashioned way; and she wore a broad-brimmed hat, and a 
 very long jacket over the plain skirt of her brown dress. 
 Nobody could have mistaken her for anything but a lady
 
 PUT TO THE TEST. 33 
 
 in spite of her unbecoming costume; but she certainly made 
 an unfavourable contrast to Ada, with her flowing hair and 
 pretty print dress; and even to Gertys sturdy little figure, 
 clad in frilled alpaca. 
 
 Emily seemed decidedly embarrassed when her visitors 
 appeared, and Ada began immediately, " Will you do me 
 a great favour, Emily 1" 
 
 "Yes, dear, if I can," said Emily, very gently; "but I 
 will come and talk to you in the passage. You know Miss 
 Maria does not like us to go to each other's rooms." 
 
 " We must speak low, then," said Ada, going out of the 
 room backwards, and looking carefully up and down the 
 lobby. 
 
 When they were, all three, outside the door, Gerty pro- 
 duced her letter, and said, — 
 
 " Will you please post this for me, Miss Gordon? — if it's 
 not too much trouble, I mean." 
 
 " Please do," pleaded Ada, as she saw Emily colour and 
 hesitate. 
 
 " I'm very sorry," said Emily, " I can't do it ; it is not 
 allowed — it would be wrong." 
 
 " Come away, Ada," said Gerty. " There's no use of 
 wasting time. I told you Miss Gordon was disagreeable, 
 and you said she wasn't. I was right, and you were wrong. 
 Come away ! " 
 
 But Ada was not going to give up so soon. She took 
 the letter from Gerty, and trying gently to push it into 
 Emily's hand, said in a coaxing tone, — 
 
 " Gerty would like it posted so much. It's a letter to 
 her little brother, a funny letter, and she doesn't want 
 Miss Maria to read it. You will post it, won't you, dear 
 Emily 1 " 
 
 " I would like to do something for you, Ada," said Emily, 
 
 f584) 3 "
 
 3-4 AN UNFORTUNATE LETTER. 
 
 with a wistful look in her eyes. " I think I would do 
 almost anything for you — only not that." 
 
 "Then you really won't 1 ?" said Ada, taking her hand 
 out of Emily's, and standing straight before her, holding 
 the letter. 
 
 "No, dear; it wouldn't be right." Emily spoke very 
 low, but quite firmly. 
 
 "Then there goes the letter!" said Ada, in a passion, 
 suddenly tearing it into little pieces, and throwing them 
 on the floor. " Pick up the bits, and carry them to Miss 
 Maria when you go to tell her." 
 
 She rushed down the passage like a whirlwind, while 
 Gerty, almost as angry, collected the remains of her unfor- 
 tunate letter. 
 
 " Please don't think I'm going to tell Miss Maria ! " said 
 poor Emily, who was in tears by this time. 
 
 " I don't care whether you do or not," said Gerty, walking 
 off. 
 
 Neither Gerty nor Ada had the least idea what it cost 
 Emily Gordon to refuse the first favour any of her school- 
 fellows had ever asked her, and offend the only one among 
 them who had been kind to her. And the indignation she 
 roused was not that of Gerty and Ada only. In the after- 
 noon Miss Carr asked, — 
 
 "What was the matter with you children this morning? 
 I met Puss flying along the passage like — I don't know 
 what; and a little after her came Gerty Stuart, with a red, 
 angry face and clenched hands. I felt quite alarmed." 
 
 "Oh! it was Emily Gordon!" said Janie Leslie. "She 
 wouldn't post a letter of Gerty's, though she and Ada begged 
 her to. She said it was wrong;!" 
 
 " What a goody girl she is !" said Mary; "I've no patience 
 with people wlio.se religion consists in being unlike other
 
 THREATENED .MISCHIEF. 35 
 
 people. What good does her mother think it does to dress 
 her in that absurd way ? And she's all on a piece. To 
 do right, means to do exactly the opposite of what other 
 people do, according to Emily Gordon. I wonder what 
 she'll write in her diary to-night 1 " 
 
 Ada was sitting beside Mary listening attentively, and 
 she asked eagerly, " Does Emily keep a diary then 1 " 
 
 " I've no doubt of it, Pussy. All these people do." 
 
 " Oh ! what fun if we could get hold of it!" cried Ada. 
 " We would write notes in it, wouldn't we, Gerty ?" 
 
 "Bather," said Gerty, who felt it would be a pleasure 
 to do something to annoy Emily. 
 
 " Oh ! you'll never get it ! Depend upon it, it's safe 
 under lock and key," said Mary Carr, rising and taking out 
 her music. " Are you in the humour for our duet this 
 afternoon, Kate 1 We had better practise it, for there's 
 to be a party some day soon, and we are sure to have 
 to play it." 
 
 " There's to be another party, is thei'e 1 ?" said Kate, as 
 she followed her friend out of the room. But when the 
 door was shut she said gravely, " Mary, what makes you 
 talk so before these children? I really wish you would 
 take care of what you say ! " 
 
 But neither of them had the least idea of the mischief the 
 foolish words had done.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A TERRIBLE FALL FOR ADA AND GERTY. 
 
 j]HE party which Mary Carr had foretold did not 
 take place till several weeks had passed, and 
 Gerty's first monthly visit to Burnside was over- 
 It came at last, however; and it happened on a Friday 
 evening, as parties at school generally do. 
 
 Miss Martyn's parties were not much enjoyed by the 
 girls, who were painfully impressed by the sense that they 
 were not only expected to make themselves agreeable to 
 the visitors, but to do credit to the school by their lady- 
 like manners, and superior style of playing and singing. 
 
 On the evening of the first school -party at which Gerty 
 was present, and which became to her for ever memorable, 
 she found a conier near the door, where she sat down as 
 much out of sight as possible. All the guests were 
 strangers to her, and none of them spoke to the shy little 
 girl ; biit for a while she amused herself very well by 
 observing the appearance and manners of the ladies, and 
 noticing, with even more interest, the different evening 
 ilrcsses of her schoolfellows. Gerty was not required to 
 play, and she was very glad it was so, as music was the 
 lesson she felt most behind in. Besides, she was very 
 nervous, and was afraid she would have followed the 
 example of Emily Gordon ; about whom a doleful story was 
 told, to the effect that being once asked to play at a party,
 
 THE SCHOOL-PARTY. 6i 
 
 she had gone to the piano only to strike one trembling 
 chord, and then fled weeping from the room. 
 
 Ada, who had a great taste for music, and could play 
 remarkably well when she chose, was the only one of the 
 younger girls who had been at the piano. Now, she had 
 yielded up her place to Mary Carr, and was in the midst 
 of a group of ladies, who were greatly pleased with the 
 pretty little girl, who played so nicely, and was so frank 
 and talkative. Nobody took any notice of Gerty, who 
 began to feel lonely and sad. She was too generous to 
 grudge Ada the praise and petting bestowed upon her ; but 
 she thought sadly that things in the world were all wrong 
 somehow, or she would not be pent up in this drawing- 
 room, where her presence mattered nothing to any one, 
 while two little boys in a nursery far away were feeling 
 their games drag heavily because Gerty was not there. 
 She knew the first symptoms of an attack of home-sickness, 
 and fought against it bravely. 
 
 First, she tried to turn her attention to the pleasant 
 prospect of the supper, which was to be at ten o'clock, and 
 which the girls looked forward to as the only really pleasant 
 event of the evening. Ada and Gerty had peeped into the 
 dining-room in the afternoon, and gazed with delight and 
 admiration at the table with its glittering crystal, and the 
 magnificent trifle which formed its centre dish. Ada had 
 even ventured near enough to be able to distinguish all 
 sorts of sweet and tempting fruits ranged round about. 
 Then they had hastened back to the schoolroom to bring 
 the report of the goodly feast. But the supper -table 
 seemed to have lost its charm for Gerty now, and there 
 came to her mind a story from her little brother's last 
 letter, — how that one evening nurse, forgetting that missy 
 was away, had brought three biscuits and three cups of
 
 38 A FIT OF HOME-SICKNESS. 
 
 milk before she took Freddy and Robin to bed. Gerty 
 had laughed over the end of the tale when she read it, for 
 Freddy related how he and his brother chuckled over 
 nurse's mistake, and quietly divided the extra milk and 
 biscuit before they told her what she had done. But it 
 all seemed pathetic to Gerty now. 
 
 Still she would not give way to the wretched feeling 
 that was creeping over her ; if she could not occupy her 
 mind pleasantly with the future, she must try to do it with 
 the present. So she attempted once more to interest her- 
 self in the dresses of the ladies near her, and even counted 
 the flounces on their skirts ; then, when that diversion 
 failed miserably, she turned her attention to the sonata 
 Mary Carr was playing. But straight before .Gerty's 
 mental vision rose a picture of the nest-like green drawing- 
 room at home, and her mother sitting at the cottage piano, 
 playing softly in the lamplight. Things were getting 
 desperate now, and, with a pitiful sense of being almost, 
 defeated, Gerty turned, as a last resource, to her lessons for 
 Monday. Happily, she had a French fable to recite then, 
 and she could say it over to herself. She had begun " Le 
 Corbeau et le Renard " for the second time, when Ada's 
 voice, close beside her, said, — 
 
 " Isn't this tiresome ! Will you come and have some 
 fun in the schoolroom 1 " 
 
 Gerty's heart leaped with a sense of deliverance. Her 
 fits of home-sickness were always driven away by a talk 
 with Ada. 
 
 Miss Maria and her sister were in the back drawing- 
 room, and Mrs. Martyn, busy talking, had her head turned 
 the other way; so, while Miss Carr and Miss M'Kenzie 
 were thundering out their duet, the two children slipped 
 unnoticed from the room.
 
 THE SEARCH FOR THE DIARY. 39 
 
 They raced along the passages to the schoolroom with as 
 great delight in their freedom as if they had been confined 
 for days. Then they chased each other round the long 
 table, until at last they paused out of breath, and looked 
 about them. The great, bare room looked desolate enough, 
 and wind and rain blew in at the open windows ; for it 
 had been a wild and stormy day, unlike the ideal May 
 weather. Ada shivered in her thin dress, then fetched out 
 the large cloth used for wiping the chalk from the black- 
 board, and folded it like a shawl over her shoulders. 
 
 " There's a duster for you somewhere, if you would like 
 it," said she to Gerty. 
 
 " No, thank you ; I'd rather be cold," said Gerty. It 
 never occurred to either of them to shut the windows. 
 
 They stood still for a minute looking at each other, 
 uncertain what to do next. Then the light of mischief 
 kindled in Ada's eyes. " Let us look for Emily Gordon's 
 diary, Gerty ! Now is the very time." 
 
 In a moment Gerty had opened the lid of Emily's desk 
 with a violence that sent it banging against the wall, and 
 the four little hands were busy with its contents. 
 
 " O Emily, Emily ! " said Ada in high glee, " I'm afraid 
 you're sadly untidy, my dear. If Miss Maria were to see 
 the inside of this desk, she would give you twenty lines. 
 Here is a writing-case, Gerty ; the diary will be sure to be 
 here. Never mind these lesson-books ; we'll put them in 
 order afterwards, and Emily will think the fames have 
 done it ! " 
 
 " Oh ! will she ! Perhaps she'll think the fairies have 
 meddled with her diary too," said Gerty, who was in as 
 high spirits as Ada, and thought this a capital joke. 
 
 Ada had carried the writing-case to the table, leaving 
 the desk open behind her ; and Gerty followed with intense
 
 40 AN UNLOOKED-FOR INTERRUPTION. 
 
 interest. The writing-case opened easily, and out tumbled 
 a quantity of paper and some letters, but no diary. Still 
 they did not give up hope ; and Ada chattered gaily on, 
 but in rather a remonstrating tone, — 
 
 " Is it kind, now, to hide your diary this way, Emily 1 
 You are giving us a great deal of unnecessary trouble, 
 dear girl ! And if you only knew how much it would be 
 improved by our notes — why, it would be twice as interest- 
 ing, Emily ! " 
 
 Gerty had pushed the paper and letters back to their 
 place, and now lifted a little lid and disclosed a heap of 
 silver, which formed a new theme for Ada's address to the 
 unconscious Emily, who sat in a corner of the drawing- 
 room and dreamed not of what was going on. 
 
 " Oh ! what a lot of money, Emily ! If I'd as much 
 money I'd have a feast — crabs, and rhubarb tarts, and 
 almonds, and raisins, and ginger-beer. " Oh ! it would be 
 a nice feast ! " and Ada smacked her lips at the very idea. 
 
 " But the diary, Ada ! " said Gerty, who had turned 
 back to the desk, and was impatiently tossing about the 
 lesson-books. 
 
 " Oh ! I'll tell you," began Ada. But there she stopped ; 
 for at that moment the door opened, and Miss Maria came 
 in, with eyes that seemed to the terrified little girls literally 
 to flame with indignation. They stood quite still, staring 
 at her, unable to move, — Gerty at Emily's open desk, Ada 
 at the table with the writing-case before her. Miss Maria 
 swept slowly up to them, the rustling of her dress the 
 only sound in the room, and her awful eyes fixed on the 
 culprits. 
 
 " What does this mean 1 ?" she asked. " Whose desk is 
 that?" 
 
 As if the sound of her voice had broken a spell. Ada
 
 AN EXPLANATION WANTED. 41 
 
 made a sort of stai-tled movement ; but it was Gerty who 
 answered, — 
 
 " Emily Gordon's." 
 
 " And what," said Miss Maria, with icy clearness — 
 " and what have either of you to do with Miss Gordon's 
 desk, or Miss Gordon's private letters ] " 
 
 She paused a moment, looking from one to another, 
 then asked, " "Was it Miss Gordon's money you were look- 
 ing for? Tell the truth, children. A lie doubles the 
 fault." 
 
 " Miss Maria ! I don't want her money, and I never tell 
 lies," said Gerty passionately. " We only wanted to see 
 her diary ! " 
 
 "Oh yes!" said Ada with great rapidity; "we only 
 wanted to see her diary, I assure you." 
 
 " You wanted to see her diary ! " said Miss Maria with 
 an accent of contemptuous disbelief. " Why 1 " 
 
 It was Gerty that answered again, and this time with 
 a feeling that the explanation and excuse was a poor 
 one. 
 
 " For fun," said she in a low voice. 
 
 " You wanted to see Miss Gordon's diary — for fun ! " 
 
 Miss Maria made no other remark, but crossed the room, 
 and rang the bell with a violence that made Ada start and 
 shiver. 
 
 "Tell Miss Gordon to come here," she said to the 
 servant, who came in a flutter of astonishment at being 
 summoned by the schoolroom bell. 
 
 Miss Maria and the two children awaited Emily's arrival, 
 in dead silence. 
 
 Ada had grown very white, and, trembling all over, she 
 clung to the back of a chair as if for support ; while Gerty, 
 all her shyness overborne by pride and a sense of injustice,
 
 42 AN APPEAL FOR HELP. 
 
 confronted Miss Maria with indignant courage. Emily, 
 troubled and perplexed, appeared at last, and her feelings 
 of uneasiness were by no means soothed by the sight of the 
 group in the schoolroom. There was no mistaking Miss 
 Maria's character of judge, and Gerty and Ada with their 
 defiant and frightened looks were evidently offenders ; but 
 her own open desk and disordered property bewildered her 
 completely. Her first impression was that of wonder at 
 the cluster round Ada's shoulders, which certainly formed 
 a somewhat striking part of the tableau. 
 
 " Miss Godfrey and Miss Stuart have been examining 
 yoiir desk — in search of your diary, they say," said Miss 
 Maria. " Will you be so kind as to see whether your 
 property is all safe 1 ?" 
 
 But Ada had sprung forward with an impulsive move- 
 ment, to do what Gerty would have endured any punish- 
 ment rather than do, — make an appeal for help to the girl 
 she had wronged. 
 
 " Emily ! you're a good girl ; Miss Maria will believe 
 you ! Say you don't think we meant to steal your things. 
 Say you believe it was only your diary we wanted ! " 
 
 " My diary ! " said Emily, in uncomprehending astonish- 
 ment and distress ; " I — I have no diary ! " 
 
 Ada, whose eyes had been eagerly fixed on her, now 
 flung herself on a chair, and covering her face with her 
 hands, wept as if her last hope was gone. 
 
 " You are convicted in one lie at least," said Miss Maria. 
 " Not another word, Miss Stuart," — for Gerty, recovering 
 from her first astonishment at Emily's words, was beginning 
 again to try to justify herself. " How much money have 
 you in your writing-case, Miss Gordon 1 " 
 
 " Seventeen shillings, I think." 
 
 " Count it."
 
 BITTER WORDS. 43 
 
 Emily with, trembling fingers began to do so ; but so 
 slowly, that Miss Maria impatiently took the money from 
 her and counted it herself. 
 
 " Seventeen and sixpence," said she, flinging it down on 
 the table. Then turning to Gerty and Ada, — " I am con- 
 vinced that you intended to take at least part of this 
 money, and would have done so if I had not come in when 
 I did. You have already told me one falsehood, and I 
 shall not tempt you to tell another by asking you more 
 questions to-night. To-morrow, Miss Stuart, I will hear 
 what you have to say, not at present. To-morrow, I hope 
 you may be in a better frame of mind. But understand this, 
 both of you, — that only after submission and confession can 
 you remain in this house. If you still remain obstinate, 
 I have no choice but to expel you; a painful thing for me 
 to do, and what it will be to your parents I leave you to 
 think for yourselves. But shocking as your conduct has 
 been to-night, it ought not to have surprised me much. 
 Ada Godfrey has been a disgrace to the school since she 
 entered it, and it is only to be expected that her chosen 
 friend and companion should be like her." 
 
 " There's no use of speaking ! " said Gerty, with burning 
 cheeks, and an expression of obstinate indignation about 
 her eyes and mouth. Ada never even moved ; only 
 sobbed on in speechless despair. Tears were rolling down 
 Emily's face, but she was still too much bewildered, as 
 well as too timid, to say anything. But Miss Maria meant 
 to put an end to the scene. She had no doubt that, as 
 far as she had gone, she had acted with the greatest dis- 
 crimination and the most impartial justice. Now that she 
 had convicted Gerty and Ada of their fault, and warned 
 them of the consequences, she would leave silence and 
 solitude to do their work ; and if they were not successful
 
 4 4 gerty's grief. 
 
 in bringing the children to penitence, she believed there 
 was no hope for them. 
 
 Half an hour afterwards, Gerty, locked up in an unoccu- 
 pied bedroom, was lying on the floor in the dark. The 
 wondering housemaid had prepared the bed for her, and 
 brought her night-dress ; and while she was in the room 
 Gerty sat straight on a chair and said never a word, though 
 she was keenly conscious of her looks of pity. Miss Maria 
 herself had come to put out the gas and lock the door upon 
 her. And after she had gone, Gerty flung herself flat on 
 the floor and gave way to her misery. 
 
 She felt, with a painful sense of shame, that she wa.5 con- 
 sidered too wicked to be with the other girls; even Ada was 
 separated from her, and was doubtless crying in some other 
 lonely room. And looking forward to the morrow, she saw 
 neither hope nor comfort. She, Gerty Stuart, who had 
 always been considered so good, who at home had almost 
 never heard a word of blame, would be branded as a thief 
 and a liar*, and expelled from school before her first six 
 weeks there were over. 
 
 For she had not the least doubt that Miss Maria would 
 fulfil her threat. To be sure, the elder Miss Martyn was 
 reported to be tender-hearted ; but she was in delicate 
 health, and had little to do with the school. Mrs. Martyn 
 might intercede, at least, for Ada, whom she loved; but 
 Gerty had heard too many stories about the absolute 
 authority Miss Maria exercised over her mother and sister 
 to believe that they would interfere to any purpose. To- 
 morrow she would likely be sent home; and what a home- 
 coming it would be ! How could she bear to see her parents' 
 shame and sorrow! And oh! most horrible thought of all, 
 perhaps her mother would not believe her. It was possible, 
 for everything had changed so much of late, that she, who
 
 THINKING IT OVEli. 45 
 
 had never before doubted her little daughter's word, would 
 think with Miss Maria that Gerty had wanted to steal 
 Emily's money, and invented this curious story about the 
 diary. Well! if that were the case, there was only one 
 thing left for Gerty to do. She would go and drown herself, 
 jump over the bridge she and her brothers crossed so often 
 in their walks; then, when her dead and dripping body was 
 carried home, they would be sorry they had not believed 
 her. Perhaps even Miss Maria would be remorseful when 
 she heard of it. For a long time she sobbed angrily over 
 her own innocence, and the injustice that she felt was done 
 to her. But after a while other thoughts came. 
 
 Even if her mother believed that she had neither told 
 a lie nor tried to steal, what would she think of what she 
 had really done 1 ? And here Gerty's fault rose up before 
 her in its true colours for the first time. Out of mean spite 
 against a girl who had never said an unkind word or done 
 an unkind thing to her, she had broken into her private 
 desk for the express purpose of prying into her secrets, and 
 then annoying her by using them. Gerty could not yet 
 acknowledge that Emily had been right in refusing to post 
 her letter; but she knew well that it had been done from con- 
 scientious motives, while revenge had been taken for it in 
 a way that would move teachers and pupils alike with dis- 
 gust. She would not excuse herself, either, even in her own 
 thoughts, by blaming Ada. Gerty never once said to her- 
 self that if Ada had not tempted her she never would have 
 searched for Emily's diary; but she did think, with bitter 
 sorrow, that if she had held back, — if she had said it was 
 wrong, — Ada, in that sweetness of her nature which none 
 knew so well as Gerty, would have given up the idea 
 altogether. And now the end of it all was to be, that 
 Gei'ty was to be separated from the first and only friend
 
 46 WICKED AND MISERABLE. 
 
 she had ever made. After to-morrow, she would never 
 see Ada any more, and her own foolish wickedness was the 
 cause. 
 
 Poor Gerty longed with all her heart for some one to 
 help and comfort her; some one who could understand all 
 her feelings of sorrow and self-i-eproach, and be willing to 
 love her in spite of what she had done. For the anger 
 which had sustained her so long had all passed away, and 
 left her with a weary sense of misery and loneliness. And 
 all the time the Lord Jesus was waiting, ready to forgive, 
 willing to comfort her, with a love more tender than her 
 mother's, a sympathy more real than Ada's. Chris: was 
 with Gerty in the dreary, dark room, and she did not know 
 it; her longing, troubled thoughts never once turned to 
 him. 
 
 Gerty never knew how long she lay on the floor, but it 
 must have been far on into the night. She heard the other 
 girls go into the next room, where Miss Carr and Miss 
 M'Kenzie slept, and it seemed to her that their voices 
 were low and serious. Had they heard already, then, that 
 Ada Godfrey and Gerty Stuart had been surprised by Miss 
 Maria in the very act of carrying off Emily Gordon's money 
 from her desk 1 Did they know that they were to be ex- 
 pelled to-morrow 1 And were they sorry 1 Gerty wondered ; 
 or did they think it a blessing that girls who could do so 
 mean a thing should leave the school immediately 1 ? What 
 did Janie and Molly think and say in the pleasant room 
 where Gerty's bed and Ada's stood empty 1 
 
 Not till every light was out, and the house had been 
 long quiet, did Gerty rise, and begin to undress with cold, 
 stiff fingers. She felt too wicked and miserable to say her 
 prayers before she crept into the large, strange bed, which 
 felt so cold and comfortless. If she could only sleep and
 
 WITHOUT HOPE. 47 
 
 forget ! But sleep did not come for a long time ; and then 
 only in snatches, broken by startled and troubled wakings. 
 And before the earliest noise began in the street outside, 
 Gerty was watching the daylight struggling in through the 
 window with wide-open eyes — all hope of rest and forget 
 fulness gone.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MARY CARR PROVES A FRIEND IN NEED. 
 
 ARLY on Saturday forenoon, Miss Maria Martyn 
 was sitting at the davenport in her tiny, snng 
 study upstairs. A half-finished letter lay befoi-e 
 her; evidently an important and difficult one, for Miss 
 Maria was knitting her brows as if thinking hard, on some 
 annoying subject, and though she had several times dipped 
 her pen in the ink, she had not written a word for some 
 time. Suddenly her musings were interrupted by a knock 
 at the door, and she turned round in astonishment as Mary 
 Carr entered the room. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Mary hastily, for the study was 
 strictly private, and none of the girls ever appeared there 
 unless they were expressly summoned. " Mrs. Martyn told 
 me to come here. I wished very much to speak to you." 
 
 " There is nothing wrong at home, I hope?" said Miss 
 Maria, looking kindly at the pleasant face, which looked 
 unusually troubled. 
 
 Miss Maria was much more successful with the elder 
 pupils than with the younger, and Mary Carr and her 
 contemporaries thoroughly liked and respected her. Un 
 fortunately, her want of sympathy with children and 
 children's feelings made her often misunderstand the little 
 girls, and perhaps judge their faults too harshly. 
 
 "Papa is very well, thank you," said Mary Carr; "I
 
 MARY CARR'S CONFESSION. 49 
 
 had a letter from him this morning. Everything is right 
 at home. It is something quite different I have come to 
 you about." 
 
 " Sit down, Mary," said Miss Maria, meaning to be 
 specially gracious, for she seldom called her pupils by their 
 Christian names. But she saw that the girl was vexed 
 and embarrassed, and she wished to put her at her ease; 
 so she left her davenport and her letter, and took a chair 
 near her pupil. 
 
 " I wished to tell you that I'm afraid I've done a great 
 deal of harm, though I didn't mean it," said Mary Carr, 
 looking straight at her governess with her honest blue eyes. 
 "•Mademoiselle tells me that Gerty Stuart and Ada ran 
 away from the party last night, and opened Emily Gordon's 
 desk, and that you think it was her money they wanted. 
 Now, I am sure they told the truth when they said it was 
 only her diary they were looking for. I have heard that 
 they are likely to be expelled, and so I have come to tell 
 you that it was entirely my fault. Of course, I should 
 have come to tell you at any rate — I don't mean I did it 
 as a last resource," said Mary, suddenly correcting herself. 
 
 " I must say I do not understand you, Miss Carr," said 
 Miss Maria, in her stiffest tone of displeasure. 
 
 " I don't mean that I intended to do any harm ; but once, 
 several weeks ago, the children were very angry with Miss 
 Gordon for behaving in what we all thought a very absurd 
 way. I remember I laughed a great deal, and made some 
 foolish remarks — jokes about what Emily would do. And 
 then Ada (she had been listening all the time) asked me if 
 Emily had a diary. I told her I was sure she kept one; 
 and I quite well remember Ada saying to Gerty Stuart 
 that it would be fun to get it and write notes in it. I told 
 them they never would get hold of it, but it never entered 
 
 (584) 4
 
 50 " FOOLISH FUN. 
 
 my head that they would try! It was very foolish of me 
 not to have kept my tongue before the children. Kate 
 M'Kenzie is far wiser than I am; she spoke to me about 
 it when we left the room. I laughed then, but it's no 
 laughing matter now !" 
 
 Mary had not once faltered in her confession, and Miss 
 Maria sat listening quietly. When it was finished she 
 said, — 
 
 " Perhaps you can tell me in what Miss Gordon's absurd 
 behaviour consisted 1" 
 
 " 1 would rather not," said Mary, with a burning blush. 
 Then she added hastily, — " It didn't concern me at all. 
 And, Miss Maria, doesn't this make a better case for Ada 
 and Gertyl Don't you believe that they told the truth 
 when they said it was Emily's diary they were looking for, 
 and that after all it was only a piece of foolish fun 1 ?" 
 
 Miss Maria considered a moment before she answered, — 
 
 " I believe, after what you have said, that it is possible 
 the two children may have told the truth. But I also 
 gather from your account that the ' absurd behaviour ' of 
 Miss Gordon was in some way connected with them. You 
 may have made a better 'case' for them, but certainly 
 not a good one, when you explain that the breaking into 
 Miss Gordon's desk was a piece of revenge planned weeks 
 ago. Stealing a diary is perhaps not so bad as stealing a 
 purse; but I can scarcely call it 'only a piece of foolish 
 fun,' even when I know it was first suggested by one of 
 the oldest girls in the school!" 
 
 But Mary Carr was not to be daunted, even by the 
 quotations from her own speeches, one of Miss Maria's 
 most effective methods of striking terror into her pupils. 
 
 " I deserve what you say about me," said she with out- 
 spoken frankness. " You can't say anything harder to me
 
 LOOKING INWARDS. 51 
 
 than I am saying to myself about my share in this business. 
 But I'm sure you are mistaken about Gerty and Ada. I 
 know less of Gerty Stuart, but I don't believe she is a 
 child who would plot a mean thing for weeks, and do it at 
 last. And Ada — I'm sure she wouldn't. None of us 
 would ever believe that about her. You don't know how 
 fond we all are of Ada, Miss Maria!" 
 
 " I am perfectly aware of that," said Miss Maria sharply. 
 " And there can be only one opinion about the state of a 
 school where a girl who is constantly in disgrace with the 
 teachers is the most popular among her companions !" But 
 Mary Carr looked so distressed and disappointed that Miss 
 Maria softened, and added more kindly, — " But though I am 
 annoyed by what you tell me about your own behaviour, 
 I am much pleased by the frank way you have come to 
 me. I hope this will be a lesson to you, not only to be 
 more guarded in your words, but more careful of the in- 
 fluence you exert over the younger girls. I believe that 
 much mischief that is done by the children might be 
 prevented by you elder girls, if you chose to take the 
 trouble." 
 
 The girl who listened looked very grave, for her thoughts 
 had gone deeper than Miss Maria's words. She was think- 
 ing that she had been doing veiy little during her school- 
 life for the Master whose servant she wished to be. Im- 
 pulsive and lively, she had gone eagerly into anything that 
 promised fun ; but she had always been equally earnest over 
 her lessons. So she had found favour for herself alike from 
 teachers and pupils; but perhaps after all her companion, 
 who was laughed at and despised, was serving God better. 
 Emily Gordon had not said one angry word about Gerty 
 and Ada. She had come down in the morning sad and 
 silent; but Mary had envied her feelings, for Emily could
 
 52 mary's success. 
 
 pity the little girls who were in trouble, without the bitter 
 thought that she had been to blame for it. 
 
 " I will try to do some good to the children, Miss Maria," 
 said she at last. " Indeed I will ! " 
 
 "I believe you, Mary," said Miss Maria; "and you shall 
 have the opportunity." 
 
 Then she rose from her chair, intending to put an end to 
 the inteiwiew; but Mary Carr was not satisfied yet. She 
 was rather curious to know what the opportunity she was 
 to have might be; but she had something more important 
 than that to ask. 
 
 "Then you will forgive Gerty and Ada, Miss Maria?" 
 
 " I am willing to take as favourable a view of their 
 conduct as possible; but their fault still remains a very 
 serious one, and must be punished." 
 
 " But you won't expel them 1 ?" 
 
 Mary, standing with her hand on the door, waited so 
 eagerly for the answer, that Miss Maria's face relaxed into 
 a smile as she said, after a moment's hesitation, — 
 
 " I will not expel them." 
 
 "Thank you," said Mary gratefully; and made no other 
 petitions in favour of Gerty and Ada, for she knew it would 
 be useless to do so. 
 
 After she had gone, Miss Maria returned to her writing- 
 table, but not to finish her letter. Without another glance 
 at the contents, she tore up the half-written note and put 
 it in the fire. After that she stood still for a while, gazing 
 out of the window with an expression of relief on her face. 
 
 Every one was assembled for evening prayers when Gerty 
 and Ada followed Miss Maria into the drawing-room. There 
 had been a great deal of speculation among the girls as to 
 whether they would appear or not, and now all eyes were
 
 WHAT MISS MARIA SAID. 53 
 
 fixed on them. Ada, poor child! looked pale and ill, as if 
 she were worn-out with crying; but though Gerty too was 
 heavy-eyed, pride made her hold up her head and try to 
 look as unconcerned as possible. 
 
 After prayers were over, the girls all rose to go; but 
 Miss Maria had something to say first. 
 
 " I suppose you are all aware, young ladies, that two of 
 your number have been separated from you on account of 
 conduct so disgraceful that I hope and believe it is odious 
 to all, even to the very youngest here. Miss Gordon's 
 desk was broken into last night, the contents of her writing- 
 case examined, her money taken out. It was impossible 
 at first to believe that this was done merely to look for a 
 diary. But this morning one of the elder young ladies 
 came forward in a very generous and noble way to try to 
 shield Miss Godfrey and Miss Stuart, and take some of 
 the blame of their conduct on herself. We believe her 
 account, and are willing to hope that Miss Godfrey and 
 Miss Stuart did not tell a falsehood, and that there was no 
 intention on their part of taking Miss Gordon's money ; but, 
 looking at it in the most favourable light, it still appeai-s 
 that their behaviour has been such as I hoped every girl in 
 this school would have thought beneath her. If we believe 
 that, as they themselves say, they only wished to gain 
 possession of Miss Gordon's diary (her supposed diary, for 
 such a thing does not exist), we find that they first took 
 the idea from a speech made in carelessness some time ago. 
 No punishment could be too severe for the deceitful malice 
 which would make two girls treasure such a hint for weeks, 
 till they could find an opportunity of acting upon it by 
 breaking open their companion's desk. But I have deter- 
 mined not to expel these girls at this time, though they are 
 not to be allowed immediately to associate with the other
 
 54 AN ATTEMPT AT RECONCILIATION. 
 
 young ladies on their former footing. For one week they 
 will sit down alone to meals. For one week I forbid them 
 to speak to their schoolfellows. And I forbid you all, 
 young ladies, to say. one word to Miss Godfrey or Miss 
 Stuart during that time. Any necessary communication 
 can be made through the governesses. And understand 
 this, — that whoever disobeys me, or allows me to be dis- 
 obeyed without reporting it, will have to learn two hundred 
 lines." 
 
 When Miss Maria had finished there was a pause; then 
 she turned round and said, " Good-night, young ladies," in 
 her usual quick way. Ada was the first to come forward 
 and hold out her hand, which, after a moment's hesitation, 
 Miss Maria took. It was not her custom to bid good-night 
 to the girls in disgrace, and Ada's movement was under- 
 stood by all as an attempt at reconciliation. 
 
 But Gerty threaded her way through the group clustered 
 together in the middle of the room, and went to the door 
 without taking notice of any one. Emily Gordon was wait- 
 ing for her there, anxious to kiss her silently if she might 
 do nothing more; but Gerty did not even look at her. 
 
 She was half-undressed before the other three girls came 
 into their room. Janie sat down immediately to plait her 
 hair ; and little Molly stared at Gerty and Ada with round 
 eyes, and a very solemn face. Their silence irritated Gerty, 
 though probably if they had laughed and talked to each 
 other, as they generally dirl, it would have jarred upon her 
 still more. 
 
 Ada took off her things wearily, then fetched her Testa- 
 ment and sat down on Gerty's bed in her night-dress. 
 Gerty shook her head, but Ada was not to be put off. She 
 went and brought Gerty's own Bible and put it in her hand. 
 Then she sat down close beside her friend, and having found
 
 SILENT SUFFERING. 55 
 
 the place herself, pushed back her unbrushed hair from 
 her pale little face, and looked at Gerty, waiting for her 
 to begin. 
 
 Then it was that Molly's tongue was unloosed. 
 
 " They're going to read their Bibles!" said she, in a loud 
 whisper of astonishment. 
 
 Janie turned round a little, and looked at Gerty and Ada 
 through her hair. 
 
 " They have much need!" was her only remark. 
 
 Gerty restrained herself with difficulty from an angry re- 
 tort, but Ada did not seem even to hear. As Gerty would 
 not begin, she herself read the first verse of the chapter, 
 contrary to their usual custom. Gerty could scarce help 
 going on, and so they read together as they had done before. 
 
 Then the two little girls put their arms round each other 
 and kissed in silence, feeling that, even if they might not 
 speak, there was comfort in holding fast together in their 
 trouble.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ada's search for the right road. 
 
 HE clays passed slowly on, and Gerty bore her pun- 
 ishment in grim silence. She showed a brave 
 face before the other girls ; and none of them, not 
 even Ada, ever knew how she cried at nights, when the 
 room was in darkness and her companions asleep. Her 
 only pleasant time, in those days, was during lesson-hours. 
 She had swiftly and surely worked herself up to the head 
 of her class, and kept her place there in spite of the efforts 
 of several girls who had been much longer at school. 
 They very much resented her success, and she was by no 
 means popular in consequence ; but to Gerty it was a great 
 satisfaction that, as far as lessons were concerned, her 
 school-life had not been a failure. If Miss Maria spoke to 
 her in her coldest voice, and many of her schoolfellows 
 looked askance at her, still the English master generally 
 prefaced a difficult question by remarking that he thought 
 no one but Miss Stuart could answer it; and Monsieur 
 Bornand was astonished at the correctness of her French 
 translation. It was a pleasure to be in favour with her 
 masters, but Gerty also thoroughly enjoyed her work for 
 its own sake ; her lessons interested her, and her success 
 in her classes was as much owing to her careful prepara- 
 tion for them, as to the fact that she was far before other 
 girls of her age in general reading.
 
 IN DISGRACE. 57 
 
 Ada was with Gerty in all her classes, but sat at the 
 foot as invariably as Gerty was at the head. She never 
 learned her lessons when she could possibly help it; and if 
 by answering some chance question she took a higher place 
 in her class, she was soon sent back to her old seat for 
 whispering, or trying to make the others laugh. But the 
 difference of the little girls' tastes made no difference in 
 their friendship. Gerty never thought herself better than 
 Ada because she stood higher in her classes ; and Ada 
 admired Gerty's position without the least envy, or even a 
 praiseworthy desire to imitate her. 
 
 During the first day that Ada was condemned to hold no 
 intercourse with her companions, she looked so very sad 
 that she excited much pity. When Gerty and she sat 
 down to their meals alone at a little table, she hid her face 
 in her hands and cried. To the great distress of Mrs. 
 Martyn, she did not eat a moi'sel. But after a little her 
 spirits rose; and not only did her appetite return, but she 
 amused herself by making grimaces to her companions at 
 the other table. She took full advantage of Miss Maria's per- 
 mission to hold communication with the other girls through 
 the governesses, and was constantly charging Mademoiselle 
 with messages which it was quite unnecessary for her to 
 deliver, as the people they were intended for heard them as 
 well as she did. In her bedroom, Ada's attempts to make 
 herself understood by signs kept Janie and Molly, and 
 even Gerty, who was not very mirthful just then, in fits of 
 laughter. One morning she puzzled them all for a long 
 time. Over and over again she opened the wardrobe door 
 and peered in ; then ran away — only to return and do the 
 same thing over again. At last Molly cried out, with a 
 burst of laughter, — " Oh, I know ! she means Mother 
 Hubbard."
 
 58 DUMB SHOW. 
 
 Ada nodded her head vehemently in token of assent, 
 but what she wanted to say about Mrs. Martyn, it was 
 quite impossible to make out. It was all in vain that Ada 
 took one of the pillows and stuck it full of pins, even 
 carrying off one of Miss Leslie's much-loved brooches for 
 the same purpose. 
 
 " Ada must learn the deaf and dumb alphabet before she 
 gets into another scrape," said Janie. 
 
 But after they went to the schoolroom the whole thing 
 was explained. Ada ran immediately to Mademoiselle, 
 and said, — 
 
 " Will you please tell these stupid, stupid room-mates of 
 mine that I'm going to make a pincushion for Mrs. Martyn 
 on her birthday 1 " 
 
 " Ask her what it's to be made of,' said Molly Smith, 
 who was on Mademoiselle's other side. 
 
 " Be so kind as to thank Miss Smith for her kind 
 inquiries, Mademoiselle," returned Ada, " and say it is to 
 be made of canvas, and red wool, and crystal beads ; and 
 there's to be a fringe round it ! " 
 
 " Tell Miss Godfrey, with my compliments, that I don't 
 believe her pincushion will ever be finished," said one of 
 the other girls. 
 
 Mademoiselle laughed good-naturedly ; but when Ada 
 began again, " Give my kind regards to Miss Ellen Murray, 
 and say — " she stopped her. 
 
 " Enough, enough, my children," said she in French. 
 " Ada, talk no more, but go and practise." 
 
 " Tout droit, Mademoiselle," said Ada, who had translated 
 various slang phrases into French, and was very fond of 
 annoying her governess by using them. "When Miss Maria 
 was present, Ada's French was very different from the jargon 
 she generally practised on Mademoiselle and her companions.
 
 THE WEEK OP PENANCE ENDED. 59 
 
 The disgrace of the punishment, which Gerty felt so 
 keenly, was nothing to Ada ; but, in spite of all her devices 
 to evade Miss Maria's orders, the enforced silence was very 
 terrible to her. When the dreary week was over at last, 
 and another Sunday morning brought her penance to an 
 end, Gerty opened her eyes very early to see a little white 
 figure standing by her bed. 
 
 " Make room, please, Gerty," said Ada ; " I want to get 
 into bed beside you. Don't you remember, we can talk 
 to-day ] " 
 
 Gerty rolled back sleepily, and when Ada lay down 
 beside her she put one arm round her neck ; then her 
 heavy eyes closed again. 
 
 " Gerty ! don't go to sleep — I have so much to say to 
 you. I've been thinking a great deal this week, though I 
 haven't been able to talk. It has been a very horrid week, 
 Gerty ; you've been looking miserable, and I was very 
 sorry for you, though I couldn't say it. And now I've 
 made up my mind that this will never do ! " 
 
 Ada's last words were spoken with such determination 
 that Gerty was fairly roused. 
 
 " What will never do, dear 1 " she asked. 
 
 " Hush! speak low; we mustn't waken Janie and Molly. 
 When I was shut up in that dreadful room upstairs, Mother 
 Hubbard came to me. Did she come to you, Gerty 1 " 
 
 " Yes," said Gerty with some hesitation. " She came 
 on Saturday — at least she came to the door when I was 
 lying on the carpet with my face the other way. She said, 
 ' Are you sleeping, my dear 1 ' and I never answered ; so 
 she went away. I was sorry afterwards, for I wasn't a bit 
 asleep, and I'm afraid it was wrong to let her think so. 
 But I didn't want her ! " 
 
 " O Gerty, what a pity ! Did you think she was like
 
 60 ada's determination. 
 
 Miss Maria 1 She isn't at all ; she's very kind. She 
 talked to me ever so much. She said it could be no real 
 pleasure to me to be naughty ; and do you know, Gerty, 
 neither it is — at least not afterwards. And she said God 
 would be pleased if I were to be good ; and I would like 
 him to be pleased with me, and take me to heaven when I 
 die, I should like that very much, Gerty — shouldn't you 1 
 So I'm going to be very, very good. I'm quite determined ; 
 and I'm going to begin to-morrow." 
 
 " What are you going to do 1 Are you going to be like 
 Emily Gordon 1 " 
 
 " I dare say I shall get like her, but not for a while, for 
 she has been good a long time. But I'll tell you what 
 I'm going to do. I'm going to learn my lessons, every 
 one of them — French poetry and all. I won't play ' Polly 
 Perkins' and 'I would I were with Nancy' in my practis- 
 ing times. I won't laugh loud out any more, because Miss 
 Maria says it's unladylike. I won't say Jamais esprit, or 
 Tout droit, or things of that sort to Mademoiselle. And in 
 the evenings I'm going to work all the time Miss Maria is 
 reading aloud. I won't make faces behind her back, either." 
 
 "That's for everydays — what are you going to do on 
 Sundays 1 " said Gerty, in a tone that would have damped 
 the ardour of any one less sanguine than Ada. 
 
 " Oh, on Sundays ! I'm going to sit quiet in church. 
 It's very hard ; for sometimes when I'm very tired, and 
 think the sermon is nearly done, then the minister says, 
 'And, secondly.' That's very dreadful, Gerty ! It means 
 that he has a great deal more to say. But I'm going to 
 try and bear it all without fidgeting. And on Sunday 
 afternoons — on Sunday afternoons, oh! then, Gerty, I'll 
 learn the Shorter Catechism ! " 
 
 Gerty laughed ; for the portion of the Assembly's Cate-
 
 ONE DAY'S RESPITE. 61 
 
 chism, which Miss Martyn required her pupils to repeat on 
 Sundays, was a bitter task to Ada. Gerty, who had been 
 familiar with it for years, as most Scotch children are, had 
 little trouble in preparing it ; but Ada, who had spent her 
 early childhood, first in Italy, then in England, had only 
 been introduced to the Shorter Catechism when she came 
 to Miss Martyn's school. Her Sunday lessons were in 
 consequence very difficult for her, and brought her almost 
 invariably into disgrace. 
 
 ''You must work very hard to-day, then, Ada," said 
 Gerty; "for we have the Fourth Commandment, and the 
 requirings and forbiddings, in the questions we have to learn 
 for this evening. And the reasons annexed, too — they are 
 about the worst, I think." 
 
 " But I'm not going to begin to-day, Gerty," said Ada 
 hastily. "To-day I'm going to enjoy myself. To-morrow 
 I'm going to be good." 
 
 " Oh ! well, then," said Gerty, considerably relieved. 
 
 The idea of her merry little playmate becoming like 
 Emily Gordon was not a pleasant one to her ; and she and 
 Ada both firmly believed that it was Emily's being " good " 
 that made her melancholy and uninteresting. Though 
 Gerty did not like to say so, she hoped and expected that 
 Ada would forget her good resolutions for the next day. 
 But in this she was mistaken. 
 
 On Monday morning Ada rose so early that she had put 
 her desk tidy, and was seated in the schoolroom learning 
 her lessons, before the other girls had left their beds. The 
 curious gravity of her countenance during the morning 
 amused her companions, but she was quite willing to give 
 an explanation of her changed behaviour, — 
 
 " I'm going to bo good, really and truly ; so you mustn't 
 make me laugh."
 
 62 SOME STRANGE THINGS. 
 
 " Is that Ada practising in the Blue Room 1 " asked 
 Kate M'Kenzie, in the forenoon. " What can have come 
 over the child 1 She has played nothing but scales for the 
 last half-hour ; I'm perfectly sick of the sound ! " 
 
 " Ada has reformed," said one of the other girls. " She 
 is quite a changed character; at least, so she has been telling 
 every one this morning." 
 
 Kate laughed, and said she hoped the reformation would 
 last, but she had her doubts about it. Mary Carr bent 
 over her German exercise, and did not say a word. 
 
 During the rest of the morning Ada's conduct was most 
 exemplary. Her English lessons had been carefully learned 
 before breakfast, and, to her own delight and surprise, she 
 found herself, for the first time, seated by Gerty in her 
 class. Stranger still, she neither whispered nor giggled ; 
 and so kept her place till the end of the hour. Emily 
 Gordon, from the kindest of motives, had asked to be 
 allowed to walk with Ada when they went out in the fore- 
 noon. She made her petition to Mademoiselle with fear and 
 trembling; but when it was granted, and she and Ada took 
 their places in the ranks, she could not think of anything 
 to. say. But Ada's lofty mood quite took her by surprise. 
 While Emily, feeling awkward and shy, was racking her 
 brains for some agreeable topic of conversation, Ada began 
 to discourse on historical subjects with the utmost fluency 
 and in her best French. Emily was very fond of history, 
 and knew a great deal about it; but Ada's sudden interest 
 in Oliver Cromwell, and the original remarks she made 
 about his conduct, fairly bewildered her. Nor was she much 
 enlightened when Ada said, as they reached home again, — 
 
 " History is a very excellent thing for improving the 
 mind. I think our minds ought to be very much improved, 
 after so much of it ! "
 
 AGAIN A CULPRIT. 63 
 
 She spoke in a tone of elation ; but immediately after- 
 wards she gave a little sigh, as if, after all, the improving 
 conversation had been rather wearisome work. 
 
 Gerty was much impressed by the change in her friend, 
 and thought over it gravely as she sat by the schoolroom 
 table in the afternoon, waiting for Mademoiselle to begin 
 the dictation class. But alas ! for Ada's good resolutions. 
 Gerty's sober musings were interrupted by the entrance of 
 Mademoiselle with a long bedroom-towel fastened to her 
 sash at the back, — an appendage which gave a very curious 
 effect to her trim little figure and dainty dress. Just 
 behind her came Ada, dancing on tiptoe, her eyes shining 
 with mischievous delight, and her forefinger uplifted in 
 warning to the assembled girls. But there was a general 
 shout of laughter, and the quick little Frenchwoman turn- 
 ing round, discovered at once the fault and the culprit. 
 
 " Twenty lines for Mademoiselle Ada ! " said she, with 
 prompt indignation. 
 
 " Merci, Mademoiselle ! " was Ada's polite reply ; then 
 suddenly stopping, she looked across the table at Gerty 
 with a comical expression of dismay, — " O Gerty, I forgot ! 
 Never mind, I'll try again, to-morrow." 
 
 Afterwards she seemed anxious to be riotous enough to 
 make up for the restraint she had been exercising upon 
 herself. Finally, Miss Maria, finding her dancing in the 
 passage, dressed in the singing-master's hat and greatcoat, 
 sent her off to bed at five o'clock. Gerty was very sad for 
 her friend's sake all evening, and puzzled herself much, 
 thinking how she could comfort her. But when bedtime 
 came, and she went with Janie and Molly to their room, 
 the sight that met her eyes was certainly a curious one. 
 
 Two beds were drawn together in the middle of the 
 room, and a red shawl spread over them. Up above was
 
 64 THE DOGE OP VENICE. 
 
 a canopy made of the brightest shawls and cloaks which 
 the wardrobe could produce. And in this tent (for such it 
 apparently was) sat Ada, Turkish-fashion. It was difficult 
 to say what national costume she intended to imitate, for 
 she wore a crimson silk petticoat and a yellow turban ; a 
 sheet was gracefully draped over her shoulders ; and she had 
 plaited her hair into a magnificent pigtail, and made herself 
 a moustache and beard with burnt stick. 
 
 But Ada's tableau did not excite the admiration she had 
 probably expected. " You horrid girl ! " said Janie, rush- 
 ing up to her, " how dare you take my best petticoat 1 
 And my Indian handkerchief too ! I declare I have a 
 good mind to bring in Miss Maria, and see what she thinks 
 of all this ! " 
 
 " You don't seem to be aware," said Ada, in a tone of 
 stately displeasure, " that I am the Grand Turk — oh no ! 
 I mean the Doge of Venice. His Royal Highness the 
 Doge of Venice is not accustomed to be addressed in that 
 familiar manner." 
 
 " Ada ! put away those things," said Gerty in great 
 alarm. " Miss Maria may come in, and if she sees them 
 she'll be furious. Quick, quick ! I'll help you to put them 
 away." 
 
 Gerty was far more anxious about Ada's safety than if 
 it had been her own. 
 
 " Take off my things, I say. And if anything has 
 happened to them you'll suffer for it," said Janie, red with 
 passion. 
 
 Ada protested that never had Doge of Venice been so 
 ill-used before ; but, nevertheless, she made no real objec- 
 tion to Gerty pulling down her tent, and even helped her 
 to hustle the things out of sight, and push the beds back 
 to their places Janie was still scolding, when Miss Maria.
 
 miss maria's visit. 65 
 
 who knew by experience that sending Ada to bed was not 
 necessarily keeping her out of mischief, looked in to see if 
 all was right. But the room was in pretty good order 
 now, and the Doge was under the bed-clothes, blackened 
 face and all. Miss Maria thought that Gerty's anxious ex- 
 pression, and Molly's half-suppressed giggles, were rather 
 suspicious ; but then they might be accounted for by Janie 
 Leslie's evident ill-humour. So she went away without 
 asking any questions. 
 
 "Didn't 1 make a nice tent, Gerty?" asked Ada, when 
 they were all safe in bed. "It gave me ever so much 
 trouble to put up ; only I wanted to have some fun to-day, 
 because I had spoilt it already, and I must be good again 
 to-morrow. I wish I hadn't given Mademoiselle that tail, 
 after I had begun so well in the morning. But she did 
 look so funny 
 
 it 
 
 ;5S4)
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE TWO FRIENDS LOOKING DIFFERENT WAYS. 
 
 ND now the summer days were passing rapidly, 
 and the long, delightful holidays were not far 
 distant. Gerty taxed her powers to the utmost, 
 calculating first the clays, then the hours she had still to 
 spend at school. Not satisfied with that, she counted how 
 many music-lessons were still to he gone through, how 
 many meals she would take in Miss Martyn's house, how 
 many times she would bid Miss Maria good-night. She 
 had to call Ada to her help, and she turned out to he much 
 quicker at mental arithmetic thau Gerty, and quite as 
 eager over it. For Ada was going away too. She was to 
 spend her holidays with a young aunt, her father's only 
 sister, who was married, and lived in London. 
 
 " I do love Aunt Laura so ! Only think of the joy of 
 spending two months with her!" said Ada in delight, when 
 she came to tell Gerty the good news. 
 
 " I'm so glad, Ada," said Gerty warmly. " I was afraid I 
 was selfish with all my counting and wishing to get home, 
 when I thought you had to stay here all alone. But now, 
 of course, you will want to count for your own sake." 
 
 But except when absorbed in these delightful calcula- 
 tions, the little friends were never so far apart in all theii 
 school-life. It was not that they loved each other less, but 
 somehow they had few confidential talks during these bright
 
 GERTY'S GREATEST AMBITION. 67 
 
 summer weeks. Though they were all day in the same 
 schoolroom, though they joined hands in their long country 
 walks, and sat together on the grass in the gardens, each 
 had separate interests which the other did not share. 
 Gerty's whole soul was in her lessons just then; her 
 greatest ambition in life was to win the English prize. 
 That such a thing was possible, did not occur to her till 
 nearly the end of the session. She stood high in all her 
 classes, but so very high in English that she began to hope 
 that, in spite of all her disadvantages, she might be first 
 after all. Her most dangerous rival was a girl called Ellen 
 Murray, and the question was, Could Gerty, who had only 
 come at Easter, gain as many good marks in three months 
 as Ellen Murray had done in six? For, unfortunately for 
 Gerty, the marking for the prize had begun after the 
 Christmas holidays. But she was not to be discouraged. 
 She rose early in the morning; she studied in her play- 
 hours; and if the rules of the school had allowed it, she 
 would have deprived herself of air and exercise for the sake 
 of that longed-for prize. 
 
 Gerty remembered afterwards with shame the bitter 
 hatred she felt for Ellen Murray, and her passionate desire 
 to triumph over her. The whole class was divided into 
 two parties; and Gerty's adherents told her that if Mr. 
 Sherwood acted fairly, he would break the customary rule 
 for this once, and count the marks for the last quarter only. 
 And Gerty knew that if that were the case the prize would 
 be hers. And even if it were not, there was still a chance 
 that she might win, in spite of her enemy's advantage in 
 being first in the field ; then that would be double glory ! 
 
 Gerty used to take her books with her when she went to 
 her bedroom at night, and sit poring over them as long as 
 she could see to read. One evening she was busy with her
 
 68 AN UNEXPECTED REMARK. 
 
 geography — counting a list of names on her fingers, and 
 muttering them to herself under her breath. There were 
 to be written examinations on all the work that had been 
 gone over since Christmas, and Gerty was bravely getting 
 up the history and geography that her companions had 
 learned during the quarter before she had joined the class. 
 She was quite enjoying the unwonted silence in the room; 
 for Molly Smith was already asleep, and Janie Leslie was 
 entirely occupied with a new pair of light kid gloves, which 
 she was tiying on for the first time. Ada was lying on 
 the top of her bed, and had said nothing for a long while ; 
 but Gerty saw nothing remarkable in that, for they had all 
 taken a long walk that evening, and Ada was always tired 
 after a long walk. Whenever Gerty looked up from her 
 book to try to repeat the chief European towns and their 
 population, she always saw the little white figure lying in 
 the same position. It had been a lovely day, and now, 
 though the sun had gone down, the clouds piled up in the 
 west were shining with gold. And Ada, her face turned 
 to the window, and one little hand under her cheek, was 
 gazing up at the sky. 
 
 " I suppose they are all in heaven," said she at last. 
 
 Ada did not even turn her head, but her unexpected 
 remark made the others start. The geography fell from 
 Gerty's hand ; and Janie Leslie actually paused in the very 
 act of dexterously introducing her thumb into a glove that 
 was unwilling to stretch. 
 
 " Good gracious, Ada! what are you talking about? I 
 thought you were asleep," said Janie. 
 
 " I'm speaking about what we were reading in the Bible 
 to-night. Gerty knows what I mean." 
 
 But Gerty did not know in the least. Her mind had 
 been so occupied with her geography all evening, that she
 
 TRYING TO BE GOOD. 69 
 
 had scarcely been conscious of what she read at the time, 
 and now all remembrance of it was gone. 
 
 " What was it, Ada? I forget just now." 
 
 " About the children that people brought to Jesus, and 
 he took them in his arms and blessed them — don't you 
 remember, Gerty 1 ? I suppose afterwards they were quite 
 good, and they went to heaven when they died." 
 
 " Oh yes ! I think so. Of course they went to heaven, 
 I suppose. I never thought about it. But I don't think 
 they died immediately; I think they grew up." 
 
 " But after they came to Jesus they were good, weren't 
 they 1 ? They were good boys and girls, and then good men 
 and women, and then good old people. And then they died, 
 and went to heaven. Perhaps Maud knows some of them. 
 Were all the other people that came to Jesus good after- 
 wards, Gerty?" 
 
 " I suppose they were," said Gerty, rather slowly. 
 
 " Did Jesus show them how to be good, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, I should think so." 
 
 "Oh! I wish I had lived when Jesus was on earth ! 
 Then I would have gone to him, and asked the way to 
 be good." 
 
 " Ada, I wish you wouldn't talk of these things. You're 
 the most profane girl I ever saw," said Janie virtuously. 
 
 " But, Janie, if you knew — if you only knew how much 
 I want to be good. I've been trying ever so many days, 
 and it's so hard I've never managed it. I suppose it's easy 
 when one gets fairly into the way of it; but I've always 
 got wrong somehow before one day was over." 
 
 " Well, I should think you have," said Janie. " You're 
 not the sort of girl for a saint, Ada, and you needn't try it 
 on. What have you been about to-day? Putting salt into 
 Miss Framm's tea. I saw you very well, and everybody
 
 70 A GIFT FOR MOTHER HUBBARD. 
 
 knew who did it. Miss Maria would have given you some- 
 thing sweet, if she had been at tea ! " 
 
 " I am very sorry I did it," said Ada, turning round, 
 and speaking in her usual bright way. "It must have 
 tasted so nasty ; and it was very kind of Fraulein not to 
 tell. She might have done it, you know. But I wasn't 
 trying to be good to-day, because it was Mother Hubbard's 
 birthday. I got up very early, and took her pincushion 
 to her room, and put it on her toilet-table, that she might 
 get it when she got up. She was fast asleep, and she looked 
 so funny in her nightcap ! But it was wrong to go to her 
 room, for it's against rules to go to any of their rooms ; so 
 there was to-day spoilt at the very beginning ! Of course 
 it was no use trying after that." 
 
 " Did Mother Hubbard like her pincushion 1 " asked 
 Janie, who was anxious to turn away the conversation 
 from its original subject. 
 
 " Like it ! Of course she liked it ; it's a beautiful pin- 
 cushion. I told her I had got up very early, when no one 
 was awake but Gerty, and taken it up to her room ; and 
 she said, ' my dear ! You shouldn't have told me that, 
 my dear. It was very wrong ; Miss Maria would be angry 
 if she knew.' But it was wrong," persisted Ada, as the 
 others laughed at her successful imitation of Mrs. Martyn's 
 manner. " I'm not going to do it again. To-morrow I'll 
 begin to be good; then I'll have a week before the holidays, 
 for I want to get into a good state before I leave school." 
 
 "I really don't know whether you or Gerty is the greatest 
 foci," said Janie peevishly. " There's Gerty worrying con- 
 stantly over her lessons ; and you're as bad about being good. 
 It's very disagreeable for me to be in the room with you 
 two ; I do wish you would try to make yourselves a little 
 pleasant sometimes. You're always in one extreme or the
 
 A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT. 71 
 
 other, Ada. Eor a while you were too wicked to be spoken 
 to ; now you're too good. It's very dull for me." 
 
 " I didn't think you ever could be dull while you had a 
 looking-glass to stare at yourself in," said Gerty, contemp- 
 tuously. 
 
 " You're very impertinent, Gerty ! But I don't wonder 
 
 you don't like to look in the glass ; / wouldn't, if I were 
 
 like you !" 
 
 Gerty vouchsafed no reply, and there was silence for a 
 
 minute ; then Janie went on, — 
 
 " But, Ada, you're very funny when you like, and it's too 
 bad to bother us with your goodness, if you ivill be good. 
 Wait till the holidays, and then, when you are in London, 
 be good to your heart's content." 
 
 " But perhaps I may die before then." 
 
 Janie rose with an impatient exclamation, and pushed 
 away her chair noisily. Then she began to undress as fast 
 as possible, having evidently made up her mind that further 
 talk was useless. And Gerty and Ada seemed to be of the 
 same opinion. 
 
 Poor Gerty had a bitter disappointment next day. Mr. 
 Sherwood announced, at the end of the hour, that he had 
 counted up the marks for the English prize. Miss Stuart 
 had done remarkably well ; she stood much higher than 
 any other girl during the last quarter ; but it was unfor- 
 tunately the rule of the school to count the marks from the 
 end of the Christmas holidays. Therefore, he was sorry to 
 say the prize could not be Miss Stuart's ; it belonged to 
 Miss Ellen Murray. Gerty tried hard to be brave, but the 
 room got dim around her ; and after the master had left 
 she still sat in her place, feeling stunned, until she was 
 roused by the clamorous exultation of Ellen Murray and 
 party. The elder Miss Murray, who was one of the big
 
 72 GERTY AND HER CHAMPION. 
 
 girls, had oome to the class-room to ask after her sister's 
 success. 
 
 " Well, Ellen, have you got it 1 " 
 
 " I've got it ! I've got it ! I've beaten Gerty Stuart, in 
 spite of all her hard work. Oh ! it's splendid!" 
 
 "I say, Miss Stuart, how do you feel now 1 ?" asked one 
 of the day-scholars. " Didn't you think you woiild get 
 it 1 Come, now, tell us really ! " 
 
 "But I've got it! I've got it; I've got it!" said Ellen 
 Murray, jumping about and clapping her hands. 
 
 "You've got the book — but I've got the honour. And 
 I had much rather have that!" said Gerty, rising at last, 
 and speaking hoarsely. 
 
 " I don't see your honour," said her rival. 
 
 "Then you're a fool." 
 
 "Come, come now, Gerty," said Maggie Murray; "don't 
 talk that way. It does you no good to lose your temper." 
 
 " I don't wonder she loses her temper," put in one of 
 Gerty's friends. " Mr. Sherwood ought to have given her 
 the prize; there's no doubt about that. And he would 
 have done it too, I'm sure, if Miss Maria had let him, for 
 Gerty Stuart is a great favourite of his." 
 
 " It's well for her if she is," was Ellen Murray's spiteful 
 retort. " She's a favourite of no one else's. Miss Maria 
 hates her like poison." 
 
 "Who says Gerty is a favourite of no one but Mr. 
 Sherwood 1 ?" said Ada defiantly. Then suddenly putting 
 her arms round her friend's neck, and laying her cheek 
 against hers, she tuimed upon the other girls. "She's a 
 favourite of mine/" 
 
 Maggie Murray laughed. 
 
 " So you put yourself along with Miss Maria and Mr. 
 Sherwood. Well, you're cool enough for anything, Puss I
 
 THE LAST DAY AT SCHOOL. 73 
 
 Come away, Ellen; you've quarrelled long enough, and if 
 you're going to begin with Ada you'll get the worst of it. 
 You had better come along with me." 
 
 " But I'll beat her — next year," said Gerty savagely, 
 when she and Ada were in their own room. " She shan't 
 triumph over me then. I'll have all the prizes that can 
 be got next year. I wish it were come ! " 
 
 "What! you wish the holidays over!" said Ada in 
 astonishment; "your picnic, and the strawberry-feast, and 
 all the nice things you were telling me about ! " 
 
 " Well, I don't know," said Gerty, feeling as if she cared 
 for nothing then but the lost prize. 
 
 She was very gloomy for some days, though she angrily 
 resented any expression of pity. It was not till the last 
 day at school had really come that she brightened up again. 
 It was impossible then to escape being infected by the 
 general gaiety. Miss Framm and Mademoiselle were 
 almost as joyful and excited as the girls, who danced, and 
 sang, and chattered like mad creatures. There was no 
 formal examination at Miss Martyn's school, but it was the 
 custom for the parents and friends of the girls to come in the 
 forenoon to see the distribution of prizes. But before one 
 o'clock there was a long morning to be got through, and in 
 spite of the general glee many of the girls thought it the 
 longest day they had ever spent in their life. To be sure, 
 there was the packing to be done; and it was delightful 
 to see the great boxes standing in the usually tidy bedrooms, 
 and the girls' belongings scattered about in all directions. 
 Gerty, who had never packed a trunk in her life, was a good 
 deal puzzled how to begin; but Ada had no hesitation, and 
 earnestly recommended her plan to Gerty. As the princi- 
 pal thing in packing was to save room, it would be best, 
 Ada urged, to put the things that could be crushed — such
 
 74 A FRIEND IN NEED. 
 
 as muslin dresses, for instance — at the very bottom of the 
 box. Then the heavier things would be put on the top. 
 She had actually begun to pack on this principle, when 
 Mary Carr, who had some idea how things would go on, 
 made her appeai'ance on the scene. Both little girls had 
 pulled all their things out of the drawers; and now Gerty 
 was seated on a toilet-table, looking from her open box to 
 the disordered heap of clothing on her bed, with a face 
 of grave perplexity; while Ada, who had already packed 
 a good many of her things entirely to her own satisfaction, 
 was carefully stowing her travelling hat in a snug corner of 
 her tnink. She was singing exultantly, "In London tjwn 
 there be kings and queens, a-sitting all in a row;" when 
 Mary Carr's exclamation of dismay made her stop to 
 explain the advantages of her peculiar method of packing. 
 
 " But, my dear Pussy," said Mary, when Ada had fin- 
 ished expounding her views, " your things would be all in 
 a dreadful mess before you got to London, and then how 
 would you be respectable to appear before the kings and 
 queens 1 And don't you think it would be slightly incon- 
 venient to travel without hat or gloves? I'll pack your 
 things for you ; and Gerty 's too, if she likes." 
 
 Of course Gerty did like; and even Ada was content to 
 give in, and sat watching Mary rapidly and dexterously 
 folding up the ill-used garments, and laying them neatly in 
 the box. 
 
 Gerty dressed herself early, and was among the first of 
 the girls to enter the drawing-room. The folding-doors 
 were open, and the table with the prizes stood full in view 
 in the smaller room, where Gerty had first bid good-bye 
 to her mother three months ago. Both drawing-rooms had 
 flowers in them; the furniture was differently arranged, 
 and everything had a festive appearance. Miss Maria was
 
 WAITING FOR THE PRIZES. I 
 
 sailing about, magnificent in a light silk; and the girls 
 with their bright dresses and brighter faces were assem- 
 bling fast in the larger drawing-room, leaving the private 
 one for the Martyns and their visitors. Mary Carr was 
 the last of them all. She had given herself a great deal of 
 trouble, and considerably shortened her time for dressing, 
 by her kindness to Gerty and Ada, but I don't think she 
 regretted it for all that. She had spoilt her beautiful 
 bouquet, too, to share it with A da, who was dancing about 
 like a fairy, the scarlet geraniums in her breast the only 
 bit of colour in her white dress. 
 
 Mrs. Stuart was to come that forenoon, and Gerty had 
 fondly hoped she would see her daughter come forward 
 to receive a prize. All her bitter disappointment came 
 back to her afresb as she saw the beautiful books, and she 
 went and sat down in a corner, her face the only gloomy 
 one in the room. She would not go up to examine the 
 prizes, as the other girls did, for she could not bear to see 
 the book that was to be Ellen Murray's. She would not 
 join in the admiration and criticism the girls were bestow- 
 ing on each other's dresses; even approving remarks about 
 her own worked muslin and broad sash gave her no pleasure. 
 She sat quiet and watched Mary Carr, wondering how she 
 could look so much like her usual self. For Miss Carr was 
 going to get a prize, as everybody knew — a beautiful book 
 of Mendelssohn's Lieder, the only prize given by the music- 
 master, and bestowed upon the very best pianiste in the 
 school. When Gerty grew up to be a young lady, and 
 wore cushions in her hair and long dresses, was it possible 
 that she too might become indifferent to prizes? Well! it 
 might be so, but she could scarcely believe it. 
 
 The visitors came at last, and the masters. Mrs. Stuart 
 was late, and the prize-giving had begun when she entered
 
 76 gerty's surprise. 
 
 the back drawing-room, so she could only smile and nod to 
 her little girl sitting among her companions. 
 
 The English prizes were given first. But to see Ellen 
 Murray walk up with a triumphant face to receive her 
 prize from Mr. Sherwood, to hear his complimentary words, 
 and see her self-satisfied smirk, were more than Gerty could 
 bear. She got behind Miss Carr and Miss M'Kenzie, who 
 were standing together in front, and, concealed by their 
 ample skirts, she stopped her ears with her fingers; and 
 not content with that, shut her eyes tight. She had been 
 blind and deaf for some minutes, and was beginning to 
 think the dreadful event must be over now, when some one 
 took hold of her hands and dragged them down by force. 
 Gerty, opening her eyes in astonishment, found that the 
 girls in front of her had moved to the side, and that she 
 was full in view of Mr. Sherwood and the company in the 
 back drawing-room. And Mr. Sherwood, with a gorgeous 
 book in his hand, was standing by the table laughing : all 
 the other masters were laughing, and so were the visitors; 
 even Miss Maria had a smile on her face. And masters, 
 visitors, governesses, and girls were all looking at poor 
 Gerty, who got fiery red, though she did not know why. 
 
 " Little idiot, go and get your prize," said Mary Carr in 
 a whisper. 
 
 Gerty made a few steps forward, and then stopped in 
 the middle of the floor, looking extremely foolish. 
 
 " I really mean you, Miss Stuart," said Mr. Sherwood 
 kindly. " If your ears had been open you would have 
 heard me make a speech about you, and say it was only 
 fair to give two prizes in your class. This is yours, my 
 little girl, and most honourably have you won it." 
 
 Gerty walked slowly up to the table to receive her beau- 
 tiful book. She took it very awkwardly; I doubt whether
 
 CROWNED WITH SUCCESS. 77 
 
 she even thanked Mr. Sherwood; but her look of intense 
 delight repaid the good-natured master, who had given 
 another handsome prize rather than disappoint the child. 
 Years afterwards, when the incident had been forgotten by 
 everybody else, Geiiy thought often of her first prize, and 
 grieved that Mr. Sherwood never knew how grateful she 
 was. But I think her grief was needless — he did know 
 very well. 
 
 Of course Gerty should have returned to the other girls, 
 but she was too bewildered to think of that. Hugging 
 her treasure close, she turned round, and catching sight 
 of her mother's face, she made a spring to her side, — 
 " Mamma, it's — it's — perfectly beautiful ! " said she quite 
 audibly. 
 
 There was another laugh at Gerty's expense, and Miss 
 Maria looked rather displeased at her breach of order, but 
 apparently made up her mind it was better to let her remain 
 where she was. And Gerty, her shyness returned, took 
 refuge behind her mother's chair, with an uncomfortable 
 idea that she had been making a fool of herself. But even 
 that could not mar her pleasure much; she was almost 
 perfectly happy. All her hard struggles were over now ; 
 her work had been crowned with success — the prize was 
 hers ; and this afternoon she was going home with her 
 mother. 
 
 The girls pressed round her afterwards with congratula- 
 tions, but could not resist teasing her a little about the 
 curious way she had received her prize. 
 
 " I never saw anything so ridiculous in my life," said 
 Kate M'Kenzie, as the girls clustered in the passage before 
 assembling at the strawberry-feast which was to be the 
 end of the day's proceedings. " Mr. Sherwood called for 
 Miss Stuart; and when we stood back to let her pass, there
 
 78 SAYING GOOD-BYE. 
 
 was Gerty with her head clown, as if she was going to butt 
 some one, and her fingers stuffed into her ears as hard as 
 possible. It needed all Mary Carr's strength to get them 
 out." 
 
 Gerty was so happy that she bore their laughter very 
 well, for the only shadow in the sunshine of that afternoon 
 was the thought of the parting with Ada. Her ]oy over her 
 friend's success was quite unmixed with any raillery, and 
 was almost as great as Gerty's own. But when at last 
 Mrs. Stuart was ready to go away, Ada was nowhere to be 
 seen. After a long search, Gerty found her in one of the 
 deserted classrooms, her head on the table, sobbing as 
 Gerty had never seen her sob since the night they two had 
 opened Emily Gordon's desk. She did not even look up, 
 when Gerty came and put her arms round her. 
 
 " What's the matter, my own darling Ada 1 " 
 
 " The holidays have come," said Ada, through her 
 tears — "and school is over — and I'm not good — I can't 
 be — I shall never go to heaven — never, never ! " 
 
 Gerty had no comfort to give. She could only lay her 
 cheek caressingly against Ada's hair, and pat her shoulder 
 gently: For several minutes neither spoke, and no sound 
 was heard in the room but Ada's sobs. At last Gerty 
 heard her name called through the house; the cab was at 
 the door, and she must go. 
 
 "Ada, Ada! won't you look up and say good-bye?" 
 
 The little girls rose, and put their arms round each other, 
 Gerty's tears falling in sympathy with the distress of her 
 friend. Then there was a hurried good-bye, and Gerty had 
 to rush off, having left herself no time to take a polite 
 leave of Mrs. Martyn and her daughters. 
 
 Mrs. Stuart thought her little girl unnaturally grave 
 during their journey home, and decided she had over-
 
 A VERY SHORT PRAYER. 79 
 
 worked herself; but Gerty was making up her mind to a 
 great sacrifice. If Ada were to grow gloomy and silent, 
 and give up playing, most of tke brightness of Gerty's 
 school-life would be gone; but then it was plain that Ada 
 would not be satisfied otherwise. And Gerty would rather 
 have Ada happy than herself. When she reached Burnside, 
 and her brothers' boisterous welcome was over, she went 
 upstairs to her own little room and locked the door. Then 
 she knelt down by the bed, and prayed with clasped hands : 
 "0 God! make Ada a Christian, because she wants it so 
 much. For Christ's sake. Amen." 
 
 It was a very short prayer, but perhaps it was the first 
 real one Gerty had ever offered.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ONE ALONE ON THE HEAVENWARD ROAD. 
 
 HE leaves had taken their autumn colours of brown 
 and red, and the air was keen with October frost, 
 when Gerty went back to school. The tall house 
 in the terrace looked so familiar, so unchanged, that Gerty 
 could scarcely believe it was two months since she had seen 
 it last. It seemed as if she had never left it at all, and 
 her long, happy holidays lay far behind her like a dream, 
 when the cab stopped at Miss Martyn's door. 
 
 But Gerty's feelings of melancholy were dispelled by the 
 sight of a little figure that came running out on the steps 
 to welcome her. Ada meant all that was pleasant in 
 Gerty's school-life ; everything else was gray, and dull, and 
 unhomelike ; Ada was the only thing she was glad to see 
 unchanged. Gerty looked at her eagerly before they kissed, 
 and was relieved to find she had not grown at all like 
 Emily Gordon or any other melancholy person. She 
 looked rather taller, to be sure, and she had changed her 
 summer prints for a dress of soft gray ; but in everything 
 else she seemed exactly the same Ada that she had been 
 before. Gerty's prayer was not answered, then. "Well, on 
 the whole, she was glad ; and there was no use of making 
 it any more, for Ada was evidently happy. 
 
 With a sense of entire satisfaction, Gerty took Ada's 
 hand, and they entered the house together. Miss Maria
 
 HOLIDAY EXPERIENCES. 81 
 
 was waiting for them in the hall, and even before she 
 greeted Gerty reproved Ada sharply for running out of the 
 door, but she was too much occupied just then to give a 
 long lecture on the subject. When Gerty went to pay her 
 respects to Mrs. Martyn, Ada still accompanied her, and 
 the two little girls kept up a sort of disjointed chatter on 
 the stairs and in the passages ; but it was not till they 
 were alone in their own room that their tongues were 
 fairly unloosed. And then how they did talk ! 
 
 Ada's holiday experiences had perhaps been the most 
 remarkable ; for she had not only seen all the wonders of 
 London, but had spent several weeks by the sea on the 
 Cornish coast. And she had stories innumerable about her 
 pretty Aunt Laura, and the grave husband and huge baby 
 that belonged to her, and who both seemed to afford Ada 
 great wonder and amusement. Ada talked most, as she 
 generally did; but Gerty also had much to say. At Burn- 
 side there had been delightful walks and drives, glorious 
 games of hide-and-seek in the garden, and a swing put up 
 between two trees. There had been a pony, too, which 
 Gerty and Fred had been allowed to ride ; and twice it ran 
 away with Gerty, and once very nearly threw her off; so 
 that her mamma was nervous, and did not like her to go 
 out alone. Also, baby could walk, and was able to say a 
 gi'eat many words, and was altogether a most interesting 
 child. And Gerty's cat had got three kittens. 
 
 The two little girls, perched on the top of the chest 
 of drawers (for they never sat on chairs if they could 
 possibly help it), were busily engaged in discussing suit- 
 able names for the kittens, when the door was opened 
 violently, and Mary Carr entered and flung the little 
 travelling-bag she carried in her hand impatiently on one 
 of the beds. 
 
 (684) 6
 
 82 GOOD NEWS FOR ADA AND GERTY. 
 
 "Does Miss Maria think I come here to be made a 
 nurserymaid of?" said she. 
 
 She was not speaking to Gerty and Ada, but to Kate 
 M'Kenzie, who had followed her into the room. 
 
 " It's very vexatious, Mary, but I suppose it must be 
 borne. What can't be cured must be endured, you know." 
 
 " Don't exasperate me with your abominable proverbs 
 and wretched truisms. Isn't it very hard that you and I, 
 after being in the same room for three years and a half, 
 should be separated now 1 ? I declare, if I had had any idea 
 of this I wouldn't have come back to school ! 
 
 Mary seated herself on the bed beside her bag, and 
 crossed her hands in her lap, with a comical expression of 
 disgust on her face. She was both angry and annoyed, yet 
 she could not help being amused at herself and her situation ; 
 and big girl as she was, she looked to the astonished chil- 
 dren as if she did not know whether to laugh or cry. 
 
 Ada had slipped down from her seat, and approached 
 her softly on tiptoe. 
 
 " O Miss Carr ! are you really going to sleep in this room 
 with Gerty and me 1 " 
 
 It was impossible to look at her face of eager delight, 
 and not be somewhat mollified. 
 
 " Yes, Puss. Are you sorry or glad 1 " 
 
 " Oh ! very, very glad for myself. But I ought to be 
 sorry for you, oughtn't 1 1 " 
 
 " Well, I don't mind so much for Gerty and you," said 
 Miss Carr, conscious that she had been ungracious, and 
 anxious to atone for it. " If you were to be here too, Kate, 
 I wouldn't mind at all ; but there's to be some little new 
 girl — neither Janie nor Molly are to be here again. And 
 I suppose I'm expected to act nurse and governess to the 
 lot."
 
 MARY CARR's " OPPORTUNITY." 83 
 
 " Be thankful you have neither Janie nor Molly among 
 your charges," said Miss M'Kenzie. " Look at the bright 
 side of things, my dear." 
 
 Mary assured her friend that her love of sermonising 
 was most offensive, and would become quite uncontrollable 
 when she was no longer constantly beside her to check it. 
 " If Miss Maria only knew your talents in that line, she 
 would have put you here instead of me to lecture the 
 children. But I suppose she means this for my ' opportun- 
 ity.' I wish she had kept her disagreeable opportunities to 
 herself." 
 
 Kate asked her what she meant, but Mary Carr did not 
 answer ; for she was thinking of her conversation with 
 Miss Maria when Gerty and Ada were in disgrace, the 
 particulars of which she had never confided to any one, not 
 even to her bosom friend. 
 
 Gerty had thought it most prudent to sit still and take 
 no part in the conversation ; and now for the first time 
 Kate M'Kenzie seemed to notice her, and shaking hands 
 kindly, said she hoped she had enjoyed her holidays. But 
 Mary paid no attention to her. She pulled off her hat and 
 jacket in a sort of exasperated way ; and when her box was 
 brought up, she set most energetically to unpacking and 
 putting away her things in the drawei'S. 
 
 Kate M'Kenzie stood and talked to her all the time, 
 expressing sorrow at their separation, but counselling 
 patience as the best thing under the circumstances. But 
 Mary's indignation against Miss Maria was very hot, for 
 it was quite a different thing to look after the children in 
 a general way, as she had offered to do, and to leave her 
 most intimate friend that she might sleep in the room with 
 two little girls, and take a constant supervision over them. 
 Perhaps it could not be wondei-ed at that she abused Miss
 
 84 FRESH ARRIVALS. 
 
 Maria vigorously all the time she was unpacking, though 
 she was conscious she was making a bad beginning for her 
 influence over Gerty and Ada. When her trunk was 
 empty, she shut it with a bang, and turned round to the 
 little girls, who had been standing silently watching her. 
 
 "Are your things unpacked? No — of course not; I 
 might have known that. Unlock your boxes, then, if you 
 haven't lost your keys, as I suppose you have. What 
 must be, must be, so I'll help you to unpack. If I am to 
 work, I'll do it for you two ; as for the other litt'le wretch 
 that's coming, she can look after herself. I'm not going to 
 be bothered with her." 
 
 Gerty protested that Miss Carr need not trouble herself 
 with her things ; but the young lady would take no denial, 
 and at last made the somewhat surprising declaration, that 
 if she had not wished to help them she would not have 
 offered to do so ! And Miss M'Kenzie came forward to 
 take her share in the work, with a remark about the 
 advantages of division of labour ; so for once Gerty and 
 Ada had their things tidily arranged in their drawers. 
 
 " Well, Mary, I suppose it's all for the best," said Kate 
 M'Kenzie, speaking half in jest half in earnest to her 
 friend as they went down to tea. And there came a time 
 when Mary Carr echoed her friend's words, but that was 
 not till long after. 
 
 Other girls came in the evening; among them Emily 
 Gordon, already wrapped in her winter furs, and looking as 
 pale and delicate as if she had been studying hard during 
 the last two months, instead of spending her holidays in 
 the free air of the Perthshire Highlands. The Murray 
 sisters arrived too ; and Janie Leslie came from her home 
 in Glasgow, radiant in a set of bright blue ribbons and 
 feathers to match. Ada was in a state of excitement all
 
 PUZZLED AND UNEASY. 85 
 
 evening, and ran to the lobby to greet every new-comer 
 with a welcome back to school, and inquiries how she had 
 enjoyed the holidays ; until at last Miss Maria came with 
 orders to remain in the schoolroom and keep the door shut. 
 To be running about in the passages when it was not 
 strictly necessary, was, according to Miss Maria, "not at 
 all comme il/aut." But Gerty noticed it as being odd that 
 Ada obeyed her implicitly, and would not be persuaded to 
 leave the room again, even when she knew, and every one 
 else knew, that Miss Maria was out of hearing in the 
 private drawing-room at the other end of the house. In 
 vain Ellen Murray proposed a stroll in the dark rooms, — 
 a favourite pastime with Miss Martyn's girls ; Ada would 
 not hear of it, and only gave vent to her restless mood by 
 racing up and down the schoolroom. It was so unlike Ada 
 to give up anything of that sort she wanted to do, because 
 it was forbidden, that Gerty was puzzled and uneasy about 
 her, and determined to ask an explanation as soon as they 
 were alone. 
 
 The bedroom where Gerty and Ada slept looked wonder- 
 fully snug that night; for, early as it was in the season, the 
 weather was already cold, and a bright fire was roaring and 
 crackling in the grate. Bedroom fires were not the general 
 rule at Miss Martyn's; but kind Mother Hubbard was 
 ever afraid lest Ada, who had been born in a warm climate, 
 should suffer from the rigour of the northern winters. 
 There was something very delightful to the little girls in 
 sitting down on the rug in the warm firelight, with the 
 room all to themselves ; for the new inmate had not yet 
 arrived, and Mary Carr had gone to her old quarters to pay 
 a visit to Kate M'Kenzie. 
 
 Ada had put out the gas ; but the fire was bright enough 
 to light all the room behind, with its white beds and
 
 86 TWO LITTLE FOLK S TALK. 
 
 curtained windows, as well as the two little figures sitting 
 together in front. They were a curious contrast, the two 
 children : Ada, delicate and liquid-eyed, with a foreign 
 grace of figure and motion which she had inherited from 
 her Italian mother ; and Gerty, the very type of a sturdy, 
 well-made Scotch girl, her short brown hair brushed straight 
 back from her healthy face, which was lighted up by a pair 
 of gray, intelligent eyes. 
 
 It was the very time to finish the confidential conversa- 
 tion that had been interrupted in the forenoon, but it was 
 not of holiday pleasures or holiday adventures Gerty spoke 
 first. 
 
 " Have you given up trying to be good, Ada, or are you 
 still going on]" 
 
 The answer came immediately, — " I am still trying ; and 
 some day I shall be quite good ! " 
 
 There was a glad ring of certainty in Ada's voice that 
 made Gerty wonder; and she paused a little before she 
 asked again, " And when Avill that be % " 
 
 " When I see Jesus," said Ada. 
 
 The answer was so unexpected by Gerty, who thought 
 Ada meant that she was going to put off her efforts to some 
 future time — perhaps till after the Christmas holidays — 
 that she was quite taken aback, and found nothing to say. 
 
 " I was very miserable after I went away," Ada went on, 
 " for I couldn't be good ; and I thought I would never go 
 to heaven, and see my little sister and the beautiful angels. 
 And one day, when I was at the sea-side walking with 
 nurse and baby, they sat down among the rocks, and I went 
 on, and on, and on. In the morning I had been reading 
 about people coming to Jesus at the sea-side — ever so many 
 of them. And the tide was going out, and there were 
 boats up on the shore. Oh ! I wished so much I could
 
 TWO LITTLE FOLK'S TALK.. S7 
 
 have seen the Lord in one of the boats, or walking about 
 on the sands, as they used to see him long ago. I thought 
 I would have told him that I had tried hard to be good, 
 and I couldn't possibly ; and then perhaps he would have 
 said, ' Your sins are forgiven, Ada ; I will help you to be 
 good.' And I wished it so much. But it was so stupid of 
 me not to see how it was, for all the time the Lord Jesiis 
 was quite near, and I was keeping him waiting ! And at 
 last it came into my mind all at once, that though I 
 couldn't see him, that didn't matter much, for he could see 
 me just as well. So I knelt down on the rocks where no 
 one else could see, and I told the Lord Jesus eveiything. 
 I told him that I was always doing wrong things, and Miss 
 Maria said I was a disgrace to the school, and that I had 
 opened Emily Gordon's desk to get her diary ; and I asked 
 him to forgive me, and take me to belong to his own self. 
 And I know he said ' Yes,' though I couldn't hear him." 
 
 " Then do you think you are a Christian 1 " said Gerty. 
 
 "Yes," said Ada, without the least hesitation. "The 
 Bible says Jesus never sends any one away when they 
 come — never casts them out, I think the verse says." 
 
 " And does it make you happy 1 " 
 
 " Oh yes ! Won't you come too, Gerty ? I would like 
 you to, so much; and I know the Lord Jesus wants you." 
 
 Ada's hair was on Gerty's shoulder, and she felt her 
 breath on her cheek ; but to Gerty it seemed as if a great 
 wall of separation had risen up between them. She sat 
 looking into the fire, and did not answer her friend a word. 
 Mary Carr came back presently ; and Gerty, saying she 
 was tired, went to bed immediately, and lay down with her 
 face to the wall. But she did not sleep for a long time. 
 Familiar as she was with the Bible, texts of Scripture were 
 not often in her mind : why was it that to-night one verse
 
 88 gerty's perplexity. 
 
 came back and back again. She did not remember having 
 read it lately ; she could not even have found the place 
 where it was: "And the first shall be last." "Well, Ada 
 had got her wish, but it was not Gerty's wish ; she would 
 rather it had not been Ada's wish either. Gerty had 
 wished for the prize, and she had got it ; but she had never 
 wished to be a Christian — at least not now. Some time, 
 of course, she meant to be one — when she grew up, likely. 
 Ada had got her wish, as Gerty had prayed that she might ; 
 had Gerty any right to wonder or be sorry that they two 
 were different now 1 " And the first shall be last — the 
 last shall be first." Then back again the old way, "The 
 first shall be last." So it went on like a chime.
 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE OTHER STILL HOLDING BACK. 
 
 |HE bedroom fire had long died out before Gertv 
 fell asleep, and she slept on heavily far into the 
 morning. When she at last opened her eyes, 
 Ada, already dressed, was chattering about the Crystal 
 Palace to Mary, who was coiling up her hair with rapid 
 fingers, while she listened with amused attention to the 
 little girl's story. It was quite time for Gerty to get up, 
 and go through her toilet operations as fast as possible. 
 She felt thoroughly cross and uncomfortable as she dressed 
 quickly ; and when she caught sight of her own grave face 
 in the glass, it occurred to her as strange that it was she, 
 not Ada, who was looking gloomy and dejected. The other 
 two tried to make her join in their conversation ; but when 
 she remained persistently silent and uninterested, they 
 came to the conclusion she was suffering from home-sick- 
 ness, and that it would be kindest to let her alone. 
 
 The school had not settled down into working order yet; 
 the girls had not all assembled, and only a few of the 
 masters attended that day ; so as there was little to be 
 done in the way of lessons, the younger girls were told 
 to get ready early to go out for a walk. They were all 
 dressed, and waiting in the schoolroom for Mademoiselle, 
 when Mrs. Martyn appeared, leading by the hand a little 
 girl of eight or nine years old, who was dressed, from Ler
 
 1)0 A NEW COMPANION. 
 
 feathered hat to her high-heeled boots, in the very extreme 
 of fashion. 
 
 " This is little Miss Allardyce, my dears, just come in 
 time to go out a walk with you. Ada and Gerty, she is 
 to sleep in your room, and I hope you'll be very kind to 
 her." 
 
 Mrs. Martyn went away, leaving the little girls alone to 
 make acquaintance with their new companion; and as little 
 girls generally do in such circumstances, they stared at her 
 for some time, and said nothing. She was rather a pretty 
 child, with one of those pink and white complexions that 
 remind one irresistibly of a wax doll ; and the resemblance 
 was heightened by her large, light-blue eyes, and a pro 
 fusion of flaxen hah', which was crimped in the most 
 elaborate manner. She did not seem in the least em- 
 barrassed by her new position, but returned her school- 
 fellows' stare very coolly, then took a survey of the room. 
 Her eyes wandered with evident disgust from the map-hung 
 walls and curtainless windows to the desks round the sidea 
 of the schoolroom, and the long table in the middle. 
 Finally, she examined a chair that was standing beside 
 her, certainly rather too straight-backed and hard to be 
 very comfortable, and her face put on a most doleful ex- 
 pression as she turned again to her companions. 
 
 " Such a nasty room ! " said she, screwing up her lips 
 with a curious expression of peevish discontent. 
 
 " Have you very nice rooms at home 1 " said Ada. " Tell 
 us where your home is, and what's your first name." 
 
 " My name is Miss May Allardyce, and my papa and 
 my mamma live in Moray Place. What's yours ? " 
 
 " My name is Miss Ada Godfrey, and my papa and my 
 mamma live in the Punjab," said Ada, in exactly the same 
 tone.
 
 / 
 
 PROVING DISAGREEABLE. 91 
 
 Miss May Allardyce seemed to meditate whether the 
 Punjab might be an aristocratic locality or not; but seeing 
 the other girls laugh, she apparently came to the conclusion 
 she was being hoaxed in some way. 
 
 " I don't believe it," she said, in a determined tone. 
 
 She was in no way abashed by the shout of laughter her 
 remark was received with ; and when Mademoiselle ap- 
 peared immediately afterwards, with her "Allons, mes 
 enfants," May was no more impressed by the governess 
 than she had been by the pupils. 
 
 " Who is that funny little woman ? " she asked aloud. 
 " What is she here for 1 Why does she speak that way 1 " 
 
 Gerty made up her mind, as the day went on, that May 
 Allardyce would be anything but an agreeable addition to 
 their bedroom society ; even Janie Leslie she thought less 
 objectionable. For May, who had been a spoilt child at 
 home, was always accustomed to have her own way ; and 
 now, on her first arrival at school, she contrived to make 
 herself disagreeable both to teachers and pupils. Before 
 the girls had walked far, she declared she was tired and 
 wanted to go home; and at last won the victory over 
 Mademoiselle by beginning to weep and wail loudly. As 
 it was a lovely day, the others were by no means willing 
 to return, and the girls were as indignant at the trouble- 
 some little new-comer as the governess herself could be. 
 And when at last May met her match, and was snubbed 
 by Miss Maria as no new girl had ever been snubbed be- 
 fore, all her companions were ready to chuckle over her 
 discomfiture. At dinner May was making grimaces over 
 her food, and would have left the most of it on her plate, 
 when Miss Maria coolly and quietly informed her, that if 
 she did not eat what she asked for at dinner, it would re- 
 appear at tea, to be finished before she got anything else.
 
 92 " A SWEET LITTLE CREATURE." 
 
 May's teai*s came immediately, but Miss Maria showed no 
 signs of relenting ; so she thought it best to submit to her 
 fate, and finish her dinner. In the schoolroom she whined 
 over the easy lessons that were given her, and argued with 
 Mademoiselle till that little lady's patience was quite 
 exhausted, and she gave vent to her feelings in forcible 
 French, which, though unintelligible to May, delighted the 
 other girls extremely. But May, as a playmate, turned 
 out to be the most disagreeable of all. And when she was 
 at last turned out of her companions' games, because she 
 persisted in playing unfairly in spite of warning and re- 
 monstrance, she first cried, and then drying her tears, she 
 occupied herself in most successful attempts to spoil the 
 fun for the others. 
 
 Mary Carr declared loudly that she would have nothing 
 to do with such a peevish, disagreeable child ; and her 
 feelings to May were not more affectionate after she heard 
 the little girl's opinion of her room companions. 
 
 " Miss Maria says there is a nice girl to sleep in the room 
 with me," said May, after they had retired for the night. 
 " She said that to mamma, and I want to know which 
 it is." 
 
 " Which do you think 1 " asked Gerty. But if she had 
 hoped for a compliment she was entirely disappointed, for 
 Miss May, looking round on the three, turned up her 
 small nose, and observed, " I don't think any of you is 
 nice girls ! " 
 
 Miss Carr remarked that May was certainly a sweet little 
 creature; while Gerty felt veiy much irritated, though she 
 tried to join in Ada's laughter. May went on presently, — 
 
 " Have you got to undress in the same room you go to 
 bed in 1 That's very nasty. At home we've a day nursery, 
 and a night nursery, and beds with curtains. I don't like
 
 QUESTIONABLE CONDUCT. 93 
 
 this at all. And Brown always undresses me. Oh ! I 
 want Brown ! " 
 
 " You must be your own nurse now," said Mary firmly. 
 She gave the child no assistance at all in undressing, saying 
 it was well she should learn to be independent ; a remark 
 which Gerty loudly applauded, forgetting how acceptable 
 the elder girls' help had been to herself and Ada only the 
 day before. May managed at last to get off her clothes, 
 and went into bed leaving them all on a heap on the floor. 
 She had continued to complain fretfully all the time she 
 was tugging at her strings and buttons, so that it was a 
 great relief to her companions when she fell sound asleep 
 as soon as her head touched the pillow. 
 
 "When Gerty and Ada brought their Bibles and sat down 
 on the rug to read, Mary Carr came and offered to join 
 them. But though she was very attentive and very 
 reverent as she read of the Saviour who went about 
 continually doing good, it never once occurred to her that, 
 in refusing her help to the child who needed it, she had 
 missed an opportunity of imitating him. She was willing 
 to take a great deal of trouble for the sake of Gerty and 
 Ada, whom she liked, but she considered herself quite justi- 
 fied in neglecting the little stranger who was so spoilt and 
 peevish. Before Gerty got into bed she went to look at 
 May, and found her lying with her necklace still round her 
 throat, and the ribbon that tied back her hair twisted hope- 
 lessly into the crisp waves that had been so carefully 
 arranged in the morning. But Gerty only congratulated 
 herself and her friends on the apparent soundness of May's 
 slumbers, and went contentedly to bed under the impression 
 that, for that night at least, they would have no more 
 trouble with hei\ 
 
 Gerty was dreaming a pleasant dream about being with
 
 94 A " BEAST " IN MAY'S BED. 
 
 her brothers in the garden at Burnside, when there came a 
 scream so loud and shrill that she wakened up immediately, 
 cold with terror, and trembling from head to foot. But 
 the shriek had been uttered by no ghostly voice audible to 
 Gerty alone, for it gradually died away into low sobs and 
 cries which were evidently coming from May's bed, and 
 Miss Carr was sitting up asking in alarm what was the 
 matter. May's reply, given in the midst of her wailing, 
 could not be understood at first ; and it was some time 
 before Gerty found out that there was a beast — a horrible 
 beast — in the room, and that it had taken hold of May's 
 foot. 
 
 " She's a beast herself ! " said Gei-ty indignantly, turning 
 round in bed and drawing the clothes tight about her. It 
 was not a nice thing for Gerty to say, but it must be 
 remembered she had been wakened with a stai*t from a 
 very pleasant sleep ; and sleep is precious to girls who 
 have to rise at half-past six in the morning. 
 
 " You've been dreaming, child," said Mary contemp- 
 tuously. " Go to sleep again ; or at least be quiet, and 
 let other people sleep." And she too lay down again. 
 But May would not be comforted. "I can't lie down. 
 It's there ! I felt it at my foot. clear ! dear ! O 
 dear ! " 
 
 She fell a-crying with fresh vigour when she saw that no 
 one intended to come to her assistance, and the others were 
 fairly roused. 
 
 " Will you be quiet if I light the gas and show you 
 there's no beast here?" said Mary at last. "Oh ! thank you, 
 Ada! you are a good child," she added, with some com- 
 punction in her tone, as Ada made a sudden jump over 
 the end of her bed and put a match to the gas. The light 
 revealed May sitting up on her pillow afraid to move, her
 
 WHAT IT PROVED TO BE. 95 
 
 eyes round with fright, and her poor little face all red and 
 swollen with crying. 
 
 " There is nothing here but Miss Carr and Gerty and 
 me," said Ada; "don't you see, May 1 ? There is nothing 
 else here at all." 
 
 May seemed to take courage, now she was no longer in 
 the dark, for she stopped crying, and began slowly and 
 cautiously slipping under the blankets again. But presently 
 she uttered another yell even louder than the first; and 
 this time she jumped fairly out of bed, screaming that the 
 beast was there, — she had felt it sting her again. And 
 when Ada pulled off all the blankets, she discovered a 
 collection of holly branches ; but as the stock had apparently 
 been too small to satisfy the malice of those who had put it 
 there, a large addition had been made in the way of brushes 
 and combs, so that the whole of the bottom of May's bed 
 was one mass of prickles. Poor child ! she had curled her- 
 self up at first so that she had not touched it; but moving 
 in her sleep, she had felt, as she thought, a huge monster of 
 the hedgehog species lying at her feet. Gerty had been 
 sitting up in her bed watching; and now Ada's revelations 
 turned her ill-humour into merriment, and the two shouted 
 with laughter till Mary actually began to fear that Miss 
 Maria's august slumbers in the story above might be dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 "Look, May!" said Ada, when she found voice at last, 
 " it's only some holly and brushes the girls have put there 
 to tease you. But I'm going to take your beast all away 
 and put it in my locked-up drawer, where it will never get 
 you any more. Some people will need to do without brush- 
 ing their hair in the morning ! And I think I know who ; 
 don't you, Gerty 1" 
 
 Gerty too thought she recognized the brushes, and was
 
 96 WILLING SERVICE. 
 
 content that Ada should turn the tables on May's tor- 
 mentors, by locking up their property safely in her private 
 drawer. May had been sitting on the floor, staring in 
 astonishment at the dismemberment of her beast, and it 
 was not till Ada had swept everything out of sight that 
 she found voice to say, " Oh ! what nasty girls ! " But she 
 had not a word of gratitude for Ada ; and when she went 
 back to bed only complained that she was cold — she had 
 not blankets enough. Now that the fun of the affair was 
 past, sleep had overcome Gerty again, but she was dimly 
 conscious of Ada making journey after journey to the ward- 
 robe to bring garments to cover May ; and she could hear 
 her cheery voice asking many times, " Are you warm now 1 ?" 
 before there came a sleepy grunt of assent. She thought 
 afterwards that Ada at least must have been cold before 
 she went back to bed, for when Gerty woke in the morning 
 she saw May lying under a heap of shawls, jackets, water- 
 proofs, and even dresses; the whole contents of the ward- 
 robe seemed to have been pulled out for her benefit. 
 
 It was a great triumph to Gerty and Ada when Janie 
 Leslie, Ellen Murray, and Molly Smith, were at last 
 obliged to come humbly and beg the restoration of their 
 property. They put it off as long as they could, and made 
 various unsuccessful expeditions to search for their things 
 in private ; but Ada's little drawer, generally open and 
 now so carefully locked, told its own tale. So after tea 
 the whole thi'ee came to Ada, looking rather sheepish ; and 
 Ellen Murray began, — 
 
 " I say, Ada ! give us our brushes, will you 1 I know 
 you have them ! " 
 
 Ada was seated on the schoolroom table when her 
 petitioners appeared, and she surveyed them silently for a 
 minute with dancing eyes.
 
 NURSE AND PROTECTOR. 97 
 
 " Promise, then 3 that you'll play no more tricks on May 
 Allardyce !" 
 
 Janie Leslie would have given in immediately, for she 
 had a great horror of getting into trouble ; besides finding 
 it veiy inconvenient to do without her brushes. The idea 
 had been Ellen Murray's, not hers ; and she would pro- 
 bably have refused to lend her things for the occasion, had 
 not May made some unfavourable remarks about her per- 
 sonal appearance which Janie could neither forget nor for- 
 give. But Ellen and Molly had already formed another 
 plot to frighten May, by pouring water on her face while 
 she was asleep ; so they both promptly and vehemently 
 refused to give any promise not to torment her in future. 
 
 But Ada knew her advantage, and kept it. " As you 
 please," said she coolly. " Your things are not in my way 
 — not in the very least ! I can take charge of them for 
 altogether, if you like. " 
 
 " Give us back our things, Ada, immediately; or we'll go 
 and tell Miss Maria you're keeping them," said Ellen in a 
 bullying tone. 
 
 " Oh ! please do ! Then Miss Maria will ask where I got 
 them." 
 
 They tried coaxing after that, but all in vain; and finally 
 the whole three were obliged to give the required pledge — 
 to the great amusement of the other girls, who were almost 
 all collected in the large schoolroom for the evening romp. 
 
 From that time Ada constituted herself nurse and pro- 
 tector to May Allardyce. And Mary Carr stood aside and 
 looked on with some shame and a good deal of wonder; 
 but May never asked her for help after the first night. It 
 was Ada who managed her buttons, and combed her hair, 
 and tucked her up in bed. It was Ada too who ordered 
 her about, and scolded her when she got into mischief, in 
 
 (584) 7
 
 98 " ADA'S BABY." 
 
 an imperious way which was all her own, and which gene- 
 rally reduced May to obedience. And the other girls, see- 
 ing with what spirit Ada had taken up the defence of her 
 charge, thought it wisest and best to let the child alone. 
 They regarded the alliance between them as a capital joke, 
 and nicknamed May " Ada's baby," — a name which stuck to 
 her so well, that Ada was soon the only one in the school 
 who called her May. It cannot be said that the spoilt 
 child showed much gratitude to her friend ; but she got 
 into the habit of carrying all her difficulties and all her 
 complaints to Ada, who would listen and pronounce judg- 
 ment with amusing gravity.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 HANDS CLASPED AND TOGETHER AGAIN. 
 
 jjERTY was strangely restless and uncomfortable 
 during these autumn days, after she first went back 
 to school. Somehow her lessons seemed to have 
 lost their charm ; even the pleasure of doing better than 
 Ellen Murray was not so keen, now that prizes lay in the 
 far distance, nearly ten months before her. The evening 
 games too were surely not so amusing as they had once 
 been, though the other girls seemed to find them as pleasant 
 as ever. And as for the needlework and improving read- 
 ing that came afterwards, that hour was even more tire- 
 some than it used to be. Gerty began to wonder if she too 
 was changed as well as Ada. 
 
 For though Ada had not grown like Emily Gordon, she 
 was certainly changed. It is true that Miss Maria still 
 observed with displeasure that it seemed impossible for her 
 to keep still, — that she preferred sitting on tables to sitting 
 on chairs, — and that she went dancing about instead of 
 walking in a sober and lady-like manner. And once, when 
 she caught her sliding down the balusters, she not only 
 gave her twenty lines to learn, but remarked grimly and 
 sadly that it was a painful thing she was always the same. 
 But the girls who were constantly with Ada, and especially 
 Gerty, who watched her most closely, knew that there was 
 a difference. It was not shown only in her kindness to
 
 100 SOME STRANGE THINGS. 
 
 May Allardyce; for, indeed, Ada had always been generous 
 and warm-hearted, and ready to take the weaker side. 
 But now, though she was as merry a playmate as ever. 
 Gerty and the others noticed that, after fighting hard to get 
 her own wilful way in something, she would often, as if a 
 thought had struck her, give in all at once — even sometimes 
 when she was just winning the victory. And though she 
 still made her companions laugh with her comic songs, she 
 played them no more in her hours for practising. She took 
 to singing hymns, too, though it must be confessed almost 
 always those with lively tunes — " Mothers of Salem" being 
 her special favourite. But the strangest thing of all was — 
 she began to learn her lessons. She was not altogether 
 successful in her attempts ; for it was hard for her to keep 
 quiet long enough to do her work tolerably well, and she 
 was often overcome by the temptation to guess passages in 
 her French translation instead of patiently seeking out the 
 words in a dictionary, or to read the interesting stories in 
 her history rather than study the part where her lesson 
 was. Yet she did not give up trying ; and though she 
 never became Gerty's rival in her classes, it grew to be a 
 very uncommon thing for her to sit lowest. 
 
 And Gerty, watching Ada, knew that she was trying to 
 be good for Jesus' sake, and that some day she would be 
 quite good, for then she would see Jesus. 
 
 In those days the two little friends were not so much 
 together as they had once been, for Gerty rather avoided 
 being: alone with Ada. She was afraid she would come 
 back again with that question she had left unanswered 
 once ; and yet as days went on, and Ada made no other 
 appeal to her, she was sorry. Then when Ada found that 
 Mary was willing to talk over their nightly reading, it was 
 to her that she took her questions and difficulties, amusing
 
 GERTY AND HER DOINGS. 101 
 
 her sometimes with her curious remarks about the Bible 
 characters, who were wonderfully real people to Ada. 
 And Gerty would listen in silence, with her face turned 
 away, feeling as if she were shut out. 
 
 Once in one of her miserable fits she wandered to her 
 room after tea, and took up her Bible. She turned over 
 the leaves listlessly to the beginning, where her name was 
 written, — " Gertrude M. Stuart. With her mother's love." 
 And underneath was the text Mrs. Stuart had chosen for 
 her little daughter: Jer. iii. 4 ("My Father, thou art the 
 guide of my youth"). Gerty had learned the words when 
 she was at home ; there was no use of looking up the place 
 where they were ; but now they came to her like a message 
 from her mother, another voice even dearer than Ada's, 
 urging her to give herself to God. Great tears came into 
 her eyes as she bent over the Bible and put her lips to the 
 page. But just then Mary Carr and Kate M'Kenzie came 
 hastily into the room, and Gerty 's only thought was a fear 
 lest they should find out what she had been doing. She 
 hastily covered her Bible with her apron, and began talk- 
 ing as fast as she could. But if she had only known it, 
 the elder girls were far too much interested in Mary's 
 album, which they had come for, to take any notice of 
 Gerty or her doings. They only thought her sudden out- 
 burst of talk was rather annoying, and were glad when she 
 at last ran off to the schoolroom, having succeeded in put- 
 ting her Bible away without being seen. But after that 
 evening Gerty was more miserable than ever, for she felt 
 as if she had turned away from her mother as she had done 
 from Ada when she spoke to her in the firelight. 
 
 So the days and weeks passed on, and nothing eventful 
 happened till one Saturday morning which was long re- 
 membered with delight by Miss Martyn's pupils. The
 
 102 A MEMORABLE VISIT. 
 
 girls had, most of them, collected in the large schoolroom 
 just after breakfast, and were standing about in knots, 
 enjoying the pleasure of doing nothing but talk. One or 
 two very industrious ones had already taken their needle- 
 work; and Gerty was in the midst of her weekly letter 
 home, — a task which had always been disagreeable to her 
 since she knew that it passed under Miss Maria's eyes first 
 of all. Ada was busily engaged in placing a row of chairs 
 on the floor with their backs upwards; taking a great deal 
 of trouble in arranging them at equal distances from each 
 other, doubtless for some purpose of her own as yet unex- 
 plained. But every one made a stop when the door opened 
 and Miss Maria entered the room. It was not her custom 
 to come to the schoolroom on Saturday mornings, when 
 she generally left her pupils to their own devices ; so her 
 appearance was totally unexpected, and created a good deal 
 of alarm. It was impossible to find out from Miss Maria's 
 face whether she was angry or not, but the general opinion 
 was that her unusual visit boded no good. As was natural, 
 the first thing that caught her eye was Ada and her opera- 
 tions, and she asked immediately what she was doing. 
 
 " We're going to have a hurdle-race, and jump over 
 these chairs, with little runs between," was the explanation 
 she got. 
 
 " Certainly not ! I positively fox-bid you risking your 
 limbs by doing any such thing. Surely you can find some 
 more lady-like and less dangerous game to play. If not, 
 don't play at all." 
 
 Miss Maria had been startled into such unusual vehem- 
 ence of manner that Ada was qiiite taken aback, and began 
 picking up the chairs as fast as she could. But Miss Maria 
 recovered herself in a moment, and speaking with her usual 
 dignity to Janie Leslie, she desired her to fetch the girls
 
 miss maria's speech. 103 
 
 who were not in the room. It was quite evident there was 
 a speech to be made, and the whole party were in a state 
 of great excitement. 
 
 " Young ladies ! my mother and sister think, as well as 
 myself, that it would be advisable to alter, at least in part, 
 one of the rules of the school — a rule which has, I believe, 
 been very unpleasant to you. In future I shall not read 
 and correct your home letters. You may close them your- 
 selves, and they will be posted — unopened. Other letters, 
 however, will be examined as before. And I rely on your 
 honour, young ladies, that your letters to your parents 
 will be as carefully written and composed, and as correctly 
 spelled, as when they had to pass under my eyes." 
 
 Such was Miss Maria's speech ; and never was speech 
 heard with more admiration and delight. Even Emily 
 Gordon's face was shining. And when Miss Maria, having 
 said her say, departed as suddenly as she had come, there 
 was a great outburst of joy at the good news. Ada called 
 for three cheers for Miss Maria, and would have red them 
 olf triumphantly, had not Mary Carr put her hand over 
 her mouth. " Do you want twenty lines, you foolish, noisy 
 cat 1 ?" The cheering was restrained, but there was plenty 
 of noise in the schoolroom for some minutes, as the girls 
 all talked at once, and as loud as they could. Most of 
 them were inclined to think that Miss Maria had yielded 
 unwillingly to the representations of others ; Ellen Murray 
 declared that the growing discontent of the girls had 
 alarmed her ; some thought that the remonstrances of 
 parents might have had some effect ; others were inclined 
 to give the credit of the new arrangement to Mrs. Martyn. 
 Mary Carr was at the head of a small minority who thought 
 that gratitude was certainly due to Miss Maria herself. 
 
 " I think that Miss Maria saw that the rule was not
 
 104 THE UNFINISHED KETTLE-QUILT. 
 
 working well, and so she had the courage to give in that 
 she was wrong, and change it. I always believed in Miss 
 Maria, but now I believe in her more than ever!" Miss 
 Carr delivered her opinion with such a firm conviction 
 that her opinion was decisive that the girls were a good 
 deal impressed, and most of them were quite inclined to 
 think with her that if Miss Carr approved of Miss Maria, 
 therefore Miss Maria had done well. 
 
 " I'll make her a pincushion for a Christmas present," 
 said Ada. 
 
 Kate M'Kenzie laughed. " There is only one thing in 
 the wide world Ada has been known to make, and that is 
 — pincushions. And she doesn't make them either, for 
 Mary makes them up for her, always. Do a pincushion 
 for the bazaar, Pussy. That will be better." 
 
 " There are plenty of people to work for the bazaar with- 
 out me," said Ada, making a face. 
 
 " I wish / could work for the bazaar," said Gerty regret- 
 fully. " I can make cardboard needlebooks ; I'm sure they 
 would be very nice things ! But Miss Maria says I'm not 
 to do anything else till I've finished that hideous kettle- 
 quilt of mine." 
 
 " I don't wonder. You have been at that kettle-quilt 
 ever since you came to school. We're all sick of the very 
 sight of it; and so is Miss Maria, I should think. If I 
 were you, Gerty, I would woi'k at it to-day and get it done, 
 for there surely isn't much to finish now." 
 
 " I'm sure Tm sick of the sight of it, whatever you are, 
 Miss M'Kenzie ! And I won't have time to finish it just 
 now, for I'm going out to spend the day." 
 
 All the girls had turned to their letter-writing now, and 
 were scribbling away with a rapidity that showed that Miss 
 Maria's appeal to their honour had not made much impres-
 
 A FIT OF ILL-HUMOUR. 105 
 
 sion. Gerty began anew with great spirit, and filled nearly 
 six pages with anecdotes and remarks which would certainly 
 not have been written in a letter which Miss Maria was to 
 see. Then she made a pause, and sat thinking for a while 
 before she wrote : " Mamma ! I have been thinking a great 
 deal about things lately. I read the text you wrote in my 
 Bible over again. I wish I was a better girl, sometimes. 
 Ada is now." She stopped again, and read it over; then 
 her pride and reserve overcame her, and she crushed the 
 letter into a ball and tossed it into the fire. She returned 
 to the note she had cast aside, after Miss Maria's visit, as 
 being too stiff and uninteresting, finished and folded it 
 quickly, then fetched her despised kettle-quilt and sat down 
 to work at the window. 
 
 But it seemed to Gerty as if the brightness of the morn- 
 ing had all gone; even the thought of writing letters which 
 would only be read by the dear ones at home was scarcely 
 a pleasure at all. And everything seemed bent on going 
 wrong ; for Gerty's wool got entangled, her needle dropped 
 on the floor, and the piece of white canvas which still 
 remained uncovered seemed to grow larger instead of 
 smaller. She worked on for about half an hour, her ill- 
 humour gathering silently; then her patience gave way all 
 at once. " I won't put another stitch in that abominable 
 piece of ugliness !" said she, suddenly flinging kettle-quilt, 
 wool, and thimble to the utmost corner of the room. 
 
 Unfortunately for Gerty, girls at school have not often 
 the opportunity of letting their fits of ill-humour wear off 
 in solitude. When she ran off to her own room she found 
 May there, waiting for her mother to take her out a drive; 
 and Ada, who had probably come to look after her baby, 
 was sitting on the floor reading a story-book. Gerty began 
 to put on her walking things with a face so sulky, that it
 
 106 AN INDIGNANT LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 would have deterred most people from speaking to her, 
 but May began immediately, — 
 
 " How ugly you're looking, Gerty ! I hope you won't 
 look so ugly at my party. Do you know I'm going to have 
 a party, and you're all to be asked 1 ?" 
 
 " I'm sure I don't care!" 
 
 " I am going to wear a pink silk at my party, with 
 flounces. You haven't got a pink silk dress, have you, 
 Gerty?" 
 
 " No ; and I don't want one, that's more." 
 
 " Nurse says I look very pretty in my pink silk !" 
 
 " I'm sure you don't." 
 
 " But I do, you nasty girl ! I do look very nice ! 
 You never saw me with my pink silk, so you don't 
 know ! " 
 
 "You'd look exactly like a penny doll — that's what 
 you'd look like." 
 
 Words' were too weak to express May's indignation now. 
 She seized a book, and flung it at Gerty with all her might ; 
 then flew at her, to follow up the attack with tooth and 
 nail. But quick as she was, Ada was quicker; and before 
 the angry, weeping May had time to struggle against her 
 fate, she found herself pushed into the large old-fashioned 
 wardrobe, and the door shut upon her. Then Ada turned 
 round upon Gerty, who was standing red and angry, the 
 first volume of the " Fairchild Family" at her feet. May's 
 missile had hit her pretty sharply on the arm, and the pain 
 had naturally not improved her temper. 
 
 " It was your blame, Gerty, quite as much as May's ! 
 You were very wrong to tease her so." 
 
 Ada's tone was certainly imperious, and Gerty's angei 
 blazed forth immediately. 
 
 " You have no right to speak to me that way ! How
 
 NOT TO BE AMUSED. 107 
 
 dare you do it 1 Scold your baby, if she's fool enough to 
 stand it from you; but not me, if you please." 
 
 Ada gazed in blank dismay at Gerty as she stammered 
 out her passionate words, but she did not even try to 
 answer her. And Gerty snatched up her muff and walked 
 out of the room, slamming the door after her. 
 
 But when she was alone in the cab driving away from 
 Miss Martyn's, a fit of remorse came over her, and she 
 flung herself into a corner and began to cry and sob. " I've 
 done it ! I've done it now!" she kept repeating, thinking 
 that Ada's friendship was lost for ever, and it was all her 
 own fault. 
 
 The kind old maiden ladies who had invited Gerty to 
 spend the afternoon, were distressed to see the child arrive 
 with eyes all red and swollen with weeping. They began 
 to fear that Mrs. Stuart's little girl was not well treated at 
 school, and tried hard to give her at least one happy day; 
 but they were sorely perplexed when all their efforts to 
 amuse her seemed to fail, and she insisted on returning to 
 Miss Martyn's very early in the evening. 
 
 It was not a long way from the Miss Campbells' house 
 to the terrace where Miss Martyn lived, but it seemed 
 endless to Gerty that night. And when at last the drive 
 did come to an end — as all drives do, sooner or later — 
 Gerty made an eager rush into the house and upstairs, 
 straight to her own room. 
 
 "Where's everybody V she asked, meeting Mary Carr 
 at the door, and not liking to mention Ada, though it was 
 her she wanted. 
 
 " Mademoiselle is reading an interesting story for once, 
 and we're all in the drawing-room. I've just come for my 
 scissors. You had better get your work and come along 
 as fast as you can."
 
 108 A SURPRISE FOR GERTY. 
 
 Mary hurried off; and Gerty, bitterly disappointed that 
 she could not speak to Ada, had nothing for it but get her 
 work-box and follow her to the drawing-room. The girls 
 wei-e sitting round the table, most of them busy at needle- 
 work, for the prospect of the bazaar had made them un- 
 usually industrious. Ada was not working, but sitting 
 leaning on the end of the sofa, her head pillowed on her 
 arm, and her hair falling over her face so that it was im- 
 possible to see it. She did not move or look up, though 
 she must have known when Gerty entered, for Mademoi- 
 selle stopped her reading to express her surprise that she 
 had returned so soon. Gerty felt bitterly that Ada took 
 no notice of her; it was evident, then, that she did not 
 wish to " make friends" again. Trying hard to gulp down 
 her tears, she bent low over her work-box that the others 
 might not see her distress, and began pulling about the 
 contents with trembling fingers. It was some time before 
 it struck her as strange that her kettle-quilt should be 
 there — the kettle-quilt she had thrown away in such dis- 
 dain in the morning, vowing she would never touch it 
 again. 
 
 Well, if Ada had given her up, the world would be 
 dreary to Gerty henceforth — grounding one kettle-quilt 
 more or less would make little difference. She might as 
 well work as not; play would never be pleasant to her any 
 more. So she took out the quilt, wondering a little who 
 had rolled it up and put it away so neatly; but she stared 
 in blank amazement when it was opened out at last. For 
 the weary waste of canvas was all covered now ; the work 
 she had calculated would still take her several hours to do 
 was finished, every stitch. 
 
 The reading went on till nine o'clock, but Gerty was not 
 listening to the story which seemed so interesting to the
 
 STRANGE CONDUCT. 109 
 
 others. She sat very still, almost behind Mademoiselle, 
 and never lifted her eyes from the kettle-quilt spread out 
 on her lap, — to the great disappointment of May, who sat 
 opposite, making faces at her which Gerty would not look 
 up to see. But after prayers were over, Gerty was among 
 the first to bid Miss Maria good-night ; then she hurried 
 out into the passage to wait for Ada. "When she came out 
 of the drawing-room, she made a spi'ing to her, and with- 
 out saying a word began to pull her in the opposite direc- 
 tion from their bedroom. Ada started and turned rather 
 pale, for she was not sure of Gerty's intentions; but she 
 made no resistance, not even when she found herself being 
 led into the room where Gerty had once been confined. 
 When the door was shut, Gerty for the first time let go 
 her hold of Ada's arm, and the two little girls stood face 
 to face in the dark. 
 
 " What made you do my work, when you hate work- 
 ing'?" asked Gerty hoarsely. 
 
 " Because I'm very sorry, and I wanted to do something 
 to make you believe it!" said Ada, with a piteous tremble 
 in her voice; for she was afraid her attempt had been a 
 failure, and Gerty was still angry. 
 
 " You sorry ! you sorry ! What have you to be sorry 
 for 1 It's me that's a beast — a wretch — a — " But what 
 else Gerty was going to call herself was never known, for 
 she suddenly broke down and burst out crying. Ada had 
 her arms round her neck immediately, and her cheek 
 against hers, but Gerty disengaged herself. There was 
 something she must say, and the time was short. Miss 
 Carr or May Allardyce might come to look for them — per- 
 haps even Miss Maria herself. So Gerty struggled hard 
 f-o keep down her sobs aud steady her voice. 
 
 •' I have been thinking of things for a great many weeks,
 
 1 10 RECONCILED. 
 
 Ada. But I've been very wicked and hard-hearted. I 
 didn't want to think of them — but now — Ada!" — Gerty 
 made a stop, and her weeping got the mastery again. 
 " Ada ! I want to be a Christian ; only it seems too good 
 and too happy that I should ever get to heaven ! " 
 
 Ada put her hand into Gerty's, and clasped it as she 
 had done the first evening they ever met. 
 
 "We will go to heaven together, Gerty! Jesus Christ 
 will take us there!"
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 COMING CLOSE TO ANOTHER TRAVELLER. 
 
 T was Sunday forenoon, and a raw, cold day; the 
 heavy gray clouds hanging overhead as if they 
 were uncertain whether to descend in snow or 
 rain. Gerty was sitting at the drawing-room window look- 
 ing out on the deserted street, where there was not a per- 
 son to be seen; for the church-bells had stopped ringing 
 some time ago, and no one thought of going out for a walk 
 in such dreary weather. Gerty had come down in the 
 morning so pale and heavy-eyed that kind Mrs. Martyn 
 was anxious; and when the little girl was obliged to con- 
 fess to a headache, she told her that she must spend the 
 day in the house. In vain Gerty protested that she was 
 quite well ; Mrs. Martyn was inflexible when she thought 
 the girls' health was concerned, and Gerty could not ex- 
 plain that her last night's crying fit was the only reason 
 why her head ached and her eyes were heavy. So it came 
 to pass that, instead of joining the procession of girls in 
 their Sunday dresses, Gerty sat at the window and watched 
 them as they passed up the terrace on their way to chui'ch, 
 walking two and two, with Miss Maria and Mrs. Martyn 
 last of all. 
 
 Gerty was not left all alone, however, for it had been 
 decided that the day was too cold for Ada to go out; a 
 sentence which would have given her friend entire satisfac-
 
 112 AN ASTONISHING REQUEST. 
 
 tion, if it had not been pronounced on Emily Gordon also. 
 For Gerty was never at her ease when Emily was with 
 her. It is true that she had made up her mind that Emily 
 was an excellent girl, but she still disliked and despised 
 her doleful ways ; besides, her presence always brought 
 back the sad and shameful recollection of her own fault, 
 and its disgrace. 
 
 Emily was sitting now on a low arm-chair drawn in 
 front of the fire, her hands listlessly crossed in her lap, and 
 her eyes gazing into the fire with a patient, troubled look 
 that irritated Gerty. So she had gone to sit at the win- 
 dow and look out on the dismal street, turning her head 
 away from the cosy room and the bright fire. She had 
 turned away from Ada too ; for how could the little friends 
 have any pleasant talk while Emily was in the room < 
 Ada did not seem to wish to talk either, for she was lying 
 on the rug intent on one of the Old Testament histories, 
 and Gerty had been sitting solitary at the window for 
 some time before she spoke at all. But, as usual, Ada 
 was the first to break the silence, and this time by a most 
 astonishing request. 
 
 " Will you tell me a story, please, Emily 1" 
 
 When Gerty turned round in astonishment, she saw that 
 Ada had put away her Bible, and was sitting on the floor 
 at Emily's feet. But surely, if she had looked up in the 
 face of the girl beside her, Ada would never have spoken 
 to her then, for tears were rolling slowly down Emily's 
 cheeks, and falling in great drops on her hands. She 
 wiped them away hastily when Ada spoke, and looked 
 down at her with a pitiful attempt at a smile. 
 
 " I'm afraid I don't know any stories that would interest 
 you, Ada." 
 
 "Oil yes; you do! Tell me about your home."
 
 A HOME-PICTURE. 113 
 
 " My home is in Perthshire, Ada — in a very beautiful 
 part of the country." 
 
 " But tell me about it, and make it into a story." 
 
 Ada turned round to Emily now, and sat looking up at 
 her in expectation. And, to Gerty's astonishment, Emily 
 humoured her fancy, and, after a moment's pause, began in 
 a voice as clear and steady as usual. 
 
 " If you were to come to see me at Laverock Hall, Ada, 
 you would have to leave the train at a little country sta- 
 tion, and drive nearly seven miles along roads where you 
 would scarcely meet any one, through woods and moors 
 almost all the way. And then you would come to a long 
 avenue of beeches — great trees whose branches meet and 
 make an arch overhead. So at last you would come to 
 my home. I'm afraid you would think it rather an ugly 
 house, for it's quite plain in front, with no turrets or odd- 
 shaped windows; and the trees are so tall, and come so 
 close, that it makes it rather dark. But when you came 
 inside you would change your mind; for from the drawing- 
 room window you would see that the house stands just 
 above the liver, which winds along for miles between the 
 loveliest banks of trees. From mamma's room window, 
 above the drawing-room, there is a better view of the hills 
 far away, but I like nothing so well as the river and the 
 woods. I don't know whether they are most beautiful in 
 spring or in autumn, these banks of trees sloping down to 
 the water; I wish I could describe them to you, Ada!" 
 
 " That's the way," said Ada approvingly. " It must be 
 a very nice place. Tell me more." 
 
 " The front part of the house is new," said Emily, going 
 on. " At least, it was built by papa's father; but the old 
 house behind is scarcely habitable now. There is a secret 
 chamber in it, Ada, where one of the Gordons, who had 
 
 (584) 8
 
 114 AN INTERESTING STORY. 
 
 fought at Culloden for Prince Charles Edward, was hidden 
 for a month before he could escape to France. Soldiers 
 came once to search the house, and they counted all the 
 windows outside first to make sure of searching every 
 room; but this little closet has no window at all, so they 
 did not find it out. A press used to stand in front and 
 hide the entrance, but it has been taken away long ago; 
 and I would take you inside, Ada — that is to say, if you 
 were not afraid of the damp, dark place, as my little sister 
 Blanche is." 
 
 " I shouldn't be the least afraid. I should like to go in. 
 But, Emily, have you got a little sister 1 How old is she ; 
 and what is she like 1 " 
 
 " I have got three sisters — Minnie, and Edith, and 
 Blanche — all younger than I am." 
 
 Gerty began to find this interesting ; besides, it was 
 rather cold at the window, so she too came and sat down 
 on the rug at Emily's feet. And Emily, looking with 
 wistful eyes down into the fire, and never once turning to 
 the listening children by her side, began to describe the 
 inhabitants of the dear old house by the Perthshire river. 
 She told of the gentle, delicate little girls, who played in 
 the old-fashioned rooms, and hunted for wild flowers under 
 the great beech-trees, till Gerty fancied she could see the 
 little creatures with their pale faces and quaint dress — 
 imagining them all copies of Emily in different sizes. Then 
 there was the governess, Miss Butler, who was not at all 
 like Miss Maria, Emily said, in answer to a question of 
 Ada's. She was rather old, and wore spectacles, but she 
 was very kind and good in spite of that, and her pupils 
 had loved her dearly for many years; for she had first 
 come to Laverock Hall when Edith was a baby, and Emily 
 only five years old. Miss Butler had never been known
 
 HAPPY HOME-SUNDAYS. 115 
 
 to give a punishment lesson ; indeed, sue gave very few 
 lessons to learn at all, for Mrs. Gordon was very careful 
 that her little daughters should not be overworked. Their 
 hours in the schoolroom were very short, therefore, and 
 the most of their time was spent out of doors, where they 
 had little gardens to work in, and pets innumerable to take 
 care of; so that they never failed to have something pleasant 
 to do, even after the daily walk with Miss Butler was over. 
 These daily walks through the beautiful woods and wild 
 moors round Laverock Hall were very different from the 
 formal boarding-school walks which were so familiar to 
 Emily and her listeners ; for the little Gordons were free 
 to laugh and talk, and run about as they liked, and they 
 did not turn and come straight home again after they had 
 been out half an hour; they had always some object for 
 their walks, — generally to visit one of their Sunday 
 scholars, or to take soup or jelly to some poor sick person. 
 Then Emily began to tell of the happy home-Sundays : of 
 the drive along the quiet country -roads to the little solitary 
 church, which stood on a moor, with no house near it but 
 the manse ; of the afternoon school in the laundry at 
 Laverock Hall, where Miss Butler, and Emily, and Minnie 
 used to teach the little children of the neighbourhood ; of 
 the meeting which Mr. Gordon held in a barn in the 
 evening, for the nearest church was nearly four miles off, 
 and many of the old people could not go there at all. She 
 said something too of pleasant walks and talks with papa 
 and mamma, and of the evening gatherings when the little 
 ones were all allowed to take tea in the drawing-room; but 
 her voice began to falter, and she went back again to her 
 Sunday school, evidently a subject of unfailing interest to 
 Emily and her sisters. Gerty and Ada were much inter- 
 ested to hear of the Christmas-tree which they prepared
 
 116 A DAY OF PLEASURE. 
 
 for their scholars every year, and hung with presents which 
 the little Gordons had been working for months to make 
 ready ; but Emily's account of the summer fete held on 
 Blanche's birthday was more amusing still, for then the 
 children from several different schools were all assembled 
 for a day of pleasure in the grounds of Laverock Hall. 
 A great many swings were hung on the branches of the 
 beech-trees for the occasion, and long tables were set on the 
 grass in front of the house, whei'e the children had tea 
 early in the afternoon, and were served by the little Gor- 
 dons with cake, and bread and jam, and such things as 
 children love. "When Emily had finished telling how at last 
 the scholars were all packed safely into the carts that were to 
 take them home, and went away tired and happy when the 
 sun had gone down, Ada could restrain herself no longer. 
 
 "O Emily! I think you have made a beautiful story; 
 and the best part of it is, it isn't in a book — it's all going 
 on still. When you were at home in the holidays, did the 
 school children come to spend Blanche's birthday and drink 
 six cups of tea 1 Just fancy Minnie teaching her funny 
 little girls this very afternoon ! And in the evening, when 
 we are saying the Catechism to Miss Maria, perhaps your 
 papa will be walking through the woods to his meeting, 
 with Edith on one side and Blanche on the other — exactly 
 like what you were telling us about ! Don't you think 
 it's very likely he will, Emily 1 " 
 
 Emily was holding up one hand so that the little girls 
 could not see her face, and she was so long of making any 
 reply to Ada's eager speech, that Gerty began to fear she 
 had said something to hurt her feelings. 
 
 "It's not all the same as it used to be, Ada," said she at 
 last. "Minnie will have her class this afternoon, I dare say, 
 just as usual; and Miss Butler will teach the big girls; but
 
 WINNING HEARTS. 117 
 
 — papa and mamma are not at Laverock Hall now." She 
 paused for a moment, and then went on speaking with an 
 effort. " More than a year ago papa had a very serious 
 illness, and the doctors said that he must go abroad for the 
 winter — that going to a very warm climate was the only thing 
 that would do him any good. So papa and mamma went 
 to Egypt last autumn, and Minnie, and Edith, and Blanche 
 were left at home with Miss Butler ; but my aunt thought 
 it was time I should have masters, so I was sent to school. 
 We hoped papa would have been able to come home in 
 summer, but he did not come ; so I spent my holidays 
 alone with Miss Butler and my little sisters at Laverock 
 Hall, and so we had no tea-drinking for the school chil- 
 dren this summer." 
 
 The quiet sadness of Emily's tone did not irritate Gerty 
 now. She would have given almost anything to have 
 brought some comfort to this girl whom she had once dis- 
 liked and despised ; but she could think of nothing to say 
 to her, — there was a sort of awe mingled with her pity for 
 this sorrow which was so much greater than any she had 
 ever known. Ada rose, and kneeling at Emily's knee, 
 gently pulled down the hand that was hiding her face, and 
 held it between her own. 
 
 " I am so sorry for you, Emily ! I am so very, very 
 sorry for you ! " she said earnestly, with tears in her eyes. 
 
 " But your papa and mamma write to you sometimes, 
 don't they 1 ?" said Gerty, after a little. 
 
 " Yes ; I had a letter the day before yesterday, and papa 
 was a little stronger when mamma wrote. I am very silly, 
 I suppose — but, do you know, when the bell rings very 
 loud, or sometimes late at night, I am always afraid it 
 may be a telegram for me — about papa. I know I ought 
 to be submissive ; but it is so hard, sometimes ! "
 
 118 FOOLISH PREJUDICE. 
 
 Touched by the evident sympathy of the little girls 
 beside her, Emily had told her troubles as she had never 
 told them to any one before ; and now she did not begin 
 to sob or cry, but sat quite still with her hand clasped 
 in Ada's. She had been too long accustomed to suffer in 
 silence for her grief to become violent now. 
 
 And Gerty, with her face turned away, was thinking 
 with keen self-reproach that she and her companions had 
 done their best to make Emily's burden heavier to bear. 
 Was it wonderful that a girl watching and waiting for 
 tidings of a sick, perhaps a dying father, did not care to 
 join in the mirth of her schoolfellows? How could they 
 expect her to look bright and happy like the others, when 
 she was pining all day for the sweet Perthshire home, 
 broken up perhaps for ever 1 Why had Gerty, in her pre- 
 judice against Emily, which seemed so foolish and unreason- 
 able now, persistently misunderstood and misjudged her? 
 Worse than that, she had chosen Emily out among all the 
 girls in the school as the victim of an unkind and cowardly 
 trick, which Gerty told herself she never could have for- 
 given if it had been played on her. And since then, 
 when Emily had tried, by showing her little kindnesses in 
 a timid way, to make her understand that she bore no 
 grudge, and would fain make a friend of her, Gerty had 
 turned away proudly and taken no notice. Had she really 
 grown much more wicked since she came to school, Gerty 
 wondered, going back to an old puzzle, or had she only 
 been finding out of late what she really was 1 ? 
 
 It was well for Gerty that in those days she was begin- 
 ning to look away from herself, with all her mistakes and 
 faults, to One who died on the cross for our sins long ago. 
 She was too shy, perhaps too proud, to ask Emily's pardon 
 for all her unkindncss to her; but she did what was better.
 
 WELCOME SYMPATHY. 119 
 
 Sitting quiet on the floor, with her head on her hand, 
 Gerty prayed earnestly in her heart to the Lord Jesus, 
 asking him to forgive her, and help hor for his own name's 
 sake to show Emily, not by words, but by actions, that 
 she was sorry for what she had done. 
 
 The three little girls had been silent for a few minutes, 
 when Ada spoke again suddenly, — 
 
 "I've thought of something we can do to help you, 
 Emily ! Gerty and I will pray every night and every morn- 
 ing that God will make your father better — quite better, 
 that he may come back to Scotland in spring. We'll cer- 
 tainly do it, — we won't forget ! " 
 
 " I'll never forget," said Gerty, speaking very earnestly. 
 "Emily, I can't speak about things, but I am sorry for 
 you." 
 
 ■I 
 
 " You are very good," said Emily gratefully. " I would 
 like you to pray for papa. Pray that he may get better ; 
 and if not, that I may be able to say, Thy will be done." 
 
 The last words were spoken so low that Gerty rather 
 guessed than heard what they were; and there was a 
 pause again, till Ada answered, — " Oh ! but I think it'll be 
 God's will to make your papa better. I'm almost sure he'll 
 make him quite well ! " 
 
 Emily stooped down and kissed Ada and Gerty without 
 speaking; then, as if the struggle to command herself could 
 be kept up no longer, she went hurriedly out of the room 
 and left the two little friends alone. Gerty and Ada had 
 their talk now; but it was all about Emily Gordon 
 and the sad breaking-up of hei home-life; and then they 
 wondered that they had never guessed something of her 
 story before. They were still deep in the subject when a 
 loud ring of the bell announced that the church-goers had 
 returned ; and Janie Leslie appeared in the drawing-room,
 
 120 DEFENCE OF EJHLY GORDON. 
 
 too anxious to hear the news to wait to take off her walk- 
 ing things. 
 
 " Dear me ! you poor things, how did you get on all 
 alone with that tiresome girl for hours 1 " 
 
 " She isn't tiresome. She's a very nice girl," said Gerty, 
 with indignation that was perhaps rather too hot, consider- 
 ing how lately her own opinion of Emily Gordon had been 
 the same as Janie's. " She's very nice, only she isn't 
 happy;" and here she stopped, not knowing whether it 
 would be well to tell Emily's story. 
 
 But Ada had no hesitation. " Do you know that her 
 father is very ill, perhaps dying, Janie? And he was 
 obliged to leave a most beautiful house in the country, 
 and his three little girls there and Emily here at school, 
 and go away to Egypt, or there was not the least chance of 
 his getting better. That is a year ago now, and he has 
 never been able to come home — not even in the summer- 
 time, when the Sunday-school children have their party. 
 And that is what makes Emily so very, very sad ! " 
 
 Janie gave a short laugh. " Her being cross and sulky 
 won't do her father any good, certainly. And you and 
 Gerty are the strangest girls I ever saw. First you take 
 up with that horrid little May Allardyce ; and now it's 
 Emily Gordon, though you two teased her worse than any 
 of us before. 7 wouldn't have touched her things for any- 
 thing ; but you went and poked in her desk till I don't 
 wonder you got into a row. But now you're going to take 
 her part all of a sudden. Do you mean to take all the 
 nasty girls in the school for your particular friends 1 " 
 
 " No, we don't," said Gerty very angrily. " We've not 
 the slightest wish to take you for one of our particular 
 friends ! " 
 
 Janie did not see the point of Gerty 's retort just at first,
 
 GIVING PLEASURE. 121 
 
 but when she did she was furious, and it was well that 
 Mademoiselle appeared on the scene and sent her off to her 
 room immediately. Gerty was inclined to think Janie 
 very heartless, and was sure that her indignation against 
 her was righteous ; but after she was cooler, she began to 
 fear that her anger had been excited, not so much by 
 Janie's indifference to Emily's trouble, as by her taunting 
 allusion to the opening of the desk, which was ever a sore 
 subject with Gerty. 
 
 Nevertheless, it was a great satisfaction to Gerty and 
 Ada that Mary Carr listened with attention to all they 
 had to say about Emily, and seemed touched as well as inter- 
 ested. And when bed-time came, and the girls were bid- 
 ding each other good-night in the drawing-room, Gerty put 
 her arms round Emily's neck and kissed her, remembering 
 an embrace she had refused her once. Gerty was not 
 demonstrative, except perhaps to Ada, so it was rather an 
 unusual thing for her to do ; but Emily looked so pleased, 
 that Gerty felt she did not care very much though Janie 
 Leslie and Ellen Murray were giggling at her. And when 
 she knelt by her bed at night and prayed for her own 
 father and mother and the dear little brothers at Burnside, 
 she remembered Emily's father too, and prayed that God 
 would make him well and bring him back to his children, 
 if it were his will ; but if the Lord saw it was best to take 
 Mr. Gordon to heaven, she asked him to comfort Emily.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A STUMBLE THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN WORSE. 
 
 AY Lad talked much and long of the glories of the 
 party she expected to have on her birthday, before 
 it was announced officially by Mrs. Martyn that 
 all the younger girls were invited to spend the next Friday 
 evening at Mrs. Allardyce's house, and Miss Maria had 
 graciously given them permission to go. Miss Leslie, Miss 
 Gordon, Miss Ellen Murray, Miss Stuart, Miss Godfrey, 
 and Miss Smith — they had all been asked by name; and 
 the invitation had been accepted for them all except for 
 Emily Gordon, whose parents, Mrs. Martyn somewhat un- 
 wisely told the girls, did not approve of children's parties. 
 The delight and excitement with which the news was 
 received was as great as May could possibly wish, and for 
 the next few days the children talked of little else but the 
 birthday-party. 
 
 Ada was perhaps the most joyful of them all, for as she 
 had no friends in the city, she had little experience of 
 the pleasures of visiting ; and when her companions were 
 asked out on Fridays and Saturdays, she always remained 
 at school, sometimes almost alone. When the eventful day 
 at last arrived she was wild with excitement, waking in 
 the morning hours before it was light, and so restless all 
 forenoon that she could attend to nothing. Lessons were 
 not to be thought of, and she acquitted herself badly in all
 
 PREPARATIONS FOR THE PAKTY. 123 
 
 her classes, to Gerty's great grief. Ada was apparently 
 indifferent, however ; and she was not the only one in the 
 school who was unsettled by the prospect of May Allar- 
 dyce's party. 
 
 Gerty and Ada were alone in their bedroom in the 
 afternoon when Mary Carr came in, her hands full of ever- 
 greens. " See here!" she said; "I got my cousin to bring 
 these from the country expressly for this wonderful party 
 of May's. I didn't choose that my Pussy should go all 
 colourless in one of her white frocks, so I'm going to dress 
 her up like a Christmas fairy with ivy and holly-berries." 
 
 Mary looked so pleased and triumphant, that Ada was 
 obliged to show some interest ; but while the other girls 
 had talked incessantly during the last few days about silks, 
 and muslins, and sashes, Ada had given herself no thought 
 whatever about her attire. And now it was Gerty who 
 was most pleased with Mary's plan, and joined eagerly 
 with her and Kate M'Kenzie in discussing the best mode 
 of decorating Ada. " Give Gerty some of them," was the 
 only suggestion Ada herself cared to make. But none of 
 the others would hear of this ; Gerty's blue trimmings and 
 sash were all that her dress needed, and Ada was assured 
 that red berries or green leaves would be anything but 
 an improvement. The whole of the costume had been 
 arranged before the bell rang for afternoon lessons, and 
 Gerty was sure that the effect would be quite as pretty as 
 uncommon, and that Ada would far outshine Janie Leslie, 
 though that young person was to wear a new silk dress. 
 Gerty would have struggled hard against a feeling of plea- 
 sure in mortifying another by being better dressed herself, 
 but as she was always more unwilling to forgive an unkind 
 act to Ada than if it had been done to herself, so now she 
 thought there was nothing wrong in rejoicing over the
 
 124 WHERE IS ADA? 
 
 vexation Janie would be sure to feel when she saw Miss 
 Carr's successful attempts to adorn Ada. 
 
 " I think this is the very longest day I ever knew," said 
 Ada, as she and Gerty went back to the schoolroom ; " I 
 feel as if six o'clock would never come ! " 
 
 It was certainly not a long day as far as light was con- 
 cerned, for it was dull and foggy, and got dark so early 
 that the gas was lighted and the shutters shut at Miss 
 Martyn's soon after three o'clock. 
 
 Friday was one of the days when Gerty's class had a 
 lesson from M. Bornand, and the hour spent with him was 
 always looked forward to with a sort of awe. Of all the 
 masters in the school he was the most feared; yet he con- 
 trived to make his lessons so interesting as well as dread- 
 ful, that not even Gerty's good-natured friend, Mr. Shei-- 
 wood, was more popular. Gerty was always nervous about 
 her preparation for M. Bornand ; and when she came into 
 the schoolroom from her practising at five o'clock, she was 
 so anxious to get a last look at the fable of La Fontaine's 
 she had to repeat that she forgot everything else, even the 
 party. She brought her books, and sat down in her place 
 without noticing that Ada was not in the room, until 
 Mademoiselle interrupted her by asking where her friend 
 was. 
 
 " Je ne sais pas," said Gerty, without looking up. But 
 all the class was assembled, waiting for the master, and it was 
 ah'eady several minutes past the hour, so Mademoiselle rose 
 with an impatient exclamation to go and seek for the truant. 
 She was only half-way across the room, however, when 
 the door opened, and M. Bornand appeared — a tall black- 
 bearded man, of a most majestic aspect. The girls all rose, 
 as was the custom when a master entered, when suddenly 
 the gas went out, leaving the room in darkness that was
 
 COMMOTION IN THE CLASSROOM. 125 
 
 almost total. A general commotion, and a stoppage of all 
 the pianos in the house, showed that the same event had 
 happened in the other rooms at the same time. M. Bor- 
 nand, standing at the door, looked from the dark passage 
 to the dark schoolroom, and muttered something between- 
 his teeth ; then strode across the room to the rug where 
 Mademoiselle, with many expressions of surprise in her 
 own language, was trying to poke the fire into a blaze. 
 Gerty could not understand all they said to each other, but 
 she made out that Mademoiselle feared there was no chance 
 of the gas burning properly again, and thought it would be 
 better to get in a lamp. The girls all sat and laughed ; 
 then Gerty was startled to hear Ada's voice speaking out 
 of the blackness close beside her. 
 
 "I'm very sorry, Mademoiselle, but I'm sure there's no 
 lamp in the house. But we can get candles, and put them 
 in black bottles ! Six of them all in a row on the table 
 would look very nice, and light up the room beautifully ! " 
 
 " Taisez-vous," said Mademoiselle angrily. 
 
 M. Bornand had got a match lighted now, and the 
 girls moved away from the table to let him put it to 
 the gas. To the astonishment of every one, it lighted 
 immediately, and seemed to burn as clear and steadily as 
 ever. The light revealed Ada sitting opposite Gerty, in 
 her usual place ; but, unlike the other girls, who were 
 almost all in fits of laughter, she had an expression of 
 wondering gravity on her face. " Tres remarkable," she 
 observed in a low, thoughtful tone, and then seemed 
 absorbed in her books, which were all spread out before 
 her. 
 
 Mademoiselle went back to her seat by the fii-e; M. 
 Bornand took his at the end of the table. A few sharp 
 words from the master silenced the giggling of the girls,
 
 126 WHO TURNED OFF TFIE GAS V 
 
 and the class-work was gone through as usual. As for the 
 gas, it never so much as nickered again all the time. 
 
 Mademoiselle was a shrewd little person, and very ob- 
 servant; therefore she had her own ideas about what had 
 happened, and immediately after M. Boimand had left the 
 room she came to the table and said, — 
 
 " Ada, you put out the gas. Is it not so 1 " 
 
 Ada turned round with a look of injured innocence, and 
 opened her eyes very wide. " Me, Mademoiselle ! Me ! 
 What makes you think that / put out the gas 1 " 
 
 •' Were you not out of the room at the time, my child 1" 
 said Mademoiselle calmly. 
 
 "Yes, certainly; and so were a great many of the other 
 girls. Emily Gordon was out of the room. Emily, did 
 you turn off the gas 1 " 
 
 Emily was just entering the room when she met Ada's 
 look of interest and this most unexpected question. Poor 
 girl ! she had been tormented all day because she was not 
 going to the party, and now she was too low-spirited to see 
 any fun in the situation which made all her companions, 
 and even Mademoiselle, laugh. Gerty, in spite of her 
 amusement, could not help being sorry for Emily, as she 
 stood with burning blushes, stammering out a trembling 
 denial of what no one dreamt of suspecting she had 
 done. 
 
 " Vous etes tres mechante!" said Mademoiselle, shaking 
 her head at Ada, and moving back again to the fireside, 
 where the elder girls, coming from the different class-rooms, 
 had gathered for a chat before tea. Mademoiselle had 
 little doubt that Ada, had turned off the gas, therefore she 
 pursued her investigation no further, for she identified her- 
 self rather with the girls' interests than Miss Maityn's, and 
 would fain have kept even this troublesome child out of a
 
 ADA'S CONFESSION. 127 
 
 difficulty if she could. But, as matters turned out, this 
 was beyond her power. 
 
 The books were not yet all put away in the desks when 
 Miss Maria entered, and walking up to the fire, turned 
 round on the girls, though she addressed Mademoiselle. 
 " Whoever has been so foolish and mischievous as to turn 
 off the gas, must remain at home to-night and learn forty 
 bines." 
 
 There was considerable astonishment; for some of the 
 elder girls, who did not come into the room till after 
 Mademoiselle's conversation with Ada, had not the least 
 idea that the affair could have been anything but an accident. 
 
 " No one put out the gas, Miss Maria," said Mary Carr 
 rather indignantly. And Mademoiselle began to explain 
 in eloquent French that there must be water in the pipes, 
 — that was certainly what was wrong. Such a thing had 
 happened once in a house where she was visiting, only of 
 course it was not so awkward there. But it was decidedly 
 inconvenient too, for they were all in the middle of dinner ; 
 and it had turned out to be something about water in the 
 pipes. 
 
 Gerty and Ada had been together at their desks when Miss 
 Maria came in, and they both stood there still all the time 
 Mademoiselle was speaking, and never once looked round. 
 Gerty's heart was beating with terror lest Miss Maria 
 should question each girl separately, as she sometimes did. 
 But Miss Maria, though perhaps not quite satisfied, was 
 considerably impressed, more perhaps by Mary Carr's 
 emphatic denial than by Mademoiselle's story. She would 
 have gone away again without another word, but Ada 
 turned round suddenly, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes 
 shining, — "There may have been something wrong in the 
 pipes, but I certainly turned the screw ! "
 
 128 A SUDDEN RESOLUTION. 
 
 Miss Maria was quite aware when it was dignified to 
 give a lecture, and she knew that this was not the time. 
 So she merely said, — " I might have known there was only 
 one in the school who would do such a thing. "Well, Ada, 
 you know what is before you. Mademoiselle will give you 
 your forty lines to learn, and I will hear you say them at 
 nine o'clock." 
 
 Ada stood motionless for an instant, then fled swiftly 
 out of the room and upstairs. In great distress Gerty 
 followed her, but when she came to her bedroom it was 
 empty. A fire was lighted for the little girls to dress by, 
 and all their things had been laid out early in the afternoon 
 ihat all might be ready. The pretty, snowy dress, with 
 its sprays of ivy and holly, was on Ada's bed, and beside it 
 the coral necklace and little white gloves, all arranged 
 there by Mary Carr's careful fingers. Gerty put her head 
 down on the pillow beside them, and began to cry. She 
 would have gone to seek Ada, but she knew that if she 
 wished to hide it would be almost impossible to find her; 
 besides, what comfort had Gerty to give 1 Realizing fully 
 the bitterness of Ada's disappointment, she felt that any 
 attempts at consolation woidd seem only mockery to her 
 just now. 
 
 The sound of the tea-bell roused Gerty, and brought her 
 to a sudden resolution. If Ada did not go to the party, 
 neither would Gerty; she would stay at home and share 
 her loneliness, and help her to learn her task. Gerty 
 bathed her eyes with cold water, making them thereby 
 redder than ever; then she went to the dining-room in 
 rather a defiant mood. The girls who were to spend the 
 evening at school were all assembled round the table, and 
 they stared in amazement when Gerty entered and sat 
 down in her usual place. Mrs. Martyn looked appealingly
 
 DISAPPOINTED AND HUMILIATED. 129 
 
 at Miss Maria ; for the kind old lady's heart was sore for 
 Ada, and now it appeared that another was included in 
 the same condemnation. Eut her daughter's gaze was 
 fixed upon Gerty, and she asked coldly why she was 
 there. 
 
 " I'm going to stay at home with Ada ! " said Gerty 
 bravely. 
 
 " Certainly not. Go and dress immediately." 
 
 Flushing with anger, Gerty rose from her chair, walked 
 out of the room with all the dignity she could, and delibe- 
 rately slammed the door after hei\ Then she made a stop 
 in the lobby, thinking Miss Maria would likely call her 
 back. She was not mistaken. 
 
 " Miss Stuart ! " 
 
 Gerty reappeared, quite hoping she would be forbidden 
 to go to the party. 
 
 " Shut the door quietly." 
 
 Disappointed and humiliated, Gerty was obliged to sub- 
 mit. No one — not even Ada in her wildest moods — had 
 ever dared to disobey Miss Maria to her face. 
 
 Upstairs in the bedroom Gerty found Mary Carr, who 
 was also going out to spend the evening. May Allardyce 
 had gone home early in the afternoon, to the great relief of 
 her companions. 
 
 " Where's Ada 1 " was Mary's first question. 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 " Is she at tea, do you think 1 " 
 
 " No, she's not." 
 
 " Poor little thing ! " said Mary compassionately. But 
 having been solemnly warned by Kate M'Kenzie against 
 showing too much sympathy to the children, she checked 
 herself immediately, and said gravely, — " After all, I don't 
 see how Miss Maria could have done anything else, for 
 
 (5S4> g
 
 130 what ada's mischief brought. 
 
 putting out the gas was a most shocking piece of mischief. 
 And Kate M'Kenzie says Ada deserves all she got, for she 
 was humbugging Mademoiselle in the most impudent way 
 before I came into the room." 
 
 " Miss M'Kenzie's very cruel. I'm sure you don't think 
 so, Mary ! " 
 
 " I ought to think so, I believe, Gerty. Her very con- 
 fession was made impudently. Everybody, even Mademois- 
 elle, thinks there was no need of telling on herself when 
 she was never asked ; and Kate says it was nothing but 
 impertinence made her do it." 
 
 " Do you think Ada likes impertinence better than the 
 party 1 ? She might have been impertinent to Miss Maria 
 another time, if that was all she wanted ! " said Gerty, in 
 bitter indignation. 
 
 "Well, well, don't cry, Gerty. It was very brave of 
 her to do it, if she thought it was right. Let me help you, 
 for I think the others are all ready. Poor Ada! how 
 pretty her dress looks ! I can't bear to look at it now, 
 though." 
 
 Gerty would fain have tried to get a word with Ada 
 before she left, but the other girls were waiting for her im- 
 patiently, and she had to hurry off without even taking 
 time to make herself tidy. Mary Can had set her heart 
 on her two charges doing her credit when they went to 
 Mrs. Allardyce's; and now one could not go at all, and the 
 other was obliged to depart with swollen eyes, l-ough hair, 
 and her dress untidy. And so it was that poor Ada's 
 foolish mischief brought trouble on others as well as her- 
 self; and May Allardyce's party, which had been looked 
 forward to with such eager expectation, seemed scarcely a 
 pleasure at all. 
 
 There was no reading aloud on Friday evening, sc
 
 AT WORK IN THE SCHOOLROOM. 131 
 
 after the little girls had been wrapped up in shawls and 
 safely despatched to Mrs. Allardyce's, the elder ones who 
 were left behind gathered in the schoolroom, which they 
 could have all to themselves that night, undisturbed by 
 the children's games. The long table there was so much 
 more convenient for bazaar work than the drawing-room 
 onej and to-night it was all littered over with work-boxes, 
 paint-boxes, gum, cardboard, and wools; while it would 
 have made the housemaid's heart ache to see how many 
 scraps of paper and ends of worsted found their way to the 
 floor beneath. 
 
 Most successful of all the workers was Mademoiselle, 
 whose deft fingers could manufacture little boxes and 
 baskets of wonderful neatness, and turn the most insignifi- 
 cant scraps of silk or cloth to account in making pincushions 
 or pen-wipers, and such pretty trifles as would be sine to 
 sell. Her aid was much valued by her pupils, who had 
 been very careful lately to keep her in good-humour; for, 
 easy-tempered and obliging as she generally was, Mademois- 
 elle was apt to take occasional sulky fits, and it would 
 never do, said the girls, to make her angry now the bazaar 
 was coming on. There had been some fears lest the dis- 
 turbance of the afternoon might have had the dreaded 
 effect; and great was the relief when Mademoiselle appeared 
 in the schoolroom, and sat down at the end of the table, 
 with a request for bits of silk and ribbon to dress dolls. 
 With the odds and ends she collected she was rapidly 
 transforming the ugly little images she had brought into 
 fairy -like creatures in all sorts of costume; while she was 
 never too intent on her work to keep up a constant con- 
 versation, now in French, now in broken English, with the 
 girls around her. 
 
 At a little table apart from the others, Kate M'Kenzie
 
 132 miss framm's weekly letters. 
 
 was stooping over an elaborate wreath of delicately shaded 
 flowers : for she had been determined that her work for the 
 bazaar was to be a masterpiece; and though her com- 
 panions were beginning to tease her now about the cushion 
 that made so little progress in spite of all her efforts, she 
 would in no wise admit that she had been mistaken in 
 choosing it. None of the other girls were so ambitious. 
 They contented themselves for the most part in making 
 little articles which would be quickly finished and were 
 likely to sell easily; and they were very merry as well as 
 very busy over them. The only one who was not actually 
 at work for the bazaar was Miss Framm; and even she had 
 some wonderful German knitting half-finished for it, though 
 it was not in her hands at present. She stood at the fire, 
 reading and re-reading the crackling pages of a home-letter, 
 whose tiny, neatly-formed characters looked curiously un- 
 intelligible to English eyes. When Miss Framm's weekly 
 letters came, she always spent the most of the evening over 
 them; and her pupils were considerate enough to leave her 
 to enjoy them undisturbed, though they never failed to 
 relish any news their governess might choose to tell them 
 of the German household whose ways were all familiar to 
 the elder girls who were Fraulein's friends. So to-night, 
 in spite of all their interest in their own affairs, more than 
 one of the workers round the table looked up at her 
 curiously every now and then, anxious to guess from the 
 expression of Miss Framm's face whether her sister Anna 
 had passed her difficult examinations successfully, and 
 whether Albert's perplexing love affairs had come to a 
 satisfactory conclusion. 
 
 The clock in the hall had just struck eight, and Kate 
 M'Kenzie was wondering whether her rosebuds had made 
 any visible progress since tea-time, when Mademoiselle
 
 A LITTLE GIRL'S TROUBLES. 133 
 
 placed three of her little dolls on the table to be inspected 
 and admired. 
 
 " See ! I have finished one, two, zree of my leetle ladies !" 
 The girls were enthusiastic in their approval; and Made- 
 moiselle herself, with her head on one side, was regarding 
 her work with some satisfaction, when a touch on her arm 
 made her turn suddenly round, to see Ada standing beside 
 her, a book of French extracts in her hand. She had 
 entered the room very quietly, unobserved by any one 
 except Emily Gordon, who had been watching for her so 
 anxiously all evening that she had but little attention to 
 give to her work. There had been a great deal of talk 
 about Ada and her doings in the early part of the evening, 
 but for some time the bazaar had been the only subject of 
 conversation, and most of the party in the schoolroom had 
 forgotten about the child altogether. But now when she 
 appeared amongst them, pale and quiet, most of the girls 
 felt something like remorse at the thought that their little 
 companion's troubles had passed out of their minds so 
 easily. A sudden silence came over them all, and Miss 
 Framm, looking up from her letter, took in the scene at 
 once, and stood watching Ada with grave, compassionate 
 eyes. 
 
 "Will you show me my lines, if you please, Made- 
 moiselle 1 " said Ada, speaking very gently. 
 
 Mademoiselle shrugged her shoulders almost imper- 
 ceptibly, and took the book without a word. There was 
 another pause while she turned over the leaves impatiently, 
 and Ada, standing all by herself a little way off', kept her 
 eyes fixed on the floor. But Mademoiselle, with scarcely 
 the pretence of making any selection, handed her back the 
 book, pointing to a story ; and Ada, thanking her politely, 
 walked away as quietly as she had come. No one spoke at
 
 134 SCHOOLGIRL TEASING. 
 
 all till they heard the door of the opposite classroom close 
 behind her ; then one of the girls turned round from the 
 table and her crochet-work to ask, " Fraulein Frarumchen, 
 do you think as Kate M'Kenzie does, that Miss Maria is 
 never wronsr 1 " 
 
 " I think it was necessary for her to punish Ada, if that 
 is what you mean," said Miss Framm, in the guttural tones 
 which were the only peculiarity of her English speech. 
 
 Miss M'Kenzie had risen, and was gathering up her 
 bundles of worsted as if to leave the room, but she waited 
 to stand on her own defence. 
 
 " I should think no person could have any doubt about 
 Miss Maria being in the right to-night, Nettie. But I still 
 consider her human, so I only say she is very seldom in 
 the wrong ! " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Kate. It is quite true, now that I 
 think of it, that she is still human, and therefore liable to 
 err. On "Wednesday night, for instance " — Kate looked 
 quite unconscious ; but the other girls were anxious to 
 know what happened then, and Nettie Cathcart was easily 
 persuaded to go on — " on "Wednesday night, about a 
 quarter to ten o'clock, as Kate M'Kenzie was returning 
 from a visit to Mary Carr's room, and marching along the 
 passage with her usual dignity, who should she meet but 
 Miss Maria, face to face ! Of course Miss Maria ought to 
 have had the proper feeling to pass on and take no notice ; 
 but then you know, though very seldom in the wrong, as 
 Kate says, she is still human. Therefore she behaved 
 exactly as if she had met Ada Godfrey instead of Kate 
 M'Kenzie, asked her severely where she had been, and gave 
 her twenty lines forthwith for breaking rules by going to 
 another girl's room. No ; but stop a minute ; don't laugh 
 yet — the delicious part of the story is to come. What do
 
 IX THE DLUE ROOM 
 
 J 35 
 
 you think Miss M'Kenzie did ? — Miss M'Kenzie, who is 
 always on the side of law and order, and invariably upholds 
 Miss Maria's authority, — she came back to our room and 
 banged the door (just as Gerty did to-night when Kate 
 looked so shocked) ; and when Maggie Murray asked 
 innocently what was the matter, you may imagine our 
 astonishment when we were told that Miss Maria was a 
 foolish, interfering woman. These were her very words, 
 for they were too remarkable to be forgotten ! " 
 
 Kate M'Kenzie was by no means indifferent to Nettie's 
 teasing, but she maintained an appearance of great com- 
 posure, and waited in the room till the story was finished, 
 that her departure might not look like flight. 
 
 " If you are cpiite done with your story, Nettie, might I 
 trouble you to give me back my scissors, as I am going 
 ■away \ " 
 
 " With pleasure, Kate. There they are. And now, 
 perhaps you will tell us if you are going to give Ada the 
 lecture you promised her, and explain that Miss Maria is 
 very seldom in the wrong, and certainly never when she 
 gives her lines 1 " 
 
 "Yes, I am soing to Ada in the Blue Room." There 
 was a general outcry that it was a shame ; but, without 
 taking any notice of it, Kate collected her scattered 
 property and went away, carrying her work with her. 
 
 The Blue Room was the smallest of all the classrooms; 
 a little closet of a place, where the piano took up so much 
 space that a small table and one chair were the only other 
 furniture it held. As it was only used for a practising 
 room, the tire had been allowed to die out, and the gas was 
 low, so everything felt dreary and chilly to Kate M'Kenzie 
 after the bright, warm schoolroom she had left. She made 
 a pause at the door after she had opened it, for Ada was
 
 136 A FRIEND IN NEED. 
 
 sitting facing her, both her elbows on the table, and her 
 eyes fixed on the book that was lying open before her. 
 The poor child had evidently been crying a great deal, but 
 she was quiet now, and did not seem even to have spirit 
 left to be curious enough to look up and see who her visitor 
 was. Kate did not say anything at all to her at first. 
 She shut the door deliberately, then turned up the gas, and 
 drawing the piano-stool to the table, sat clown beside Ada, 
 and spread out her wools. She had found the exact shade 
 of pink she wanted, and begun to work on her roses again, 
 before she said quietly, " Ada, I'll hear you your lines by 
 tens, or by fives if you like. I think that may be a help 
 to you." Ada looked up with eager words of gratitude, 
 but Kate calmly advised her not to waste time in talking, 
 as she had a great deal of work to do, and had been too 
 long already in setting about her task. This was certainly 
 true, and it was well for Ada that Miss Maria had yielded 
 to the petition of the bazaar workers that prayers might be 
 half an hour later that night ; for though she was rather 
 quick at learning by heart, forty lines of French prose is 
 a long lesson, and an hour's crying anything but a good 
 preparation for it. 
 
 Kate M'Kenzie sat beside Ada the whole time, exacting 
 the closest attention on the little girl's part, and helping 
 her with a skill and patience that never failed. She was 
 not at all an impulsive girl, but almost always prudent in 
 speech and action, so it was very seldom that her com- 
 panions had the satisfaction of telling some such story 
 about her as Nettie Cathcart had related that night. Kate 
 had no sympathy at all with Ada in her mischievous 
 moods, but she had what she herself called a calm and 
 judicious affection for this little girl whose father and 
 mother were across the sea. Therefore she had counted
 
 LEARNED AT LAST. 137 
 
 the cost before she left the cheerful schoolroom to sit alone 
 with Ada; and if her thoughts wandered back there with 
 any regret, she was determined that no one but herself 
 should know it. Her sacrifice was by no means a small 
 one, for of all the girls she was Miss Framm's particular 
 confidante, and most interested in hearing of Albert and 
 Anna. And she had little doubt that Fraulein, bavins: 
 finished her letter, would take up her knitting again, and 
 making her audience select by speaking German, would 
 gather a circle round the fire, and tell how Anna's studies 
 were prospering with the aid of green tea drunk at nights 
 to keep her awake. She might even go on to more interest- 
 ing intelligence still, and let the girls know whether the 
 obstinate father of Albert's ladye-love had at last given his 
 consent to his daughter's engagement to the young soldier; 
 yet Kate M'Kenzie, sitting beside Ada in the Blue Room, 
 never once showed by look or tone that she found her self- 
 elected banishment wearisome or annoying. 
 
 As the time passed on and Ada grew more and more 
 pale and tired, Kate pitied her more than she cared to 
 confess even to herself. As Nettie Cathcart had said, she 
 had declared publicly her intention of speaking to Ada 
 seriously about her conduct, but now she rather hoped 
 there would be no time to do so. If there was time, how- 
 ever, she was quite determined that it was her duty to give 
 her a grave admonition; besides, if she broke her promise 
 and spent an hour and a half with Ada without saying a 
 word of reproof or warning, the other girls would be sure 
 to find it out, and rejoice and triumph accordingly. The 
 lines were learned at last, first by fives and tens, then 
 repeated all over from the beginning. Before half-past 
 nine o'clock Kate M'Kenzie had heard Ada say her task 
 correctly, and after going through it twice again to make
 
 138 miss m'kenzie's lecture. 
 
 sure work of it, there was no excuse for putting off her 
 lecture any longer. 
 
 " Sit still for a minute, Ada; I've something to say to 
 you." Miss M'Kenzie laid down the French book and 
 began to work again, that the sight of Ada's woe-begone 
 face might not prevent her making her words severe 
 enough. " I have no wish to be hard on you, my dear 
 child," said she, speaking slowly and gravely, " but I think 
 you must see yourself how very bad your behaviour has 
 been to-night. In the first place, Ada, it was so remark- 
 ably silly ; and in the second, it did a very great deal of 
 harm indeed. I don't mean only to yourself, for you must 
 know that without my telling you, but I mean to other 
 people. I would like you to think of that a little. How 
 many do you suppose of your French class got any good out 
 of a lesson which was begun in so curious a way 1 As for 
 me, it was my music-lesson time, and I was thoroughly 
 interested in a passage in my sonata (the Moonlight Sonata, 
 which you will like too when you are older, Ada), and there 
 was one piece I could not get right. Herr Rieth sat down 
 to play it to me, and I was just catching the spirit of the 
 thing when — " 
 
 Kate had not been watching Ada's face at all, so she was 
 completely taken aback when her impressive story was 
 suddenly interrupted by a burst of merry laughter. 
 Weary and dispirited as Ada was, the idea of total darkness 
 falling upon Miss M'Kenzie and the music-master at the 
 piano in the drawing-room, struck her as being so extremely 
 funny that no amount of respect and gratitude could 
 restrain her amusement. It was not in human nature, 
 however, not to be offended when a mild and dignified 
 little sermon . was received in such a manner. Kate rose 
 immediately and swept out of the room without a word,
 
 AX INCORRIGIBLE CHILD. 139 
 
 before Ada could rind breath to make apologies. In great 
 indignation she retired to her own room, and shut herself 
 up there till the bell rang for pi-ayers; telling herself, as she 
 walked up and down in the cold, that the patient help she 
 had given Ada that night might surely have secured her 
 civil attention in return. With all her heart Kate hoped 
 that the other girls might not hear what had happened. 
 
 Poor Ada was greatly distressed when she saw what she 
 had done, and she looked more miserable than ever when 
 she came into the drawing-room with the others. After 
 prayers she bade good-night to no one, but stood with her 
 book in her hand behind Miss Maria's chair till every one 
 else had left the room. Miss Maria had been puzzled and 
 even a little touched by Ada's confession, made as it was 
 unasked and with full knowledge of the consequences; but 
 coming downstairs at the end of the evening, expecting to 
 find her suitably impressed by her punishment, the first 
 sound that had greeted her ears was that unlucky burst of 
 laughter. To a child so incorrigible Miss Maria was in- 
 clined to show no mercy, and it was fortunate for Ada 
 that, thanks to Kate M'Kenzie's kindness, her task was 
 particularly well learned. Miss Maria first heard her repeat 
 her lines; then bestowed on her a scolding which was 
 certainly sharp enough, and not in the least amusing. 
 Finishing up with the information that her monthly letter 
 to India would carry Mrs. Godfrey a very bad report of 
 her daughter's conduct, Miss Maria dismissed Ada to bed. 
 
 The door-bell rang, and the merry voices of the children 
 returning from the party were heard in the hall, as Ada 
 walked slowly along the passage to the schoolroom to put 
 away her book in her desk. But she had still something 
 to do before she went to her room. Kate M'Kenzie had 
 not begun to undress when a knock came to her door; but
 
 140 A SOLEMN SPEECH. 
 
 it was not she that opened it, but Nettie Cathcart, in a 
 white dressing-gown, her black eyes looking blacker than 
 usual out of a veil of curly dark hair. Kate heard Ada's 
 voice say something in a low tone; and Nettie, turning 
 round, called out, — " Catharina, a most wretched-looking, 
 white-faced ghost of a creature craves speech with you for 
 a minute." 
 
 Kate walked across the room with her most dignified 
 swing, Nettie Cathcart still holding the door open, and 
 looking on with the keenest interest. " What do you 
 want, Ada 1 " 
 
 " I want you to forgive me. I am sorry I put out the 
 gas, and I am sorry I laughed. If you would only say the 
 rest of what you were going to say, I would be much 
 obliged to you — and I promise I will be very good ! " 
 
 It was Kate M'Kenzie's turn to laugh now at Ada's 
 solemn speech. " I've nothing whatever to say to you, 
 Pussy, except — go off to bed as fast as you can. Good- 
 night, dear." 
 
 " This is really most edifying ! " said Nettie Cathcart, 
 mockingly. " Kate, I'll begin to think your lectures must 
 be interesting, if your victims come after bedtime to ask 
 for a continuation of them. — What has she been saying 
 to you, Ada, that took an hour and a half to say, and isn't 
 finished yet? Now, don't run away when I'm speaking, 
 or I'll have a lecture on good manners to give you which 
 will be quite as spicy as any of Miss M'Kenzie's." 
 
 " Let her alone," said Maggie Murray, with unwonted 
 consideration. " Can't you see she's quite wom-out 1 ?" 
 
 So Ada was allowed to depart, while Nettie exercised 
 her wits in attempts to move Kate M'Kenzie's quiet com- 
 posure; teasing questions and calm retorts going on with- 
 out intermission till long after the girls were in bed, and
 
 AFTER THE PARTY. 141 
 
 Maggie Murray had angrily demanded silence that she 
 might go to sleep. 
 
 Utterly worn-out Ada indeed was by this time. She 
 had tasted no food since the early dinner; and now that 
 the excitement of the day's events was over, the violent 
 weeping and hard studying were beginning to tell upon 
 her. Coming into the bedroom where Gerty was standing 
 gravely by the fire, Ada sat down on the rug and leaned 
 her head on the mantelpiece without saying anything. 
 Gerty used to be told that she had no tact, and perhaps it 
 was true; but her love for Ada made her keen-sighted 
 enough to see that speaking to her then would be anything 
 but kindness. Anxious as she was to talk about the party, 
 and to hear how Ada had spent the evening in her absence, 
 Gerty began to undress herself quietly, waiting for Ada to 
 break the silence first. May Allardyce was to remain at 
 home till Monday, and Mary Carr had not yet returned 
 from her aunt's, so the two little girls had the room to 
 themselves. Gerty, already in her night-gown, was at- 
 tempting, without much success, to lay the dress she had 
 worn smoothly in one of the di*awers, and Ada was still 
 looking into the fire with dreamy eyes and a sad mouth, 
 when she asked at last, — 
 
 " Gerty, will you tell me something about the party?" 
 " Oh yes !" said Gerty, delighted. " It was a very grand 
 affair— the grandest I was ever at; and I don't know how 
 many were there — some of the day-scholars, and quantities 
 of other boys and girls that I didn't know. May looked 
 better than I thought she would, and ate ever so much to 
 supper. There was a delightful supper; and before that we 
 had dancing, and games, and charades, which were the best 
 fun of all. I was an old aunt in one of the charades, and 
 was all stuffed out with pillows to make me fat; and then- -"
 
 142 A PAIR OF LITTLE SCHOOLGIRLS. 
 
 " Don't, please," said Ada with a sob. " I can't bear h ! 
 I would have liked to have gone so much!" 
 
 "Dear Ada!" said Gerty with sudden compunction, 
 coming and kneeling down beside her. 
 
 " I can't bear it ! " said Ada, speaking more gently. 
 " You'll tell me all about it to-morrow, and I'll like to 
 hear it then, but not just yet. — It was very quickly done, 
 do you know, Gerty 1 The screw was quite easily turned ; 
 and I just put it round and back again, exactly as Jane 
 does at ten o'clock." 
 
 Ada rose and began slowly to undress, then turning all 
 at once to Gerty, she flung her arms round her and hid 
 her face on her shoulder. " Gerty, if I had only taken 
 time to think, I never would have put out the gas, for I 
 might have known — oh ! I might have known what Miss 
 Maria would do to me ! " 
 
 They were only a pair of little schoolgirls, not particu- 
 larly wise even for their years, and they had both the 
 schoolgirl idea that any mischief or breach of rules was 
 allowable, if they were willing to take the consequences. 
 But in one thing at least they had taken a higher stand 
 than the ordinary schoolgirl's code of honour. All Miss 
 Martyn's pupils would have thought Ada wrong if she 
 had told a direct lie, or allowed any one else to be blamed 
 for her trick; but very few of them considei'ed there would 
 have been any harm in allowing Miss Maria to accept 
 Mademoiselle's statement, and go away believing what was 
 not true. Gerty was perhaps the only one, except Emily 
 Gordon, who believed in the necessity of Ada's confession; 
 and now remembering what Mary Carr had said, she asked, 
 " Didn't you tell Miss Maria it wasn't water in the pipes, 
 because you thought it was right?" 
 
 "Yes, of course that was why," said Ada, rather astonished.
 
 UNSHAKEN LOYALTY. 143 
 
 " It was awfully good of you to do it ! " 
 
 There was a pause before Ada answered, and she did 
 not lift her head when she spoke at last, — 
 
 " If you only knew how very nearly I didat do it, you 
 never would say that ! " 
 
 Gerty might have told her that the strength of the 
 temptation made the victory won the brighter, but though 
 some such thought did occur to her, she could not put it 
 into words. But with unshaken loyalty to her little friend, 
 — a loyalty which was fain to cling fast to the one good 
 arid brave thing she had done among all her faults and 
 folly of the evening, — Gerty put her arms closer round 
 Ada, and repeated again, " I think it was awfully good 
 of you, all the same ! "
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ONWARD AGAIN. 
 
 CCUSTOMED as Gerty was by this time to the 
 wonderful elasticity of Ada's spirits, the rapidity 
 with which the painful impressions connected 
 with that unlucky Friday evening seemed to pass from her 
 mind astonished her friend not a little. Next morning at 
 breakfast, Ada was as merry as ever, laughing and chatter- 
 ing to Gerty with a gaiety that was perfectly unaffected. 
 Miss Maria, across the table, watched the two little girls 
 closely; and Gerty, conscious of her disapproving glances, 
 felt uncomfortable, and was glad when the meal was over 
 and they could escape to the schoolroom. The girls in 
 general did not think it at all necessary to spare Ada's 
 feelings by refraining from any allusion to the events of 
 last night, and if little was said about them in the morning, 
 it was only because it was the time for letter-writing, and 
 every one was busy. Ada hei-self became silent for nearly 
 an hour over a letter to India; and Gerty, who had a very 
 important request to make, took a long time in composing 
 a lengthy, and, we regret to say, very blotchy epistle to 
 her mother. After she had finished and folded it up, she 
 took a great deal of trouble to make the envelope close 
 firmly; and not satisfied with that, she borrowed a stick of 
 wax from Mary Carr and sealed it carefully, lest Miss 
 Maria's curiosity should prove stronger than her honour.
 
 A "STAY-AT-HOME SATURDAY." 145 
 
 When the huge patch of red was duly impressed with 
 Gerty's thimble, she carried the important document to 
 the hall-table herself, instead of leaving it to be taken 
 away with the rest of the letters before dinner. Even 
 after it was laid all safe in the very middle of the table, 
 so that it could not possibly be forgotten, Gerty lingered 
 beside it lovingly; and when she returned to the school- 
 room she looked absent and preoccupied, like one burdened 
 with a weighty secret. 
 
 She found that the younger girls had all finished their 
 letters, and were gathered at one of the windows watching 
 the falling snow, which had come very opportunely, accord- 
 ing to their ideas, as it prevented a formal walk with Miss 
 Maria — one of the miseries of a "stay-at-home Saturday." 
 May Allardyce's party was being eagerly discussed ; and 
 Ada, in the centre of the group, looked as animated as any. 
 She made room for Gerty to sit beside her on her own 
 desk (a somewhat slippery perch, where it was perfectly 
 impossible to be comfortable), but Gerty preferred the 
 window-ledge, in spite of the risk of knocking her elbows 
 through the glass. Janie Leslie was just finishing an ela- 
 borate description of Mrs. Allardyce's dress when Gerty 
 joined her companions ; but Ellen Murray was getting 
 impatient under it, and at last interrupted her rudely, — 
 
 "Oh! stop; we've had enough of that now! Nobodv 
 cares whether it was point-lace on the skirt or not. Ada, 
 do you know that your baby told at supper before every 
 one that you had put out the gas V 
 
 Ada flushed a little. Gerty, telling her about the party 
 in the early morning, had never mentioned that. 
 
 "Did they think it very dreadful?" she asked. 
 
 " Mr. Allardyce laughed awfully, and said it was a great 
 shame to keep you at home — that you ought to have been 
 
 (5841 10
 
 1 16 CONCERNING ADA'S TRICK. 
 
 let off because you confessed. Perhaps you thought that 
 too. I say, Ada, tell us if you meant it for a dodge. 
 Really, now ! " 
 
 Ada shook her head without speaking, in answer to 
 Ellen's question ; but when Molly struck in with inquiries 
 about how she had managed her trick, she was quite will- 
 ing to give her full particulai-s. Gei'ty heard now for the 
 first time how the idea had come to Ada on spying the key 
 in the mysterious door, and how the whole thing had been 
 done so quickly that she had entered the schoolroom just 
 behind M. Bornand. Ada was quite ready to talk of her 
 miserable evening, and her punishment-lesson, as well as 
 the success of her daring act of mischief; and she joined 
 merrily in the laughter at her own expense. But the 
 subject of her confession seemed always a seiious one to 
 her ; she had made it because it was right, she told the girls 
 gravely, when they asked her again why she could not have 
 let Miss Maria believe what Mademoiselle had told her, and 
 gone triumphant and undiscovered to the party. 
 
 " Well ! I can't understand you," said Ellen Murray. 
 " I don't see why on earth you shouldn't have let things 
 alone, when it wasn't you said it was water in the pipes ! 
 You didn't use to be so particular. I'm sure you wouldn't 
 have been so stupid six months ago, as to go and tell on 
 yourself when you could have held your tongue." 
 
 " No, I don't think I would," said Ada softly. " But 
 then, you know, I belong to the Lord Jesus Christ now 
 and that makes all the difference." 
 
 Ada said this as if it were a very simple and natural 
 thing for her to say, but it brought a sudden silence on the 
 little company of girls. Had she taken her stand on lower 
 ground, her words would probably have been received with 
 a shout of laughter; but now, though Janie Leslie's face
 
 A LETTER FROM EGYPT. 147 
 
 expressed disgust, no one, not even Molly, ventured on a 
 giggle. Ada was the first to move. She had given the 
 reason her companions pressed her for, and she saw no 
 need of continuing the conversation. The other girls stood 
 aside to let her pass, and after she was gone the group 
 separated quietly, Janie Leslie and Ellen Murray pairing 
 off together. 
 
 Emily Gordon received a foreign letter in the evening, 
 which kept her in her room till time for prayers ; and 
 every one was going off to bed before Gerty and Ada could 
 find an opportunity of asking how her father was. They 
 joined her as she was leaving the drawing-room, however, 
 and walked with her to the door of her own room ; a piece 
 of politeness which Miss Martyn's girls were fond of show- 
 ing their friends, if they happened to have anything inter- 
 esting to talk about. But Emily Gordon had never been 
 so escorted before, and she felt almost as grateful for the 
 piiblic sign of friendship as for the eager interest Gerty 
 and Ada took in her news from Egypt. Mr. Gordon was 
 better, Emily told the little girls, as they walked one on 
 each side of her through the passages ; decidedly better, 
 and had been able to write a long letter to her — the first 
 real letter she had received from him since he left ; what 
 he had sent her before were only pencilled notes. 
 
 Gerty and Ada both agreed in considering that this 
 showed a remarkable improvement in Mr. Gordon's health ; 
 and Emily, talking over the good news, looked brighter 
 than any one at Miss Martyn's school had ever seen her. 
 But as they stood together at her bedroom door, Emily put 
 her hands on Ada's shoulders and said gravely, " you were 
 a dear, brave girl to say what you did in the schoolroom 
 to-day. I am afraid I would have been coward enough to 
 have kept silent, if such a trial had come to me."
 
 148 PREPARATIONS FOR A CHARADE. 
 
 Ada was very much astonished, and needed some explana- 
 tions before she could understand what Emily meant. But 
 when she found out that she only alluded to the conversa- 
 tion of the forenoon, and not to the far more difficult 
 avowal she had made the night before, she opened her eyes 
 wide, and replied with spirit, " Of course, I couldn't have 
 helped saying it, when they asked me ! I never was afraid 
 of any of the girls ; and neither would you be, if you 
 wouldn't always stay away." 
 
 Emily looked dubious, but she did not contradict Ada. 
 And as the two little friends walked back to their room 
 together, Gerty said, "I'm glad you gave Emily a pitch-into 
 about always keeping by herself ! She wasn't a bit offended, 
 and I hope it will do her good." 
 
 Perhaps it was in consequence of Ada's words — Gerty 
 certainly thought it was — that Emily did at last make an 
 attempt to join in the amusements of her companions. 
 After May Allardyce's party the little girls would not be 
 satisfied until they had acted a charade at school ; and one 
 evening, when Miss Maria was out, Mrs. Martyn was easily 
 persuaded to give her consent, and the whole thing was 
 arranged. The reading aloud was put off altogether that 
 night, the rule which forbade the girls going into each 
 other's rooms was suspended, and the whole house was 
 thrown into disorder with the preparations for the charade. 
 The elder girls, with Fraulein and Mademoiselle, were to 
 be the spectators, and therefore remained quietly in the 
 drawing-room ; while the actors all assembled in Gerty 
 and Ada's room to dress, and discuss the scenes together. 
 
 The character of the fat aunt had been considered too 
 good not to be repeated, and Gerty, with the assistance of 
 Janie and Ada, was attiring herself in a dress and shawl of 
 Mrs. Martyn's, fastened over as many pillows as could be
 
 A STORM OF OPPOSITION. 149 
 
 squeezed in, when Emily Gordon appeared timidly at the 
 door. Gerty was the first to see her, and called her imme- 
 diately to come in. 
 
 " Will you play, Emily]" 
 
 "I should like it very much," said Emily, with sume 
 hesitation. 
 
 "No, no," said Ellen Murray, l-ather roughly; "we've 
 got enough without you. You must go away into the 
 drawing-room — and be quick, for we don't want you to see 
 what we're doing:." 
 
 Emily vanished instantly, but Gerty was by no means 
 inclined to let the matter drop. 
 
 " What nonsense !" said she very angrily. Then making 
 a great effort to control her temper, she went on in a con- 
 ciliatory tone, — " You know she might be a servant — a 
 maid to carry in the aunt's things and get her room ready. 
 It would make it much better ; for, of course, if you are 
 fine ladies you won't want to do that ! Ada, don't you 
 think there ought to be a maid?" 
 
 " A maid is the very thing we need," said Ada ; " and 
 whenever I've put on my aunt's bonnet, I'll go and 
 engage one, and borrow a cap and apron for her from 
 Jane." 
 
 But Gerty and Ada encountered a perfect storm of oppo- 
 sition. Ellen Murray always made a point of objecting to 
 anything that Gerty proposed, and the other girls all joined 
 her in declaring that their fun would be all spoilt if Emily 
 Gordon played. 
 
 " If you are really going to be so unkind and shabby as 
 not to let Emily Gordon play," said Ada at last, " you can 
 act your charade by yourselves. I would be ashamed to 
 have to do with such a thing ! I won't even come to look 
 at it !"
 
 150 HAD ADA ACTED WISELY 1 
 
 " Nor 1," said Gerty, pulling off Mrs. Martyn's things, 
 and tossing the pillows about the room. 
 
 They might do as they pleased, they were told ; they 
 were the most ill-tempered, tyrannical girls that had evei 
 been seen, and the charade would get on as well, even 
 better, without them. Gerty found it hard work to keep 
 from answering in the same style, but she did manage it ; 
 and when Ellen Murray told her, as she was leaving the 
 room, to let them hear again " how nicely she could bang 
 the door," her self-restraint did not even then give way, and 
 she went quietly out. It may be that Ellen Murray, re- 
 membering their former quarrels, thought that Gerty too, 
 as well as Ada, had changed during the last few months; 
 but if she did, it made her all the more inclined to annoy 
 her rival by every means in her power. 
 
 Ada and Gerty found Emily crying quietly, all by her- 
 self, in the schoolroom; and when she found out what they 
 had done, her distress was increased. 
 
 "Oh, why did you come away 1 ?" she asked piteously. 
 " I didn't care very much about playing, but I do cure that 
 you should lose your pleasure for my sake!" 
 
 Gerty sat down beside Emily and tried to comfort her ; 
 but she was quite unsuccessful, and after a little gave up 
 the attempt in despair. 
 
 Poor Gerty was feeling very down-hearted herself, and 
 had the most serious doubts whether Ada and she had 
 acted wisely. She had tried to do right, and she did not 
 in the least regret the sacrifice she had made — only it 
 seemed to her that it had done more harm than good. She 
 knew that the plans for the charade would be all spoilt by 
 her defection and Ada's; the younger girls were angry, and 
 the elder ones would laugh, and the worst of it all was 
 that Emily had only been annoyed by the disturbance
 
 A LITTLE GIKL'S WONDER. 151 
 
 made on her account, and made to understand now better 
 than ever how much she was disliked by her com- 
 panions. Would it not have been better for them all, 
 if Gerty had kept quiet and let things take their own 
 course 1 
 
 When Emily at last dried her tears and began to work 
 at a water-colour picture she was making for the bazaar, 
 Gerty went away to the window, and kneeling clown on 
 the floor, put her head under the blind and looked out. 
 The lights of the city were shining below, and the stars 
 were bright in the frosty sky above, but Gerty's eyes were 
 dim Avith tears, and saw nothing but the darkness. Gerty 
 had read many children's books, and she remembered now 
 instances innumerable of the little heroes and heroines ol 
 these moral tales giving up some expected treat for the 
 sake of another ; but they had always been rewarded after- 
 wards by a blissful sense of happiness, which poor Gerty 
 was far from feeling. And what they did always turned 
 out well ; never, never had any of these well-meaning boys 
 or girls been obliged to fear afterwards that their brave 
 self-denial had been worse than useless. 
 
 Clearly there was no comfort to be got from such examples 
 of virtue, — no help for Gerty to pass through the long, 
 dreary evening which stretched before her to bed-time. 
 She felt almost provoked with Ada, who had paid little 
 attention to Emily and her tears, and was now occupying 
 herself at the other end of the room in practising running 
 leaps over a stool, exactly as if that were the game she had 
 chosen for her evening's amusement. Did Ada not feel 
 that she and Gerty had tried to do good and failed miser- 
 ably 1 ? Had she forgotten that they had expected a happy 
 evening, and been disappointed 1 ? Or perhaps Ada was 
 sustained by that internal sense of well-doing which made
 
 152 TAKING HEART. 
 
 the children in the story-books so happy, and had been 
 able to thank God for helping her to do her duty, 
 without being troubled by any doubts as to whether she 
 had really done it. Tf it were so, it was all the better for 
 Ada ; and whether she had been mistaken or not, doubtless 
 her motives had been pure, and so it was all right with 
 her. But Gerty's motives— what had they been 1 She got 
 quite bewildered when she tried to decide how much she 
 had been influenced by kindness towards Emily Gordon, 
 how much by anger against Ellen Murray. Although she 
 had kept back her angry words, her thoughts had been bad 
 enough ; and even now her whole heart rose up in a stcrm 
 of passion at the thought of what her companions had said 
 and done. Poor Gerty gave herself up in despair at last, 
 and put her head down on her hands. 
 
 " O Lord ! " she prayed earnestly, " Ada and I have 
 been trying to do right to-night, and everything has gone 
 wron" ! Thou knowest how much I did because it was 
 right, and how much because I was angry. Forgive me 
 for what has been wrong — and, O Lord, do help Ada and 
 me to do what is right and best ! " 
 
 Gerty took heart again after that. She dried her eyes 
 and looked up at the shining stars, wondering if the land 
 where there shall be no more sin and no more mistakes 
 was very far above them. And when Ada's voice called 
 her presently, she turned round, tolerably composed, and 
 was even able to smile at her friend reassuringly when the 
 bright face took a look of concern at the sight of her red 
 eyes. Ada was far too considerate to ask questions, espe- 
 cially as they were not alone; and Emily Gordon was busy 
 with her drawing, so the two little girls turned their 
 attention to Ada's gymnastics. 
 
 "Look, Gerty ! I want you to see me jump over that
 
 ADA HAS HER WAY. 153 
 
 stool with the French Dictionary and big Shakespeare on 
 the top." 
 
 There had been no struggle and no doubt in Ada's mind 
 that night, simply because she was quite sure that she and 
 Gerty would have their way before long. For more than 
 two years she had been chief maker and leader of fun 
 and mischief among the younger girls, and she had no fear 
 that her followers would throw off their allegiance now. 
 According to Ada, their submission was a mere question 
 of time; and meanwhile the only virtue she felt herself 
 particularly obliged to exercise was a little quiet patience. 
 Schoolgirl abuse had very little sting for her, and as for 
 Emily Gordon's distress, it was quite unnecessary; for 
 what was the use of crying when everything was goino- to 
 come right so soon? That Gerty, too, should be vexed, 
 was somewhat puzzling; but understanding by instinct 
 that this was not the time for explanations, Ada soon 
 succeeded in interesting her in the amusement she had 
 contrived for herself to pass away the time until the 
 rebellion was over. 
 
 And in due time a deputation arrived, in the shape of 
 Molly Smith. Ada, trying a higher leap than usual, 
 touched the books as she was passing over, and brought 
 the whole pile down with herself on the floor just as the 
 door opened and Molly appeared. Perfectly unhurt, she 
 rose instantly, amidst Gerty's laughter and Emily's excla- 
 mations of horror; then seeing Molly, she became serious 
 all at once, and stood waiting in silent dignity to hear 
 what she had to say. Molly was considerably embarrassed, 
 and stood rubbing her shoulder against the side of the door. 
 ; ' They sent me to tell you— I mean, we all sent me to 
 tell you — I mean, we all want you to come back, for we 
 haven't enough to play."
 
 154 AN IRRESISTIBLE ARGUMENT. 
 
 " If we come back, Emily Gordon comes with us," said 
 Ada firmly. 
 
 " Oh ! well — they bid me say — you might bring Miss 
 Gordon w r ith you." 
 
 " Not me, thank you, Ada ! " said Emily, as Ada seized 
 hold of her. " Oh ! please, Gerty, tell her I would much 
 rather not play ! Indeed — indeed, it would be no pleasure 
 to me." 
 
 " Must we begin the whole thing over again, then 1 " 
 asked Ada, with sudden indignation. " I think you might 
 surely understand by this time that if you don't play 
 neither do we!" 
 
 This argument was irresistible. Emily submitted 
 meekly, and was led off in triumph. Gerty was rather 
 uncertain how their schoolfellows would behave, but was 
 much relieved to find that they had very wisely determined 
 to take no notice of the quarrel, and the three were 
 received as if nothing had happened. This was the more 
 easily done as the preparations for the charade, already too 
 long put off, employed all their energies, and left little 
 time for talking. And, after all, the charade turned out 
 such a brilliant success that every one was put in good 
 humour, and even Emily Gordon, who had looked very sad 
 and uncomfortable at first, began to enjoy the fun in a 
 quiet way. 
 
 But there is no doubt that if Emily had known what 
 she was committing herself to, she would never have pro- 
 posed joining her companions that evening. For night 
 after night, whatever the game might be, Ada insisted on 
 her taking part in it ; and Emily, knowing that the wilful 
 little maiden would certainly fulfil the threat of staying 
 away herself if she resisted, was always obliged to comply. 
 Onlv once or twice, when Gerty saw she was really being
 
 FINDING FRIENDS. 155 
 
 victimised, did she interfere, and persuade Ada, sorely 
 against her will, to let Emily escape. But there is no 
 doubt that Emily's association with her companions did 
 her good, not only in helping to melt away the reserve 
 between them, but in preventing her having time to brood 
 over her own sorrows, and torture herself with imagining 
 future evils. After the first, her playmates treated her 
 with tolerable civility, and sometimes even tried to make 
 themselves agi-eeable; but she never drew much to any of 
 them, except to Gerty and Ada. Gerty especially became 
 her friend ; for though Emily loved and admired Ada, she 
 never quite understood her, and was sometimes shocked 
 and frightened by her wilful moods and daring speeches. 
 
 Gerty did not make up her mind that her conduct had 
 been altogether wise and good, because the kind thing she 
 tried to do turned out well at last ; but she was deeply and 
 truly glad that the first time she had ever really tried to 
 take a stand for the right among her schoolfellows, her 
 attempt had been a success. And in the days that followed 
 she was wonderfully gentle and patient with the melan- 
 choly, home-sick girl, listening to all her confidences, and 
 cheering her in her fits of depression. Miss Maria, who 
 watched her pupils far more closely than they had any idea 
 of, began to observe that when Gerty was not with Ada 
 Godfrey she was generally to be found in Emily Gordon's 
 company — a state of things that struck her as being very 
 curious, and made her wonder much at Gerty's taste in 
 friends.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 STILL ONWARD. 
 
 [ULL November, with its min and fog, had passed 
 away, and was followed by a time of bright 
 frosty weather. The recollection of these sunny 
 days in the end of the year used to come to Gerty after- 
 wards with the thought that sometimes this does seem a 
 very happy world. These memories were of brisk walks 
 through the frosty streets, of busy hours which flew past 
 in school, and of merry romps in the classrooms after tea; 
 but the pleasantest of all were associated with those even- 
 ing times when the day's lessons were all over and the 
 good-nights said. Miss Carr was certainly the most indul- 
 gent guardian possible to Gerty and Ada ; she almost 
 never scolded, at times she would laugh and chatter with 
 them almost on terms of equality, and she even condes- 
 scended so far as to request them to call her by her Chris- 
 tian name. This privilege was much valued, for the big 
 girls at Miss Martyn's were very tenacious of their dignity, 
 and any unlucky child who dared to take liberties with 
 them was sure to be severely snubbed. May Allardyce 
 did not share with Gerty and Ada in the young lady's 
 favour ; indeed, Mary persisted in having as little to do 
 with that troublesome little person as possible. And May 
 was so tired and sleepy after she came to her room at night, 
 that, except a few peevish remarks addressed to Ada, she
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR. 157 
 
 seldom spoke much, and was generally in bed before the 
 others had begun to undress. 
 
 Then, when Mary Carr had taken a book and seated 
 herself to read at the fireside, or gone to pay a visit to 
 Kate M'Kenzie (as she still did pretty often, in spite of 
 the danger connected with these expeditions) — then Gerty 
 and Ada, side by side on the rug, or sometimes curled up 
 on the top of their beds, would enjoy the luxury of a pri- 
 vate talk. Then they related past experiences, telling each 
 other long stories of the time when they were " children ; " 
 or oftener still they would take to building castles in the 
 air, and plan out their future life, " such as they wished it 
 to be." They would always be friends, that was one thing 
 certain, and the five years of school-life which they calcu- 
 lated still lay before them would only make them love each 
 other better. But the time for leaving school would come 
 at last, when they had grown up to be young ladies with 
 long dresses — magnificent creatures, treated as equals by 
 Mademoiselle and Fraulein, and called Miss Stuart and 
 Miss Godfrey by all, except a few intimate friends. It 
 was scarcely possible to conceive such a state of existence, 
 and the two little girls tried to realize it with a wondering 
 curiosity, which was largely mingled, in Gerty's mind at 
 least, with a kind of awe. Nevertheless that time would 
 come, and with it a separation. Ada would go to her 
 father and mother in India, and Gerty would return to 
 Burnside; the parting would be very sad, but they would 
 write each other letters — long letters, almost as good as 
 talks. And then, after a little while, Major Godfrey 
 would leave the army altogether, and bring his wife and 
 daughter to Scotland, where they would settle down in a 
 house near Burnside, and Gerty and Ada would see each 
 other every day. In the course of time they would both
 
 158 THE NIGHTLY BIBLE-HEADING. 
 
 get married; and though their husbands were considered 
 of such secondary importance as to be scarcely worth men- 
 tioning, much trouble was expended in arranging the 
 difficult matter of bridesmaids, as it was unfortunately 
 impossible that each could take the office for the other. 
 After they were married they would visit each other at 
 least four times a year; and their eldest daughters would 
 be called Gerty and Ada, and grow up to be friends, as 
 their mothers had been. 
 
 So they would go on ; Gerty being chief story-teller, and 
 drawing all the outlines — Ada sometimes assisting her to 
 till up her pictures, and oftener still turning the whole 
 thing into a laugh by adding some ridiculous detail. On 
 these occasions Gerty would recover herself first, and say 
 gravely, " But, Ada, I do wish it. You know I really 
 hope it will be like that." 
 
 " So do I," Ada would say, and then laugh again ; " but 
 it does seem so funny to think of us being grown-up ! " 
 
 Then, when it was nearly time for the light to be put 
 out, Mary Carr would come in from the other room, or 
 reluctantly put away the book she was i-eading, and turn 
 her attention to her charges.' Then came the nightly 
 Bible-reading, which was never omitted, though it had 
 sometimes to be finished by the flickering blaze of the fire. 
 And often, when their chapter was done, the three girls 
 would sit together and talk of what they had read — Mary 
 and Ada speaking much more than Gerty, who was always 
 shy about her deepest feelings. But Gerty had grown to 
 like these evening talks, one of which remained fresh in 
 her memory long after her school-days were over for ever. 
 
 They had read earlier than usual that night, for Mary 
 had not left the room ; and now she was sitting with 
 Gerty close beside her, and Ada lying with her head in her
 
 A FAVOURITE STORY. 159 
 
 lap, and her fingers twisting and twining in her long, fair 
 hair. They had just been reading of the raising of Jairus' 
 little daughter, and the beautiful story had struck Ada's 
 fancy, especially after Mary told her she had heard some- 
 where that Talitha was a term of endearment — a pet name 
 for a little girl. 
 
 " A pet name ! O Mary, did Jesus say, ' Rise up, my 
 pet'?" 
 
 " Well, yes — something like that." 
 
 " And the little girl heard his voice, and wakened up 
 with her hand in Christ's, and his face looking down at 
 her ! Oh ! I like that story so much — better even than 
 the one about the children ; for they were such little 
 things, and this was a girl like Gerty and me ! " 
 
 " Twelve years old — just our age," said Gerty. 
 
 " I would have liked to be that little girl who opened 
 her eyes and saw Jesus," Ada went on. " How nice it 
 must have been for her ! " 
 
 All the time she was undressing she went on talking 
 about the story, — wondering if this only daughter had been 
 an only child like herself, or whether she had brothers as 
 Gerty had. And when the gas was out, and every one 
 had been quiet for some time, Ada's voice broke the silence 
 with a remark about the pity it was they did not know 
 the little girl's name. 
 
 Afterwards the story about the child who woke up and 
 saw the face of Christ was always a favourite, and she 
 never tired of reading how the Lord of Glory stood by the 
 bed of a little girl, holding her hand, and speaking to her 
 in the familiar words of human love. And being Ada's 
 favourite story, it became of necessity Gerty's too, and was 
 always associated with the thought of her little friend. 
 
 Poor Ada ! these December days were not very bright
 
 160 EXPECTING A LETTER. 
 
 for her, for the holidays were to bring no change, except 
 the relief from lessons. Her uncle and aunt had gone to 
 Rome for the winter; and her grandmother had become so 
 much of an invalid of late, that she considered herself quite 
 unable to undertake the charge of a child even for a week 
 or two. So Ada had nothing to look forward to but the 
 prospect of a fortnight spent alone with Mrs. Martyn and 
 Miss Maria; for Miss Martyn was in the south of Eng- 
 land, and no other girl but Ada remained at school during 
 the holidays. She was very brave and uncomplaining 
 about it; but when her schoolfellows talked gleefully of 
 their pleasant plans for the holidays, they were sorry for 
 her, and generally only gave vent to their raptures when 
 Ada was out of hearing. Happily for her, she was by no 
 means given to spoil the present by dismal thoughts of the 
 future; but between Gerty and her there were no calcula- 
 tions of the time still to be spent at school, and about the 
 holidays they kept silence altogether. 
 
 " I wish we didn't have to wait till tea-time for our 
 letters," said Gerty one afternoon, as she and Ada sat 
 down to prepare their lessons. " I'm sure there's one for 
 me to-day, and I'd do my work a great deal better if I only 
 had it." 
 
 "Why, Gerty, you're not expecting another letter, 
 surely ? You had one only yesterday." 
 
 " Yes; but mamma promised to write again about some- 
 thing particular — something she couldn't tell me about 
 then. I wish we were in a school where there were no 
 rules!" 
 
 " That would be an exceedingly nice school," said Ada, 
 laughing ; "a very nice school — only not Miss Maria 
 Martyn's!" 
 
 Gerty and Ada had fallen upon the plan of preparing
 
 TROUBLESOME TASKS. 161 
 
 their lessons together, — a plan which worked very well, on 
 the whole, and certainly made study easier and more inter- 
 esting to a lively, restless child like Ada. If repeating to 
 each other what they had to learn by heart took up some 
 time, it certainly fixed their task more securely in their 
 memories; and when it came to translation, two heads and 
 two dictionaries were certainly better than one, and made 
 the work go on much faster. To-day their history-lesson 
 was a long list of dates, and both little girls had pored over 
 their books for some considerable time before Ada at last 
 shut hers with a clap and announced that she was ready. 
 Ada was generally ready first, according todier own account; 
 but it was not very safe to trust to her, and so it was the 
 custom for her to hear Gerty say her lesson before she 
 repeated hers. But this afternoon it was different; for 
 when Gerty handed Ada her book a few minutes after- 
 wards, she got on so badly that she had to give up the 
 attempt. 
 
 " It's that letter, Ada. I can't help thinking about it." 
 
 " Well, but you know, Gerty, William the Conqueror 
 did not begin to reign in eighteen hundred and sixty-six." 
 
 " Oh ! that was a slip — not so bad as some of my other 
 mistakes. I wouldn't lose a place for that. But give me 
 the book, and I'll drill you first; I'll know them better 
 after that." 
 
 " No; please go on just now, Gerty. I like to hear you 
 say things of that sort, and it's not often I have the plea- 
 sure." 
 
 " Give me the history, and let me have the pleasure. I 
 can't say it, and we're only losing time." 
 
 Ada was obliged to give in ; and after Gerty had heard 
 
 her repeat the dates over several times, she tried again 
 
 herself, and this time more successfully. 
 (584: 12
 
 162 A REBUKE FROM GERTY. 
 
 " I don't know them yet," said she, as she laid aside her 
 book ; " but I'll look them over in the morning. Oh ! my 
 letter, my letter!" 
 
 Grammar and French were alike tedious to Gerty that 
 night, and when they came to sums Ada was finished before 
 she had put down half-a-dozen figures. Ada, with a gener- 
 osity which was quite blind to the dishonesty of the act 
 she proposed, suggested that Gerty should copy from her, 
 and as she was very quick at arithmetic, and almost in- 
 variably right in her answers, there would have been little 
 risk in doing so. 
 
 But Gerty was roused into a state of indignant horror. 
 " Surely you don't think I would be such a wretch as 
 that! It would be bad enough to take the good of your 
 work from you, but far worse to make Mr. "Wilson think 
 it was mine!" 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Gerty. I didn't mean to make 
 you angry." 
 
 "I know you wouldn't do it, Ada; but you let Janie 
 Leslie copy all your sums the other day when she asked 
 you, and I don't think it was right of you !" 
 
 Ada made no answer. She was very sensitive to a 
 rebuke from Gerty, but she and most of her companions 
 had the idea that there was no harm in copying from a 
 person whose leave was first granted. She considered the 
 answers to her sums as her own private property, which it 
 would be stealing for any one to take without her permis- 
 sion, but which she had quite a right to give away if she 
 chose. Now that the whole affair had been presented to 
 her in a new light, she sat thinking over it in silence, 
 while Gerty finished her sums in hot haste, having for- 
 gotten her letter for the time being. 
 
 The last sum came to an end as the tea-bell rung. Gerty
 
 THE LETTEK AT LAST. 163 
 
 tumbled her books into her desk and went to the dining- 
 room with Ada. As they left the schoolroom she gave her 
 hand a squeeze, as a sort of apology for the heat of her 
 words ; and as such Ada understood it, for she asked 
 immediately, — 
 
 " Are you sure it would have been wrong to do it ?" 
 " Quite sure," said Gerty emphatically. "As bad, and 
 a great deal worse, than if you had let Miss Maria think 
 there was something wrong with the gas-pipes." 
 
 Gerty's hopes were not disappointed, for a letter, ad- 
 dressed in her mother's handwriting, was lying beside her 
 plate. Contrary to her usual custom, Gerty made no at- 
 tempt to open it under the table, so as to get a peep at the 
 contents while tea was going on. It was consigned imme- 
 diately to her pocket; but Geiiy had very little appetite 
 that night, and as soon as the girls had left the dining- 
 room she rushed off to her own room and shut herself in. 
 Ada, who had been perfectly conscious of Gerty's suppressed 
 excitement during tea-time, was perhaps a little hurt that 
 she had not been taken into confidence, although she had 
 no doubt that Gerty's anxiety was all about some of these 
 holiday pleasures which were never mentioned before her. 
 Feeling rather forlorn, Ada wandered away from the other 
 girls; and when Gerty came to seek her a few minutes 
 after, she found her all alone in the Blue Room, playing 
 snatches of tunes on the piano. 
 
 Ada did not turn round or stop her music; and Gerty, 
 standing silently behind her, kept time with her hand on 
 the back of the chair for a minute. 
 
 " Ada, are you going to your Aunt Laura's for Christ- 
 mas?" 
 
 Ada went on playing; but when her answer came, it 
 was with something more like a sob than a lausrh
 
 164 A DELIGHTFUL SURPRISE. 
 
 "It would be rather too long a journey, don't you 
 think ? " 
 
 " But she might como home." 
 
 " Yes ; when Uncle Fred's picture is finished, she will 
 come home. But that won't be for months and months." 
 
 " Will you go to your grandmamma's, then?" 
 
 " Grandmamma doesn't want me." 
 
 Ada gave up her song tunes, and beginning to play one 
 of her school pieces, became too much occupied with the 
 chords and runs to be able to talk till it was finished. 
 When it came to an end at last with a triumphant crash, 
 Ada made a pause, with her fingers still on the piano, and 
 asked how Gerty liked her last new piece. 
 
 " Well enough, I suppose. I wasn't listening," said 
 Gerty, rather impatiently. Then putting her own hands 
 over Ada's to prevent her again making the piano interrupt 
 their conversation, she said rapidly, — " Ada, I wrote to 
 mamma a while ago to ask her something. And she said 
 I might ; but she would write to Miss Maria, and I'd 
 better not say anything about it. And so she wrote to 
 Miss Maria, and Miss Maria said ' yes ; ' and mamma has 
 written to me that she said ' yes ; ' and so — you're not to 
 play, Ada — it only remains with you." 
 
 "With me!" said Ada, who had no idea what Gerty's 
 rather confused speech was tending to. " With me, 
 Gerty !" 
 
 " Yes — yes — yes — with you. Oh ! dear Ada — will you 
 come to Burnside for the holidays 1 " 
 
 Ada turned in an instant, with that sudden flush in her 
 cheeks which made her look so pretty. And Gerty, putting 
 her arms round her, read her answer in her eyes.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A VERY PLEASANT PART OF THE WAY. 
 
 ERTY did not fail to exhort Ada to be very good 
 during the time they had still to remain at 
 school, in case Miss Maria might find an excuse 
 to interfere, and forbid her going to Burnside. The thought 
 that Miss Maria was very well pleased to enjoy her holi- 
 days in peace, undisturbed by any of her pupils, would 
 have seemed very strange to Gerty, who imagined it must 
 be a real grief to her to spend even a fortnight without 
 some one to lecture and instruct. She had not yet got 
 over the childish impression that giving holidays at all is a 
 bitter thing to teachers, — a concession unwillingly wrung 
 from them, and therefore all the more precious to their 
 scholars. Ada used to laugh at Gerty's fears for her; but 
 there was no doubt that she also shared them in a measure, 
 and both little girls felt they would not be safe till they 
 were really in the train, steaming away from the city and 
 Miss Martyn's school. 
 
 The bazaar which the girls had been preparing for so 
 busily came off on the last Saturday before the holidays. 
 All the evening and most of the morning before, they were 
 occupied in decorating the schoolroom with evergreens, and 
 arranging the tables as effectively as possible; and at two 
 o'clock the bazaar was, as the girls said, open, and the 
 visitors began to arrive.
 
 106 THE UAZAAK. 
 
 They were all relations and friends of Miss Martyn aim 
 her pupils, and the assembly was a very merry one. Mucli 
 interest was excited by May Allardyce's pretty mother, 
 who came early and remained late, chatting gaily with the 
 girls, and making many purchases of the most varied kind. 
 May hung to her dress the whole time, and told stories 
 about her companions in a shrill high-pitched voice which 
 made them audible to all around; but she had the grace to 
 introduce Ada as a girl who helped her with her buttons, 
 and Ada took advantage of the opportunity to make Mrs. 
 Allardyce biiy Kate M'Kenzie's famous cushion. The 
 Murrays' mother and elder sister also appeai'ed, and were 
 very loud in their praises of everything, from the ever- 
 greens on the wall to the manners of the young ladies; but 
 they did not buy much after all, and were in every way a 
 contrast to Emily Gordon's aunt, who Avas dressed with 
 almost Quaker simplicity, talked in a low voice of the 
 Kaffir schools for whose benefit the bazaar was intended, 
 and spent a good deal of money entirely on such things as 
 seemed unlikely to find another purchaser. 
 
 Gerty, who was perfectly aware that nothing but her 
 mother's excessive indulgence to herself would have made 
 her consent to introduce into her peaceful household a crea- 
 ture reported to be so dangerous as Ada, was very anxious 
 that her friend should produce a favourable impression on 
 her this afternoon. But she was relieved to find that the 
 two seemed to understand each other from the very first; 
 and Ada took it as a matter of course that she should take 
 charge of Mrs. Stuart when her daughter could not be 
 with her. She fetched her a chair from the Blue Boom, 
 which Gerty had never thought of doing, though all the 
 other seats were occupied; and after she was placed com- 
 fortably near the fire, Ada stood beside her and talked
 
 CAN IT BE TliUE'l 167 
 
 without the least shyness all the time Gerty was acting as 
 assistant to Miss Carr at her table. When Gerty came to 
 take her place and send Ada away to be saleswoman in her 
 turn, she found her mother's opinion of her friend was 
 almost as high as she could have wished. 
 
 " You see, mamma," said Gerty, " of course I could 
 only tell you about the rows we got into, because that is all 
 there is to make a story about. But I knew well enough 
 you didn't know what like Ada was. She isn't a bit 
 like me." 
 
 " No, she is certainly not like you," said Mrs. Stuart, 
 smiling ; but immediately afterwards she looked grave as 
 she was watching Ada, and Gerty wondered what she was 
 thinking about. She forgot all about it, however, when her 
 mother proposed that the little girls should return with 
 her to Burnside that afternoon, as she did not like to think 
 of their travelling alone on Tuesday. And, strange to say, 
 Miss Maria made no objection to the plan when she under- 
 stood that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Stuart could come for 
 them next week; so it was arranged immediately, and 
 nothing was wanting to complete Gerty' s satisfaction. 
 
 The bazaar was not yet over, but all interest in it was 
 gone for Gerty and Ada, who rushed to their room to get 
 their packing done as fast as possible. 
 
 Gerty had some hopes that they would be able to escape 
 without seeing Miss Maria again, but they were scarcely 
 ready when Jane appeared to summon them to the drawing- 
 room, where they found Mrs. Stuart engaged in a private 
 talk with Mrs. Martyn and her daughter. Miss Maria 
 took leave of the children kindly enough, and even ex 
 pressed a hope that they would enjoy their holidays ; but 
 when she sent Ada back to her room to put on a veil in 
 case she might catch cold, Gerty was seized with a sudden
 
 168 THE JOURXEY TO BURNSIDE. 
 
 horror lest anxiety for her health might serve as a pretext 
 for detaining her. Leaving her mother explaining that 
 they would drive from the station to Burnside in a close 
 carriage, she hurried into the passage to wait for Ada, and 
 prevent her running the risk of entering the drawing-room 
 again. All the way down stairs she clutched her fast, lest 
 some evil spirit should prompt her to slide down the 
 balusters, or again interfere with the gas. But they 
 reached the hall-door in safety, and were presently followed 
 by Mrs. Stuart, without Miss Maria, who seemed to have 
 made no effort to recapture her prisoners. 
 
 The journey to Burnside was speedily and satisfactorily 
 accomplished, but Gerty could scarcely think herself safe 
 even when her father lifted her out of the carriage at their 
 own familiar station, and she received an ecstatic welcome 
 from two little boys and a long-haired terrier waiting for 
 her on the platform. It was almost too good to be true 
 that she and Ada had really escaped from school, and were 
 together in the home-world where Miss Maria's voice was 
 never heard. She hugged her brothers and Skye in a 
 bewildered way ; and when they were all packed into the 
 carriage for the short drive through the gathering darkness, 
 she was almost afraid she would awake and find all her 
 happiness was only a dream.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 SMOOTH PLACES FOR EMILY GORDON. 
 
 T would take too long to tell how the two little 
 girls spent their holidays at Burnside, where 
 they were as happy as it was possible for two 
 little girls to be. Besides, it is with Gerty and Ada's 
 school-days we have to do, and so we must pass over that 
 delightful fortnight, — merely telling how it slipped away 
 only too quickly, and the morning on which they were to 
 return to Miss Martyn's came at last. The little girls went 
 away bravely, trying hard to be glad that their holidays 
 had been so pleasant, instead of grumbling because they 
 were over; but there is no doubt they retunied to school 
 somewhat heavy-hearted. 
 
 One great consolation there was in the fact that Ada's 
 knowledge of her friend's home was no longer by hearsay, 
 and Gerty could have the pleasure of talking about Burnside 
 to one who had been there, and cherished the most affec- 
 tionate remembrance of that dear house and its inmates. 
 Gerty and Ada used to tell stories about their holidays 
 every night to Mary Carr for weeks after ; and she bore 
 the infliction very patiently, even when the same incident 
 was sometimes related to her several times. But, after all, 
 their greatest satisfaction was in their talks with each 
 other — talks which went on at intervals during the day 
 though they were longest and pleasantest at night,
 
 170 GKRTi-'s WISH. 
 
 Nevertheless Gerty and Ada did by no means exhaust 
 all their energies in talking about Burnside ; they had 
 other and more serious work to do, and they set about it 
 earnestly. From Christmas to Easter was generally the 
 busiest time at Miss Martyn's school, and the marking for 
 the prizes began after the holidays. Ada, who had come 
 back from Burnside looking better and stronger than she 
 had done for months, took tip her lessons with more spirit 
 than Gerty had ever seen her do before. As for Gerty, 
 she was as much interested and excited about her studies 
 as if the prize-giving time was near already. She marked 
 the whole class in a note-book for herself, carefully adding 
 up the results at the end of every week, so that no mistake 
 could possibly be made. Her great wish was that she and 
 Ada should stand highest in their class that year, and the 
 renewed attention Ada was giving to her lessons made 
 Gerty's hopes very bright. In spite of the plan of studying 
 with Gerty, Ada had often been weary and languid in her 
 efforts before Christ mas ; but Gerty thought with delight 
 that lately she had not even once complained of a headache 
 in the afternoon, and her lessons seemed to go on smoothly. 
 
 One Friday night, the second week after they had gone 
 back to school, Gerty and Ada were together in one of the 
 smaller classrooms, where Gerty had escaped to count up 
 her marks in silence and solitude. Ada had followed to 
 enlist her for a game of Proverbs, and was waiting rather 
 impatiently until Gerty's business had come to a conclusion 
 and she was ready to join the other girls. There was not 
 much counting to be done, but Gerty went over it again 
 and again, to be certain she was right, before she shut up 
 the book at last, and exultantly told Ada to guess what 
 the result of her calculations was. 
 
 " You're first, I hope," said Ada, rather carelessly.
 
 THE T1RES0MK LESSONS.. 171 
 
 " I'm first, and yoii're second ; Ellen Murray's third." 
 
 " O poor Ellen ! " said Ada, in a tone of such unaffected 
 pity that Gerty's triumph was somewhat abated. 
 
 " I don't see any reason why you should be sorry for 
 her." 
 
 " Only that it seems such a pity, when she cares so 
 much about it, and I don't care at all ! " 
 
 Gerty bit her lip with vexation. " Then I suppose you'll 
 try and do as ill as you can next week, and be lowest in 
 the whole class — for I can tell you a great many care 
 about their places besides Ellen Murray." 
 
 " Oh no ! I won't do that," said Ada, laughing. " But, 
 Gerty, it's only these composition exercises that have made 
 Ellen so low this week; she 'ill be above me again, and 
 very likely some of the others too. Only she will care 
 about being down, even for a week; so you won't tell her, 
 will you, Gerty 1 And I would rather you wouldn't tell 
 me about the marks either." 
 
 "But, Ada, you ought to care." 
 
 " Perhaps I ought, but I don't know — I can't help it. 
 It's quite different with you and some of the others, because 
 you like your lessons as well as trying for the prizes. But 
 I don't care about being first — not a bit; and lessons are 
 always tiresome to me." 
 
 "Well; but you know it's right to do your lessons and 
 work at them — hard too ! " 
 
 "I know, I know. And I do try, — I do indeed, — 
 but they worry me and make me tired; only not so much 
 since we came from Burnside, and your doing lessons with 
 me makes it easier. But I can't like them even yet; and 
 often, especially at night when I'm lying awake, and 
 remember all that has to be done in the day-time, it's so 
 nice to think there shall be no lessons in heaven!"
 
 172 SADDENED AND PERPLEXED. 
 
 "It doesn't say that in the Bible," said Gerty, rather 
 scandalized. 
 
 "No ; but it's true for all that." 
 
 " Well, if it is, I'll be rather sorry." 
 
 Gerty spoke rather from her present mortification and 
 disappointment than from any opinion she had formed 
 about a subject that had never occurred to her before, but 
 Ada was a good deal taken aback by her unsympathizing 
 incredulity. She looked saddened and perplexed for a 
 minute, while Gerty sat somewhat sulkily, scribbling with 
 a pencil on the back of her note-book. 
 
 " But it is true — at least for me," said Ada, brightening 
 up at last. " For there's a text in the Bible says there 
 shall be no more sorrow and no more crying; and I'm sui'e 
 lessons are a sorrow to me, and sometimes — especially the 
 punishment ones — a crying too ! " 
 
 Ada finished up with a laugh at herself and her troubles, 
 which was so merry that Gerty could not help joining in 
 it. She said nothing more to Ada then ; but she was very 
 unwilling to give up her pet scheme, even when time 
 showed that Ada had judged her own abilities and Ellen 
 Murray's correctly. Gerty restrained herself from telling 
 Ellen how the marks stood ; indeed, she tried to make herself 
 particularly agreeable to her during the week that followed ; 
 but the way that her civilities were received convinced her 
 that, whether her rival also kept a private register or not, 
 she was perfectly aware of the state of matters. 
 
 Emidation is apt to be very eager in a school where 
 prizes are given, but it is doubtful whether any system 
 could prevent the temptation of ambition to a nature like 
 Gerty's. But this little girl, who was beginning to learn 
 that there are better things to be won than school honours, 
 tried hard not to give in to the jealous dislike of her rival
 
 A.V ATMOSPHERE OF DEPRESSION. 173 
 
 and the passionate desire to be first which had gained 
 complete possession of her the year before. Sometimes it 
 seemed as if her struggles were perfectly unsuccessful, and 
 the old feelings were all as strong as ever. She feared 
 very much that it was so on this night of her talk with 
 Ada; and afterwards she paid less attention to her book 
 of marks, and tried hard not to think so much about the 
 prizes. Perhaps, after Gerty's first irritation was past, she 
 over-rated the merit of Ada's feelings towards her com- 
 panions, not understanding that her friend's temptations 
 and trials in this difficult matter of lessons lay quite in an 
 opposite direction from her own. She astonished Ada by 
 telling her that she had given her a rebuke, — a piece of 
 information which was received with some amusement, 
 Ada saying that she thought she was the one who had 
 been scolded. 
 
 Things in general were not very bright at Miss Mai-tyn's 
 school just then, for a long time of stormy weather, which 
 confined the girls almost constantly to the house, was sorely 
 trying to their temper and spirits. Colds, in various degrees 
 of severity, were abundant. Miss Maria herself had a touch 
 of influenza; May Allardyce took to bed for several days; 
 and Maggie Murray with a swollen face and sore throat 
 was so savage to every one, especially her sister, that it 
 was fervently wished she also would confine herself to her 
 room for a time. Gerty and Ada were among the few that 
 kept tolerably well ; being cheerful was out of the question, 
 when the general atmosphere of depression made even Mary 
 Carr cross and Nettie Cathcart silent. 
 
 Mrs. Martyn used to look sadly over the tea-cups at the 
 vacant places round the table, and was nearly affected to 
 tears one evening when she counted six absentees. Gerty 
 thought Emily Gordon ought to have been away too, for
 
 174 MAY AND HER WISHES. 
 
 she had been coughing and shivering in the schoolroom all 
 afternoon, though nothing would persuade her to go to bed 
 and leave her lessons. She had got a letter now, Gerty 
 observed with satisfaction, and it was to be hoped it would 
 do her good, for it evidently came from abroad, and must 
 bring news of her father. Emily would never have at- 
 tempted to read it under the table, as the other girls con- 
 stantly did in similar circumstances, but her wistful looks 
 attracted the attention of Mrs. Martyn, who said kindly, 
 " Open your letter, my dear; we'll excuse you this once. 
 We know you are anxious for news." 
 
 Ada came running in just then, undeniably late and 
 liable to punishment; but Miss Maria was not present, and 
 Mrs. Martyn received her apologies with a smile. Did she 
 think there was anything poor little May would care for ? 
 was all that was said to Ada. Yes, May had expressed some 
 wishes — marmalade, she would like, and little biscuits; and 
 if Mrs. Martyn had any sponge-cake, she thought she could 
 eat a pretty big piece. 
 
 " Your baby seems to be recovering, Ada," observed 
 Miss M'Kenzie. 
 
 "Which is the coolest — message or messenger]" Nettie 
 Cathcart asked Mary Carr, loud enough to be heard all over 
 the table. 
 
 May was quite right to tell what she wanted, and Ada 
 was right too, Mrs. Martyn said. And she stopped pouring 
 out the tea, to give Jane the keys and send her off for the 
 good things which had been mentioned, remarking that 
 she thought they might all enjoy a piece of cake that night ; 
 a suggestion that was highly approved of. " We have none 
 of us been very well lately," said Mrs. Martyn, looking 
 affectionately round the group of laughing girls, who wei*e 
 ;:!! thinking how nice it was when Miss Maria did not
 
 SPITEFUL SPEECHES. 175 
 
 come to tea, — "and when people are not well, they take 
 fancies for things." 
 
 "I feel quite well," said Gerty in an aside to Ada, "but 
 I have a fancy for cake." 
 
 " Your friend Miss Gordon would be shocked at you," 
 said Janie Leslie. " I'm sure she thinks it more pious to 
 eat bread than cake, and I only wonder she doesn't think 
 it wrong to take butter ! " 
 
 " Yes, so many poor people have no bread at all," said 
 Ellen Murray in a sort of dolorous whine. 
 
 'Mrs. Martyn and Miss Framm were talking to each 
 other at one end of the table, and Mademoiselle at the other 
 was surrounded by the elder girls, so Janie and Ellen were 
 perfectly free to exchange remarks on Emily's supposed 
 opinions without being overheard by any but their com- 
 panions. Many a time before had poor Emily been com- 
 pelled to hear herself discussed by the girls around her, 
 who did not even lower their voices, and indeed had every 
 intention that she should have the benefit of their conversa- 
 tion. But of late this most annoying method of attack 
 had been almost entirely given up, and Gerty, who had had 
 some experience of such teasing herself during her early 
 days at school, was excessively indignant to see it renewed 
 again to-night with as much spirit as ever. Her only 
 comfort was that Emily seemed so much absorbed in her 
 letter as to be unconscious of the silly, spiteful speeches 
 and pointless jokes which were passing from one to another 
 around her. 
 
 " It's almost as wicked to like nice things to eat as to 
 like nice things to wear, I suppose." 
 
 " Yes, of course. Do you see what an awfully long 
 letter she's got? Her mamma's tolling her all about her 
 spring dresses."
 
 176 WIT AT THE TEA-TABLE. 
 
 Ellen craned her neck over the table, and pretended to 
 read from the back of Emily's letter : — " ' My dearest child,' 
 — no, ' my beloved child — my beloved child, I hear that 
 dresses in Scotland are worn bunchy at the back ; therefore 
 you must get yours bunchy in front. They are far more 
 religious that way. Don't on any account get a hat, as 
 I'm going to bring you an Egyptian turban.' " 
 
 This last piece of wit was received with a great deal of 
 laughter, in which even some of the elder girls joined : 
 and Molly Smith, seated beside Emily, was nearly choking 
 with amusement. Ellen Murray leaned back in her chair 
 with an air of satisfaction, and informed her admirers that 
 was exactly the sort of thing Mrs. Gordon wrote to her 
 daughter. 
 
 " But heathens wear turbans — she wouldn't want her to 
 We like heathens! " suggested some one. 
 
 " You stupid girl ! don't you know it doesn't matter 
 ■who she's like, if she's not like common, ordinary people? 
 Besides, the people in the Bible wore turbans." 
 
 " You think you're funny, but you're not," said Gerty, 
 glaring at Ellen over her tea-cup. 
 
 After all, there were decided disadvantages connected 
 with Miss Maria's absence, and Gerty was beginning to 
 get almost angry with Mrs. Mai-tyn, sitting so placidly 
 behind the tea-kettle, and thinking no evil. Miss Maria 
 was never so much interested in anything as to forget to 
 watch the behaviour of her pupils; and this witty con- 
 versation, with its accompanying giggles, could not possibly 
 have gone on under her eyes. But there was no hope of 
 help from Mother Hubbard. 
 
 On former occasions Ada had sometimes succeeded in 
 setting things to rights, generally by skilfully turning the 
 conversation ; but to-night she did not interfere at all.
 
 CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN. 177 
 
 She was watching Emily's face for a look which might tell 
 her something of the contents of the letter she was reading 
 so slowly, and Ellen Murray and her amiable remarks 
 were unnoticed by her. The gauntlet which Gerty had 
 thrown down was not taken up by Ellen, who knew that, 
 by continuing her attack on Emily, she annoyed her rival 
 much more than if she had turned on her, and had what 
 Gerty would have called a "fair fight." 
 
 It was Emily herself who brought silence and dismay on 
 her tormentors — Emily, who looked up on a sudden with 
 quivering lips, and a bewildered look in her eyes ; then 
 rose without a word to any one, and left the room sobbing. 
 She was usually so quiet and gentle, that eveiy one stared 
 in surprise, and Ellen Murray and company looked horrified 
 and conscience-stiicken. 
 
 " Poor Miss Gordon ! — poor, poor girl ! She's got bad 
 news, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Martyn, in compassionate 
 tones. 
 
 The girls were all frightened into quietness, till, after a 
 minute, Maggie Mux-ray suggested, " Perhaps they didn't 
 write to her on black-edged paper so as not to frighten her 
 at first, you know." There was a general cry of " Hush !" 
 the reason of which Miss Murray could by no means under- 
 stand. Except Mrs. Martyn, who talked in a low voice to 
 Miss Framm about the Gordon family, no one said another 
 word about Emily or her affairs. Tea was finished in 
 almost complete silence, most of the girls feeling uncom- 
 fortable enough. 
 
 " It's something in her letter. It's sure to be something 
 in her letter," Janie Leslie kept repeating uneasily, when 
 they had gone back to the schoolroom. The girls who had 
 laughed at tea-time were all inclined to be ashamed of them- 
 selves, and showed their penitence by blaming Ellen and 
 
 (584) 12
 
 178 THE TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 Janie severely. Mary Carr poured forth a torient of in 
 dignation on the subject of their heartlessness and vulgarity, 
 and declared that she was never so much inclined to appeal 
 to Miss Maria; and would do it, too, if she heard another 
 unkind word about Emily Gordon. Ellen took her lecture 
 very sulkily, but Janie Leslie was cowed and frightened, 
 and Miss Carr's own conscience was somewhat quieter. 
 She had listened to the talk at tea-time with contemptuous 
 amusement, but she was perfectly aware that then, and 
 often before, she, who knew more of Emily Gordon than 
 most of the others did, should have had something to say 
 on her behalf. To be sure, she had often laughed at Emily 
 herself in days gone by; but then it was one of Mary's 
 favourite boasts that, when once convinced she was wrong, 
 she was ready to acknowledge her mistake immediately. 
 And it was some time now since she had found reason to 
 regret that she had ever sneered at Emily Gordon. 
 
 Gerty and Ada had separated from the others as they 
 left the dining-room, and went upstairs together slowly 
 and gravely. Gerty felt she could scarcely trust herself 
 in Ellen MuiTay's company just then, and May Allardyce 
 was almost as intolerable; so she stood still at the top of 
 the staircase and leaned her arms on the railing. Ada, 
 a few steps lower, stopped too, and Gerty asked abruptly, — 
 
 "Ada, what do you think's the matter with Emily 1 ?" 
 
 "I don't know; I wish I did. And we can't go to her, 
 Gerty, for Mother Hubbai'd is with her." 
 
 " I hope," said Gerty, doubtfully, " I hope her father 
 isn't worse." She bit her lip, and began rubbing her hand 
 np and down the railing, feeling almost ready to cry. 
 
 " It can't be that, Gerty, because you know we have 
 been asking God to make him well." 
 
 "Yes, we have," said Gerfey, a good deal relieved; "J
 
 THE STORY OF CHRISTIAN. 179 
 
 don't think it can be that. But I'd like to know what it 
 really is, for she wasn't listening to the girls." 
 
 But Ada had no more idea than Gerty what Emily's 
 trouble could be, and the conference was brought to an 
 end by a shrill voice calling for Ada. Gerty followed her 
 into their room, where they found May sitting up in bed, 
 wrapped in a blue flannel dressing-gown, and ready to 
 greet them with her favourite adjective, "You nasty Ada! 
 You've left me alone so long, and you knew I was wanting 
 a story !" 
 
 Oh how slowly the next half-hour passed, while Gerty 
 sat waiting for Mrs. Martyn to return from Emily's room ! 
 The room was very quiet, for Ada, on the floor beside May's 
 bed, was telling the story of the "Pilgrim's Progress," 
 and for once her troublesome baby was silent and content 
 Gerty paid a sort of half attention, secretly wondering a 
 little what May would say if she knew she was listening to 
 a. Sunday story, but waiting too intently for the sound of 
 footsteps to give much heed to anything else. For a long 
 time she heard nothing but the sound of Ada's voice, as 
 she went on with the tale in her rapid, fluent way, never 
 once having to pause for a word. Gerty had left the door 
 a little bit open to listen, and every now and then she 
 went out into the passage and came back again restlessly, 
 wondering why Mrs. Martyn remained so long with Emily. 
 It was not till Christian had been brought safely in at the 
 Wicket Gate, and Gerty's patience was nearly worn out, 
 that some one came along the passage with quick, ligh 
 footsteps, which were certainly not Mother Hubbard's, and 
 tapped at the bedroom door. 
 
 "0 Emily! we were expecting Mrs. Martyn, and it's 
 you!" said Gerty rather awkwardly. 
 
 But sensitive as Emily was, she knew her Mend too
 
 180 GOOD NEWS. 
 
 I 
 
 well to be at all hurt by this peculiar welcome, and the 
 violent squeeze Gerty gave her hand was an intelligible 
 sign of sympathy. 
 
 " Mrs. Martyn allowed me to come to you for a little," 
 said Emily. " I may come into your room, and stay till it 
 is time for reading, if you like." 
 
 Of course they liked. Ada had made a spring from the 
 floor, and stood looking at Emily with bright, expectant 
 eyes; while Gerty shut the door and put herself against 
 it, as if determined to keep out all intruders. There were 
 still tears on Emily's dark eyelashes, but her lips were 
 smiling, and there was a tone of gladness in her voice that 
 reassured her friends. 
 
 " I am afraid you thought I was sad, when I have only 
 had good news," said she gently. "I think tears of joy 
 come faster than other tears. I couldn't cry at all when 
 
 papa and mamma went away. But now " Her voice 
 
 quivered, and Gerty and Ada, coming nearer, each took 
 one of her hands. 
 
 "Then, Emily, your father is better?" 
 
 " So much better that he and mamma are coming home. 
 They will be in England at Easter, and the children and I 
 are to meet them there. We will be all together again. 
 God has been very good to us." 
 
 For once, it was not Ada but Gerty who spoke first, her 
 own eyes filled with tears, and her voice unsteady, as she 
 told her friend how glad she was. Ada had her head down 
 on Emily's shoulder, and her face hidden. She did not say 
 anything at all for a little, and her silence brought a sudden 
 thought to Emily and Gerty that the time of her separation 
 from her parents had still to be counted by years. Emily 
 felt almost selfish in her own great happiness; and Gerty, 
 who had never known what it was to spend a month with-
 
 AN ANNOYING INTERRUPTION. 181 
 
 out seeing her mother, thought, with a sort of horror, of 
 the fate of the little girl left for long years at school, grow- 
 ing wp a stranger to those who loved her best. But it was 
 only a minute before Ada looked up brightly. " It's very 
 nice, Emily. Gerty and I have been wishing for this so 
 much." 
 
 Then she turned away quickly and went to May, who 
 was not in the least intei'ested in the state of Mr. Gordon's 
 health, and was only indignant at being left unnoticed so 
 long. And Emily, sitting down with Gerty, began to tell 
 the arrangements for the family reunion in some warm 
 place in the south of England; while Gerty listened with 
 an interest that was very keen, though the only way she 
 manifested it was by repeating at intervals the single and 
 not particularly original remark, that she was " very 
 glad." 
 
 " But, Ada, when Christian got in at the Wicked Gate, 
 what sort of a road did he find? "Was it nasty 1 ?" 
 
 May's question made rather an annoying interruption in 
 the conversation; but Ada, who knew there would be no 
 peace for any one till her curiosity was satisfied, answered 
 immediately, — 
 
 " Sometimes it was, but not always. Sometimes he 
 found it difficult to get on at all; but then there were 
 other parts where the road was very smooth — all among 
 grass and lilies — very nice places." 
 
 And Gerty, to whom the beautiful allegory was some- 
 thing more than a fairy tale, looked up quickly, and meet- 
 ing Emily's glance, knew that the same thought had struck 
 them both. Ada seemed entirely engrossed in rather un- 
 successful attempts to make May's tumbled clothes smooth 
 and comfortable; and the blankets were all tucked in with 
 great trouble if not skill, before she added, —
 
 182 NOTHING BUT SYMPATHY. 
 
 "And then in the Celestial City, at the end of the road 
 it was all nice !" 
 
 " You'll tell me more to-morrow," said May; " and if you 
 read any other stories when you were at Burnside, you 
 must tell me them all. I wish you would take that nasty 
 girl out of my room now, for I'm sleepy." 
 
 Emily Gordon's path that night was smoother than Gerty 
 could have believed possible. Mrs. Martyn did not fail to 
 inform the girls what news her letter had brought her; 
 and Emily's affairs had been very fully and freely discussed 
 before she appeared in the drawing-room. Many of her 
 companions had known very little of her history before, 
 and almost none of them had realized her troubles in the 
 midst of the general impression that Emily was low-spirited 
 and peculiar, and decidedly given to be righteous over- 
 much. There were parties and divisions enough among 
 Miss Martyn's schoolgirls, but there were times when 
 they seemed animated by one spiiit, and to-night there was 
 nothing but sympathy for Emily Gordon. Even Ellen 
 Murray was secretly remorseful on hearing the story of 
 Mr. Gordon's illness, which was new, at least, to her; and 
 Janie Leslie would have expressed a kindly interest in it, 
 if her first attempt to do so had not been severely snubbed 
 by the elder girls. 
 
 They were all assembled in the drawing-room, waiting 
 for Mademoiselle to commence the evening reading, when 
 Emily Gordon entered with Gerty. Mary Carr rose im- 
 mediately and kissed her, saying warmly how glad she was 
 that her father was better. One by one they followed her 
 example, all of them speaking kindly, some with tears in 
 their eyes. It was the first time that Emily sat down with 
 her assembled schoolfellows with the feeling that they were 
 friends as well as companions; but she found a place for
 
 A WISH REALIZED. 183 
 
 herself beside Gerty and Ada, who were bound to her by a 
 closer tie. And among the girls that rejoiced that night 
 in the joy of another, the two who were happiest for 
 Emily's sake did not forget to thank God, who had re- 
 membered their friend in her trouble, and in his own 
 great goodness and mercy given her the wish of her heart.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE LITTLE FRIENDS ARE PARTED FOK A WHILE. 
 
 SjHE reaction which had set in towards Emily 
 Gordon in the feelings of her companions was 
 very strong, and the effects of it never wore off. 
 The girls began henceforth to consider her one of them- 
 selves ; she was no longer Miss Gordon, but Emily, and 
 the objectionable title of Saint Emilia, first coined by 
 Nettie Cathcart, and eagerly adopted by some of the 
 younger girls, fell into complete disuse. Perhaps it 
 would be too much to say she ever became popular. Her 
 gentle goodness had its own influence, but she was far too 
 timid and quiet to gain the power over her schoolfellows 
 which Ada possessed as pet and princess; she never even 
 gained the standing Gerty took among them in after-years, 
 when the first prejudice against her had long ago given 
 way to respect and affection. Yet it became the fashion 
 at Miss Martjm's to treat Emily Gordon politely; and as 
 time went on, many a girl learned to admire the humility 
 which never spoke harshly of others, and the unselfish 
 kindness which was ever ready to help any one in trouble. 
 The anxiety to atone for past unkindness was very great 
 for several days after Emily's sudden emotion had given 
 her companions a glimpse of her real feelings, and this was 
 very distinctly shown the first day that the state of the 
 tveather allowed the girls to go out again for a forenoon
 
 A WALK IN PROSPECT. 185 
 
 walk. Colds and coughs had been gradually disappearing; 
 the bright morning had put every one in good spirits, and 
 tempted Mrs. Martyn to break up the school-work an hour 
 earlier, to give time for a longer walk. 
 
 Mademoiselle was generally the last to be ready, and 
 while waiting for her in the hall the girls used to settle 
 who their companions would be — a matter which was sup- 
 posed to be arranged by their governess, but was, neverthe- 
 less, almost invariably left to themselves. The important 
 affair was being settled when Gerty appeared on the scene, 
 and joined Ada, who was standing at the table a little way 
 from the rest of the party. 
 
 " Stand here for a minute, Gerty, and you'll see girl 
 after girl going up to Emily and asking her to walk with 
 them. I've counted four already — and there's Janie now. 
 Isn't it funny ? " 
 
 Gerty muttered something that sounded like "hypocrite," 
 and expressed a hope that Emily would refuse the offer, 
 but she could not help joining in Ada's amusement. 
 
 " Oh no, she won't go with Janie. She was engaged to 
 Mary at breakfast-time ! " 
 
 " I'm glad of that. You're going with me, aren't 
 you 1 " 
 
 " Yes, of course, — you and I together." 
 
 It was one of those lovely clays which sometimes come 
 even in the middle of wintex*, when it is difficult to believe 
 that snow and rain or cold winds will ever return again. 
 The walk was jn-olonged far into the suburbs of the town, 
 where Gerty compared the houses standing in gardens with 
 Burnside, always to the advantage of the latter, and made 
 calculations when the snowdrops would come up. They 
 were not even peeping above the ground as yet; but the 
 sight of some Christmas roses, growing in a plot in front
 
 186 THE OLD LADY AND THE FLOWERS. 
 
 of one of the smaller houses, made Ada exclaim with de 
 light ; and a little old lady with a kindly face, who was 
 gathering the flowers, came forward and handed them to 
 the little girl through the garden railings. Mademoiselle 
 was shocked at the disorder the procession was thrown into 
 by Ada's stopping to receive her gift; but an apology from 
 the old lady made her all politeness again, and the child's 
 pleasure in her flowers was so great that she had not the 
 heart to scold her afterwards. 
 
 " They are so white and so beautiful, and the old lady 
 was so good. I wonder if she was at school when she was 
 little, and knows that we don't get flowers. I never had 
 Christmas roses in my hand before ! " 
 
 " Yes ; but what would Miss Maria say, if she knew 
 that you did admire things so loud that it was necessary 
 to give them to you 1 " 
 
 " Dear Mademoiselle, the old lady was quite close !" said 
 Ada in her most coaxing tone ; " and you shall have some 
 of the very prettiest to put in your hair to-night." 
 
 " Go, go; you know you are naughty," said Mademoiselle, 
 half amused and half angry at this flagrant attempt at 
 bribery and corruption. So Ada carried her flowers home 
 in triumph, undistm-bed by further remarks from her gov- 
 erness. 
 
 The girls had been making plans for spring all morning; 
 but the beginning of February is rather soon to expect 
 settled weather, and while they were still a long way from 
 home the sky clouded over suddenly and the wind rose. 
 The air, which had felt so warm in the sunshine, became 
 cold and keen, and a violent shower of hail came on in a 
 few minutes. Umbrellas and waterproofs had not been 
 thought of, and there was nothing for it but to hurry home 
 as fast as possible. Gerty, whose country breeding had
 
 A FORLORN-LOOKING COMPANY. 187 
 
 made her hardy, laughed at first; but she was soon reduced 
 to silent endurance, as the cutting wind took away her 
 breath, and the hailstones stung her cheek and melted in 
 her hair. She gave a gasp of intense relief as they reached 
 Miss Martyn's door at last, and the cold, forlorn-looking 
 company entered the warm hall — Ada, with her wet hair 
 all blown about her face, still sheltering her precious flowers 
 behind her muff. 
 
 Mrs. Martyn met them at the top of the staircase with 
 many lamentations about the unexpected change in the 
 weather, and the girls were sent off to their rooms, with 
 express orders to change their wet things as fast as possible. 
 It is never pleasant to disrobe with cold, stiff fingers, and 
 when the garments to be taken off are wet and clammy the 
 operation is peculiarly disagreeable. May Allardyce sat 
 down on the floor and cried, letting Ada undress her, 
 as if she had been the baby they called her, without even 
 moving a hand to help herself. And when the other girls, 
 having proceeded with their necessary duties in grim silence, 
 were ready to leave the cold room, May had just been got 
 into a dry frock, the fastening of which she had interrupted 
 to make Ada rub her hands. Ada's kindness to May had 
 been so long taken as a matter of course by her companions, 
 that even when Mary Can- realized she had not yet taken 
 off her own hat and jacket, she did not feel herself called 
 upon to interfere in the matter, further than bestowing 
 a little abuse on May's selfish laziness. Gerty would have 
 tried to give some assistance, but she offered so ungraciously 
 that May screamed out she was not to touch her; and Ada 
 persuaded her to follow Mary, and leave her and her baby 
 alone. May was dressed at last, and was at the school- 
 room fire before the bell rang for dinner ; but Ada was 
 obliged to come to the dining-room without taking time
 
 1S8 A DREARY PROSPECT. 
 
 to change her damp dress, — and even then was late, and 
 only saved from punishment by Mrs. Martyn's intercession 
 with Miss Maria. 
 
 It was almost impossible that the exposure to the storm 
 and the chill afterwards could fail to have bad effects on a 
 child so delicate as Ada. She kept up bravely for a few 
 days, saying she had only a cold like the others — why 
 should she expect to get off better than her companions ] 
 But she was obliged to confess to Mary Carr that her 
 cough hurt her, though she was very unwilling to allow 
 she was ill — making light of it as long as possible, as her 
 manner was with every trouble, and then giving way 
 suddenly and completely at the last. 
 
 The stormy weather had closed in again after that one 
 fine morning which had been so full of promise to Miss 
 Martyn's girls. The next day the ground was white, and 
 the wind came howling down the street, bringing with it 
 sudden, gusty showers of snow. Spring was very far off 
 again, they said to each other sadly, when the next day and 
 the next were the same. It Avas a comfort to shut out the 
 dreary prospect with the schoolroom shutters; but on the 
 afternoon of this third day, things inside were dismal 
 enough to Gerty, for Ada had come to her desk only to 
 lay her head upon it, without even looking at the books 
 which were lying around her. It was her time for prepar- 
 ing lessons, but, to Gerty's distress, she did not even try to 
 do so ; and her friend had to give her up in despair at last, 
 and get through her work alone, while Ada sat beside her 
 more quietly than she had ever seen her. At the table 
 May Allardyce deliberately tore leaf after leaf out of her 
 grammar without attracting attention, while the other 
 children squabbled and played by turns ; for Miss Framm, 
 whose office it was to sit in the schoolroom that afternoon,
 
 THE HISTORY LESSON. 189 
 
 had been summoned away by a visitor, and they were all 
 left to their own devices. 
 
 Perhaps Gerty was the only one who had really finished 
 her lessons when Mademoiselle entered the room, looking 
 weary and much worried. Twice a week she gave a lesson 
 in French history to the elder girls, who were as unruly 
 pupils as could well be, refusing to prepare their lesson 
 unless it suited them to do so, and talking and laughing 
 during the class without the slightest respect to their 
 teacher. Their behaviour was all the more provoking to 
 Mademoiselle, as the young ladies were not only respectful 
 and attentive to their masters, but Miss Framm somehow 
 managed to keep them in order, and make her lessons 
 interesting. Of course the poor little governess might have 
 appealed to Miss Maria, but even prudence was against 
 that course ; for her comfort was very much dependent on 
 these elder girls, who were very pleasant companions out 
 of school-hours in the meantime, but were quite able to 
 make themselves disagreeable if they chose. There was 
 nothing for it but to endure the misery of these hours as 
 well as she could ; but perhaps it was scarcely to be 
 wondered at that she was tempted to pour forth upon the 
 children the wrath which she dared not show to their 
 elders, and Gerty and her companions had learned to dread 
 the lessons they received immediately after Mademoiselle 
 had been teaching the elder girls. She appealed rather 
 earlier than usual this evening ; and it was certainly not 
 soothing to her temper to find the schoolroom in disorder, 
 the children for the most part at play, and May Allardyce 
 quietly consigning the remains of her book to the bottom 
 of the waste-paper basket. To the delight of Gerty, she 
 made a sudden pounce on May, boxed her ears soundly, 
 and taking possession of the unfortunate grammar to show
 
 190 AN UNFORTUNATE SPEECH. 
 
 to Miss Maria, she turned the owner of it out of the room 
 by the shoulders, almost before she had time to set up a 
 howl. Her class assembled quickly enough after that, 
 most of them feeling rather uneasy in their minds about 
 their own unprepared lessons. Ada was the last to come 
 to the table, and as her governess seated herself, she said 
 wearily, — 
 
 " I'm very sorry, Mademoiselle, but I haven't done my 
 lessons. I was so tired, I couldn't learn them." 
 
 It was an unfortunate speech, for Nettie Cathcart had 
 given the same excuse an hour before. She had meant to 
 be impudent, and Mademoiselle knew it, yet she had been 
 obliged to bear the insult quietly. But that very fact 
 made her furious now. 
 
 " You dare to tell me you have not learned your lessons! 
 You dare to speak English to me ! Return to your desk 
 this moment, Mademoiselle Ada, and finish your studies." 
 
 Ada rose without a word and carried her books away; 
 but though she obeyed Mademoiselle so far as to open 
 them, she put her head down again in the old position, her 
 hair falling over her face and the open pages beside her. 
 
 Mademoiselle took no more notice of her, but went on 
 with her class, getting more and more irritated as one girl 
 after another failed in her lesson. Things had been going 
 on very badly for some time, when the discomfort of the 
 children was brought to a climax by the entrance of 
 Miss Maria. She came in without any intention of inter- 
 rupting the class, — merely to take a book from one of the 
 desks, — but Mademoiselle's angry manner and Ada's bent 
 head attracted her attention immediately. She looked 
 round the whole party in her usual keen way before she 
 spoke to the governess. 
 
 "Miss Godfrey is in disgrace, Mademoiselle 1 "
 
 A CASE AGAINST THE GOVERNESS. 191 
 
 '• It is true. She has not prepared her lesson," said 
 Mademoiselle, rather grimly. 
 
 But Gerty could bear it no longer. With a firm detei 
 mination to save Ada from trouble or share it with her, 
 she seized Miss Maria's dress, and compelled that dreadful 
 lady to turn round and listen to her. 
 
 "Miss Maria, it's not her fault! She isn't well; she 
 coughed all night, and couldn't sleep. Please let Ada off 
 this time, and I'll learn her lines ! " 
 
 " Do you really think I'll let you do that for me ! " said 
 Ada, looking up for the first time when Gerty spoke. 
 
 " You'll have to, if Miss Maria does." 
 
 Was ever such conduct seen before at Miss Martyn's 
 school ! The other girls were perfectly aghast at Gerty's 
 temerity, as she still kept bold of Miss Maria's dress, and 
 looked up with an enger face for her answer to the singular 
 offer she had made. 
 
 " Ada will not be punished if she is ill and unable to do 
 her lessons," said Miss Maria gravely. "Mademoiselle, 
 you will kindly excuse her to-night, and she may go to bed 
 if she wishes." 
 
 The frightened faces round the table became triumphant, 
 as the girls felt they had gained a case against their gov- 
 erness. But Miss Maria was a wise woman, and had not 
 the least intention of establishing a dangerous precedent, 
 and undermining Mademoiselle's authority. She had found 
 the book she wanted, and was leaving the room, when 
 something made her stop to ask if Miss Stuart was pre- 
 pared for her class. She was the only one who was, 
 Mademoiselle was obliged to acknowledge. " Then the 
 other children will write out all their lesson and bring 
 it to me in the evening," said Miss Maria, spreading sudden 
 dismay as she departed.
 
 192 PUNISHMENT LESSONS. 
 
 Ada had risen after Miss Maria spoke, but instead of 
 tossing her books away carelessly, as she generally did, she 
 stopped, and slowly, with weary little fingers, arranged the 
 contents of her desk in order. Miss Maria had been kind, 
 and she tried to be unusually tidy from a feeling of gratitude 
 to her; but weeks after, Gerty remembered the action and 
 how it was done. All the girls in the class sat in dead 
 silence while Mademoiselle gave a dictation lesson, so Ada 
 could not speak before she went away. But as she passed 
 Gerty's seat, she stopped for an instant and put her lips to 
 her hair, then went quietly out of the schoolroom. 
 
 Lessons went on longer than usual that night, for after 
 tea there was a lecture on astronomy, and it was pretty 
 late in the evening before the girls were free. They were 
 all rather tired when the master went away at last, and 
 some of them, especially the children who had still their 
 task to write, decidedly cross. It was very hard that, after 
 sitting quiet so long under a lecture that was not in the 
 least interesting to them, they had to finish their evening 
 by copying out several pages of a French story. And there 
 was no sympathy to be got from any one. Mademoiselle 
 sat silent, and worked at her tatting as if she cared for 
 nothing else in the world; and as for the elder girls, they 
 were inclined to be amused. Nettie Cathcart was even 
 hard-hearted enough to do a little teasing. " What ! all 
 these children got punishment lessons ! Mademoiselle, I 
 admire you." 
 
 Mademoiselle shut her mouth tighter than ever, and did 
 not look up. But Molly Smith made answer, whispering, — 
 " It isn't Mademoiselle; it's Miss Maria!" 
 
 " In that case, dear little girl, I would advise you to 
 write it neatly." 
 
 " I would like to see you with a punishment lesson.
 
 OBSTINATE SILENCE. 193 
 
 Miss Cathcart! better than almost anything," said Ellen 
 Murray, driving her pen to the very bottom of the ink- 
 bottle in impotent fury. 
 
 " I dare say you would," said Nettie, with some compla- 
 cency. " Your wish is a very natural one, but not at all 
 likely to be gratified, as far as I can see. Mademoiselle 
 prefers to employ a scapegoat to suffer for my sins. I'm 
 not sure that it's a fair way, though." 
 
 " I'm not sure of it either, Nettie," said Kate M'Kenzie 
 emphatically. She meant to turn the point of Nettie's 
 remark against herself, and if Mademoiselle had shown 
 any disposition to take up arms on her own behalf, Kate 
 would have sided with her. But Mademoiselle maintained 
 an obstinate silence. 
 
 " How nice it is that you and I agree for once, Kate ! 
 But, Mademoiselle, if you will visit my iniquity on some- 
 body else's head, I would rather it was not poor little 
 Ada's. She gets into trouble enough on her own account 
 to satisfy most people. Besides, I've a fancy for the child ; 
 and next time you try the plan, Mademoiselle, perhaps you 
 will kindly choose some other small girl." 
 
 "Oh! you needn't be sorry for Ada," said Janie Leslie; 
 "she's all right — it's only poor us. But we had the 
 grandest scene — I never saw anything like it in my life ! 
 Miss Maria came in, you know — " 
 
 " Hold your tongue. How can any one write while 
 you're jabbering! Gerty Stuart made a fool of herself; 
 that was all the errand scene." 
 
 " You're a nice little girl," said Nettie, regarding Ellen 
 Murray with interest ; " a gentle, ladylike little girl ! Next 
 time Mademoiselle wants to pour out her wrath on some 
 one, I think she might do well to choose you. I give her 
 free leave." 
 
 (584) ] 3
 
 194 ADA IN THE SICKROOM. 
 
 Mademoiselle's silence was very remarkable, and the 
 elder girls were afraid that Nettie Cathcart had gone too 
 far. But nothing would persuade her to leave the subject 
 till she had heard the whole story of Mademoiselle's anger 
 with Ada, and Miss Maria's visit to the schoolroom. Gerty 
 had taken no part in the convei'sation at all ; and she went 
 away now just as Janie began her story, leaving her com- 
 panions to comment as they chose upon her share in the 
 afternoon's adventures. 
 
 All the way through the passages and upstairs she ran 
 as fast as she could, but coming to the bedroom door she 
 stopped a minute, then turned the handle softly lest Ada 
 should be asleep. But when Gerty entered she was 
 startled to find no one in the room but the housemaid, 
 who was arranging the beds for the night. " O Jane ! do 
 you know where Ada is 1 
 
 " Miss Godfrey is upstairs in the sickroom. Mrs. 
 Martyn thought she would be quieter and more comfort- 
 able there for a day or two." 
 
 Gerty made no answer. She went to one of the dressing- 
 tables, and stood leaning against it, with her face turned 
 away from Jane. 
 
 " Miss Stuart, I see your scarf and one of your gloves 
 lying on your bed. You had better put them away before 
 I come, or I must take them to Miss Maria." 
 
 Gerty apparently gave no heed at first, but after a minute 
 she took up her things and tossed them carelessly into a 
 drawer. Jane, going on with her work, remembered other 
 occasions when her timely warnings had saved Ada from a 
 fine, and her kindness had been received with lively grati- 
 tude. She had come to a very unfavourable conclusion 
 about Miss Stuart's manners before the room was put in 
 order, and she was ready to go. But the door was not
 
 STKANGE BEHAVIOUR. 195 
 
 shut behind her when Gerty exclaimed, as if a thought 
 had struck hei*, " Oh, stop a minute, please !" 
 
 Jane complied, but not very willingly. 
 
 " Do you think you could take these flowers to Ada 1 
 They're hers; and she'll be sure to want them, if she has 
 to stay up there for days." 
 
 Something in the tone of Gerty's voice completely 
 softened the kind-hearted housemaid, and she readily 
 undertook the charge of the glass with Ada's beloved 
 Christmas roses. 
 
 " I'll give them to Miss Ada to-night, and I'll tell her 
 you sent them," she promised, as she went away.
 
 CHATTER XIX. 
 
 MEETING AGAIN. 
 
 FTER that, there came a dreary time for poor 
 Gerty. Masters came and went, lessons were 
 learned, walks were taken, and all the affairs of 
 the school went on as usual ; but Ada's place was empty. 
 She was better, Mrs. Martyn always told the girls, in 
 answer to their eager inquiries ; but the doctor was anxious 
 about her cough, and said she needed the greatest care. 
 So Ada was still shut up in the sickroom, where none of 
 her companions were allowed to enter; and Gerty down- 
 stairs learned her lessons alone, and was very silent during 
 play-hours, missing her little friend night and day. At 
 first, some of the elder girls made efforts to cheer her ; but 
 if Gerty could not have Ada, she wanted no one else: so 
 their advances were so ungraciously received, that they 
 drew back somewhat offended. Even Mary Carr lost 
 patience with her in those days ; and so it came to pass 
 that Gerty got what she asked for, and was let alone. 
 
 One Sunday afternoon, the second after Ada went away, 
 Gerty had come into the drawing-room after church, and 
 found a retired corner for herself almost out of sight. She 
 was seated on the floor behind one of the couches, her Bible 
 open in her lap, trying to read over the verses she had to 
 repeat for her Sunday evening lesson. This was the time 
 when she and Ada used to go off together for a talk ; and
 
 SUNDAY AFTERNOON IN THE DRaWING-ROOM. 197 
 
 in. spite of the rule which forbade the girls leaving the 
 drawing-room on Sunday afternoons, they had generally 
 managed to get far enough away from the others to make 
 their conversation private. But to-day it seemed to Gerty 
 as if she could not shut her ears to the Babel of tongues 
 around her. 
 
 Kate M'Kenzie and Mary Carr were on the hearth-rug 
 chattering with Mademoiselle, who had long ago been 
 coaxed and cajoled back into good-humour; while the 
 other girls, scattered in groups about the large room, 
 laughed, and quarrelled, and played as they felt disposed. 
 There were only two among them all who were really 
 reading, — Emily Gordon, who was seated in a corner with 
 her hymn-book; and Nettie Cathcart, comfortably estab- 
 lished in an arm-chair, busy with an innocent-looking book 
 in a brown paper cover, which had been a red and yellow 
 novel the day before. 
 
 " Oh, here's Gerty !" said May Allardyce, crawling 
 round the end of the couch on her hands and knees. 
 "What are you crying about, Gerty 1" 
 
 " Go away !" said Gerty gruffly. 
 
 " I don't know what to do," whimpered May. " I don't 
 like Sunday at all. I wish you'd tell me a story." 
 
 But Gerty had been too much disgusted with May's 
 indifference to Ada's absence to be inclined to take any 
 trouble with her now. " I don't remember any stories. 
 Go away," she repeated again; and the child obeyed. 
 
 Gerty heard Ellen Murray call her immediately. 
 
 " Come here, May, and I'll show you something funny. 
 You needn't go to Gerty; she's as grumpy as possible. 
 No one can get a civil word from her, now Ada's away — 
 as if things weren't dull enough for every one as well as 
 her!"
 
 198 MANY STRANGE THINGS. 
 
 At the other end of the room Nettie Cathcart was 
 saying, — " I think this is by a long way the best of hers 
 I have ever read. I'm half done with the book now, 
 and I don't see through the plot a bit ! " 
 
 " I neither read Miss Braddon's works nor discuss them 
 on Sundays," was Miss M'Kenzie's reply. 
 
 " Every one to their taste, Catherine. If you and Mary 
 prefer to talk over the fashions with Mademoiselle, it's all 
 the same to me." 
 
 "Well, it wasn't right of us to be talking about bon- 
 nets ; there's no doubt about it. You were in a glass- 
 house, Kate, and shouldn't have been throwing stones ; 
 but, all the same, you ought to be ashamed of reading 
 novels on Sundays, Nettie." 
 
 " My dear girls, when will you learn that your preach- 
 ing has not the least effect on me 1 ?" 
 
 " I'm sure this is the only time we have for rest," said 
 Maggie Murray in her lazy drawl. " Miss Maria leads us 
 a dog's life on Sundays; twice to church, and then Bible- 
 classes, sermon-reading, and singing hymns all evening, till 
 I'm far more sleepy than on other days." 
 
 Maggie Murray's younger sister was on the floor a little 
 way off, playing quiet games with May Allardyce and one 
 or two other children. 
 
 "Now, then, each take a corner of the handkerchief; 
 and when I say, 'Hold fast !' then you must let go; and 
 when I say, 'Let go !' then hold fast. Now, we're going 
 to begin." 
 
 So the Sunday afternoon passed on at Miss Martyn's 
 school. And Gerty gave up trying to read her Bible in 
 despair, and sat quiet in her corner, letting great tears fall 
 unnoticed on the open pages in her lap. 
 
 Tea-time was still a long way off, when Mrs. Martyn
 
 MRS. martyn's visit. 199 
 
 looked iii at the door. The younger girls made a general 
 scamper to the table, to gain possession of some of those 
 volumes of sermons and religious magazines which had 
 been placed there regularly every Sunday since Gerty 
 came to school. They had been familiar to them all for a 
 long time, and were never touched now except when Mrs. 
 Martyn or her daughter appeared. On this occasion, how- 
 ever, the girls made their move rather too late, and Mrs. 
 Martyn had been quite able to see the state of things. 
 
 " for shame ! for shame ! " said she, shaking her head 
 gravely at the girls. " I think you're all forgetting what 
 day it is. You must sit quiet now and read till tea-time. 
 I'm sure there are plenty of nice books here." 
 
 "Very nice books, Mrs Martyn," said Miss Cathcart, 
 in a tone the good old lady could not understand. She 
 had an instinctive suspicion of Nettie and her doings ; but 
 she had never found her out in any mischief, and this 
 afternoon she had certainly been reading in a most exem- 
 plary manner. The idea of making any investigation as 
 to the character of the work she was perusing so diligently 
 never entered Mrs. Martyn's head, but she felt rather 
 uncomfortable nevertheless ; and, the children being all 
 seated quietly by this time, she hastened to execute her 
 errand and take her departure. " Where's Gerty Stuart 1 
 Isn't she here V 
 
 " Yes, I'm here," said Gerty, rising and coming slowly 
 out of her hiding-place. 
 
 " I want to speak to you for a minute, my dear," said 
 Mrs. Martyn; and Gerty willingly followed her out of the 
 room. " Ada has been asking to see you so often ! " said 
 Mother Hubbard, when the door was closed. " I don't 
 like to see her sitting so sad and quiet upstairs. Now, it 
 would never do to have you and all the others running in
 
 200 THE MEETING OF THE TWO FRIENDS. 
 
 to her whenever you liked, and Miss Maria thinks she 
 ought to be kept very quiet. But you're a quiet little 
 girl, my dear; and if you promise not to let her talk much 
 to bring on her cough, I think you might go and sit with 
 her for a little while." 
 
 Gerty's face had got very bright when she began to guess 
 what the end of Mrs. Martyn's speech was to be. 
 
 "Just now, Mrs. Martyn 1" she said impatiently. 
 
 " Yes, my dear. But, Gerty, remember you must be 
 quiet," added Mrs. Martyn in some alarm, as Gerty broke 
 away from her and rushed upstairs. "After all, we've 
 not done much good by keeping her away from them," she 
 said to herself with a sigh, immediately afterwards. 
 
 The sickroom was in a higher story than the pleasant 
 chamber where the two little friends had spent so many 
 happy hours; but it too was large and light, and the win- 
 dows looked out on the gardens instead of the noisy street. 
 Gerty had never been there before, and it struck her as 
 being very silent and empty after the crowded drawing- 
 room she had left. Ada was sitting all alone in an arm- 
 chair drawn close to the fire; beside her, on a little table, 
 was the glass with the Christmas roses. She looked up 
 quickly when the door opened, but did not rise ; and when 
 Gerty came up and kissed her, Mrs. Martyn would have 
 been surprised and relieved could she have seen how quietly 
 the little girls greeted each other. Then Gerty sat down 
 on a stool at Ada's feet ; and both children were silent for 
 a minute, holding each other's hands. 
 
 "You're better — aren't you, Ada?" said Gerty at last, 
 bethinking herself that some such inquiry was necessary. 
 
 Ada did not appear so ill as she had expected ; but it 
 struck her that she was strangely pretty, with a bright, 
 far-away look in her eyes which Gerty had never seen
 
 GERTY HAS A GREAT DEAL TO SAY. 201 
 
 before. But Ada answei'ed gaily, and the familiar tones 
 put Gerty at her ease again, — 
 
 " Oh, I'm much better— nearly well ! And I'll be quite 
 better now you have come." 
 
 " Your Christmas roses are withered now," said Gerty, 
 feeling as if she was scarcely able to talk of the weary 
 time of her separation from Ada. 
 
 " I'm so sorry," said Ada, touching the faded flowers 
 lovingly with the tips of her slender fingers. " I took 
 such care of them, and Jane gave them fresh water every 
 day; but I suppose this warm room isn't good for them, 
 for they began to wither very soon." 
 
 " Never mind, Ada ; you know it's a long time since 
 you got them. And you'll have some snowdrops from 
 Burnside. I'll write mamma to send you some, for our 
 snowdrops are beauties." 
 
 Ada was probably not astonished to hear of the particu- 
 lar loveliness of the Burnside flowers, for she had already 
 learned that everything there was excellent of its kind. 
 But Gerty stopped her when she was going to speak. 
 
 " No, you mustn't thank me now, for Mother Hubbard 
 said I wasn't to let you talk much. It's me that's to talk 
 to you, and you're to be quiet." 
 
 " You'll say a great deal then, Gerty — won't you 1 Just 
 think that we've had no talk for nearly a fortnight ! " 
 
 " I've wanted to talk to you so much. O Ada, I've 
 missed you so horribly ! I've missed you at breakfast- 
 time, and school-time, and walk-time ; there's no use of 
 going over all the times, for I always missed you ! And 
 the evening worst of all, for your bed was empty, and 
 there was no one to talk to. Mary had always a book, or 
 went to see Miss M'Kenzie. It wasn't her blame, though ; 
 I was cross, and wouldn't speak to her."
 
 202 DREARY DAYS AXD RESTLESS NIGHTS. 
 
 Gerty was very nearly crying, and Ada, stroking hei 
 hand, would fain have made her talk of something else. 
 But when Gerty began to get confidential and penitent, 
 she always did it most thoroughly, and it was impossible 
 to stop her now. 
 
 " Everything's been going wrong since you went away, 
 Ada ! And I've been getting so awfully wicked ! I 
 haven't read once with Mary — I couldn't bear it without 
 you; so I just went through a verse or two anywhere, as 
 fast as I could, and got into bed before she was ready, 
 and put my head under the clothes. And I've been in 
 such an ill humour all the time with them all ; and Emily 
 Gordon was a bother. Do you know, I was sitting in the 
 drawing-room when Mother Hubbard came, behind the 
 sofa, and I was just hating every one of them. Ada, 
 you must be quick and get well, and come downstairs 
 again, for I can't be good without you ! " 
 
 Ada might have said to her with some truth that hei 
 trials during the last fortnight had been harder to bear 
 than Gerty's. She could have told of dreary days and 
 restless nights, of the weariness which never left her, and 
 the cough that kept her from sleeping. She might have 
 reminded Gerty that Mrs. Martyn was not a very enter- 
 taining companion — or, at least, that her society was apt 
 to get tiresome, when it was only varied by visits from 
 the doctor or Miss Maria. All this, and much more, Ada 
 might have told Gerty ; but self-consciousness was not one 
 of her faults. In her sympathy with her friend, her own 
 feelings were forgotten, and she only remembered her 
 troubles in bringing Gerty the comfort which had come to 
 her when she needed it. 
 
 " Dear Gerty ! I can't help you, but the Lord Jesus 
 can. And being ill, or going away to another country, or
 
 KIND THOUGHTS. 
 
 203 
 
 anything else in the world, can never take us away from 
 him." 
 
 With the earnest words of her little friend there came 
 to Gerty a new sense of the love that is stronger than all 
 earthly love. Ada and she were away from their parents, 
 and they had been separated from each other ; but alike in 
 the noisy schoolroom and the quiet sick-chamber they could 
 ever be near the Saviour. And Gerty began to think that, 
 if the Lord was near to help her, it might even be possible 
 to gather up her courage, and try to work and wait 
 patiently, though Ada had to stay upstairs for a while. 
 
 "If I could only remember it!" she said, with a sigh. 
 "But I forget; and it doesn't seem real, and then I just 
 go on any way. That's what I've been doing all the time 
 you've been here. But I'll try; and you'll get better, and 
 come back and help me as you used to do." 
 
 " But, Gerty, how could I possibly have helped you 1 " 
 
 " But you did, though," persisted Gerty stoutly. " You 
 put things into my head, and you helped me to do things." 
 
 " Yes," said Ada, with a curious mixture of sadness and 
 playfulness in her voice, " I remember now, I helped you 
 to do some things. I put it into your head to look for 
 Emily's diary long ago, and I showed you how to post letters 
 without Miss Maria knowing, and how to practise with one 
 hand and read a story-book with the other, and ever so 
 much more — " 
 
 " That was last year." 
 
 "Well, but this year we dressed up and went out visiting 
 after bed-time, and played ' tig ' round the schoolroom tablo 
 ever so often; and we used to hide in the curtain at Mr. 
 Wilson's class. Oh ! and do yoti remember the great big 
 picture of Miss Maria we made on the black-board ? " 
 
 "Are you about done?" asked Gerty with awful severity.
 
 204 SIDE BY SIDE. 
 
 "Not nearly done!" said Ada, fairly laughing now; "at 
 least, not really — but there's no use in going over it all. 
 We got punishments for all these things, Gerty; and it 
 was I that made you do them, every one ! I don't think 
 you would ever even have got lines, if it hadn't been for 
 me. Why, Gerty, the very last thing that I did before I 
 was ill was to get you into trouble because of me." 
 
 "Well, anything more?" 
 
 " Yes ; I'm sorry, very sorry. I try to keep out of mis- 
 chief, but I get into it before I've time to think. I must 
 try to try harder when I go downstairs again; but there 
 are so many lessons and so many rules!" 
 
 Ada had grown grave again, and her eyes were shining 
 through tears. All the time she had been speaking Gerty 
 sat on the stool gazing into the fire; but now she turned 
 round to look up at Ada, and lay her other hand on hers, — 
 "Ada, you must never say such things to me again; because 
 the truth is this — that if ever I go to heaven, it will be all 
 because of you ! I know that it's only God can make people 
 good, and so it must have been him that gave me you to 
 help me ! " 
 
 Gerty put both her arms round Ada, and drawing hei 
 face down to hers, held her fast for a while without speak- 
 ing. And Ada, startled by Gerty 's earnestness, was silent 
 too, till Gerty raised herself to brush away her tears sud- 
 denly, saying remorsefully, — " There now, that's just like 
 me ! I've been letting you talk ever so much, and get 
 excited, and make yourself worse again." 
 
 Ada had some difficulty in soothing Gerty's fears, but 
 she managed it at last. Then discovering that the arm- 
 chair was big enough for both, she persuaded Gerty to come 
 beside her and let her put her head on her shoulder. And 
 sitting together in the warm firelight, she drew Gerty on
 
 IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. 205 
 
 co talk of the schoolroom-life she had left as it seemed so 
 long ago, asking very eagerly what had happened since 
 she was ill; for Miss Martyn's house was home as well as 
 school to Ada, and the girls her dearest friends. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Martyn was indulging in a quiet nap in 
 her own room, and was oblivious for a time of her little 
 patient in the sickroom and the noisy company of girls down- 
 stairs. Time passed on, while Gerty and Ada chatted con- 
 tentedly over the fire, and afternoon had turned into evening 
 before the old lady bethought herself of coming to separate 
 the little friends. 
 
 In the drawing-room things had been going on much the 
 same way all afternoon. The books had been almost all 
 thrown away again immediately after Mrs. Martyn left; and 
 Mademoiselle, whose ideas of Sabbath-keeping were any- 
 thing but strict, allowed her charges to do as they liked, 
 provided they did not get intolerably noisy, or threaten to 
 bring her into trouble. Nettie Cathcart had nearly finished 
 her novel, the children under Ellen Murray's guidance had 
 passed from "cross pui'poses" to "cat's cradle," subjects of 
 conversation were dying out, and the whole party were wait- 
 ing rather impatiently for the summons to tea, when Gerty 
 came back to the drawing-room. Her long absence had not 
 passed unnoticed, but no one had remarked on it much, for 
 she had never shown any disposition to join in the Sunday 
 afternoon diversions of her companions, and genei'ally tried 
 to escape from them altogether. And now, when she re- 
 appeared, it was the elder girls who first showed any interest 
 in her proceedings, — beginning with a rebuke from Miss 
 M'Kenzie. ■ " Don't you know that you are breaking rules, 
 when you stay in your own room on Sunday afternoons'?" 
 
 " It's a choice between breaking rules and breaking the 
 Sabbath." said Mai'y Carr, eagerly taking Gerty's part.
 
 206 THE HEROINE OF THE EVENING. 
 
 " How can we read or do anything, all shut up here 
 together 1 ? I believe Miss Maria thinks she keeps us out of 
 mischief, when she makes us stay here with Mademoiselle; 
 but she never was more mistaken in her life; and if Gerty 
 is so anxious for quiet that she goes and sits in a cold room, 
 it's a great deal to her credit, — that's all." 
 
 " But, Mary, I wasn't in a cold room. I was in a very 
 warm room, for I was upstairs with Ada." Gerty made 
 this announcement with considerable pride. She was greatly 
 pleased that her particular friendship with Ada had been 
 recognized by Mrs. Martyn's choosing her to be the first to 
 visit her, and she had no doubt of the effect the news would 
 produce on her companions. And, indeed, Gerty became 
 immediately the heroine of the evening. All the girls 
 crowded round her, and in the midst of an eager circle of 
 questioners she was obliged to give the most minute details 
 of Ada's dress, appearance, and circumstances at the present 
 time, as well as all the information she had been able to 
 gain about how things had gone with her since they had 
 seen her last. 
 
 "What does she do with herself all day 1 ?" "Does she 
 look thin 1 " " Has she on her serge dress 1 " " Does she 
 have to endure much Miss Maria 1 " Gerty was fairly 
 pelted with questions. She did her best to reply; but to 
 the most eager of all their inquiries she could give no satis- 
 factory answer, — she did not know when Ada would be 
 able to come among them again. 
 
 " Not for a while, I'm afraid. But she gave me a great 
 many kisses and messages for you. I'm afraid I won't be 
 able to remember them all." 
 
 " Deliver what you do remember, then, as fast as 
 possible." 
 
 "Well, first and foremost, to begin with Mary" — anil
 
 li I'VE GOT A KISS FOR YOU." 207 
 
 Gerty began to hug her patroness with a violence that 
 made the other girls warn her that if she began with 
 strangulation, no one else would be inclined to let hei 
 execute Ada's commissions. The other embraces were 
 gone through more rapidly, but though the tea-bell rang 
 in the middle of her operations, Gerty was determined that 
 none of them should be put off till afterwards. Most 01 
 the girls had left the room, but Ellen Murray still lingered, 
 to gather up the odds and ends of string and paper she 
 had been using in her games, when Gerty came to her and 
 said rather awkwardly, " I've got a kiss for you — will you 
 take it 1 " Astonished, but by no means ill-pleased, Ellen 
 submitted, then took Gerty's arm, and went with her to 
 the dining-room — the two children walking together for 
 the first time.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 VERY CLOSE TOGETHER. 
 
 ERTY did not find very much difficulty in persuad- 
 ing Mrs. Martyn to allow her to visit Ada again 
 next day; and before the week was over, she had 
 succeeded in establishing a custom of going to the sickroom 
 every evening after lessons and tea were over. The others 
 were rather inclined to be jealous of her privileges; but 
 Gerty's character as a " quiet little girl " stood high with 
 Mrs. Martyn, and so at first she was the only one of Ada's 
 schoolfellows who was allowed to be with her. But, in spite 
 of her enjoyment, in this state of affairs, Gerty could not 
 help feeling that she held her liberties very insecurely. She 
 had more than a suspicion that Mrs. Martyn, out of com- 
 passion for Ada's loneliness, had introduced Gerty into the 
 sickroom without the consent or even the knowledge ox 
 her daughter ; and all the time she spent with her friend 
 she was in trepidation lest Miss Maria should appear, and 
 pronounce sentence of banishment upon her. 
 
 And one wet forenoon, when she had gone upstairs to 
 stay with Ada during the usual hour for walking, it seemed, 
 indeed, as if Gerty's fears were realized. For, as the two 
 little girls were contentedly painting pictures at the tabic, 
 there entered an elderly gentleman with grizzled hair, whom 
 Ada immediately greeted as tho doctor, and behind him, 
 close on his very footsteps, Miss Maria herself. Both figures
 
 A VERY GOOD NURSE. 209 
 
 were awful enough to Gerty, but Miss Maria said nothing 
 at all at first, and Ada seemed on such friendly and familiar 
 terms with the doctor, that she was somewhat reassured 
 about him. 
 
 " This is my friend, Gerty Stuart," said Ada, introducing 
 her, as the old gentleman seated himself on a chair beside 
 his patient. 
 
 Gerty would rather not have been brought into notice 
 just then, having some vague ideas that it might still be 
 possible to escape Miss Maria's eyes. Now, when that 
 hope was gone, she stood behind Ada's chair not knowing 
 what to do, but conscious that the awful gaze of her gover- 
 ness was fixed upon her; while the doctor only gave her a 
 glance from under his shaggy eyebrows. 
 
 " What sort of a nurse does she make 1 " 
 
 "A very, very good one, doctor," said Ada, immediately. 
 
 " Does she 1 ? I'm glad to hear it, Miss Ada; and I sup- 
 pose we must believe it, for you're looking better." 
 
 Gerty ventured to raise her eyes now, and meeting Miss 
 Maria's, got her dismissal by a look. She went away, 
 uncertain if she might be allowed to return ; but the 
 doctor's words had given her some hope, and though 
 anxious, she was not despairing. 
 
 And, indeed, the doctor's orders about Ada, as far as 
 they were communicated to the girls, were by no means 
 unsatisfactory. It is true that she was still to be confined 
 to the warm room upstairs, but as far as possible she was 
 to be amused and kept in good spirits, and so, if she wished 
 it, her companions were to be with her there. In the 
 afternoon, Gerty, meeting Miss Maria in the passage, was 
 excessively astonished when she stopped and told her she 
 might spend all her leisure time with Ada, if she cared to 
 do so. 
 
 (584) 14
 
 210 VISITORS TO THE SICKROOM. 
 
 " I think I may trust you not to neglect your lessons 
 even for your friend," said Miss Maiia, leaving Gerty 
 bewildered by her gracious words. 
 
 She was, however, the only girl who got free leave to go 
 to the sickroom whenever she chose. The others had to go 
 through the ceremony of asking Mrs. Martyn's permission; 
 for it was not safe to run the risk of Ada's having too 
 many visitors at once, and the girls were almost all anxious 
 to be with her. Emily Gordon used to put off her practising 
 till evening, that she might sit with her for a while during 
 school-hours ; and after tea, when Gerty was always with 
 her, one or other of the girls would come to stay for a little. 
 Sometimes it was one of the younger ones; but, with the 
 exception of Gerty, Mrs. Martyn had not much faith in the 
 quietness and discretion of Ada's contemporaries, and tried 
 to keep them away from her as much as possible. But the 
 elder girls came ; and though Mary Carr was always most 
 welcome, yet upstairs, in the sickroom, even Maggie Murray 
 was gentle, while Kate M'Kenzie did her best to make 
 amusing small talk for Ada, and Nettie Cathcart showed 
 unlooked-for capabilities of talking nonsense without any 
 venom in it. Miss Framm would come too, and sometimes 
 Mademoiselle, but not so often as Gerty would have ex- 
 pected. 
 
 " We are friends, are we not 1 " she had said to Ada the 
 first time she saw her during her illness. 
 
 " Oh yes ! " said the child ; " but, Mademoiselle, do you 
 know, I really was tired and couldn't do my lessons that 
 day." 
 
 Mademoiselle took the pretty head between her hands, 
 and kissed Ada on both cheeks, French fashion. 
 
 " I believe it, my child," said she, kindly. But Mrs. 
 Martyn came in just then; and though Mademoiselle came
 
 MAY IN DISGRACE. 211 
 
 again, she did not come often, and seldom stayed longer 
 than a few minutes, — seeming not to care to talk to Ada. 
 Gerty was rather puzzled by her conduct, but she could not 
 impute it to indifference, so she kept all her indignation on 
 that score for May Allardyce, who certainly cared very 
 little for Ada's illness. The short time she had been away 
 seemed to have blotted out all remembrance of her kindness 
 from May's mind, and after the very first she scarcely ever 
 mentioned her name. And while the strength of their love 
 for Ada drew Gerty nearer to her other schoolfellows than 
 she had ever been before, she grew to dislike May more and 
 more, and scarcely ever spoke to her. It was only in 
 consideration for Ada, that Gerty was sorry to have to tell 
 her that her baby was getting on very badly, constantly in 
 disgrace with the teachers, and generally quarrelling with 
 the girls ; but though Ada asked a great deal about May, 
 she never made any remark on the information she obtained. 
 And, rather to Gerty's astonishment, weeks passed before 
 Ada asked to see her. Perhaps she had hoped that May 
 would come of her own accord, but she never did ; and at 
 last, one Saturday afternoon Ada began to speak of her 
 suddenly. 
 
 Gerty had come upstairs with her hands full of things for 
 Ada — story-books which the girls had got from home for 
 her to read, and little gifts they had managed to purchase 
 when they were out with their friends in the morning. 
 Ada was better than usual that day, and had been sitting 
 .up at the table arranging a bouquet of hot-house flowers 
 which had come all the way from Laverock Hall for her, 
 but after she had finished she lay down on the sofa and was 
 unusually silent for a while. 
 
 " Shall I read to you 1 " asked Gerty, putting away a 
 series of Nettie Cathcart's ridiculous pictures, which she
 
 212 ada's request. 
 
 had been examining with great amusement, and turning 
 her attention to " The Wide, Wide World," lying on tho 
 table beside them. "Ellen Murray left this on the drawing- 
 room table last night," she went on, as Ada did not answer 
 immediately, " and Miss Maria nabbed it, and was going to 
 carry it off, and give her lines for having story-books when 
 it wasn't Saturday. But Ellen told her it was going up to 
 you; so she gave it back again, and let her off. I didn't 
 think she would have done it, but I never saw Ellen so 
 nearly crying. And it would have been such a pity, for 
 it's such a nice book ! " 
 
 Gerty turned over the leaves fondly, quite looking forward 
 to the treat of reading it aloud to Ada, for both little girls 
 were rather too fond of stories. But Ada stopped her by 
 asking abruptly, — 
 
 " Is May at school this afternoon, Gerty 1 " 
 
 Oddly enough, Gerty had been thinking of May only a 
 minute before, and she could not help wondering if it was 
 the same connection of ideas that had brought her to Ada's 
 mind. 
 
 "Yes; Mrs. Allardyce brought her back in the carriage 
 just before I came to you." 
 
 " I would like to see her, Gerty. I think Mother 
 Hubbard will be in the dining-room just now — will you 
 ask her, and then bring May to me if she will come 1 " 
 
 Gerty determined she would make May come, but she 
 did not say that to Ada. However, contrary to her 
 expectations, May made no particular objection ; though 
 that might have been owing to the fact that she had been 
 making explorations in Miss Murray's work-box, and 
 thought it well to leave the schoolroom before that young 
 lady discovered the disorder she had made. 
 
 But at the door of the sickroom she hesitated, and
 
 MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 213 
 
 seemed almost afraid to enter. The truth was, that Gerty 
 had no idea of the barrier which the few weeks of separation 
 had made between the child and Ada. May was not 
 accustomed to illness, and she had heard that Ada was very 
 ill; so it was with a feeling very like awe that she came 
 slowly to the sofa, and gave her hand to her. Gerty had 
 pledged herself to Mrs. Martyn that May should not talk 
 too much; but as Ada tried in vain to interest her visitor 
 in the pictures on the table, she thought with some 
 bitterness how needless her promise had been. 
 
 Perhaps Ada understood May's feelings better, and that 
 was why she made no allusion to herself or the length of 
 time that had passed since she had seen her baby, only 
 chattered on about the figures she and Gerty had been 
 making. 
 
 " This is Lionel, May, with a blue frock and long yellow 
 curls. It was Gerty invented that way of writing his 
 name on his back. Isn't he a very nice-looking boy 1 " 
 
 May assented, scarcely bestowing a glance on the paper- 
 doll brought out for her inspection. But her eyes, which 
 had been wandering all round the unfamiliar apartment, 
 came back to Ada, and rested on her with less uneasiness 
 in their gaze. Ada talked exactly as she used to do, and 
 even in appearance she was very little changed, May was 
 thinking. Her very dress was the same violet serge she 
 had worn in the schoolroom ; and the excitement caused 
 by her unwonted visitor had brought a flush to her cheeks, 
 which certainly made her look much less delicate than she 
 had done for months before her illness. 
 
 " Are you very ill, Ada 1 " said May at last. 
 
 " Oh no ! I'll be quite better when the warm weather 
 comes." 
 
 It was very stupid of them to tell me you were ill,"
 
 214 VERY LONELY. 
 
 said May, rather viciously. " When are you coming down 
 stairs again, Ada 1 " 
 
 It occurred to Gerty, as she turned round at this last 
 question, that as far as May was concerned there was need 
 for Ada downstairs again. Seen against the light, May's 
 hair looked tangled and rough, and her whole aspect was 
 certainly very untidy. Gerty wondered if Ada noticed it 
 too, and hoped she did not ; while May's question remained 
 unanswered for a minute, and was repeated again fretfully — 
 " When are you coming downstairs again, Ada 1 " 
 
 "Just as soon as ever the doctor allows me. I don't like 
 staying up here, May," said Ada, wistfully. " I'm very 
 lonely sometimes." 
 
 " When you come back, you must tell me a great many 
 stories. I want to hear about that man Christian, and 
 what he did when he got away from the giant. He got up 
 to some mountains, I know; and then, when you got as far 
 as that, you were ill, and I couldn't hear any more." 
 
 May spoke in an aggrieved tone, exactly as if Ada's illness 
 had been a special injury to her, and it was impossible for 
 the other two to keep from laughing. 
 
 " What did he see on the mountains, Ada 1 " 
 
 " He saw a great many things, dear. And the shepherds 
 took him up to a high peak, and he got a glimpse, through 
 a glass, of the Celestial City." 
 
 " You might tell me a bit of it just now, Ada ! " 
 
 Ada would have tried to do almost anything then to 
 please May, and regain her influence over her. But the 
 continuous speaking brought on her wearisome cough; and 
 after being interrupted by it several times, she fairly broke 
 down, and turning away from May, hid her face in the 
 pillows. 
 
 " I can't do it, May !— I can't do it ! "
 
 A DELIGHTFUL STORY. 215 
 
 There was a pause for a few minutes, and then May 
 asked, " May I go away, then 1 " 
 
 No one answered her; so she slipped off her chair, and 
 was going out of the door, when Ada looked up and called 
 her. 
 
 " You are going away without kissing me ! " 
 
 May came back to the sofa, and Ada raised herself, and 
 put her arms round her. For a minute she held her close 
 — so close, that May was half-frightened ; then suddenly 
 unclasping her hands, she let her go without a word. 
 
 Gerty could not trust hei'self to speak at first, she was 
 so angry with May, so vexed and distressed for Ada. She 
 was prudent enough to see that matters would only be made 
 worse by her expressing her feelings ; so, when Ada turned 
 round after a little, and asked her to read, she brought the 
 book, and sat down beside her without saying a word about 
 May. All afternoon the little girls were busy with " The 
 Wide, Wide World;" and when Mrs. Martyn came in, at 
 tea-time, Ada was looking as bright as she generally did 
 when Gerty was with her. 
 
 " We have both been very good. Gerty has been reading 
 to me, and I've scarcely spoken a word for ever so long. 
 Have you ever read 'The Wide, Wide World,' Mother 
 Hubbard 1. " 
 
 Ada was a privileged person now, and used her nickname 
 before Mrs. Martyn's face with the utmost coolness. 
 
 " No, my dear ; I don't think I have. Is it a nice 
 story 1 " 
 
 " It's a delightful story, — isn't it, Gerty 1 I would 
 certainly advise you to read it, Mother Hubbard. Or will 
 you wait till I'm better, and I'll read it aloud to you in the 
 Easter holidays 1 You'll have plenty of time to sit and 
 listen then, and you'll get on very fast with knitting your
 
 216 THE WONDERFUL BED-COVER. 
 
 bed-cover. I'm sure you want to get on with your bed- 
 cover, Mother Hubbard 1 " 
 
 " you chatterbox ! what do you know about it 1 " said 
 Mrs. Martyn good-naturedly. 
 
 " Know about your bed-cover ! I know it very well, I 
 assure you. Why, you were knitting a square of it when 
 I first saw you, sitting in the drawing-room, when I came 
 in with mamma. It has been going on ever since ; but 
 the strange thing is, Mother Hubbard, it never gets any 
 nearer done." 
 
 " Ada, Ada ! if Gerty can keep you quiet, it's more than 
 I can," said Mrs. Martyn, rather sadly. 
 
 " I'll do it, Mrs. Martyn," said Gerty. " I'll come again 
 in the evening and read, for that's the only thing that 
 settles her." 
 
 Mrs. Marty n's bed-cover had long been a joke in the 
 school, and Gerty was very much afraid about what Ada 
 might say next. But while Gerty was speaking her mood 
 changed, and the laughter died out of her eyes. 
 
 " Dear Mother Hubbard, you're very kind, and so is 
 Gerty, only she mustn't come back again. I'll be very good 
 without her, and I won't talk at all ; you'll believe me 
 when I promise, won't you 1 Gerty has been sitting with 
 me all afternoon, and reading, so she mustn't come back 
 to-night ! " 
 
 " Mustn't she 1 " said Gerty, with calm irony in her 
 tone. 
 
 " No, Gerty; you'll stay downstairs to please me. There 
 will be a gi'eat deal of fun to-night, for it's ' stay-at-home 
 Saturday,' and perhaps the girls will have a charade." 
 
 " Whatever they have, I'd a great deal rather be here." 
 
 " But, Gerty, I have been thinking this may go on a long 
 time — my being ill, I mean. Some people are ill for months,
 
 
 A SUDDEN QUESTION. 217 
 
 and years. Mother Hubbard, do you think that will be 
 the way with me 1 " 
 
 Ada's question had certainly been a sudden one, but so 
 most of her questions were; and Gerty could not understand 
 why Mrs. Martyn seemed so much taken aback by this one. 
 She rose and went to the window, making some change in 
 the curtains, and turning her face away from the little girls 
 before she answered, " No, my daiding ; T don't think it 
 will be that with you." 
 
 Ada followed her with her eyes; and then, as if she too 
 had noticed something strange in her manner, she was 
 silent for a little, looking very thoughtful. 
 
 "Do you really like staying so much up here with me?" 
 she asked at last, looking up at Gerty. 
 
 " Better than anything else." 
 
 "And Mother Hubbard says it won't be for long. I'm 
 afraid I'm too selfish to send you away, Gerty." 
 
 May had undoubtedly been in Ada's thoughts, and her 
 behaviour the reason why she tried to urge Gerty to keep 
 away; but she made no allusion to her. And in the days 
 *dmt followed, though Ada was always pleased when the 
 gi -Is came to visit hur, and eager to hear all schoolroom 
 new.', site never asked to see May — never spoke of her but 
 once again. 
 
 Gerty \jsed to wonder afterwards, when she thought how 
 quietly, evtn pleasantly, the time went on for a while. Her 
 companions were very kind to her then — it seemed as if 
 Ada's illness had a softening effect on them all — but Gerty 
 was often astonished by the peculiar gentleness shown to 
 her, even by the girls whom she had been accustomed to 
 consider her enemies. But, after all, she saw very little of 
 them, for she used to get through her lessons as fast as 
 possible, to hurry up to the sickroom, and spend her play-
 
 218 TENDER NURSES. 
 
 hours over children's story-books, and quiet talks and gamca 
 with Ada. Sometimes, when the two little girls were to- 
 gether, Miss Maria would come in; but her daily visit to 
 Ada was generally made in the morning, and it never 
 lasted long. Her relations with the child had never been 
 friendly; and now, when she really wished to be kind and 
 gentle, she seemed to feel her position very embarrassing, 
 and find difficulty in knowing what to say. It was kind 
 Mrs. Martyn who was sick-nurse during the day; and at 
 night the elder girls took it by turns to sleep in Ada's room. 
 They had petitioned Miss Maria to be allowed to do so, and 
 with some difficulty gained her consent. No stranger vas 
 to nurse their pet; and even the mother whose remembrance 
 Ada cherished so fondly, could scarcely have been more 
 tender than the schoolgirls were to this lonely child left 
 dependent on their love.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THROUGH THE DARK VALLEY. 
 
 JO the days slipped on till the morning of anothei 
 Saturday, after Ada had been ill for several weeks. 
 Gerty had finished her letter-writing as fast as 
 possible, to go up to Ada early; but a visit from the doctor 
 had obliged her to leave the sickroom again, and she had 
 gone down to the schoolroom to watch at the window for 
 his departure. 
 
 The large schoolroom was quite deserted when Gerty 
 entered; for most of the girls had gone out to visit their 
 friends, and the few that remained were scattered over the 
 house, enjoying their Saturday's freedom in defiance of all 
 rules. Gerty went and sat down at her desk, leaning her 
 arm on it, and looking out, thinking rather lazily what a 
 beautiful day it was, and wondering where they would go 
 for a walk. Walks were not so pleasant as they had once 
 been to Gerty ; but surely the weather would soon be warm 
 enough to make Ada well and strong, and able to come 
 back to the schoolroom, and go out with her companions 
 again. Then her thoughts wandered away to the heroine 
 of the book she had been reading — Ellen Montgomery's 
 trials were very interesting — and in her own holiday con- 
 tentment she felt that she had only one thing to wish, — 
 that the doctor would go, and let her and Ada return to 
 their story.
 
 220 A CONFIDENTIAL CONVERSATION. 
 
 But the luxury of being idle was too unusual for Gerty 
 to become very impatient under it. It was so pleasant to 
 sit doing nothing that she did not even feel inclined to talk, 
 and she was decidedly annoyed when the sound of voices 
 coming nearer in the passage made her think her loneliness 
 was to be disturbed. She recognized the speakers as the 
 two Murrays, who seemed deep in private conversation, — 
 rather an unusual thing, for they were by no means affec- 
 tionate sisters, or given to frequent each other's society 
 much. Gerty had been on amicable terms with Ellen 
 Murray of late, but nevertheless she had no particular wish 
 for her company ; and it was quite to her satisfaction when 
 the two girls turned at the half-open schoolroom door, and 
 paced slowly back along the passage. There was nothing 
 unusual in their behaviour — Miss Martyn's girls were very 
 fond of walking and talking in the passages, where they had 
 better opportunities of being confidential than in any of the 
 rooms; and if the Murrays were discussing family affairs, 
 as was probable, their mode of doing so was not only natural 
 but necessary in Gerty 's eyes. Their conversation would 
 probably be a long one ; and Gerty was not so much afraid 
 of being disturbed when they approached a second time, their 
 voices mingling with the sound of the piano in the Blue 
 Room, where Miss Framm was spending her Saturday fore- 
 noon with Beethoven. Gerty was not mistaken. Maggie 
 and Ellen passed and went back without coming in ; but 
 just then the music came to a stop, and some of their 
 words were distinctly audible. 
 
 ■ "The doctor told Mrs. Martyn that she was not to know 
 — that taking away hope from her would be" — Maggie's 
 next words were spoken so low that Gerty could not hear. 
 " But Mary Carr thinks she has found out, only " — The 
 voices died away again ; the last Gerty could catch was an
 
 WHAT tT MEANT. 221 
 
 allusion to some one whose name she did not hear — some 
 one who was said rather emphatically not to have " the 
 least idea of it." 
 
 Gerty forgot that the Murray s did not know she was in 
 the schoolroom, — forgot that she had no right to listen to 
 what they were saying. She had overheard their words at 
 first without any wish of her own ; but now she waited in 
 sickening anxiety till they should return again, and she 
 might have another chance of finding out their meaning. 
 Miss Framm was playing very softly — oh ! when would 
 they come 1 Surely they were walking very slowly. So 
 they were, but not so slowly as Gerty fancied. She had 
 made up her mind that they had gone away altogether, 
 before her straining ears could hear the sound of Maggie 
 Murray's voice speaking low, but still continuously, as if 
 she were repeating something to her sister. But before 
 Gerty could distinguish the sense she had stopped, and the 
 two girls were walking in silence when they came to the 
 schoolroom door. There they seemed to make a pause, and 
 Ellen asked, " Did Mrs. Martyn tell you, — are you sure, 
 Maggie 1 — that the doctor said — just that 1 " 
 
 " There was very little hope almost from the first, I be- 
 lieve, but for a while he thought she might live through 
 the summer. Mrs. Martyn says consumption is dreadfully 
 in Major Godfrey's family, so — " They did not turn back 
 this time, but, pushing wide the door, came in and met 
 Gerty face to face. Afterwards she remembered that both 
 looked very sad, and Ellen was crying ; even the dismayed 
 looks they gave at each other when they saw her came 
 back to her recollection, but at the time she was uncon- 
 scious of it all. She rushed past them both, and upstairs 
 to her room. All she felt was that she wanted to be alone ; 
 and mercifully it was empty.
 
 222 THE BITTER TRUTH. 
 
 She went down on the floor immediately, and lay with 
 her face in her hands — not crying, only attempting to 
 realize and understand what she had heai'd. Ada was 
 dying. The doctor had little hope from the first, and now 
 he had said she could not live through the summer. An- 
 other child in Gerty's place might have refused to believe 
 it ; she accepted the fact, only she could not understand it. 
 She believed it, because the bitter truth could not be denied 
 that Ada was much worse, that she was weaker and more 
 restless than she used to be, and her cough was as incessant 
 as ever. It was a sad confirmation of Maggie Murray's 
 words to remember that when first she began to visit Ada 
 in the sickroom, she had been able to sit up and play with 
 her for hours, while of late a few minutes of it had seemed 
 to exhaust her, and the drawing and painting had passed 
 into Gerty's hands altogether. And while at one time Ada 
 had made light of her illness, and talked constantly of being 
 better, she had altogether given up doing so now, and had 
 kept silent when Gerty talked of what was to be done when 
 she was well again. 
 
 All this came back to Gerty, and she wondered why it 
 was that she who loved Ada should have been blinded dur- 
 ing these weeks when she had been so often with her : surely 
 it was strange that she needed to overhear a casual conver- 
 sation between her schoolfellows to tell her Ada was dying ! 
 But death was no real thing to Gerty; it had never come 
 near her at all, for the happy home-circle at Burnside was 
 unbroken. And now how could she realize that this little 
 girl who had shared all her lessons and all her games — Ada, 
 who had been closer than any one else in the perfect confi- 
 dence of their childish friendship, was going away from her 
 side into the invisible world? All Gerty's joys and sorrows 
 during the past year had been mingled with Ada's — it was
 
 THINKING IT OUT. 223 
 
 impossible to imagine Miss Martyn's school without her ; 
 she could not go without taking with her a great piece out 
 of Gerty's life. 
 
 But even then, in her first bewilderment, Gerty tried 
 hard to think not of her own loss, but of Ada's gain, — not 
 what earth was to be for her, but what heaven was to be 
 for Ada. She strove hard to fancy her little friend among 
 the glories and the brightness of the heavenly city; she 
 pictured Ada dressed in glittering white, with a crown 
 above the pretty hair that Gerty used to play with, and a 
 palm in the little hand that had clasped hers so often. But 
 it would not do. She could only think of her in the familiar 
 rooms where she used to study and play, a lithe little figure 
 in a short dress, with a quantity of hair which never would 
 keep tidy. But it was most difficult of all to imagine how 
 Ada would feel in the strange, far-olf land where she was 
 going all alone. Was it possible, Gerty wondered, that she 
 could ever be at home there? Would her walks on the 
 golden streets be half so pleasant as those she used to take 
 with Gerty on Saturday forenoons, in the days that had gone 
 by for ever? Could she love any of the bright angels as 
 she had loved the girls at Miss Martyn's school 1 
 
 It was not till the bell rung to summon the girls to pre- 
 pare for their walk that Mary CaiT came to her room. 
 Then Gerty rose and began slowly and mechanically to get 
 her walking things, thinking it strange that everything 
 should go on as usual and she herself give in to it. The 
 girls had been together in silence for a few minutes, before 
 Mary suddenly came tip to Gerty, and putting her arms 
 round her, tried to tell her how sorry she was for what had 
 happened. 
 
 " My poor Gerty I would have given anything you had 
 not heard it as you did. And Miss Murray is sorry — we
 
 224 IN THE SUNNY STREETS. 
 
 are all sorry for you, dear. Only, remember what it is for 
 us as well as you — we all liked Ada ! I remember her 
 coming first to school — such a little thing — " Mary's voice 
 had not been steady all along, and now she fairly broke 
 down ; and Gerty, looking up at her with dry eyes, wondered 
 why it was that she could not cry too. " But, Gerty dear, 
 the grief is all for us. It will be so well with her ; she 
 will go to heaven — " 
 
 " Don't, Mary !" said Gerty hoarsely. " Don't, please ! I 
 know you are very good, but I can't bear it." 
 
 Mary's last words had jarred painfully, bringing back the 
 thoughts which had been in her mind before — thoughts 
 which seemed to Gerty too wicked to tell any one. She 
 escaped from her friend's embrace, and hurriedly put on 
 her hat and jacket, without speaking or even looking at 
 her again. Her behaviour hurt Mary, but she pitied her 
 too really to be angry for more than a minute, though she 
 had no key to Gerty's feelings. When the procession of 
 girls filed out of Miss Martyn's door these two walked 
 together ; but Miss Carr made no further efforts to comfort 
 the child. Miss Maria was in charge that day, and they 
 were sure of a long walk as well as an orderly one; but 
 Gerty, going silently along the sunny streets, neither knew 
 nor cared where she was taken to. 
 
 It was not till they had been out a long time, and Mary 
 was beginning to complain of being tired, that Gerty was 
 roused up to notice where she was going, and found herself 
 in a quiet road among little suburban cottages. 
 
 " Look, dear, isn't that gai'den delightfully spring-like 1 " 
 Mary Carr had said, making a kindly attempt to interest 
 her in something. And Gerty, raising her eyes, saw through 
 a low railing a tiny plot all bright with flowers, and a little 
 old lady coming out of the garden gate, who stopped and
 
 NOT TO BE COMFORTED. 225 
 
 looked at the schoolgirls curiously as they passed. She 
 stood still to observe them all, and when Gerty came at 
 last, walking with Mary Carr just before Miss Maria, there 
 was something like disappointment in her eyes. 
 
 "Are you going to turn now 1 ?" said poor Gerty. " I — 
 I'm tired !" And her friend, understanding her better this 
 time, could only be sorry she had spoken. 
 
 " Yes — in a minute, I think ; at the end of this street 
 —Dear Gerty ! " 
 
 The recollection of her last walk with Ada had been too 
 much for her, and Gerty could not control herself. She 
 knew that Mary Carr dexterously untwisted the veil from 
 her own hat and put it over her face; then took hold of 
 her hand, in spite of the rule that forbade it, and the fact 
 that Miss Maria was directly behind. But how she got 
 home through all these weary streets Gerty never knew. 
 
 Back in her own room at last, she flung herself on Ada's 
 empty bed, and lay there sobbing and crying till her com- 
 panions were frightened by the violence of her grief. One 
 after another came to her during that long afternoon ; but 
 to all expressions of sympathy, and all attempts at com- 
 fort, Gerty turned a deaf ear. " Don't speak to me ! oh, 
 please go away, and don't speak to me !" she kept repeat- 
 ing ; till at last they were obliged to see that leaving her 
 alone was all they could do for her. 
 
 She had been all by herself a long time, when Mary 
 Carr came in and found her with her face hidden in the 
 pillows, lying so still that she thought she was asleep. 
 Mary hesitated to speak at first; and it was not till she was 
 satisfied by the sound of her breathing that she was awake 
 that she said gently, — 
 
 " Gerty, Mrs. Martyn has sent to the schoolroom to 
 know where you were, for Ada has been asking for you 
 
 (584) 15
 
 226 A MESSAGE FOR GERTY. 
 
 several times. Do you think you are able to go to her 
 now 1 n 
 
 Gerty made no answer ; she was too stupified with cry- 
 ing to be able to speak or even think. But she rose, and 
 let Mary put her hair and dress tidy, and try to wash 
 away the stains of tears from her face. Then she went 
 slowly upstairs in the afternoon sunlight, and coming to 
 the door of the sickroom, she hesitated and was afraid to 
 enter, as May Allardyce had once been. She did not 
 know how she would meet Ada's questions about her 
 absence. Gerty could scarcely believe it was only in the 
 morning she had left her ; but even if it was really so, her 
 being away for several hours must seem strange to Ada, 
 who was accustomed to have her the whole of Saturday. 
 It was with a beating heart that Gerty opened the door at 
 last and entered the familiar room. 
 
 Mrs. Martyn, seated at the fire, was too much occupied 
 with some perplexity in her famous knitting to look up 
 when she came in ; but Ada raised her eyes immediately 
 and fixed them full on Gerty's face for a minute, then 
 dropped them again without speaking. And poor Gerty, 
 conscious of her tear-blurred visage, could find nothing to 
 say, and crept away to the window to be out of Ada's 
 sight. 
 
 w Mother Hubbard," said Ada, breaking the silence, as 
 Mrs. Martyn's difficulties seemed to be clearing away, "you 
 have no idea what good care Gerty takes of me when you 
 are gone. She's always wanting to give me jelly; and 
 yesterday she poured out my cough mixture without spill- 
 ing a drop." 
 
 " That was nice, dear," said Mother Hubbard, placidly 
 knitting on. 
 
 "And so, dear Mother Hubbard," said Ada, seeing that
 
 ALONE WITH HER FRIEND 227 
 
 broader hints were necessary to accomplish her purpose, 
 and proceeding to give them without the least hesitation — 
 " so, dear Mother Hubbard, if you would like to go and 
 see Miss Mai'ia, you won't be afraid to leave me alone with 
 her, will you?" 
 
 " Oh ! I'm to go away, am 1 1" said the old lady, in per- 
 fect good humour. " Well, well ! if Gerty is going to 
 stay with you, I suppose you don't need me ; and I've a 
 letter to write to Miss Martyn. Have you got any message 
 for her 1" 
 
 " Only my love, and I'm glad she's better," said Ada, 
 her face clouding over curiously at the mention of Miss 
 Maria's elder sister, who had been her Aunt Laura's 
 governess long ago, and was always the little girl's special 
 friend in the Martyn family ; " and tell her I'm very sorry 
 she isn't coming home soon." 
 
 Mrs. Martyn folded up her knitting and went away, 
 leaving Gerty for the first time sorry to be alone with her 
 little friend. She stood still at the window, looking out 
 on the garden with aching, weaiy eyes ; and did not even 
 turn round till Ada slipped off the couch and crossed the 
 room to her. Gerty forgot that, being at present the 
 nurse in charge, she ought to have made her patient lie 
 down again. When Ada touched her, she turned and put 
 her arm round her, and the two little girls stood side by 
 side. And to Gerty it seemed all at once as if the sad 
 afternoon had been only a horrible dream, from which she 
 had wakened now to find herself back again in the old life 
 with Ada. It cost her no effort to speak cheerfully, and 
 even to smile, when she asked her how they would spend 
 their time till Mrs. Martyn returned. 
 
 " My paint-box is up here, and Miss Cathcart made a 
 beautiful point to my pencil. Shall we make some moro
 
 228 A MEMORABLE CONVERSATION. 
 
 little boys and girls, or go back to Ellen Montgomery till 
 tea-time 1" 
 
 " No ; I would like to talk. You know I don't have 
 muck of you except on Saturdays ; and, Gerty, you 
 mustn't keep away, for it won't be very long now !" 
 
 Gerty was not sure what Ada meant, though the words 
 struck her with a sense of pain. She made no answer, 
 and Ada went on after a minute, — "Mother Hubbard 
 doesn't make a very good pretender, Gerty, and neither 
 do some of the girls; and so I've known for a long time 
 what the doctor thinks about me. I shall never be better 
 again." 
 
 Ada spoke so quietly, that the very sound of her voice 
 soothed the violence of Gerty's grief; and she spoke very 
 softly when she asked, " My darling, my Ada ! are you 
 willing to go 1 ?" 
 
 "I think I am — at least generally," said Ada; then 
 her voice faltered. " But, oh ! I'm so sorry to leave you 
 all — so sorry to go without seeing papa and mamma 
 again ! 
 
 " But we meant to go to heaven toe/ether, Ada, and we've 
 only gone such a little bit of the way ! And if I ever see 
 you again, it will be so long to wait — perhaps fifty or sixty 
 years !" 
 
 " I'll never forget you, Gerty," said Ada, speaking ear- 
 nestly, and looking straight into Gerty's eyes. " I think I'll 
 know what you're doing, and I'm nearly sure I'll know 
 when it's time for you to come. I'll think of you, and wait 
 for you ; and it will be happier for me, even in heaven, 
 when you are there." 
 
 " Do you think it will be very happy there 1" said Gerty, 
 speaking wistfully, but still quietly. 
 
 "Oh yos," said Ada quickly, with brightening eyes.
 
 HOW COMFORT CAME TO GERTY. 229 
 
 Jesus will be there ! And then when I am with him I'll 
 be quite good, and never ill any more. Do you know," 
 she added more softly, " I think, when he comes for me, 
 perhaps it will just be like wakening up to see his face, 
 and be quite well again." 
 
 Ada had seated herself on a low chair at the window, 
 and, leaning her cheek on her hand, was looking out at the 
 far-away sky. And Gerty, kneeling by her side, had for- 
 gotten the golden city and the crystal sea, whose imagined 
 splendours had frightened her in the afternoon. It was to 
 no country of dazzling, bewildering brightness that Ada 
 was going, but home to the Lord who held the little girl's 
 hand, and took the children in his arms long ago. He 
 was the same loving Saviour still; and sui'ely the mansion 
 he had prepared for this little one in his Father's house 
 could be no strange or unhome-like place. 
 
 So it was that comfort first came to Gerty — comfort 
 which she never entirely let go through all the days that 
 followed. All that evening she clung to it very close; 
 and though she was very quiet, her companions wondered 
 to see how composed she was. Upstairs, in the sickroom, 
 she read to Ada till nearly bed-time ; then kissed her, and 
 bade her good-night very quietly. But when the lights 
 were out, and Mary Carr and May Allardyce asleep, 
 Gerty crept close to the bed which used to be Ada's, and 
 stretching out her arms on it, laid down her head as she 
 had done in the afternoon. 
 
 " O God !" said poor Gerty, with all her heart—" God ! 
 thou didst give Ada to me, and I thank thee. And now 
 I give her back to thee, that she may be always with the 
 Lord Jesus Christ. Only, O Lord, take me too some day. 
 Give Ada back to me in heaven ! "
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 HANDS UNCLASPED AT HEAVEN'S GATE. 
 
 ;HE time of the spring holidays was fast approach- 
 ing, but all holiday gladness was hushed at Miss 
 Martyn's school. To all questions about Ada's 
 health only sad answers could be given ; and even the 
 inexperienced eyes of the girls themselves could see that 
 she was sinking rapidly. She suffered very little except 
 from weakness and weariness; and through all the dulness 
 and confinement of her sickroom life she was wonderfully 
 patient. To the very end her companions came about her; 
 and however silent and languid she might be at other times, 
 their presence always brightened her. 
 
 One wet forenoon when Gerty was with her, Ada 
 astonished her by a request that she would bring her trin- 
 kets and most valuable possessions. A very small stock 
 they were, consisting almost entirely of presents which her 
 father and mother had sent her. She had never shown 
 any particular affection for them; and was so careless of 
 their welfare, that Gerty had considerable difficulty in 
 hunting them up from the various places they had strayed 
 to. Perhaps no one less accustomed to Ada's habits would 
 have been successful ; but Gerty found them all at last, 
 and carrying them upstairs in her apron, arranged them 
 on the table beside their owner: And then as Ada, 
 propped up with pillows on the sofa, took one after an-
 
 A PAINFUL TASK. 231 
 
 other of her things in her little thin hands, Gerty sat and 
 watched her silently for a while. She had generally been 
 accustomed to see Ada in the evening, when she always 
 felt better ; and perhaps this was the first time it struck 
 Gerty that she looked very ill. She had had a very bad 
 night ; and now, though her cough was quieted, she 
 breathed very hurriedly, and her face looked white and 
 weary against the damp dark hair, which had no bright- 
 ness in it now. Even her voice sounded tired when she 
 spoke. 
 
 "I would have liked everybody to have something to 
 remember me by," said Ada ; " but I've so few things, and 
 so many of them are broken. Will you help me to arrange 
 about it, Gerty, and then you can give the things to the 
 girls afterwards 1 ?" 
 
 Gerty came nearer the table when Ada spoke, but she 
 could not find voice to answer. 
 
 " My coral things are for you, Gerty, and I would like 
 you to wear them. You don't wear ear-rings ; but you'll 
 wear the necklace, won't you?" 
 
 "Yes, I'll wear it," said Gerty, making an efi'ort and 
 speaking steadily. " But the ear-rings are very pretty. 
 Wouldn't you give them to Mary V 
 
 "Yes, that will do beautifully!" said Ada, speaking 
 with some of her old animation of manner. " Do you 
 think she'll like them 1 ? She has so many pretty things 
 of her own; but I think she'll put these on sometimes. 
 And this little brooch Aunt Laura sent me at Christ- 
 mas — " 
 
 Gerty winced at the recollection of the bright winter 
 morning when the arrival of Ada's Roman packet and 
 letter had made a sensation at the Burnside breakfast-table. 
 And now, with the little trinket in her hand, Ada's
 
 232 ada's possessions. 
 
 thoughts had wandered away too, and her eyes were full 
 of tears when she looked up at Gerty. 
 
 " Christmas-times are so tiresome at school, Gerty. I 
 thought a pleasant one would never come to me in Scot- 
 land — never again till I saw papa and mamma. And 
 then I went to your home. The little brooch means Burn- 
 side as well as Aunt Laura, and I would like to give it to 
 some one very nice — some one we both like ; do you think 
 it might be Emily V 
 
 " I think it might," said Gerty. 
 
 " Will she care to have it 1 We were so unkind to her 
 once !" 
 
 " Ada, that is all over and done with so long 
 ago!" 
 
 " It's not all over," said Ada very sadly. " Sometimes 
 I'm afraid it never will be, and I'm so very, very sorry 
 about you. Do you think people ever forget things of that 
 sort, Gerty J " 
 
 " Dear, I'm sure Emily never thinks of it now ! She is 
 so fond of you, she likes to sit with you better than any- 
 thing ; and she is always trying to think of something she 
 could get you would like. She is always thinking about 
 you, and always speaking about you. Do you think she 
 would be like that, if she kept up a grudge 1 " 
 
 " I think Emily has forgotten it now," said Ada ; but 
 the cloud was still on her face. " Then, this for her. 
 And about these other things, — will you help me, 
 Gerty 1 " 
 
 Poor Gerty went bravely through it all, keeping back 
 her tears and speaking calmly as Ada went over the re- 
 membrances she wished to leave. Her possessions were so 
 few in comparison with her friends, that it was not with- 
 out some time and trouble that the whole could be decided.
 
 for Christ's sake. 233 
 
 But at last Ada pushed them all together in a heap on the 
 table, and lay quiet, with one hand on them, the other 
 playing with the ribbon round her neck. 
 
 "Is that all, dear 1 ?" said Gerty at last, thinking of her 
 locket, and wondering if she wished it sent back to her 
 mother. 
 
 "No," said Ada, "that's not quite all. I've something 
 more to give ; and I want to give it to you, if you will let 
 me. Will you take my baby, Gerty 1 Will you be kind 
 to May when I am gone 1 ?" 
 
 Gerty's head was down, and Ada got no answer at first ; 
 for indeed this unexpected request was the hardest thing 
 she could have asked from Gerty, who had never been fond 
 of May at all, and since Ada's illness had liked her less 
 than evei\ And now she was asked to pledge herself to 
 coax this spoilt child into friendship ; then pet, and teach, 
 and protect her, as Ada had done. That was what Ada 
 meant; and if Gerty gave her promise at all, she would 
 keep it fully. 
 
 Ada had asked her question point-blank, without any 
 attempt to appeal to her friend's feelings for herself, unless 
 her using May's school-name for the first and only time 
 could be called so ; and now she seemed to think any words 
 of persuasion would be useless, and waited Gerty's answer 
 silently. It came at last, but not for what appeared to 
 Geiiy herself a very long time. 
 
 " I'll try to do it — for your sake." 
 
 "Oh no !" said Ada, speaking quickly. "Not for my 
 sake ! May is very provoking sometimes ; you won't be 
 able to do it for that — but for Christ's sake." 
 
 Again Ada had to wait, but this time not so long. And 
 though Gerty did not lift her head, her voice was steady 
 when she answered. " For your sake," said Gerty, repeat-
 
 234 THE LAST PRIVATE TALK. 
 
 ing her words again deliberately. " For your sake — and 
 for Christ's sake — I promise, Ada." 
 
 That was the last private talk between the two little 
 friends, — they were never alone together again. But for a 
 few more days Gerty came upstairs in the evening to tell 
 schoolroom news, or go on with their favourite stories ; 
 and when Ada was lifted from the sofa to the bed, Gerty, 
 kneeling beside her with her hand clasped in hers, would 
 read aloud from the Testament she had given her long ago. 
 And reading of the Saviour who had loved them both, and 
 died for them, — the Saviour who was coming so soon to 
 take Ada to himself, — earth would seem far away, and 
 heaven nearer to Gerty than it had ever been before. 
 When she left Ada for the night and went down to her 
 companions again she was very cpriet, but always gentle, 
 with a gentleness that was very unlike her old self. 
 
 So it went on for a while. And as the two little girls 
 went down hand in hand to the brink of the river, they 
 almost forgot they could not cross together; only one was 
 going just then to enter the celestial city. 
 
 The change came very suddenly at the last. One day, 
 the bitterest time to Gerty of all Ada's illness, the little 
 Mends were entirely separated. For Ada, tossing restlessly, 
 did not know the watchers round her bed ; and all through 
 the hours of that day and the night that followed her 
 weary little brain wandered back to past scenes. She was 
 again in the schoolroom learning lessons with Gerty, or 
 repeating them in her classes ; oftener still among her com- 
 panions at play-time, talking as if they were all around her. 
 Or sometimes she seemed to fancy her mother was with 
 her, and repeated her name over and over again tenderly, 
 speaking to her in the language of her early childhood. 
 
 Then there came a moi'ning when all music was hushed,
 
 " DON'T GO AWAY, GEKTY." 235 
 
 and even in the far-away schoolroom the girls moved softly, 
 and spoke below their breath. Ada had fallen into a 
 troubled sleep for a time; but while it was still early a 
 message was sent to Gerty that she was awake and asking 
 for her. When the summons came to Gerty, seated at her 
 desk beside Ada's vacant place, she laid down her books 
 and passed out from among her companions without a word. 
 She had been told that Ada might not know her; but as 
 Gerty entered the sickroom she looked up with her old 
 sunny smile to greet her. " Gerty, come and sit close 
 beside me, and tell me about school." 
 
 Mrs. Martyn could not look at the two little girls. She 
 hid her face and wept like a child, while Gerty took her 
 chair by the bed and began to talk of the schoolgirl-life 
 which Ada was never to enter any more. But Gerty's 
 voice was steady as she told about the masters who had 
 come, and what had happened in the classes, going over all 
 the trifling incidents she had learned to treasure up for 
 Ada during the days of her illness. And though Ada 
 seemed scarcely able to attend to her, the very sound of 
 Gerty's voice soothed her, and she was always more restless 
 and weary when she stopped speaking. " Don't go away, 
 Gerty," she kept repeating ; "sit where I can see you, and 
 oh ! please, don't go away ! " 
 
 Mrs. Martyn went to rest, and her place was taken by 
 Miss Framm for a while ; but during the hours of that 
 long forenoon, Gerty, sitting with her arm on the pillow, 
 never once changed her place. She did not even turn 
 round when Miss Maria entered the room, though she 
 knew who it was that came near the bed, even before she 
 spoke to Ada. But to any other voice but Gerty's poor 
 Ada gave little heed that day. She did not speak at first, 
 and Gerty had to tell her who it was.
 
 236 A TOUCHING SCENE. 
 
 "Do you not know me, Ada?" said Miss Maria, speak- 
 ing gently, as the child raised her large dark eyes from 
 Gerty's face to hers. 
 
 Ada paused a little, looking at her steadily, and rousing 
 herself into consciousness as if with an effort. " I have 
 wanted to speak to you," she said at last. " I meant to 
 have tried harder to be good, when I came downstairs 
 again. I have been trying, — only it is so difficult, — but I 
 wish I had managed better. I have given you a great deal 
 of trouble, and been very naughty sometimes. Do you 
 think you could forgive me, before you say good-bye 1 " 
 
 " Yes, dear, I forgive you — " 
 
 " And perhaps," said Ada, still speaking with some hesi- 
 tation — " perhaps, after a little, you'll forget that Gerty 
 used to be my chosen friend and companion 1 " 
 
 Ada's thoughts had gone back to the time when Miss 
 Maria had found her and Gerty in the schoolroom at Emily 
 Gordon's open desk; and perhaps her governess too remem- 
 bered it, and the words she had used then. Miss Maria 
 could scarcely give the answer which Ada waited for wist- 
 fully. 
 
 "I shall always remember it, dear," she said at last. 
 " But not — in the way you mean." 
 
 She was more moved than Gerty or any one else had 
 ever seen her, and when Ada held out her hand to bid her 
 good-bye, Miss Maria kept it in hers for a minute silently, 
 then stooped to kiss the little pale face on the pillow. 
 
 The doctor had come and gone, and hours passed on, but 
 no one made any attempt to send Gerty away. Then, as 
 she sat beside her friend with her hand on hers, she remem- 
 bered her absent companions, and the grief that had clouded 
 the whole school.
 
 A LAST REQUEST. 237 
 
 Formerly, even while she was proud of Ada's popularity, 
 she had been half-jealous of the affection she bestowed upon 
 the other girls; but now she spoke with a thoughtfulness 
 for them which she could not have shown a few months aso. 
 
 " But the other girls, Ada ! They are all so fond of you, 
 and they are not allowed to come. And when Fraulein 
 goes back to the schoolroom, they'll want to hear about yon. 
 Don't you think you might send them a message 1 " 
 
 " They will be sure to want to hear from Ada." 
 
 As Miss Framm spoke, she was moving the pillows to 
 raise the little girl's head, and Ada thanked her with a 
 smile of recognition. 
 
 " Tell them to meet me in heaven. There's no use of 
 sending them my love, because they know it." But there 
 was a troubled tone in her voice again, as she added after 
 a minute, " About the things — I don't remember — I think 
 1 must be getting very stupid, for I forget." 
 
 "Never mind, dear, because I know. You told me 
 before who the things were for; I remember all you said, 
 and I'll give them." 
 
 "But not my locket. No one must take it off, for 
 mamma gave it to me befoi-e she went away, and I would 
 like to have it when I meet her at the resurrection." 
 
 She went back again to her soft Italian words, seeming 
 unconscious she was using them. And when Mrs. Martyn 
 returned she took no notice. 
 
 It had been a dull and misty morning ; but as the day 
 went on it brightened, and now the whole sickroom was 
 filled with the spring sunshine. But though Ada's face was 
 turned to the window the light was growing dim to her, 
 and her voice was almost frightened when she spoke again 
 to Gerty, — 
 
 " Where are you, Gerty 1 ? It's getting very dark."
 
 238 at heaven's gate. 
 
 " I'm here, my darling, close beside you, holding your 
 hand." 
 
 She was quiet for a little, as if satisfied. But presently 
 she spoke again, fancying she was back in the old room 
 where Gerty and she used to sleep, — 
 
 "It's getting so dark. Don't you think we ought to 
 read now? I'm afraid we can't wait for Mary to-night, for 
 it must be very late, and I'm so tired." 
 
 " O dear Ada ! try to lie still and rest !" 
 
 " But we haven't read ; we might have done it together, 
 if it had only been light enough. Why was the gas put 
 out so soon 1 " 
 
 " It's daylight still ; it's quite light round about, Ada. 
 Don't you see me sitting beside you ] " 
 
 Still there was the anxious, restless look on Ada's face, 
 and the friends round her bed knew not how to comfort 
 her. But as Gerty turned round in distress, the sight of 
 Ada's Testament lying on the little table near her brought 
 a sudden thought of hope. 
 
 The room was very quiet as Gerty slipped from her 
 chair, and kneeling down by the bed, took Ada's hand in 
 hers. 
 
 "I can see, dear Ada! I'm going to read to you. I 
 have hold of your hand ; I'm very near you." 
 
 The others saw the two children together in a flood of 
 light, the sun shining on Gerty's bent head, and brightening 
 Ada's hair. 
 
 Gerty had opened the Testament at random, and began 
 to read where Ada had put a mark ; and kneeling beside 
 her dying little friend, she read without a quiver in her 
 voice how the Lord Jesus came bringing life and health to 
 the sickroom of a little girl long ago. Was it only the 
 sound of Gerty's voice that soothed her, or did Ada even
 
 HOME. 239 
 
 then understand the words of her favourite story 1 ? They 
 never knew; but as Gerty read the weariness passed alto- 
 gether out of her face, and she lay still with a smile about 
 her lips, and the sunshine on her hair. 
 
 And as Gerty raised her eyes and caught the look on 
 her face, she thought the Lord must be very near. For a 
 minute she hesitated, then slowly and gently let go her 
 hold of Ada's hand. A little longer she knelt there with 
 her eyes on the quiet little face; then the Master came 
 through the sunlight and the silence of the sickroom, and 
 took Gerty's little friend home to Himself for ever.
 
 $art §ccont). 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE MEMORY OF A PROMISE. 
 
 | HE summer holidays were ended, and again Gerty 
 had left her father's house in the country, and 
 kissing her mother in Miss Martyn's prim draw- 
 ing-room, bade good-bye to all her home-life for a while. 
 It was no new world, however, that the girl was entering 
 now, but a very familiar one — a world too in which Gei~ty 
 herself was an important and influential personage. For 
 three years and a half had passed since that April day when 
 she first went to school at Miss Martyn's, and thought that 
 the spring sunshine was mocking her in her misery. 
 
 There was no need for Miss Maria this time to guide 
 and introduce her to governesses and companions, as that 
 redoubtable lady had once done for the little home-sick child, 
 who had kept her mouth tight shut, and looked straight 
 before her with hard dry eyes in her terrible struggle not 
 to ciy. As Gerty took her way alone with quick firm 
 steps down the long passage to the schoolroom, she had 
 some compassionate thoughts to spare for that shy, proud, 
 miserable little girl who had gone the same road three
 
 A WARM WELCOME. 241 
 
 years ago. She paused at the door for a moment with 
 recollections of mingled pathos and amusement that brought 
 a smile to her lips. and a tender sadness to her eyes. But 
 the pause was only for a moment. Gerty had never much 
 time to spend on mere dreaming ; her life was too earnest 
 and too full for that. 
 
 When she entered the schoolroom there was a stir of 
 surprise and pleasure among the girls, who were for the 
 most part grouped about the fire, gossiping listlessly. They 
 came forward and greeted her eagerly, gathering about her 
 in an outburst of demonstrative affection, such as is peculiar 
 to their kind — all talking at once, and kissing, hugging, 
 and pulling about the object of their tenderness. Gerty 
 returned the caresses and answered the questions heaped 
 upon her very affectionately, but with more gravity and 
 composure of manner than is usual with schoolgirls of 
 fifteen. Gerty was not given either to gushing or giggling, 
 and was considered very old and sedate for her years. 
 When she stood disengaged from her companions, after the 
 first hubbub of their welcome was over, it could be clearly 
 seen that she was growing into a womanhood that would 
 be much comelier than her childhood had been. No one 
 coiild call Gerty plain, seeing her now, a tall girl whose 
 straight figure was well shown off by her dark close-fitting 
 winter-dress, her brown hair in thick plaits about her head, 
 and those dark gray eyes of hers shining out from under 
 her broad brow, and softening the firm expression which 
 the mouth gave to her face. Time had changed Gerty 
 Stuart's appearance much. If not exactly what is called 
 pretty, then she was something better. 
 
 On the rest of Miss Martyn's school time had wrought 
 changes too. Old girls had gone and new ones come; those 
 that remained were altered. In the group that gathered 
 
 (684) l Q
 
 242 OLD FRIENDS AND NEW ONES. 
 
 round Gerty there were faces that were unknown even to 
 her; but though she was by no means unobservant of the 
 new girls, her first interest was about old acquaintances. 
 
 Seated as close to the fire as she could bring her chair, 
 leaning carelessly back with an open book in her lap, the 
 eldest of the party had taken least share in the obstreperous 
 welcome given to Gerty. She was a pretty girl — very 
 pretty in a somewhat peculiar style, small and slight, with 
 delicate features, wavy hair soft as silk and black as jet, 
 and bright dark ej^es like a gipsy's. All evening long 
 Nettie Cathcart had been teasing her companions new 
 and old in the intervals of her novel-reading with as great 
 zest as she had ever teased Miss M'Kenzie. But Miss 
 M'Kenzie, and all the rest of the generation Nettie had 
 formerly belonged to, had passed away, and she who had 
 been the youngest of the elder girls was now in age the 
 head of the school. But the power and influence which 
 ought to have gone with such a position were not Nettie 
 Cathcart's, but belonged to others. 
 
 " Here I am again, Gerty, you see," said the young lady 
 coolly, in answer to the slightly surprised look that lighted 
 on her. " You and Emily Gordon won't be able to make 
 the model school yet a while. Before the holidays were 
 over I had time to make up my mind that Miss Maria was 
 decidedly preferable to Mrs. Cathcart, so I told papa I did 
 not wish to be finished this year after all." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Gerty, a little stiffly. She had not much 
 sympathy with this pretty, impudent, flippant girl who 
 flaunted her home troubles before every one's face, and 
 openly professed to care for nothing and nobody but herself 
 and her own amusement. Gerty turned away from Nettie 
 Cathcart, and, looking in vain for the faces she most wished 
 to see, asked eagerly, "Have the Gordons not come yet]"
 
 MISCELLANEOUS INFORMATION. 243 
 
 " Yes — no," was the answer. " They're in town ; they 
 were hero to-day for a little while, but they're still staying 
 at their aunt's." 
 
 Gerty was anxious to hear more of the Gordons, but 
 restrained her further curiosity on the subject till she had 
 asked something of the welfare of the girl who spoke to 
 her. "When did you come, Ellen 1 "Where did you go 
 for the holidays ? And how's Maggie ? " 
 
 " I came this afternoon. We were at the sea-side for 
 six weeks; I was tired enough of it. Maggie's all right, 
 of course — she always is; what's the use of asking? 
 She's as strong as a horse," said Ellen Murray, whose 
 manners neither years nor Miss Maria's reproofs had been 
 able to tone down into refinement. Yet, ungracious as her 
 answers to Gerty seemed, she was well pleased at the 
 inquiries, for she secretly set a high value on the friendly 
 interest of her old rival, and was curiously jealous of her 
 love for Emily Gordon. 
 
 It was some time before Gerty could continue the 
 questions she was longing to put, for the younger girls 
 closed round her again, pouring miscellaneous information 
 on her, brought from all quarters but the one she was 
 particularly interested in. 
 
 " Do you know Miss Maria has got another new black 
 silk?" — " No, two; I'm sure she's got two new ones, Gerty !" 
 — " And Mr. Sherwood's been and got married in the 
 holidays. The Murrays know his wife." — " Did you hear 
 that the doctor says Miss Marty n may stay here this 
 winter and not go to England at all?" — "I like that new 
 dress of yours, Gerty ; I wish mamma would get my 
 dresses made by your dressmaker — " 
 
 " Did you see Minnie Gordon to-day as well as Emily?" 
 said Gerty at last, taking advantage of the first lull in the
 
 244 A CHANGE IN PROSPECT. 
 
 storm of disjointed chatter around her. Then the tempest 
 rose again immediately, the news about Minnie Gordon 
 being imparted to Gerty by several different speakers, all 
 talking loud and very fast. 
 
 " You mean the little one 1 "— " She's not little. She's 
 tall like a lamp-post, — but such a baby-face ! " — " She's not 
 at all the sort of sister you would expect Emily to have ; 
 she does nothing but laugh straight on." — "Yes, I never 
 saw such a funny thing ; she's quite a new specimen. I 
 don't know what Miss Maria will make of her." 
 
 " And when do Emily and Minnie come here to stay 1 " 
 said Gerty, again seizing the opportunity of putting a 
 question. 
 
 No one could answer this but Molly Smith, whose face, 
 round and plump as ever, took an expression of self-satisfied 
 importance over her own superior information. 
 
 " They're coming to-morrow. I heard them talking to 
 Mrs. Martyn about it. And the big downstairs-bedroom is 
 getting ready for them ; and you're to sleep with them there, 
 Gerty." 
 
 " That can't be true," said Gerty quickly, " for Mrs. 
 Martyn sent me herself to the old room to take off my 
 things." 
 
 " Only for to-night, because the other room isn't ready," 
 said Molly, a little piqued that her information was 
 doubted. " I know it's true, Gerty, for I heard it all — 
 every word ! And Mrs. Martyn thinks the putting you 
 into the big best room a — a — a sort of a compliment to 
 you, Gerty. Miss Cathcart, and I don't know who else, 
 ai-e to be in your old room with May." 
 
 Gerty looked so very grave at the idea of the compliment 
 to be paid to her that the girls all gazed at her with some 
 astonishment, and Nettie Cathcai-t bade her confess openly
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 245 
 
 that even she would find it rather dull to be a room-mate 
 of the Gordons. 
 
 " No ; I should like it of all things," said Gerty, rousing 
 up at that. " But it can't be. And you're to sleep in the 
 room with May, — are you, Nettie 1 " 
 
 " Yes," said Miss Cathcart with a shrug of the shoulders. 
 " It matters little to me. The child is perfectly harmless ; 
 all spirit has been knocked out of her long ago." 
 
 " All the same," said Ellen Murray in her rude way, " it 
 shows that the Martyns haven't much respect for you, when 
 they put you to sleep with a small chit like May, and give 
 Gerty and the Gordons the best room in the house — and 
 them younger than you, and not nearly so long at school ! " 
 
 " To think that Mrs. Martyn didn't respect me would be 
 heartbreaking," said Nettie. " It's hard enough to bear the 
 disappointment of not being in the same room with Miss 
 Gordon of Laverock Hall." 
 
 " Oh, you do feel being slighted that way ! You needn't 
 pretend not to," persisted Ellen Murray. 
 
 It was well for the peace of Miss Martyn's school that 
 one girl, formerly ready to quarrel as any, had been for 
 years practising lessons of patience and gentleness, and in 
 learning to control herself had unconsciously learned to 
 control others also. Gerty made haste to stop the bandy- 
 ing of words between the two girls before the warfare grew 
 hotter; and it was Nettie Cath cart's side she went to, 
 though, as I said before, she had no particular love for this 
 girl, who had indeed but an instant before given her a 
 passing thrust of malice which had been very sharp. Of 
 the two, Gerty certainly preferred Ellen Murray, for she 
 believed her to be at least honest, and to a certain degree 
 friendly. But Gerty's ways were guided now by the words 
 of a book which tells about rendering good for evil ; and
 
 246 " THE " MARRIAGE. 
 
 as it seemed to her that Nettie Cathcart must certainly 
 be getting hurt, she made haste to come to her aid. 
 
 " What you say is nonsense, Ellen. Mary Carr was 
 once sent to sleep in that very room with May Allardyce, 
 And there never was a girl that Mrs. Martyn and Miss 
 Maria thought so much of as Mary Carr — Mary Haye, I 
 ought to say." 
 
 Gerty's diversion was completely successful. All interest 
 was turned to another subject, and voices from every side 
 demanded an account of " the marriage." 
 
 " Mary looked beautiful," said Gerty, with shining eyes. 
 " She was like a queen in her bride's dress, — and so sweet 
 and happy ! Dr. Haye is tall and handsome, too. I l.ked 
 him very much ; he is almost good enough for his wife. 
 The terrible pity is that he is taking her away to India, so 
 far off from all her friends and relations. They are to sail 
 in a fortnight." 
 
 " There are worse misfortunes than being far off from 
 one's friends and relations," observed Nettie Cathcart. 
 " Were you a bridesmaid, Gerty 1 ?" 
 
 " Yes ; there were six, in green and white. But isn't 
 it a pity to begin now, when the tea-bell may ring, every 
 minute 1 Wait till after tea, and then I can tell you all 
 about it from the very beginning." 
 
 " That's just like Gerty," was the laughing answer; " she 
 does so like to give a regular, long, connected stoiy. Well, 
 do as you like- — only you're to tell us everything, you know." 
 
 " To be sure I will, Marion," said Gerty, laughing back 
 again to the girl who had spoken. " It was the first 
 marriage I was ever at since I was old enough to remember, 
 so of course it was great fun to me — the Great Event, 
 the boys call it at home, and they say I'm always talking 
 about it."
 
 A REIGNING FAVOURITE. 24? 
 
 " The Marriage, they call it here," said Nettie Cathcart; 
 " as if there had never been a marriage in the world before, 
 and would never be again. The same sort cf thing as The 
 Flood." Then turning to one of the new girls, who was 
 sitting near her, shy and silent, she added, " Before you've 
 been at Miss Martyn's very long, Miss Maitland, you'll find 
 you hear a great deal about Mary Carr ! " 
 
 "She was one of our old girls," said Gerty, trying to 
 explain to the stranger, and draw her into the conversation. 
 " She left school nearly three years ago, but we never forget 
 her, for there never was a big girl such a favourite as Mary 
 Carr." 
 
 " Except Gerty Stuart," said an unexpected voice from 
 one of the Little ones. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said Gerty, blushing violently, and looking 
 once more like her old awkward self, in her embarrassment 
 and wonder at the bare idea of her being considered a big 
 girl and a favourite. But loving arms were round her im- 
 mediately; and eager voices, among which Ellen Murray's 
 was the loudest, called out that it was true. 
 
 Just then the door opened slowly, and another girl came 
 in and walked with listless, tardy movements towards the 
 fire. She was a pale, rather sickly child of perhaps eleven 
 years old, whose fashionable dress looked nothing but 
 slovenly, so untidily was it worn, and whose long, light hair 
 hung loose and limp about her shoulders. She was the 
 only one in all the school who had no glad welcome for 
 Gerty; she did not notice her at all at first — did not even 
 see she was present, till her companions drew her attention 
 to the fact. 
 
 " Here's Gerty. Don't you see Gerty, May 1 " 
 
 " Gerty, is it you — how do you do 1 " she said then, 
 with a little start, but not the shadow of a smile, as she
 
 24S A CHANGE FOR THE WORSE. 
 
 went and held out her hand. When Gerty drew her near 
 and kissed her, she submitted patiently, and then fell back 
 and stood at the other side of the fire, not talking or seem- 
 ing inclined to talk to anybody. 
 
 And the girls, watching her for a little in silent curiosity 
 and some disgust, were thinking that it was not altogether 
 the routine of school and Miss Maria's rigid discipline that 
 had made this spiritless, dejected creature of the pert, 
 unruly child that had once been May Allardyce. May, 
 after two months of home-life and her mother's rule, had 
 recovered none of the childish pink and white that had 
 once been in her cheeks ; her spirits seemed dull as ever, 
 and her mouth was drawn into even more fretful lines. 
 
 The flush of pleasure had died from Gerty's face, and 
 the smile from her lips, as this child's entrance broke up 
 the affectionate gathering of her schoolfellows around her. 
 When she spoke, it was in a tone of forced gentleness very 
 different from the frank kindliness which had been ringing 
 in her voice a minute before. 
 
 " Have you enjoyed your holidays, May ] " 
 
 " ~No; I never enjoys anything," was the answer of May, 
 whose apparent incapability of grammatical speech was not 
 her least irritating peculiarity. 
 
 " When did you come back ? " 
 
 " Me 1 Oh, I came back last evening some time — I forget 
 when." 
 
 " And you've forgotten to brush your hair this morning," 
 said the girl standing next May; "and for some days be- 
 fore this, I think. It was as frizzy yesterday as it is now. 
 I should think your home people, if they take nothing 
 else to do with you, might at least see that you go to school 
 tidy!" 
 
 May made no answer, and except that her mouth and
 
 "A NICE, AFFECTIONATE DISPOSITION." 249 
 
 her brow puckered up a little more, there was no change 
 in the expression of her face. 
 
 ' Miss Maria won't be too busy to notice you to-morrow," 
 said Nettie Cathcart ; " better get tidy before then, May." 
 
 " You won't have Gerty Stuart to keep you right now," 
 said Molly Smith. " She's going to sleep in another 
 room." 
 
 Still May did not change her listless, dreary attitude, or 
 show any interest whatever, till the silence among the others 
 forced her to see that some remark from her was expected. 
 Then she looked up for a moment and said, " Oh, is she ? 
 I didn't know—" 
 
 " Or care," added Nettie Cathcart. " I admire your 
 gratitude, May. You have a nice, affectionate disposi- 
 tion." 
 
 Grimaces and inarticulate sounds of anger and disgust 
 testified to the opinions of the other girls on the subject. 
 May Allardyce had never been thought a nice child, and it 
 was certain she had been making rapid progress in her dis- 
 agreeable ways of late. And they wondered how Gerty 
 could be so outwardly patient as to stand quiet, only biting 
 her lip as she looked at May with a steady gaze that was 
 quite unreadable. 
 
 " Can't you say you're sorry, May 1 " said Molly Smith 
 at last, desperately. 
 
 " Why ] " asked May, twisting herself about in an 
 irritated fashion. " I can't help Gerty going away. I 
 suppose she wants to go, or she needn't go ; and it doesn't 
 make me mind. It's only a bother to care who sleeps with 
 anybody. I never didn't like sleeping with Gerty more 
 than any other girl." 
 
 " There's only one thing plain in all May's speeches," said 
 Nettie, " and that'* their nastiness."
 
 250 A WELCOME DIVERSION. 
 
 " Come, May," said Gerty then, " come and get tidy for 
 tea. I think my hair must be rather a mess too." 
 
 " But they're saying I'm not to be in the room with you 
 any niore," said May, following Gerty nevertheless as she 
 turned to leave the room. 
 
 " To-night you are. After that I may be somewhere 
 else ; but nothing's settled yet." 
 
 The more interested listeners among the girls did not fail 
 to note the difference of tone and manner with which Gerty 
 now spoke of the removal which she had first said so firmly 
 " couldn't be," and there was no difficulty in guessing the 
 reason of the change. 
 
 " Horrid little wretch ! " said Ellen Murray. " I hope 
 Gerty will give her a good blowing-up when she gets her 
 alone in her room, and tell her what a nasty thing she is, 
 and that not another girl in the school would have done for 
 her what she's done." 
 
 " Not she ! " said Marion Campbell, in a tone which was 
 half-provoked and half-admiring. " Gerty will talk very 
 little to her at all, and she'll brush her hair and make hei 
 decent quite quietly. I know quite well how she goes on 
 with May in such circumstances." 
 
 Then other subjects of talk came up, and the conversation 
 in the schoolroom took sudden starts, and then flagged again, 
 and sometimes came to a complete stop, after the usual 
 fashion of conversations when some of the party are tired, 
 some strangers, some miserable, and all unsettled. 
 
 Miss Framm came to the schoolroom presently with the 
 new French governess; and at last the sound of the tea-bell 
 made a welcome diversion. Then Gerty and May re- 
 appeared, and the girls went off to the dining-room two 
 and two — Gerty walking with the most forlorndooking of 
 the new-comers, Isabel Maitland.
 
 HOW GERTY FULFILLED HER PROMISE. 251 
 
 Kind Mrs. Martyn presided as of yore, and Gerty's seat 
 was near her, and most of her talk at tea-time was with 
 the good old lady. Mrs. Martyn knew about Burnside 
 now well, and bad a great admiration for Gerty's mother. 
 Sbe was interested, too, in the fact of Fred being at the 
 Edinburgh Academy tbis year, and had altogether so much 
 to say about Gerty's home affairs that it was not till they 
 were rising from table that she remembered to tell her — 
 " Don't settle down in your old room, my dear. You're to 
 sleep there to-night, but after tbat I think we'll put you 
 somewhere else. I have a nice plan for you — we'll talk 
 about it to-morrow." 
 
 She nodded her head, looking so pleased and mysterious 
 that Gerty was both touched and amused, and felt she 
 could say nothing that might displease her then. 
 
 With a half-sigh she turned back to the schoolroom, but 
 there she soon forgot her troubles, for she was immediately 
 claimed to fulfil her promise of telling about Mary Carr's 
 wedding from " the very beginning to the very end." Gerty 
 told her tale with intense zest, grudging neither time nor 
 trouble in going into the minutest particulars, and well re- 
 paid by the delighted attention her listeners gave her. She 
 was not rich in small talk, but in telling of any event which 
 interested her Gerty could make a capital story out of it ; 
 and the schoolgirls had long ago discovered this gift of hers, 
 and made her use it for their benefit. So it came to pass 
 that the evening slipped away pleasantly, and the hour for 
 prayers arrived unexpectedly soon. 
 
 Only May had paid no heed to the tale, but kept in her 
 own room all the time — unpacking, she said. And, in 
 truth, she had been busy enough, though all the things had 
 been taken out of her box and put away before. For May, 
 who with all her slovenliness had a passionate love of finery,
 
 252 A PROVOKING SIGHT. 
 
 had brought forth all her new possessions and displayed 
 them on the bed, as if expecting a burst of admiration from 
 her companions at the sight. She had had a birthday, too, 
 during the holidays, and got several presents of trinkets 
 from her relatives, so she prepared her whole stock of orna- 
 ments, new and old, that she might adorn hei-self with them 
 immediately after prayers. When Nettie and Gerty, who 
 had lingered a little over the " good-nights " with their com- 
 panions, came at last to their bedroom together, they found 
 May awaiting them by the side of her bed and its litter of 
 gay little garments, her head for once erect to show off the 
 ear-lings in her ears and the chain of the locket about her 
 neck, a couple of brooches on her breast, under which her 
 hands were clasped in careful display of the rings on her 
 fingers. 
 
 The sight was a laughable one, — though it was pathetic 
 and humiliating, too, in its childish folly and vanity. 
 Gerty had never felt so helpless and provoked over May as 
 she did now, when she saw how the melancholy child had 
 recovered her spirits in this operation of decking herself 
 out, and with what animation she turned to the bed to 
 point out the most costly of her treasures there. 
 
 " May, I'm afraid you care for nothing in the world but 
 these things!" said Gerty, standing looking rather grimly 
 from one to another of the bits of finery. 
 
 Gerty did not believe in lecturing, partly because she 
 thought that nothing of that sort had ever done her any 
 good, partly because she doubted her own capabilities of 
 pointing a calm and forcible moral. So now she said not 
 another word to May. She took up the things from the 
 bed, — the braided pique and the be-ribboned muslin, the 
 velveteen with the feather trimming, the laced handkerchief, 
 and the embroidered petticoat, and she folded them all up
 
 " A STRONG-MINDED WOMAN." 253 
 
 quickly and laid them away in their places. May slnnk 
 off silently to a far-away corner. Nettie Cathcart looked 
 on amused. "Well done, Gerty!" she said, as the last 
 garment disappeared. " That is expeditious ! " 
 
 Gerty's only reply was the sharp clap with which she 
 finally shut the drawer. It must be confessed she was very 
 much out of temper. 
 
 " Gerty, you are admirable," said Nettie. " I have a 
 great respect for you." Afterwards, out of the midst of 
 her novel-reading, to which she settled down almost im- 
 mediately, Nettie looked up every now and then to say, 
 "You're a worthy character, Gerty," or, "Gerty, you're a 
 strong-minded woman." 
 
 Gerty never spoke in return, and these remarks were the 
 only ones which broke the silence of the room. 
 
 The time for the gas being turned out found them all in 
 lied, and May asleep. But the room had been scarcely ten 
 minutes in darkness before Gerty heard a rustling in it, 
 and then the sound of a match being struck. She turned 
 round immediately. 
 
 " Miss Cathcart ! " 
 
 " Miss Stuart ! " 
 
 The mimicry of Gerty's tone of surprise and questioning 
 was as coolly and successfully done as if the imitator had 
 not been very disagreeably surprised to find any one awake 
 but herself. 
 
 "Nettie ! what are you going to do 1 " 
 
 " See whether Miss Maria is in bed yet," said Nettie, 
 lighting the gas. " No, she isn't. Well, I shall sit up a 
 little while too." She wrapped her dressing-gown about 
 her, and proceeded to get her writing materials out on the 
 table, Gerty meanwhile watching her in great perturbation 
 of mind.
 
 254 GERTY PROTESTS. 
 
 " You're not going to keep the gas burning ? " 
 
 " Yes, for a little, till I've written a letter. You don't 
 want to go to sleep, you good child, at this unearthly early 
 hour 1 You should rather get up and get something done 
 for yourself — or see ! there is the ' Woman in White ' 
 lying on my bed. I think it's very kind of me to light the 
 gas, so that you may have the chance of enjoying yourself 
 for one evening. Emily Gordon will never let you have 
 any light after it's ten o'clock. Of that you may be sure." 
 
 " Yes," said Gerty simply. " I am quite sure. Put the 
 gas out here, please, Nettie." 
 
 "Presently — when I've finished my letter." Gerty 
 said nothing just immediately, and Nettie, who had already 
 begun to write, added with a touch of sarcasm, " If any of 
 the Martyns chance to come, I shall see that you are safe. 
 I shall say that you protested — you need not be afraid of 
 your excellent self getting into trouble." 
 
 " I'm not afraid of that," said Gerty; " and you know it." 
 
 In truth, she was not much afraid either of Nettie getting 
 into trouble. The chances were very small that either of 
 the Miss Martyns or any one else in authority would come 
 that way; for not only was it probable that they were all 
 too busy with their private enjoyments to act as night- 
 police, but there was that wonderful luck of Nettie's which 
 was quite a proverb in the school. No one ever expected 
 her to be caught in mischief, or discovered in the most 
 daring breakage of rules. It was no fear of consequences 
 that made Gerty firm in her protests. 
 
 " Nettie," she said, in a voice trembling and husky, not 
 with irresolution, but from her intense dislike to the task 
 she had to do, " you must turn it out — now, please." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 The question was veiy sharply spoken, and in answer
 
 AN UNPLEASANT PREDICAMENT. 255 
 
 to it Gerty could find no words to express what she 
 thought ; yet she was firmly convinced in her own mind 
 that this practice of keeping a private store of matches, and 
 burning light after the hour appointed for darkness and bed, 
 was a very dishonourable one. 
 
 "Why?" said Nettie again, with a still more incisive 
 ring in her voice. 
 
 And Gerty only answered, " Because, if you don't — I 
 must." 
 
 The other girl found herself unexpectedly in a most 
 unpleasant predicament. To yield would be galling ; but, 
 on the other hand, Nettie felt that a quarrel would be 
 even more degrading to a person like herself, who was 
 famous for never getting into trouble, and never losing her 
 temper. And as for trying to get her own way by wheed- 
 ling, that was out of the question ! Even if such had ever 
 been Nettie Cathcart's custom, she knew it would be use- 
 less in this case ; for not Emily Gordon herself was more 
 difficult to move than Gerty, when she had once taken her 
 stand about a question of right and wrong. 
 
 " Gerty, you might be a nice girl if you weren't such a 
 prig," said Nettie. 
 
 But she rose and put away her desk, and threw off her 
 dressing-gown, and turned out the gas. 
 
 It could scarcely be expected, however, that Nettie would 
 readily forgive Gerty for daring to interfere with her doings ; 
 and she prided herself on making those who offended her 
 very soon regret it. 
 
 " You have done a good night's work, Gerty," she said 
 as she lay down. " You have kept me from writing a letter 
 I wanted to write to a friend, who will be anxious when no 
 letter comes. And that after thoroughly frightening that 
 wretched little May Allardyce, and sending her to bed
 
 256 THINKING IN BEV. 
 
 miserable." Then after a moment she added, — " What :i 
 nice thing it is to lie in bed wide-awake for an hour or two 
 in the dark ! But then I can occupy myself with good and 
 profitable thoughts. They will all be about you, Gerty, 
 regrets that you are not to be with us to-morrow night. 
 As for you, you will sleep in peace after your victories — 
 for you've got the upper hand of both your room-mates. If 
 it's any satisfaction to you, Gerty, there's no doubt of that ! " 
 
 It was true, but Gerty did not feel much like a conqueror 
 as she turned wearily and silently away. On the contrary, 
 she was wishing with all her heart to flee from the battle- 
 field. She longed to go back to dear Burnside, where no 
 such conflicts were possible ; if that might not be she 
 longed at least to escape to the peaceful downstairs-chamber, 
 where the Gordons would give her love and help. Oh yes, 
 she must go, she must go ! 
 
 It is wonderful what excellent reasons we can give our- 
 selves to make wrong seem right. An inward voice told 
 Gerty now that she had really no choice in this matter of 
 leaving her old room for another. Mrs. Martyn had settled 
 it all, and thought she was doing Gerty a favour ; would it 
 not be presumptuous, rude, unkind to ask the old lady to 
 reverse her decision now? The Gordons, too — what would 
 they think of Gerty's friendship if she refused to share 
 their chamber, and probably forced them thereby to have a 
 stranger as their room-mate — a new girl, who would doubt- 
 less be uncongenial even after they came to know her 1 
 Oh yes ! for Mrs. Martyn's sake and the Gordons', Gerty 
 must go. 
 
 There was really no reason against it either, when the 
 affair was thought over calmly. It was quite time May 
 learned to look after herself ; surely every girl of eleven 
 years old ought to be independent, as Gerty herself had
 
 PLAUSIBLE ARGUMENTS. 257 
 
 been when she first came to school. And May would never 
 learn to do anything useful until she was obliged ; it was 
 really not at all for her good that she should have Gerty 
 always with her to act as governess and maid. As for 
 other things — May had no love for Gei-ty, would not miss 
 anything but her services, would feel no grief whatever in 
 losing her companionship. There would be nothing really 
 unkind, then, in Gerty going away. 
 
 Nettie would be glad to get rid of her, too ; and doubtless 
 one of the governesses would come to sleep in Gerty's place 
 — the new Mademoiselle likely, so that Miss Cathcart would 
 perfect her French and be obliged to behave herself. Yes, 
 it would be better for Nettie also that Gerty should go 
 away. Why then should she make herself unhappy by in- 
 sisting still to sleep in the room with the only girls in all 
 the school who did not love her? 
 
 Then some idea came over Gerty that she was trying 
 hard to deceive herself, for against all these plausible argu- 
 ments — some of which were true enough in themselves — 
 stood the memory of a promise. "Whatever might be said 
 in favour of Gerty's removal, this thing was certain, that 
 it would be once and for ever giving up May Allardyce. 
 And finding herself so terribly close to that, Gerty started 
 and shrunk back in an agony of terror, as if it were the 
 brink of a precipice she had come to in the darkness un- 
 aware. 
 
 Once more, as of old, on the first night away from home, 
 Gerty slipped noiselessly on the floor, and knelt down by 
 her white bed, while the others slept. Not now because 
 she had not prayed before ; Gerty had felt no fear of show- 
 ing her colours before Nettie Cathcart, who, indeed, knew 
 well enough, and had known for long, what they were. Nor 
 was it to go through a formal d*ity she rose this time in the 
 
 (584) 1 7
 
 258 A SONG OF TRIUMPH. 
 
 silence and the darkness ; it was in eager search for help in 
 a time of sore need. Her mind was all in confusion ; right 
 and wrong seemed hopelessly mixed up together; she could 
 not distinguish which was the voice of the good and which 
 of the evil angel speaking in her soul. Only she knew that 
 if God did not save her no one else could. 
 
 So with broken, disjointed sentences, bitter tears, and 
 passionate, sorrowful repetitions, which were surely not 
 vain, Gerty prayed in the dark, while not a sound passed 
 her lips to tell the other girls anything of the secrets of 
 that time of loneliness. Nettie Cathcart, in spite of the 
 wakeful hours which she had foretold, never knew of the 
 last, sorest battle that Gerty fought and won that night. 
 
 For once more she lay down a conqueror, but a noblei 
 one this time. When Gerty put her weary head again on 
 the pillow, she knew that her resolution was taken and 
 her promise safe ; nothing but Mrs. Martyn's positive 
 command would separate her from May. For stronger 
 than all other ideas of earthly good or pleasure stood the 
 firm belief in Gerty's mind that God would one day require 
 this child's soul at her hands. She must watch and wait 
 for it yet with renewed patience and faith ; she must pray 
 as she had never prayed before that God would fasten the 
 cords of love about her and May, who had been only bound 
 together as yet by the ties of duty and necessity. 
 
 So it came to pass that Nettie Cathcart's words came 
 true, and after her victories Gerty slept in peace. But it 
 was because at last she was thinking not of her companions, 
 nor even of the dear home-friends ; for the music that lulled 
 Gerty to rest was the notes of a song of triumph that was 
 heavenly in its strain, — " Thanks be unto God, who giveth 
 us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ."
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE GIRLS WHO WERE GOOD TO GERTY. 
 
 jHE fruits of Gerty's last struggle and triumph 
 were chiefly visible next morning in her humble 
 and persistent attempts at kindliness with her 
 two companions. She was quite ready to accuse herself of 
 being harsh to May and overbearing to Nettie the evening 
 before ; indeed, Gerty was generally almost morbidly sensi- 
 tive on the subject of what she considered her own very 
 unpleasant ways of doing right. And in one of the cases 
 in question she was not even sure that she had been (how- 
 ever unpleasantly) doing right. Perhaps she was really 
 unjust to May; and. after all, the little girl who turned out 
 her own finery for inspection in the bedroom ought not to 
 have been severely judged by the elder one who had so 
 thoroughly enjoyed describing wedding-dresses and presents 
 in the schoolroom. So in the morning Gerty, by way of 
 making amends to May, looked in the drawers at the pretty 
 new dresses, and bestowed a few words of admiration on 
 them, as she smoothed out their folds more carefully than 
 she had taken time to do last night. 
 
 Yet again came the doubt whether she were acting 
 wisely, when May brightened up as nothing but vanity ever 
 made her brighten, and burst forth immediately into foolish 
 babbling talk on that great subject of dress which seemed, 
 alas ! the only one which could take deep root in her mind
 
 260 REFUSING A FAVOUR. 
 
 It was so hard to know how to deal with this child ! And 
 Gerty had not the cine of sympathy which love alone could 
 give to guide her through that perplexing overgrowth of 
 childish and yet in some ways most unchildlike folly which 
 was all that May's character showed as yet. Well, but she 
 was not going to lose hope. Please God, she would get that 
 clue some day. 
 
 "With Nettie Cathcai't Gerty was surer of her ground, 
 and being convinced she was in the right was not disposed 
 to yield one inch to her ; but nevertheless she was anxious 
 that all should be smooth between them, and was quite 
 ready to forgive Nettie's bitter words. However, Gerty's 
 attempts at being friendly during the time of dressing were 
 received with very cold civility by the elder girl, and she 
 could only leave it to time and patience to re-establish 
 amicable relations between her and Nettie again. 
 
 Gerty had indeed enough to do and think of that day, 
 for new and old masters and classes, books and music, had 
 all to be arranged, and the very first moment of leisure she 
 had after breakfast Mrs. Martyn led her away to introduce 
 her to what she intended to be her new sleeping-apartment. 
 Gerty's heart was sore — and none the less so because she 
 had known what was coming — when the kind old lady, 
 after making her admire all the new fittings in the large 
 pretty room, told her how it was all planned that she was 
 to sleep there with Emily Gordon and her little sister. 
 She had thought of various ways of refusing the favour, 
 but not being able to decide which would seem the least 
 ungracious, she judged it best simply to thank Mrs. Martyn 
 for her kindness, and beg that she might still be allowed to 
 stay with May Allardyce. After all, it was not difficult to 
 gain Mrs. Marty n's consent to her request, though Gerty 
 could not help feeling that the old lady was inclined to be
 
 HOW GERTY KEPT HER RESOLUTION. 26 1 
 
 a little resentful of a supposed slight to the Gordons, as well 
 as vexed at the failure of her own plan to give all three 
 girls pleasure. 
 
 " Of course, if you don't want it, my dear," said she, " I 
 would be sorry to change you. It's all the same to me to 
 put some one else here, of course ; and, to be sure, you've 
 been a long time now in the same room, and perhaps it's 
 natural you don't want to leave. But, you know, I always 
 thought you liked Miss Gordon so much, my dear, that you 
 would enjoy being with her rather than Miss Cathcart. 
 But there are other young ladies that will be quite glad to 
 come down to this room — and older ones, too, that ousrht 
 perhaps to have got the first chance. But then Miss Mari;i 
 has such a high opinion of you, Gertrude, my dear — " 
 
 It was hard to hear Mrs. Martyn talk on in this fashion 
 and feel it impossible to explain. It was harder still to be 
 obliged to dash the joy with which the Gordons on their 
 arrival greeted Gerty, when Emily's face took the only 
 bright look it had for any one that day, and Minnie clasped 
 her sister's friend round the neck and gave her the warmest 
 of kisses. Yet, through all Mrs. Martyn's misunderstand- 
 ing and the Gordons' disappointment, Gerty kept to her 
 resolution firmly. After all, the hardest had been got over 
 last night all alone in the dark. 
 
 The news of Gerty's refusal to leave her old quarters 
 was communicated to the elder gh-ls at twelve o'clock by 
 Molly Smith, who appeared then in the first-classroom to 
 announce that it was too wet to go out ; Mrs. Martyn had 
 said that, and she had also said that Gerty Stuart was not 
 to sleep in the downstairs-room with the Gordons. The 
 girls all looked at Emily, who, apparently not at all sur- 
 prised by either of Molly's pieces of information, had taken 
 her seat by the window and already got out her work.
 
 262 WHAT CAN IT MEAN / 
 
 " Gerty not going to sleep with the Gordons ! Why ? " 
 
 " Because she won't leave May Allardyce," said Molly. 
 
 Thei'e was a silence of surprise and reflection, and then 
 Nettie Cathcart asked, " What do you say to that, 
 Emily 1 " 
 
 " It is a great disappointment to us," said Emily quietly, 
 though the delicate paleness of her cheeks flushed into red 
 for a moment ; " but we can say nothing, for she is doing 
 what she thinks right." 
 
 Then there was another silence, which was broken by 
 Isabel Maitland asking why Miss Stuart liked May Allar- 
 dyce so much. 
 
 " Like her ! " said Ellen Murray, with indignant scorn ; 
 " she likes her no more than the rest of us do — and, I can 
 tell you, that's not saying much." 
 
 " Then why is she so good to her 1 " persisted the new 
 girl, to whom the laws, mysteries, and relationships of 
 school-life seemed as yet a profoundly interesting study. 
 
 " Ah ! that's what none of us know," answered Molly, 
 gravely shaking her head. 
 
 " But we can all have a very good guess," added Ellen 
 Murray, in a tone so gruff that Isabel was afraid to venture 
 any more questions on the subject. 
 
 Then Gerty herself came in, laughing and talking with 
 Minnie Gordon, and certainly looking not in the least 
 either like a heroine or a martyr. In truth, Gerty felt 
 much relieved now that the burden of decision and ex- 
 planation was off her, and was quite ready to devote herself 
 to making acquaintance with this new specimen of the 
 Gordon family, who was only too willing to respond to her 
 friendly advances. Minnie was curiously like and yet un- 
 like her elder sister. She had the same delicate look, pure 
 colourless complexion, and innocent large eyes ; but while
 
 A FOKTUNATE GIRL. 263 
 
 Emily's slight figure was decidedly under the middle height, 
 and her expression and manner gravely gentle, Minnie was 
 a tall slip of a girl, whose face was all shining with frank 
 mirthfulness. 
 
 When Emily introduced her to Miss Eramm, and that 
 lady, amused at the happy looks so unusual with new- 
 comers at Miss Martyn's, asked her how she would like 
 school, Minnie answered immediately, " Oh so much ! so 
 much ! I think this is a delightful place." 
 
 " You are a fortunate girl, you see," said the governess ; 
 " it is not every one who begins school with a sister to go 
 with her, and a friend ready waiting." 
 
 Minnie blushed a little, but more with pleasure than 
 embarrassment, as she turned to Gerty with the sweetest, 
 brightest smile and put her arm round her waist. Gerty 
 did not return the embrace ; she was not demonstrative in 
 her affection to any of her companions, and after all Minnie 
 was a stranger ; but there was something very attractive to 
 her in the loving, childlike ways of Emily Gordon's little 
 sister. Indeed, Gerty felt herself looking down with a sort 
 of protecting tenderness not unmixed with amusement on 
 this gladsome, guileless girl, who was not much below her- 
 self either in height or years. Eor, by force of her nature 
 as well as through circumstances, Gerty had lived through 
 so much more than most ghds of her age, that it was no 
 wonder she felt herself very old and experienced by the 
 side of Minnie Gordon. She had fought battles with foes 
 of whose existence the other child had never dreamed; she 
 had passed through the depths of watex-s whose waves had 
 scarcely wet Minnie's feet as yet. And while Gerty mused 
 on the felt difference between herself and the little girl 
 who was so anxious to be her friend, the rest of the 
 company were comparing the two Gordon sisters — only
 
 264 THE PRIEST OF THE PARISH. 
 
 Miss Framni had eyes for the contrast between Gerty and 
 Minnie. 
 
 Rousing herself from her reverie at last, Gerty dis- 
 engaged herself from Minnie, and addressing herself to all 
 and sundry said rather hastily, " We came here on business. 
 We want to know who will come to the schoolroom and 
 have some fun with the children — a regular silly game. 
 The sillier game, the better fun." 
 
 " The Priest of the Parish, if Miss Cathcart will play," 
 cried Molly Smith. "The last time she was Priest's Fool 
 Miss Maria came in, and she jumped up and offered her 
 her seat, so very politely, we all laughed, and had to pay 
 forfeits and change places. But how could we help it 1 
 For if you had seen Miss Maria! She was angry, but she 
 couldn't understand, and she couldn't find anything to scold 
 about; for, you know, somehow, whatever Miss Cathcart 
 does she takes good care never to get lines." 
 
 " A very sensible girl she is, then," said Nettie ; " I 
 would advise all young people to take example by her." 
 
 " Oh, but you'll come and play," said Molly; " and you'll 
 come and play, Miss Maitland ! It's such a funny game. 
 There's the Priest of the Parish in an arm-chair, and the 
 Priest's Fool on a stool beside him — and all the other caps 
 — Ped-cap and Blue-cap, or whatever you like — all in a 
 circle — and nobody is allowed to laugh but the Fool — and 
 you mustn't make mistakes — and then there are forfeits. 
 It's such a nice game !" 
 
 " And such a nice description of it," said Nettie. "It 
 does make it all very plain to you now, — doesn't it, Miss 
 Maitland 1 I'm rather of Gerty's opinion, though — the 
 sillier game, the better fun. And this one is amusing, 
 though you wouldn't think so from anything Molly says." 
 
 " Mademoiselle is going to play," said Gerty. " Every
 
 A GAME FOR THE CHILDREN. 265 
 
 one ought to come, I think ; but we must be quick, for it's 
 a shame to keep the children waiting. Mrs. Spicier or the 
 Priest of the Parish we promised them. I suppose you 
 won't play, Emily 1 " 
 
 Emily shook her head, smiling a little. She had no 
 taste for games whose charm lay in their silliness, for she 
 was utterly devoid of a taste for romping; she would rather 
 remain where she was now and comfort her heart with the 
 warmth of the thick socks she was knitting for one of her 
 poor pensioners in Perthshire, than follow even Gerty 
 Stuart and her own Minnie into the great noisy school- 
 room. 
 
 Gerty would have let her alone, but Nettie Cathcart, 
 who very seldom kept her tongue quiet, must needs urge 
 her to come. " Ear better drive away melancholy thoughts 
 by the most childish game," she said, "than sit mopirg 
 alone. How does it feel to be home-sick, Emily? Do tell 
 me." 
 
 " If you don't know, be sorry and ashamed," said Miss 
 Framm in German; but Nettie Cathcart went off declaring 
 laughingly that she had only cause to be glad and proud of 
 her own immunity from the attacks of that doleful disease 
 which was always so prevalent at the beginning of the 
 term. And though Emily Gordon would not try it, and 
 Nettie Cathcart did not need it, the Priest of the Parish 
 proved an excellent remedy for more than one case of 
 home-sickness, and the faces round the dinner-table after- 
 wards were brighter because of the forenoon romp which 
 had been led off triumphantly by Nettie and Gerty. 
 
 During the game these two had fallen into their usual 
 relations to each other; but afterwards, when Gerty had 
 time to think over it, she could not but fear that this was 
 mere inadvertence on Nettie's part, and th;>t her grudge
 
 26G nettie's confession. 
 
 remained. She wondered much what Nettie would say on 
 finding out that Gerty was still to be her room-companion, 
 and she had many doubts about how and when it would be 
 best to communicate this intelligence to her. And, busifd 
 with such thoughts, Gerty was alone in the schoolroom 
 getting out her drawing-board and pencils in preparation 
 for her class, when Miss Cathcart entered, and advancing 
 towards her, struck a theatrical attitude and held out her 
 hand. 
 
 " Gertrude, I forgive you," she said grandiloquently. 
 
 " "What for 1 " asked Gerty, unable to keep her gravity. 
 
 " For last night's work," said Nettie solemnly. 
 
 " Thank you very much ! " 
 
 " You have need. I forgive you also for not taking 
 yourself out of my way, as I expected you were to do. 
 And that's particularly generous and high-souled of me, 
 for I foresee you are going to be a great bother, Gerty." 
 
 " Am 1 1 " said Gerty, growing grave again. " I'll try 
 not to be." 
 
 " But you will be — it's in the nature of things," said 
 Nettie, with a little groan, as she arranged her drawing. 
 " Worse than Kate M'Kenzie you are going to be, I 
 foresee. " 
 
 " Then you are sorry I am still to sleep with you 1 " 
 
 " Why should I be sorry? " said Nettie, suddenly putting 
 on May Allardyce's fretful tone. " It doesn't make me 
 mind. It's only a bother to care who sleeps with any- 
 body." 
 
 " O Nettie ! " 
 
 " No, I don't like you sleeping with me any less than 
 any other girl — perhaps more," said Nettie, resuming her 
 own voice with the last words. " I always rather liked 
 you, Gerty, though you never would believe it."
 
 FIMDING A FRIEND. 267 
 
 •' I'll believe it now, then — I'll be only too glad," said 
 Gerty. 
 
 It -was doubtful whether Nettie heard, for she had 
 already turned round to chatter with the other girls who 
 were beginning to assemble for the class; but, indeed, 
 Gerty was speaking more to herself than any one else, as 
 she sat down at her desk. Her heart was filled with a 
 great thankfulness that where she had been looking for an 
 enemy God had given her a friend. Even Nettie Cathcart 
 was to be among the number of the girls who were so very 
 good to Gerty. For she was firm in her belief in the 
 wonderful kindness of her companions, and her own utter 
 lack of any nice or engaging qualities. In confidential 
 talks at Burnside she had spoken sometimes of her popu- 
 larity at school, always with a great astonishment mingled 
 with her thankfulness. Once, and only once, had she ever 
 siven her mother a hint of what she considered the sole 
 possible reason of the love that was given her. 
 
 "They do like me, mamma — most of them. I don't 
 know how it is ; I think it must have begun with their 
 being sorry for me. Some of them must think of me, per- 
 haps, as I think of May — as if I were something left behind 
 for them to be kind to." 
 
 For it was a strange fact that almost never, either at 
 school or at home, did the name of Ada pass Gerty's lips. 
 And yet her childish friendship had changed the world for 
 her. That first year at school cut her life, as it were, into 
 two; for, twined with strength and tenderness inexpressible 
 into all her deepest feelings, was the memory of the little 
 girl who had gone to heaven. Gerty never, from the first, 
 had been inclined to forget Ada was dead; she never 
 watched for her to enter the classroom, never treasured up 
 etories to tell her, or woke in the morning expecting to see
 
 2G8 BLESSING OUT OF SORROW. 
 
 her lying beside her. The long time of sickness, the tor 
 rible wrench of parting, the agony and the completeness of 
 the last renunciation, were too real in Gerty's mind for 
 that. But, nevertheless, the figure of this one child stood 
 between her and the rest of her companions for ever; all 
 the sweet first-love of Gerty's girlish friendship was given 
 to Ada still. She stood between Gerty and all others, and 
 yet she drew them close, for it was still the touch of her 
 vanished hand which united the girls she had loved so well 
 to the girl she had loved the best. 
 
 A great sorrow like this one which had come upon Gerty 
 when she was so young cannot pass over and leave heai't 
 and life the same; there must be a change for better or for 
 worse. And, through the mercy of God, this sorrow 
 brought blessing unspeakable to Gerty, and through her 
 to the i"est of Miss Martyn's school. To herself it only 
 seemed that when she had given up her little friend to be 
 for ever with the Lord Jesus Christ, He had made all 
 others friendly to her for Ada's dear sake; but her com- 
 panions knew also that Gerty, to whom God had given a 
 little girl to help her once, was ready now as no other girl 
 was to help all those who were in any need. 
 
 So from Nettie Cathcart, in her conceit and impudence, 
 down to little Meta Campbell, the baby and the pet of the 
 school, they all stood by her loyally and believed in her 
 firmly — all but the child for whom she did the most. That 
 day when Gerty had given up her own wishes, offended 
 Mrs. Marty n, and disappointed the Gordons, on account of 
 May Allardyce, the girl herself took not the least notice of 
 the sacrifice that had been made for her. She never asked 
 — it was doubtful whether she ever heard — why Gerty still 
 remained in the old room. She was altogether occupied 
 with her own troubles, those " nasty, nasty lessons," which
 
 IN DISGRACE. 269 
 
 she never would be persuaded to learn properly, although 
 it had often been impressed upon her that such was, after 
 all, the easiest means of getting over them. In spite of 
 Gerty's efforts as private governess — and many a half-hour 
 which she could ill spare from her own studies she gave 
 to helping May — these lessons were always accumulating, 
 with repetitions and punishment tasks, into terrible 
 mountains of difficulty, which at last would have appalled 
 any one. This day, of course, May had started clear ; but 
 Gerty feared her way would soon be blocked up again, for 
 when she came into the large schoolroom before tea there 
 was Miss Allardyce standing in the corner, with tears 
 coursing down her cheeks and falling on the well-known 
 French story-book of punishment, which she held in her 
 two hands. 
 
 " O May, have you got lines already 1 " 
 
 " It was ve — very cruel of Miss Martyn," sobbed May. 
 " She gave me such a 1 — long bit of that nasty, nasty 
 Winter thing ! " 
 
 " What was it really 1 " asked Gerty, turning to Molly 
 Smith. 
 
 " She's put into Thomson for English," was the answer, 
 — "The Seasons — Winter, I suppose — the little twopenny- 
 halfpenny paper copy, you know. Well, she tore it right 
 up through the middle, burst out crying because her lesson 
 in it was so long, and split the thing in two before Miss 
 Martyn's very face. Of course, she got lines." 
 
 " I— I— I couldn't help it," said May ; " I ha— ated it 
 so!" 
 
 " And didn't you know there were plenty more Thom- 
 sons in the world 1 " said Gerty. " What good did you do 
 yourself by tearing up this one 1 " She did not mean in 
 the least to be jocular, be it observed ; on the contrary, the
 
 270 may's naughtiness. 
 
 whole matter was serious enough to her. This freak of 
 May's, in its utter imbecility, was very hard to bear. 
 " You have got lines to-night, and you'll have another 
 Winter before it's time to prepare your lessons to-morrow," 
 said Gerty. " Couldn't you have thought of that before 
 you tore it up 1 " 
 
 May sobbed helplessly on. She seldom showed spirit 
 enough to defend herself. Gerty used sometimes to wish 
 she would fly into a passion, be intolerably insolent — do 
 anything, in fact, rather than weep and murmur foolish 
 things, which was all she seemed capable of when she got 
 into trouble now-a-days. Indeed, such outbreaks of rebel- 
 lion as the tearing up of the " Thomson " were never more 
 than momentary, and had been altogether very unfrequent 
 of late ; May's naughtiness had become rather passive than 
 active. " It was so nasty — so nasty ! " was all she could 
 say in excuse for herself to Gerty now, and she gave it 
 forth in a weak and pitiful whine. 
 
 " Well, let me see if I can help you with your lines," 
 said Gerty at last; and she went and sat down in the corner 
 beside her.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 a leader's place, and its difficulties. 
 
 [jT was wonderful in how short a time after the 
 session began a full tide of work was flowing in 
 Miss Martyn's school. In other such establish- 
 ments the first fortnight after the holidays, while masters 
 and classes were being gradually arranged, might be a time 
 yf comparative leisure for the girls ; but Miss Maria had 
 no belief in any such necessity, and very remarkable was 
 her talent for bringing everything around her into speedy 
 order. Whenever her pupils were under her charge, work 
 they ought and work they must. And at Miss Martyn's 
 it had really become almost impossible for a girl to shirk 
 any of her duties, — not only because of the penalties de- 
 nounced against idleness, but also because the head of the 
 school managed to inspire the members thereof with so 
 much of her own energy and thoroughness that hard, 
 determined study was the fashion there. Intense interest 
 and ambition to excel in the various branches of know- 
 ledge were the prevailing feelings of the school. 
 
 Of course, it sometimes happened that there were girls 
 who did not follow the fashion or share tho common feeling. 
 May Allardyce was an example of such a one; but excep- 
 tions like her only proved the rule, for May was held in 
 general contempt. Indeed, it must be said that whatever 
 differences of opinion might exist among those who knew
 
 272 FRIGHTENED AND SOLITARY. 
 
 the school about the moral influence, refinement of man- 
 ners, and general healthiness of tone which pervaded it, 
 there could be no doubt whatever about the immense 
 advantages given there for study. 
 
 Into the very midst of healthy, stirring work Gerty 
 gladly plunged this winter. The first drudgery of learning 
 lay behind her — English spelling and grammar, French 
 verbs and German declensions, scales and Etudes de la 
 Velocite, were troubles no longer ; and Gerty had not yet 
 arrived at that stage of existence when the business and 
 pleasures of a grown-up young lady's life begin to interfere 
 with the lessons of the schoolgirl. With such governesses 
 as Miss Maria and Miss Framm, and such masters as a large 
 city can give, every day of study was one of rapid and con- 
 scious progress. School-hours had never been long or dull 
 to Gerty, and this winter they were pleasanter than ever ; 
 and lessons often proved a refuge and relief from thoughts 
 and duties that were rather trying sometimes. 
 
 For somehow, though by no means lonely, Gerty felt 
 moi'e alone at this time than she had ever done at school. 
 The girls she used to look up to and lean upon — the girls 
 who had been the " big ones " when she came first to Miss 
 Martyn's — had almost all gone, and Gerty was finding her- 
 self forced, as it were, into the very foremost ranks, while 
 the places behind her were being filled up by new recruits. 
 She could not look for support for herself any longer ; the 
 time had come when it was her turn to give it to others ; 
 but it was this very necessity of self-dependence — this very 
 responsibility for the safety of others — which made Gerty 
 feel somewhat frightened and solitary. The position she 
 held had been taken by no will of hers, but by force of the 
 facts that from nature and circumstances she was older than 
 her years, that she had been longer at school than most of
 
 THE LEADER OF THE SCHOOL. 273 
 
 the other girls and knew the ways of the place well, and 
 that, while the teachers all liked and respected her, the 
 feeling of her companions towards her was stronger and 
 kindlier still. This winter, with the exception of Nettie 
 Cathcart and Emily Gordon, all the girls older than Gerty, 
 whether boarders or day-scholars, were comparatively new- 
 comers, and she found herself constantly appealed to as a 
 person of authority and experience whose influence was 
 very great in the school. 
 
 This state of things had come about gradually, but Gerty 
 began to realize it now for the first time, and it filled 
 her with no little dismay. And the most astonishing 
 thing to herself was, that it turned out she really had 
 advice to give and strong opinions of her own to enforce 
 when there was need. It was strange enough to Gerty 
 that she should be chosen leader of the school, but stranger 
 still that she found herself capable of undertaking the post. 
 For, you see, she had none of the makings of a strong- 
 minded female in her ; she had no love of power for its 
 own sake, — her distrust of herself was far too great fof 
 that. 
 
 Then Gerty just now missed the sympathy and com- 
 panionship of Emily Gordon, who rather gave her up this 
 winter — not because she loved her less, but because she 
 was entirely occupied with her little sister. To keep 
 Minnie from evil seemed the sole business of Emily's 
 life ; she was occupied day and night with thoughts of it, 
 and fears that she might not be successful weighed heavily 
 on her mind. For the child took school-life in a way so 
 different from Emily's, that the elder sister was utterly 
 confounded. Minnie never grew home-sick, but main- 
 tained her belief that she was in a delightful place ; the 
 companionship of other girls made lessons, she said, as 
 
 (584; -j fl
 
 274 THE SISTERS. 
 
 amusing as games, and every evening like the night of 
 a party. I think Emily would have had her keep com- 
 pany with nobody but herself and Gerty Stuart ; but 
 Minnie made "friends" with all, and "great friends" with 
 a very large part of the school. She was laughing and 
 prattling with some one at every leisure moment ; and 
 wherever a knot of girls had gathered for a confidential 
 talk, she was sure to hie to the spot in innocent expectation 
 of hearing something very delightful. Minnie had a belief 
 in the niceness of everybody, which her sister, charitable as 
 she had been where only herself was concerned, was in- 
 clined to regard as one of the most dangerous of weak- 
 nesses. 
 
 For the first time in her life Gerty found Emily Gordon 
 selfish, for if the devoted sister found time to talk to her 
 old friend at all, it was only about Minnie, and her dispo- 
 sition and temptations. Gerty never had an opportunity 
 now of telling about Burnside, or getting a word of help 
 or encouragement about her own charge ; indeed, Emily 
 had grown almost jealous of the attention bestowed on 
 May, as if thinking it would have been better given to her 
 precious little sister. She had hoped that Gerty would watch 
 over Minnie, and keep her unharmed and happy, when she 
 could not be with her ; but then she did not wish that 
 Minnie should associate with May, and actually begged that 
 the two children should be carefully kept apart. Gerty 
 was not willing to consent to this at first. She had been 
 trying rather to throw May and Minnie together, taking 
 advantage of the spirit of universal friendliness shown by 
 the latter to procure some companionship for the unhappy 
 little outcast ; and hoping much that the fresh-hearted 
 lively girl from the country might bring some healthy 
 influence to bear on this neglected child of rich parents,
 
 ANXIOUS SOLICITUDE. 275 
 
 who was in as much need of moral reformation as any of 
 the city Arabs the Gordon family were so much interested 
 in. Minnie was older than May, Gerty protested, and 
 ought to do good to rather than get harm from one who 
 was altogether so babyish ; besides, Minnie was so bright 
 and sweet, it was difficult to believe that anything evil 
 would stick to her. But Emily shook her head, and be- 
 came tearful ; that gleeful, unsuspicious disposition of 
 Minnie's, which seemed to Gerty a safeguard, was in Emily's 
 eyes her greatest danger ; and she talked so pathetically 
 of the trust confided to her by her parents, and the terrible 
 grief they would feel if anything went wrong with their 
 little daughter, that Gerty could do nothing but yield. 
 
 She was decidedly hurt that Emily should talk of the 
 school as if it were a den of iniquity, and accuse her of 
 putting an innocent defenceless child into the very worst 
 part of it; but she kept Minnie henceforth apart from May, 
 and so, of necessity, apart from herself also. Thus it was 
 May who separated Gerty from the girls she liked the best, 
 while her own companionship was not at all more pleasant 
 or satisfying than it used to be. Gerty, naturally comparing 
 her with Minnie Gordon, used to think how happy she 
 would be if her girl were only half as nice as the one over 
 whom Emily grieved and feared with such intense anxiety. 
 Minnie was the most good-tempered child Gerty had ever 
 seen ; she seemed indeed to have no faults whatever ; even 
 her sister's constant watching and warnings (unreasonable 
 enough, Gerty sometimes thought, to make her lose all 
 patience) seldom brought a cloud over the sunny face, and 
 never an impatient tone into the merry voice of the 
 younger girl. Yet Minnie was docile and obedient to a 
 marvel, ever yielding to Emily's wishes whenever she knew 
 them, and rewarding her elder sister's anxious solicitude
 
 276 A GREAT BURDEN. 
 
 by a very grateful and admiring love. Gerty would gaze 
 sadly at the other guardian and pupil sometimes, and wonder 
 whether it was most her fault or May's that the relations 
 between them were so different. And for these sad thoughts 
 Gerty found that the best remedy was occupation, and 
 when they came over her she used to be glad she had not 
 much time to indulge them, and willingly yielded to her 
 lessons the attention that they claimed. 
 
 But it must not be supposed that Gerty was unhappy 
 among her companions at this time, or that her real life 
 was ever among her books rather than in the human interests 
 around her. If her power as a leader was not sweet to her, 
 the popularity that gave it certainly was. And though the 
 Gordons held aloof from hei', she had no lack of society or 
 amusement ; and Nettie Cathcart and she had grown so 
 friendly, that she began to think there was only one girl in 
 the school whom close companionship could not teach her 
 to like. No, Gerty was not generally unhappy even then, 
 — she had many things to make her glad, — only the con- 
 sciousness of her influence had come upon her like the con- 
 sciousness of a great burden. The time was to be when 
 she could accept it calmly and use it bravely as a talent 
 committed to her by God. But just now it seemed so hard 
 for her to bear the weight ! She had failed so completely 
 in her efforts to aid one girl, how could she give help to the 
 many who were beginning to look to her now 1 For the 
 rush of new faith and hope with which Gerty had made 
 her self-sacrifice in the beginning of the session was dying 
 away, as the weeks passed on and brought no apparent 
 change except for the worse in May. And Gerty, while 
 doing all services that were needed for the child as gently 
 as she could, became much troubled this winter by a 
 haunting terror that was not altogether new. All through
 
 "THE FRENCH SCHOOL. 277 
 
 the years they had been together she had never learned to 
 like May ; interest and pity had been the kindliest feelings 
 she had been able to cherish for her, but now a fear often 
 came over Gerty that May would some day do or say what 
 would kindle her cold distaste into passionate, irrepressible 
 hatred. Perhaps it was more for her own sake than May's 
 that Gerty looked forward to this with a sickening dread ; 
 for even now, except in the matters of dress and of lessons, 
 all chances of helping May seemed to have gone from her 
 for ever. She sometimes thought sadly that Nettie Cathcart 
 managed her more effectually than she did, for Nettie had 
 at least found a means of moving the child, though it was 
 only by working on her fears. 
 
 " You'll certainly get yourself expelled some day soon/' 
 Nettie had said to May once; and from the silly fretful 
 answer to her threat she got a hint which she made ample 
 use of. 
 
 " It won't make any matter," retorted May; " they'll just 
 send me to another school — it's all the same — it won't be 
 any nastier in France or Swisserland." 
 
 " Won't it 1 Little do you know, my child. Ah ! wait 
 till I have time to tell you some things I know about 
 French schools. Only wait, May ! " 
 
 Seeing that she had produced an effect, Nettie took care 
 soon to find time to fulfil her promise. Everything she had 
 ever read or heard about the discomforts of foreign lands 
 was all gathered together, and, supplemented largely by 
 her own invention, expended on the description of a certain 
 pension to which May was to be sent if she did not improve. 
 At " the French school" it was bitterly cold — there were 
 no carpets on the floors, no fires except in close stoves, never 
 more than one blanket on any of the beds. The girls wore 
 their out-of-door clothes in the house, and always carried
 
 278 PILED-UP HORRORS. 
 
 their muffs about with thern, but all their efforts to get warm 
 were of no avail. France was a warm country, did May 
 say 1 Oh yes, in summer it was ; the girls had constant 
 headaches then, often sunstrokes, and occasionally cholera. 
 Fainting-fits were considered nothing. The food, too — how 
 would May like that 1 No butter, only oil ; no meat, only 
 salad ; frogs perhaps might sometimes appear at dinner on 
 high-days and holidays. The English girls that went to 
 the French school plump became thin as scare-crows soon, 
 and some were even known to die in consequence of their 
 unhealthy diet. As for lessons — May thought they were 
 hard at Miss Marty n's, did she 1 ? Ah! she would think 
 differently when she went to the French school. Lessons 
 began there at six in the morning, and went on till half- 
 past eight at night. Walks 1 — no, there was no time given 
 for anything of that sort. For meals a few minutes were 
 allowed, of course, but very few. Did Miss Cathcart say 
 work began at six o'clock ] Yes, but she only meant 
 classes in the schoolroom ; the girls were busy preparing 
 lessons for hours before that. And so on, and so on ; 
 skilfully piled-up horrors ever increasing as Nettie got 
 more and more into the spirit of her narrative. 
 
 " You see, it is the best way to manage her," she would 
 say to Gerty; "you see she always does what I want when 
 I bring up the French school." 
 
 And Gerty, while regretting and disapproving of Nettie's 
 methods, could not deny that they were generally successful. 
 
 She was an odd girl, this Nettie Cathcart — ever chatter- 
 ing, scoffing, gibing, and showing kindly feeling or even 
 ordinary pleasantness to no other girl but Gerty. The 
 Martyns liked her little — Miss Maria least of all — and yet 
 there was no doubt that in many ways she did credit to the 
 school, and they could not help being proud of her. For
 
 FAMILY TROUBLES. 279 
 
 she played and danced remarkably well, spoke French 
 fluently with a beautiful accent, and was certainly a lady- 
 like, pretty, and to some people very charming girl. 
 
 She was quite a grown-up young lady now, and had 
 special immunities and privileges arranged for her this 
 winter by her father. Nettie did little in the way of 
 study now-a-days, and having many friends in the city she 
 went out a great deal, and Gerty gathered from her talk 
 that she was much admired. For the two talked a great 
 deal together in their room at nights ; or rather Nettie talked 
 to Gerty, for even if her companion would have cared to 
 hear, Gerty could not have brought herself to tell of Burn- 
 side, or open up much of her own feelings to this girl who 
 was so unlike her. But Nettie was very communicative 
 about her affairs, her disagreements with her stepmother 
 especially. Perhaps Gerty should not have listened to 
 them — I do not know. She had certainly very strong 
 ideas about the propriety of concealing family troubles, but 
 very soon these all passed away, as far as Nettie was con- 
 cerned, into a great pity, and a shuddei'ing thought of what 
 she herself would have been if her own mother were not 
 living, her father the best of men, and her brothers the 
 most satisfactory of boys. Indeed, Nettie's sketches of 
 home-life were almost horrifying to Gerty, because she 
 judged of them too much by what her own feelings in the 
 same circumstances would have been, and did not make 
 allowance for the satisfaction Nettie certainly got out of 
 her own spiteful triumphs over her stepmother, and the 
 intense amusement which any mistake of Mrs. Cathcart 
 gave her. To Gerty it would have seemed no mitigation 
 of the trials of her lot, that her father should often take his 
 daughter's part against his wife in the domestic warfare 
 which was constant, or that her stepmother's manner and
 
 280 A DOUBTFUL COMPLIMENT. 
 
 mental qualities were certainly below the usual level of 
 those of well-bred ladies. 
 
 But Nettie was very different from Gerty in many ways, 
 and she certainly deserved pity; nor was Gerty to be blamed 
 if she learned to think too well of her. For the girl, who 
 was certainly careless and flippant, and had long borne the 
 character of being very unfeeling and ill-natured, — a girl 
 who was said to laugh at everything and care for nothing, — 
 certainly showed her best side alone in the bedroom with 
 Gerty. She was the most amusing of chatterboxes, never 
 dull, never unwilling to talk; and Gerty, who mourned over 
 her own deficiency in words, profoundly admired the gifts of 
 those who had plenty. Nettie was so pretty too, sometimes, 
 and Gerty was very susceptible to the charms of beauty, 
 and was always glad of an opportunity of acting as Miss 
 Cathcart's maid, and helping to deck her out for a party. 
 By some freak of fancy or instinct of what was becoming, 
 her evening dress was always black or white ; and, with 
 flowers in her hah- and ornaments glittering about her, the 
 neat, bright-looking, rather pretty schoolgirl of the morning 
 was transformed at night into a sparkling Spanish lady in 
 dark trailing robes, or a lovely fairy in clouds of white. 
 
 Gerty once confessed to Nettie that she never liked her 
 so well as when she was going out for a grand party ; and 
 the avowal was taken as a great compliment, though Gerty 
 was not at all sure that it had been meant for one. 
 
 She would keep herself awake till late at night to hear 
 Nettie's news when she came home, and as the young lady 
 put off her pretty attire and unfastened all her rippling 
 hair May Allardyce slept peacefully on, but Gerty sat up 
 in bed eagerly listening to her talk. Nettie would tell of her 
 flirtations then, and the compliments that had been paid her; 
 more than once she spoke of some one whom her father
 
 gerty's thoughts about matrimony. 281 
 
 would like her to " accept," and often she declared vehe- 
 mently that she must marry soon, if only to get out of Mrs. 
 Cathcart's way. Once, when it was very late, and she had 
 rattled on about many things for a long time, she suddenly 
 told Gerty that it would be a great shame if she jilted her 
 cousin Tom — poor Tom, who was so fond of her, and wrote 
 such pathetic letters from the Australian bush. There was 
 no doubt he was a dear good fellow ; but then it would be 
 too intolerable to be a poor man's wife, and that would cer- 
 tainly be the beginning and the end of her lot if she married 
 Tom. Then Gerty for once interrupted Nettie, and spoke 
 out her thoughts on the subject of matrimony. 
 
 " You ought to love the man you marry well enough to 
 — live on bread and water with him," said she. " Or else 
 — if you can't — you ought to be an old maid all your days ! " 
 
 Nettie went off to bed laughing much at these theories ; 
 but the propounder thereof lay awake for long, meditating 
 upon them herself. 
 
 Was Gerty the better or the worse, I wonder, of this con- 
 stant intercourse with Nettie Cathcarf? Was it well for 
 her that, standing as she was on the very threshold of 
 womanhood, she was thrown into familiar and friendly 
 association with a girl whose ideal was so low and her life 
 so vain 1 ? It is hard to say. After all, I think I must 
 fall back on the old px-omise about all things working 
 together for good to them that love God. 
 
 It is true that Emily Gordon would have- been horrified 
 had she heard the talk to which Gerty listened, not only 
 interested and amused, but often positively admiring. Yet 
 Gerty never was infected by Nettie's ideas ; she regarded 
 her altogether as a different being from herself — a girl to be 
 wondered at and pitied, but not sympathized with. It must 
 be confessed, however, that even when she thought Nettie
 
 282 THE MOTE AND THE BEAM. 
 
 wrong she very seldom rebuked her ; but then Gerty always 
 found so much to rebuke in herself that she had plenty to 
 do in that way. As far as Nettie Cathcart was concerned, 
 Gerty's chief anxiety was to keep herself right before her; 
 her greatest fear being that this sharp-sighted, sharp-tongued 
 room-mate of hers might be able to pick out faults innumer- 
 able in her words and conduct. The text about the mote 
 and the beam dwelt very much in her mind ; so that 
 Nettie never had occasion to recommend it to her attention, 
 though the verse was a favourite of Nettie's too, and one 
 she was very fond of quoting. 
 
 So the winter days went rapidly and monotonously on, 
 and the girls were already looking forward to the Christmas 
 holidays in the very near future, when those things hap- 
 pened which, linking themselves to old never-to-be-forgotten 
 memories, took their place among the greatest events of 
 Gerty's school-Life.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WALKING IN PERPLEXING PATHS. 
 
 I HE hourly bell at Miss Martyn's had just rung for 
 four o'clock ; masters were passing out and in, 
 girls changing rooms and classes ; it was a mo- 
 ment of bustle and hurrying to and fro. The large school- 
 room was the chief centre of motion, for here, while the 
 younger girls were taking away the books after Mr. Sher- 
 wood's class, which was just over, the elder ones were 
 bringing theirs out, in preparation for the German master, 
 who was coming. Mr. Sherwood had fairly gone ; Dr. 
 Semmler was always a quarter of an hour late ; Mademoi- 
 selle, who had chaperoned the English class from three to 
 foui 1 , had now hurried off to find out from the school-plan 
 what her next duty was to be. Liberty reigned in the 
 schoolroom, therefore, and the girls were not at all disposed 
 to settle down very speedily to work again. 
 
 The third English class, which was rising from the long 
 table in the schoolroom, was a large one in point of 
 numbers ; but much above all other heads rose the brown 
 one of Minnie Gordon, who was not only tall for her 
 years, but backward in her studies. Minnie was talking 
 and laughing with her companions now perfectly unre- 
 strained, for Emily was in the midst of a two hours' pri- 
 vate drawing-lesson in the dining-room. Nettie Cathcart, 
 with her music on her arm, had paused at the door on her
 
 284 A WHOLE FARMYARD. 
 
 way to the drawing-room piano, and was talking over a new 
 song with Marion Campbell ; three or four of the other 
 girls had got together in a corner to read their German 
 translation, which they were doing loudly and with much 
 disputing and giggling. 
 
 Such was the state of things in the schoolroom when 
 something — it was never known what — moved the small 
 Meta Campbell to lean across the table and say, " Bow- 
 wow-wow ! " It was not said very loud, and had but little 
 resemblance to the barking of a dog, but Minnie Gordon 
 answered it immediately by a much more successful imita- 
 tion of the mewing of a cat. 
 
 " Bow- wow- wow ! " said Meta louder, then. 
 
 " Mee-a-ow, mee-a-a-ow," repeated Minnie. 
 
 And as the cries of the two animals rose above the 
 human speech around, the infection of folly spread, and a 
 strange rivalry inspired the girls. Molly Smith stopped in 
 the midst of her German reading to bleat with as much 
 power and pathos as any sheep on a mountain-side ; seldom 
 has a lonely cow lowed more lustily than did Ellen Murray 
 over Otto's Grammar. Other cries, more or less success- 
 fully given, rose on all sides ; even Marion Campbell, big 
 girl and elder sister, instead of trying to still the general 
 noise, augmented it powerfully by shrill cock-crowing. For 
 one moment only did the most Life-like and natural hen- 
 voice join in the chorus, and then Nettie Cathcart thought 
 it best to take herself off to the drawing-room. It was quite 
 time, for Gerty Stuart, whose place she was to take at the 
 piano there, was already on her way to the schoolroom and 
 her German class. 
 
 "You will find yourself in a whole farmyard," said Nettie, 
 as the two crossed each other's path in the lobby; and, in- 
 deed, the sounds of the mingled cries were borne along on
 
 "QUI A CRIE?" 285 
 
 the air through the house. Gerty laughed and quickened 
 her steps, with what intentions she scarcely knew herself; 
 but, quick as she was, some one else was coming behind 
 her faster, and hurrying with dreadful rustling garments 
 towards the schoolroom. It was just at the drawingroom 
 door Nettie Cathcart met Miss Maria, and seeing the de- 
 termined look of vengeance on that awful countenance, 
 guessed what was coming, and, being a prudent young 
 woman, darted quickly and silently to the piano, and im- 
 mediately began to play. Weber's " Invitation to the 
 Dance " was sending its delicious music down the passage 
 to mingle with the barnyard chorus when Gerty stood aside 
 to let her governess pass. 
 
 The cries had all ceased before Miss Maria appeared in 
 the schoolroom ; perhaps it was because Mademoiselle was 
 back again now in great anger and distress of mind ; it 
 could scarcely have been that some quick ears had heard 
 above all the uproar the sound of rustling silk, which 
 always foretold that terrible coming. But Miss Maria had 
 heard too much for any amount of quietness to pacify her 
 now ; there was no hope for the culprits, Gerty knew per- 
 fectly when she came, in amusement and sympathy, to be 
 present at the scene. There was the usual awe-inspiring 
 pause and keen look all around, and then Miss Maria spoke 
 in that clearly-cut cold language which is so peculiarly 
 suitable to express dignified and distant displeasure. 
 
 " Qui a crie ? " 
 
 No one answered — it was scarcely to be expected any one 
 would ; so the short terrible question went round, picking 
 each one out by name, " Avez-vous crie, Mademoiselle V 
 
 Then they all confessed, — some terribly shamefaced, 
 others amused in the very midst of their terror, one, at 
 least, suddenly overwhelmed with wonder and dismay.
 
 286 POOR MINNIE GORDON. 
 
 Another rapid chilling sentence condemned them all to be 
 written in Mademoiselle's note-book as receivers of twenty 
 lines to be learned after prayers instead of going to bed. 
 After that Miss Maria swept the younger girls out of the 
 room, and departed, leaving the German class seated in 
 silence round the table, and Mademoiselle again in her 
 chair at the window solemnly awaiting Dr. Semmler. Only 
 when the door was opened, the drawing-room one must 
 have been opened too at the same time — by the music- 
 master probably as he entered — for Miss Maria, turning 
 sternly away from the criminals she had been sentencing 
 in the schoolroom, let in for a moment the sound of the 
 glad outbursts and joyous swing of the waltz Nettie was 
 playing. And Ellen Murray's face just then was very un- 
 pleasant to behold. 
 
 Poor Minnie Gordon ! Who can describe her heart- 
 sinking and horror when she discovered the situation she 
 was in 1 She did not know it at first ; she was not familiar 
 either with the French language or the fashions of the 
 school, and though she left the room deeply repentant and 
 humiliated, she had no idea that anything worse than a 
 reproof and a bad mark had been given her. It was not 
 long, however, before she was enlightened by her com- 
 panions in guilt, who felt their own trouble much assuaged 
 by the matter for wonder and even amusement her innocent 
 ignorance gave them. But to poor Minnie it seemed that 
 comfort would never come again in this world. The punish- 
 ment was terrible to her, but the disgrace was infinitely 
 worse ; and she could not console herself with the thought 
 that hers had been a slight fault, for she felt that it must be a 
 terrible crime which had brought such terrible consequences ! 
 Preparing lessons or practising were alike impossible to 
 her ; from four to five she sat weeping at her desk in the
 
 SEEKING SYMPATHY. 287 
 
 second-classroom, from five to six she sat weeping on the 
 music-stool in the Blue Room. She would not go to tea ; to 
 all invitations given by her companions she only replied by 
 shaking her head in dumb misery. They left her at last 
 in the schoolroom, walking up and down, wringing her 
 hands and sobbing. 
 
 Emily was scarcely less mournful, but she thought it 
 right not to speak to her little sister ; and leaving the 
 poor child alone in her agony, she took her way slowly to 
 the dining-room after Gerty Stuart. Gerty's face was look- 
 ing so grave that she had little doubt of her sympathy as 
 she laid her hand with an appealing touch on her friend's 
 arm. 
 
 She was quite unprepared for the impatient, " Well, 
 what 1 " with which Gerty turned round on her. 
 
 " Poor Minnie is punished by Miss Maria," said Emily, 
 trying to steady her voice. " She has got twenty lines." 
 
 " She might have got worse," said Gerty. 
 
 " The sad thing is that Minnie deserved them," Emily 
 went on sorrowfully. " She joined in making some great 
 noise in the midst of lesson-hours this afternoon." 
 
 " She might have done worse," said Gerty. 
 
 Nothing more could Emily get from her then, but as 
 they were taking their places at the tea-table Gerty added 
 rapidly, and speaking low, "Your Minnie's isn't the only 
 seat that will be empty to-night. May Allai'dyce is in bed 
 for copying her French exercise, and then telling a lie 
 about it." 
 
 No wonder that imitating a cat seemed a paltry fault in 
 Gerty's eyes, while she was struggling hard against the force 
 of her own over-strengthening dislike for May. Why should 
 any one distress themselves about imaginary crimes when 
 there were such terribly real ones, not only in the world
 
 288 WHAT GERTY THOUGHT OF IT. 
 
 but in Miss Martyn's school 1 But the over-scrupulous 
 sister would not be comforted or convinced ; with any other 
 girl she would have been more merciful, but Minnie was 
 so near herself that she felt it a duty to judge her severely. 
 
 The usual evening employments went on that night, leav- 
 ing the culprits no time to learn any of their task before 
 prayers, and giving but little opportunity for any sort of 
 talk ; but Emily and Gei'ty took advantage of every interval 
 to come back to the subject which had taken possession of 
 their minds. 
 
 " O Gerty, I wish I could think as you do," Emily 
 whispered as they sat in the drawing-room before the read- 
 ing began — "I wish I could think as you do; but I /mow 
 it was wrong of Minnie. She must have known Miss 
 Maria would be displeased ; she could not have thought 
 such a noise was proper at such a time." 
 
 " Do you suppose Minnie planned deliberately before- 
 hand that she was to make a noise at four o'clock ] " said 
 Gerty. 
 
 Then Miss Martyn appeared, and there was reading ; 
 but just before prayers came another interval of a few 
 minutes when it was possible to talk, and the low-toned 
 discussion began again. 
 
 " My poor little sister in disgrace ; it is almost as painful 
 — just as painful as if it were myself." 
 
 " There are other girls in disgrace." 
 
 " Yes, that was what I always feared, that her love of 
 company would lead her into harm. If she had only kept 
 with you or me ! " 
 
 " Don't you think there are girls to-night who have lines 
 — much better than either you or me? I mean, do you 
 really think us two the best in all the school 1 " 
 
 Emily at this coloured and bit her lip, and nothing more
 
 GREAT BIG TROUBLES. 289 
 
 was said until the culminating point of poor Minnie's dis 
 grace was passed, and, unbidden good-night to by any one, 
 she was driven with the rest of the evil-doers into the 
 schoolroom to learn her lines. Then Emily, fairly weeping 
 now, followed Gerty to her bedroom door, feeling not in 
 the least angry at the snubs she had received, only longing 
 more than ever for the sympathy of her friend. 
 
 " Gerty ! I can scarcely bear to go to my empty room. 
 I have a letter from home to-night, and no one to hear it." 
 
 " Well, it's all a matter of taste, of course," said Gerty, 
 rather fiercely ; " but I would rather have an empty room 
 than two girls in it too mean to speak to. That's what I've 
 got to go to." 
 
 Emily, thoroughly crestfallen at last, went slowly and 
 sadly away ; but almost immediately Gerty came hurrying 
 after her, and clasped her round the waist. 
 
 " Dear, I have been very unkind ; foi'give me ! Only 
 when I think of my great big troubles about May, yours 
 about Minnie does seem such a little one. Emily, pray 
 that I may grow to love that child; and, Emily, do be glad 
 you have such a dear, good little sister. Do cheer her up 
 and be kind to her when she comes to bed. Do, please, 
 not scold her, for you don't know what a miserable thing 
 it is to be — kicked when you're down, as the boys say." 
 
 Gerty had never outgrown the difficulty she used to 
 have in expressing herself when her feelings grew very 
 strong ; and the effect of this difficulty was generally rather 
 a curious one. In the struggle between intense earnestness 
 and painful shyness, the girl who on ordinary occasions was 
 so grave and well behaved, used to betake herself to slang 
 — and that very often without the saving clause about 
 "the boys." Emily Gordon, who had no brothers, and was 
 naturally almost too gentle, was sometimes rather startled 
 
 (5S4) 1 9
 
 290 AN UNPLEASANT DUTY IN PROSPECT. 
 
 by the strength of Gerty's language ; and on this occasion 
 she felt a little as if an accusation of brutality were being 
 brought against her, when she was told not to kick her 
 sister when she was down. 
 
 "But you forget, Gerty," said Emily, "that papa and 
 mamma are not here, and Minnie is left to me. Who else 
 is to tell her she is wrong if I don't 1 ? I can't bear to 
 blame the child, but if I don't do it to-night she may break 
 rules again, and the fault will be mine. It's no kindness 
 to spare her this time." 
 
 " Really, Emily, you're talking very idiotically, it seems' 
 to me," said Gerty, feeling her indignation rising again. 
 " Minnie's as wretched to-night as if she had been doing 
 some dreadful thing. She'll not break rules again in 
 a hurry, if she knows it — unless, Emily, you keep on 
 nagging at her till she loses heart and thinks it doesn't 
 matter what she does, and never expects to keep right at 
 school." 
 
 Emily looked rather alarmed at this new possibility of 
 danger for Minnie, and Gerty added as she turned away, — 
 " Well, I suppose I must go to my own room now, and the 
 next thing will be pitching into Nettie Cathcart. Oh dear ! 
 oh dear ! I wish I hadn't to, but there's no chance of get- 
 ting off. She'll make me do it, she'll not leave me alone — 
 she never can hold her tongue, that girl — " 
 
 " What has Nettie Cathcart done 1 " asked Emily, with 
 rather languid curiosity. 
 
 ' It's what she's not done," said Gerty. 
 
 What Nettie Cathcart was doing when Gerty entered 
 the bedroom was — kneeling on the cai*pet in front of her 
 drawers, choosing out various articles of dress, and packing 
 them into a neat little travelling-box which generally 
 accompanied her when she went to visit her friends. She
 
 NOT TO BE PUT OFF. 291 
 
 turned round to Gerty immediately, looking very bright and 
 pretty. " I had a note from Jessie Marshall to-night," she 
 said, " and I am to stay with her till Monday ; I mean to 
 be off to-morrow morning as early as I can. Grenadine or 
 muslin, shall I take? Pink ribbons or crimson? Oh, by-the- 
 by, do you i-emember if I had my blue cross on last night, 
 or where I put it ? " 
 
 On any other occasion Gerty would have had plenty of 
 interest and assistance to give, but just now Nettie Cath- 
 cart's pretty looks and pretty dresses had no charms for her. 
 " I don't know," she answered shortly ; and repressing a 
 sigh as she glanced at the heap covered with disordered 
 blankets, which was all that was to be seen of May, she 
 sat down at the dressing-table and began to unplait her 
 hair. But, as Gerty had indeed foreseen, Nettie Cathcart 
 was not to be put off by any coldness or silence. She rose 
 and came where she cordd get a good view of Gerty's face, 
 then said pleasantly, — 
 
 " Oh, what a rage you are in ! " And as Gerty still said 
 nothing, she added after a moment, " May I know what 
 the matter is ? " 
 
 " You ought to be in the schoolroom," said Gerty bluntly. 
 
 " Pourquoi done, ma cherie ? One's bedroom is much 
 pleasanter at this time of night." 
 
 " Yes, but you tucked like a hen this afternoon," said 
 Gerty, far too much troubled to think her own expression 
 ridiculous. 
 
 "Ah! it was very wrong that — to tuck like a hen; 
 very wrong ! I don't wonder you are shocked, Gerty." 
 
 " I don't say it was very wrong," said Gerty, " but it 
 was just the same thing as the others got twenty lines for. 
 Perhaps Miss Maria would think it rather worse, as you're 
 older."
 
 292 PLAIN SPEAKING. 
 
 " Then it's well she doesn't know, — isn't it 1 It would 
 he such a pity to vex her." 
 
 " Oh, it's very easy to turn, and twist, and make fun ot 
 everything," said Gerty ; " but nothing can alter the fact 
 that yoxi've done a very mean thing." 
 
 " What a bother it must be to have a tender conscience !" 
 observed Nettie, with an air of candid gravity. " It must 
 make life such a burden. Come, listen to reason, my dear, 
 goody Gerty ; that's to say, if your piety will let you. I 
 suppose you think I ought to go to the schoolroom, and 
 humbly confess that I tried to do a little cackling, and ask 
 for twenty lines, and sit down with the children to learn 
 them instead of staying here comfortably with you. Well, 
 supposing I did, I should make rather a fool of myself, and 
 do what was decidedly a bore. And do you think Miss 
 Maria's wounded feelings would be soothed, or any of the 
 girls at all helped? If it would take the punishment off 
 that poor little Minnie, I might see some sense in your 
 wishing me to go. How it does cry, poor child ! A cheer- 
 ful house Laverock Hall must be, if all the family have the 
 same amount of tears always ready." 
 
 " Perhaps they have nothing to cry about when they are 
 at home," said Gerty. 
 
 " They certainly find enough to cry about when they are 
 here, then," returned Nettie. 
 
 " We used to give Emily plenty to cry about at first," 
 said Gerty ; " but that's not the question just now. You 
 know I can't explain — you know I can't talk about things, 
 but you are behaving very meanly all the same. You 
 ought — you were in honour bound — to have told that you 
 were in the row like the rest, and taken the consequences. 
 There is not a girl among us all who won't think worse of 
 you for this night's work."
 
 GETTING ANGRY. 293 
 
 "What do I care?" said Nettie lightly. "I can get 
 on very well. I haven't any great wish to be liked by 
 other girls. That's a compliment generally paid to stupid 
 or ugly ones ; it's no good sign of a woman's looks or 
 cleverness when her own sex like her — I beg your pardon, 
 Gerty, I forgot for the moment what a favourite you are. 
 I really meant nothing personal to you." 
 
 " I didn't suppose you did," said Gerty calmly. "And 
 now don't you think we had better say nothing more just 
 now? We'll not make each other think differently, it 
 seems." 
 
 " First tell me how you knew anything about me this 
 afternoon. You weren't in the room. Ellen Murray told 
 you, didn't she"? I thought so. She was always a nice 
 girl." 
 
 " It was almost a wonder she didn't tell Miss Maria," 
 said Gerty. 
 
 " Now that I think of it," was the pert reply, " it cer- 
 tainly was. That would have been quite like her. But 
 you bade her not, I suppose 1 " 
 
 "It was very easy for me to speak," said Gerty; "it 
 was much harder for her who was mixed up in it — to see 
 that because you had been selfish and dishonourable she 
 mightn't be the same — just to pay you out. You ought to 
 be very thankful to Ellen Murray." 
 
 " You've a high opinion of my good-nature, Gerty," said 
 Nettie, still speaking in her cool, impudent voice, though 
 her eyes were flashing. " How much more of this sort of 
 thing do you expect me to stand 1 I don't know another 
 girl who would have taken so much pharisaical nonsense 
 from you or any one." 
 
 " You forced me into it," said Gerty, gravely and sadly. 
 " T told you we had better stop."
 
 294 A QUIXOTIC CREATURE. 
 
 " Well, don't let us stop in anger," said Nettie, somewhat 
 touched by her tone. " What's the use of quarrelling and 
 making ourselves disagreeable to each other, when it's so 
 easy to be pleasant and enjoy ourselves? Why should 
 twenty stupid lines stand between you and me ? A mere 
 baby's lesson — not worth caring about one way or other. 
 Don't be sulky any more ; give me a kiss, and be 
 friends." 
 
 She came forward holding out her arms ; but Gerty drew 
 back, not angrily, only quietly and firmly. It was not 
 easy for her, whose loyalty to her companions was one of 
 the strongest articles of faith in her school creed, to forgive 
 this girl who had deserted her fellows without a pang when 
 the question became one of her own comfort and con- 
 venience. Once more it seemed as if the two were on their 
 old terms again, and as if the few weeks of pleasant com- 
 panionship had never been; all chance of Nettie gaining an 
 influence over Gerty was gone ; the only remembrance then 
 of the liking which had grown up between them was in the 
 sadness that largely mingled with the pity and contempt in 
 Gerty's mind. 
 
 " I can't kiss you to-night," said she, rising ; " I would 
 rather not ; perhaps to-morrow I'll feel differently." 
 
 " As you please," said Nettie coldly. " You can let me 
 know when you've recovered your temper." 
 
 She went back to her drawers, but turned round again 
 in great astonishment when she heard the door close, and 
 found herself in the room alone. " What is that Quixotic 
 creature going to be about now 1 " said Nettie to herself ; 
 but her bright wits could not throw very much light on the 
 subject of Gerty's sudden departure. 
 
 The truth was, that the feeling had been growing stronger 
 in Gerty's breast all evening that she ought in some way
 
 THE CAPTIVES IN THE SCHOOLROOM. 295 
 
 to try and atone for the faults of the two girls who had 
 been her friends, and whom she had been forced so sorely 
 against her will to rebuke ; or, as she would have said, to 
 pitch into. Emily Gordon, with the best intentions, had 
 been cruel to her little sister ; Nettie Cathcart, laughing 
 and sneering, had refused to bear her just portion of dis- 
 grace ; therefore it seemed to Gerty that she in her own 
 person had become responsible for comforting Minnie, and 
 vindicating the schoolgirl honour which had been set aside 
 so lightly. To the last she had always clung to the hope 
 that these duties would be performed by the girls to whom 
 they properly belonged; but now, as that was evidently 
 not to be, there remained only one course open to Gerty. 
 She could not stay in her bedroom to weep like Emily, or 
 amuse herself like Nettie. She must go to the schoolroom 
 to her friends in misfortune. 
 
 The sirls in disgrace were all alone. Miss Framm was 
 coming to hear their task at ten o'clock, and that would 
 not be for half an hour yet ; but the mirth with which most 
 of the prisoners had begun their time of confinement was 
 passing away now from the very boldest. There was still 
 plenty of noise, but the laughter was rather forced and the 
 joking somewhat bitter. 
 
 " Wouldn't you like to go to the dining-room and see 
 what they are having for supper 1 " said Molly Smith. " I 
 don't see why governesses should get supper and not girls. 
 I'm dreadfully hungry." 
 
 " You always are," said Ellen Murray. " No ; I'd rather 
 go and pull Nettie Cathcart out of bed." 
 
 " Nettie will never learn lines," said Marion Campbell. 
 " Meta ! don't go to sleep, child. Come, say, ' Elle etait 
 jeune, elle etait belle.' Nettie Cathcart would refuse to 
 learn lines if she got them ; she would leave the school
 
 296 A SILENCE OF HORROR. 
 
 rather. That would be the most dignified thing for a grand 
 lady like her to do. 'Elle etait jeune, elle etait belle ; Son 
 front—' " 
 
 " She'd hate to go home to her stepmother ! " said Ellen. 
 " That would be a better punishment than lines — and serve 
 her right for a nasty little serpent as she is. If it weren't 
 for Gerty, I would have gone straight to Miss Maria — " 
 
 "Oh, do be quiet, please !" said Isabel Maitland. "I can't 
 learn anything if you talk straight on." 
 
 Her piteous tone moved some compassion in the breasts 
 of the others ; and Marion Campbell asked, " Why, what 
 did you do, Miss Maitland 1 " 
 
 " I buzzed a very little," said Isabel, with a quiver in 
 her voice that might have come from either distress or 
 amusement. 
 
 The shout of laughter which followed this confession was 
 too full of anger against Miss Maria and pity for Isabel to 
 be very merry ; and it was in the midst of this that the 
 door opened. There was a sudden silence of horror, lest 
 Miss Mai'ia, hearing the noise, might have come to double 
 their punishment ; but the uproar burst forth again when 
 Gerty Stuart appeared, rather in dishabille, but looking 
 perfectly composed. 
 
 It was Ellen Murray who at last raised her voice to still 
 the tumult, asking her companions very angrily if they 
 wished to call in Miss Maria, and so land Gerty Stuart in 
 the same trouble they were in themselves. 
 
 "It doesn't matter," said Gerty, smiling; "it's all right. 
 How are you getting on ] " 
 
 As she refastened her brooch and pushed back her hair 
 which had fallen half unplaited over her shoulders, the 
 others looked at her in some perplexity, wondering at her 
 coolness ; not because they had ever had any doubts about
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED. 297 
 
 her bravery, but because it seemed strange that such a good 
 girl should break rules, and do it so deliberately. For 
 leaving the bedroom after prayers was a punishable offence 
 at Miss Martyn's school. But, of course, the girls were 
 very glad to see Gerty, and after the first astonishment 
 was over made haste to show her their task, and tell her 
 how simple the new Mademoiselle had been in giving them 
 poetry to learn, and such short lines. Fancy Miss Maria 
 doing a stupid thing like that ! The most difficult piece 
 of prose she could find was what she prescribed for a punish- 
 ment lesson; and she was not satisfied with the bare twenty 
 lines, but expected her victim to learn on till the next full 
 stop came. 
 
 " And now we must really set to work," said Marion 
 when the explanations were done. "It was very good of you 
 to come and see us, dear. But you had better go off to bed 
 now ; it makes me nervous to have you stay here, in case 
 you may be caught." 
 
 " She'll be as safe twenty minutes after this ; and as she 
 is here at any rate, she'd better see what she can do for 
 that creatui-e;" and as Ellen Murray spoke, she pointed 
 her thumb over her shoulder at the figure of Minnie Gordon 
 seated on the floor in an attitude of woe. Minnie had her 
 head bent and her face buried in her handkerchief, but 
 when Gerty came near to her and said her name she 
 looked up with a sudden start, and stretched out both 
 her hands. She got hold of Gerty's dress and kissed it 
 passionately. " Oh, how kind you are ! I thought you would 
 never speak to me any more ! " 
 
 " What made you think anything so stupid I" said Gerty, 
 sitting down beside her on the floor. " That's not the way 
 we treat our friends at Miss Martyn's, How are you 
 getting on with your lines 1 They're quite pretty, I think,
 
 298 robbie's letter. 
 
 and so easy — ' Elle 6tait jeune, elle etait belle ; Sou front, 
 meme au milieu des pleurs.' That's right, isn't it? And 
 Elle means La poesie. How much do you know of it 1 " 
 
 Minnie's look of astonishment during this cheerful talk 
 of Gerty's was beyond description, but at the last question 
 she shook her head hopelessly, and murmuring, " I don't 
 know any," again began to cry. 
 
 " Oh, but you mustn't go on that way, when I've come all 
 the way from my own room to see you," said Gerty. " Do 
 stop crying ; here's my dry handkerchief to rub up your 
 eyes with. Now, then, I'm going to show you how to learn 
 lines. They're not such dreadful things, after all." 
 
 " Gerty ! Gerty 1 Emily is so sorry. And what 
 ever will papa and mamma do when they know 1 " 
 
 " I should think they would laugh," said Gerty ; " at least 
 my father and mother would, I know. Do you know I've 
 a brother that cares to hear nothing at all about school 
 except about the punishments and the lines? I have to 
 write them all. I had a letter from him the other day — 
 ( My dear Gerty, Freddy caught a trout, and I ate it, bones 
 and all. If there have been any more rows at school, you 
 may write me about them. Miss Maria is a very nice 
 woman. Your affectionate brother.' That was all the 
 letter. Don't you think it's very kind of you and the rest 
 to give me something to write to Robbie about 1 " 
 
 Minnie laughed, as it was hoped she would; and being 
 a good deal comforted by Gerty's clean, dry handkerchief, 
 suffered herself to be coaxed to come and sit at the table 
 near the light, that she might try to learn her poetry. 
 As the two girls found places for themselves between Isabel 
 Maitland and Meta Campbell, Minnie asked in a whisper, 
 " Gerty, did you ever get a punishment lesson 1 " — then 
 seeing the look of wonder on her companion's face, she
 
 GERTY BREAKS THE RULES. 299 
 
 added quickly, " No, of course you never did. I beg your 
 pardon." 
 
 Gerty burst out laughing, though there was a look in 
 her eyes that was rather sad than mirthful. " Often and 
 often," she said ; " forty lines sometimes. Why, I've got 
 twenty to-night, Minnie." 
 
 " Oh ! what for 1 " 
 
 " For coming here," answered Gerty composedly. " It's 
 against rules to leave your room after bed-time." 
 
 There was an immediate outcry among the other girls, who, 
 attracted by her laughter", had been listening to what Gerty 
 was saying. She was told she did not really mean it ; she 
 was exhorted to go to bed and not make a fool of herself; 
 she was begged not to vex her friends by putting herself hi 
 trouble; she was asked pathetically if she imagined that 
 any one would tell on her. 
 
 To all this Gerty listened unmoved ; she had expected 
 this opposition, and was perfectly ready for it. 
 
 " I wished to come to you," she said whenever her voice 
 could be heard, " and I made up my mind to learn my lines 
 for that. If I break a rule like that, it is only fair I should 
 pay forfeit. But if I'm to be able to do it, you must be 
 quiet and let me work hard till ten o'clock. Now, Minnie, 
 this is the only way. Gather all your mind up, and think 
 of nothing but your lines. Make sure of four at a time — 
 take hold of them, as if your mind had hands, and stretched 
 them out, and took a good firm grip. Hold them fast, and 
 nail them into your head. When they are firm there, go 
 on to the next. Think of nothing and listen to nothing 
 but your work. Now, then." 
 
 Gerty possessed herself of a book, like the rest, and then 
 for a while silence reigned ; only broken occasionally by 
 some girl murmuring a line or two of her task, and the
 
 300 MISS FRAM.M AND THE PUNISHMENT LESSONS. 
 
 rebuke of her neighbour, who requested her not to disturb 
 other people. 
 
 Te*n o'clock brought both Miss Frauim and Mademoiselle 
 to the schoolroom, but happily not Miss Maria, that most 
 inexorable of task-mistresses. Miss Framm, though severe 
 enough sometimes, knew when to be merciful ; so Gerty with 
 her train of new-comers and younger girls went over to her 
 immediately. And though Isabel Maitland stammered and 
 stuck very often in her task, she got never a word of blame ; 
 and poor little Meta, who did not know much French, was 
 allowed to go off to bed after scarcely a pretence of repeat- 
 ing the poetry ; while Minnie Gordon's tearful face ssrved 
 as explanation and excuse for her very ill-learnt lesson. 
 Miss Framm was a wise woman, with even more discrimi- 
 nation than Miss Maria, for she had both humour and 
 tenderness in her composition; and she knew very well 
 who were the ghds that had been most punished that night. 
 Marion Campbell needed all the fluency with which she 
 recited what to her were very easy lines, to take her safely 
 out of Miss Framm's hands. 
 
 The last of all her batch was Gerty, who had hung behind 
 till the girls she was anxious about had all been given over 
 to the governess she trusted most. About herself she was 
 not at all anxious. Thanks to long practice in the seizing 
 and nailing operation she had described, her lesson was 
 safely fixed in her head, and she came forward with it quite 
 calmly when her turn came. But before she had begun to 
 speak an idea seemed to strike Miss Framm, and she asked, 
 " How have you lines to-night 1 " 
 
 " I came visiting. I was obliged to stay and learn lines 
 for that, wasn't IV 
 
 " Go on then, Gertrude." 
 
 Miss Framm was a wise woman, as I said before, and
 
 AN INCREASE OF POPULARITY. 301 
 
 she had had opportunities of studying girl-nature for many 
 years, and this particular girl's for more than thi'ee. And 
 to-night she had not failed to notice how Minnie Gordon 
 held her friend's dress tight all the time she was trem- 
 blingly repeating her task, or how eagerly Gerty was 
 following the poor little girl's tearful, ill-pronounced 
 words. So Miss Framm asked no more questions, and the 
 lines were all said, and the girls dismissed to their bedrooms, 
 where they had to suffer the last of their punishment by 
 going to bed in the dark. It is scarcely necessary to say 
 that imitating the cries of animals never became a fashion- 
 able amusement at Miss Martyn's school. 
 
 But the chief result of that night's work was one which 
 Gerty had certainly neither sought nor anticipated, — the 
 increase of her own popularity. Such a thing as she had 
 done had never been done before; and its unselfish bravery, 
 whether wise or not, moved the admiration of every 
 schoolgirl heart. 
 
 Once, long ago, a certain Kate Mackenzie had sat a whole 
 evening in the Blue Boom helping a little girl to learn her 
 lines; but that had been done out of superior and patron- 
 izing kindness, and had not compromised her at all : while 
 Gerty had come into the very midst of her companions in 
 disgrace, aiding some, lecturing no one, sharing their 
 punishment herself. In the bedrooms, while the girls 
 talked over the " awful niceness " of Gerty Stuart, the two 
 cases were compared, and the fact that Kate Mackenzie 
 had broken no rule was brought up to prove how immensely 
 inferior her merit had been. Perhaps this schoolgirl 
 morality would have seemed rather odd to some people, 
 but after all I doubt if there was anything far wrong in the 
 principle of it. Certainly Gerty was also admired for the 
 way in which she did honour to the laws by voluntarily
 
 302 THE YOUNG AUTHORESS. 
 
 paying the penalty when she broke them. Her companions 
 had urged her not to do it, but they respected her all the 
 more for resisting their entreaties ; her firm conscientious- 
 ness in the matter seemed to them chivalrous when joined 
 with the loving, generous sympathy which would not allow 
 her to rest quietly while her friends were in trouble. 
 
 Of all the girls with whom Gerty had cast in her lot 
 that night, Minnie Gordon and Isabel Maitland carried 
 away the most loving remembrances of her. Minnie's 
 gi'atitude was gushing and outspoken then and afterwards , 
 but Gerty never understood the place she took from hence- 
 forth in the estimation of the other new girl. 
 
 Isabel Maitland was considered decidedly queer, for she 
 took fits of talk and silence, would be very companionable 
 at some times, and at others walk about heeding no one ; 
 and while she did only fairly well in most of her classes, 
 she would wake up into surprising brightness when the 
 lesson was history or English poetry. Isabel gave agreeable 
 variety to her exercise-books by writing original verses and 
 stories here and there; and of course the other girls got hold 
 of these, and made fun of the authoress, who was very much 
 ashamed of herself; but at the very next leisure moment 
 she would be scribbling again, with pathetic attempts at 
 secrecy. While her powers of observing other things were 
 small, she had a perfect mania for studying character ; and 
 Gerty's conduct that night seemed to her a precious revela- 
 tion of nobleness. At last she had found a heroine in real 
 life, and she made haste to transfer her to fiction. During 
 the Christmas holidays, Isabel Maitland read aloud to her 
 younger sisters a thrilling manuscript tale of a Huguenot 
 lady who left her secure refuge in England, and went back 
 to her own country to share the fate of a sister imprisoned 
 there for conscience' sake ; and she explained to Loulou
 
 GOING TO BED IN THE DARK. 303 
 
 and Elly that Mademoiselle Marguerite was very much 
 like a girl she knew at school, whose name was Gerty 
 Stuart. 
 
 But though Isabel Maitland's good-night kiss seemed to 
 her unusually affectionate that night, Gerty had of course 
 no idea of the romance that was already being woven about 
 her; and if she had, I doubt not she would have been much 
 more amused than flattered. She parted from Isabel, 
 advising her not to tumble over any chairs in her dark 
 room; and she unloosed herself from Minnie Gordon's 
 embraces and went off to her own chamber, which was all 
 in blackness, of course, like the rest. 
 
 "Well, Gerty," said Nettie's voice, greeting her im- 
 mediately, " you're a nice young woman, staying out visit- 
 ing till this time of night! A good girl is the one for 
 getting into mischief thoroughly. / would have had the 
 gas lighted and been enjoying myself now, if I could have 
 made up my mind to be as wicked as you." 
 
 " Oh, I know you well," said Gerty, laughing. " It 
 wasn't safe to light the gas when you didn't know where I 
 was, or who might be going about the lobbies and into the 
 bedrooms to-night." 
 
 Somehow Gerty was feeling it much easier to forgive 
 Nettie now, and she spoke quite pleasantly. 
 
 "And what have you been about? Comforting Emily 
 in her affliction, and trying to persuade her that it's not 
 such a very long way her sister's gone on the road to ruin?" 
 
 " I was in the schoolroom," said Gerty, beginning to 
 undress herself quickly. 
 
 " Well, that was impudence ! " and Nettie's interest and 
 curiosity moved her to sit up in bed. " And you scuttled 
 off into the second-classroom when you heard Miss Maria 
 coming? Now, my lady, I have you. You're a breaker
 
 304 NOT TO BE CAUGHT. 
 
 of rules and an audacious, punishable person, and I'll do as 
 I please as well as you. The very next night I'll keep the 
 gas lighted till midnight, and if you dare to interfere — " 
 
 Gerty would not have been human if she had refrained 
 from smiling to herself in the dark as she answered 
 quietly, " I'll not interfere — if you learn your lines for it, 
 and say them." 
 
 " Do you mean to say you did that to-night 1 " 
 
 " Yes, I did." 
 
 The other girl lay back on her pillow and laughed. She 
 did not speak for a little, but when she did she acknow- 
 ledged her defeat gracefully enough. " There seems no 
 possibility of catching you, Gerty ! "
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE TRIAL GERTY HAD FEARED. 
 
 jlHE next day was one that Gerty had been looking 
 forward to for more than a week, for it was 
 " going-out Saturday," and she was to spend the 
 forenoon at the house of an old aunt, — and there she was 
 to meet Freddy ! 
 
 She went about in the early morning smiling to herself, 
 and scarcely able to keep from singing; but she did her 
 best to control her excitement, and set herself firmly to find 
 employment till eleven o'clock. Nettie Cathcart claimed 
 attention first, in her bustle of preparation for going off to 
 Mrs. Marshall's ; and Gerty brushed her jacket, and 
 strapped up her box, and discussed with her the loss of 
 the blue cross, whose disappearance seemed to affect its 
 owner more than most things did. In vain Gerty tried to 
 convince her that she would likely find it at Mrs. Mar- 
 shall's or some other friend's where she had been visiting 
 lately ; and that, after all, if it had been dropped while she 
 was out walking and so was lost for ever, Nettie, who had 
 so many ornaments, all her own mother's jewels, might 
 well afford the loss of one little trinket which, though 
 pretty enough, was not at all valuable. Perhaps Nettie 
 was vexed at her own unusual carelessness; for she was one 
 of the neatest-fingered, tidiest of girls, who was scarcely 
 ever known to mislav anvthing, and always kept her 
 C5»i 20
 
 306 THE MISSING TRINKET. 
 
 drawers in the most exquisite order. She turned them all 
 ruthlessly outside in and upside down this morning, rather 
 to the amazement of Gerty, who, knowing how well she 
 kept the rule about a place for everything and everything 
 in its place, thought it rather funny to see Nettie Cathcart 
 hunting for her cross in the drawer where she kept her 
 underclothing, just as May Allaixlyce or any other dis- 
 orderly girl would have done. " It can't be there among 
 your white things, surely, Nettie!" 
 
 "I don't expect it is; but all things are possible in this 
 world, and if searching will get it I'll have my cross." 
 
 She made good her word, and looked in every nook and 
 corner of her premises, but all in vain; and she went off at 
 last in a flurry of annoyance, not to say regular ill-humour. 
 " I'm not Isabel Maitland, to forget where I lay my things," 
 she said sharply, in answer to Gerty's repeated attempts at 
 consolation; "I know I had it all safe the other night. T 
 believe the truth is some one has taken it." 
 
 Gerty was indignant, for the housemaid was a great 
 favourite and had been long in the school ; so it was shock- 
 ing to think of the slightest doubt being cast on her 
 honesty. It was characteristic of Gerty that she never 
 dreamt for a moment that Nettie's suspicions could glance 
 at any of her companions; it was only for Jane's sake she 
 felt offended, and was inclined to think Miss Cathcart's 
 pettish words mean enough to be classed with her last 
 night's actions. However, afterwards, she reflected that 
 Nettie was very much vexed, and very probably, therefore, 
 did not notice what she was saying; and with a charitable 
 hope that the cross might be found somewhere and some- 
 how soon, Gerty put the matter out of her mind altogether, 
 and went to write her home-letter in the first-classroom. 
 
 The Gordons were there sitting very close together.
 
 THE SISTERS. 307 
 
 talking in low tones about Laverock Hall, and Edie and 
 Blanche, their pet animals and the cottage children. Gerty 
 paid no heed to them; they did not need her to come 
 between them now, the bond of their sisterhood was drawn 
 closer again after last night's trouble. At first the two 
 had been rather embarrassed and uncomfortable, for Minnie 
 had evidently risen with the idea that after her sins it 
 behoved her to wear sackcloth and ashes for a time; while 
 Emily, who had humbly taken her friend's words to heart, 
 made the most pathetic attempts to be not only unusually 
 loving but brightly cheerful with her little sister. The 
 other girls had found not a little amusement that morning 
 in watching how unsuccessful Minnie was in trying to 
 keep down her own joyous spirits, and how, when Emily 
 saw her strive hard not to laugh when they made jokes, 
 she would seem to find them very funny, and even make 
 a few mild jests herself. Gerty found Marion Campbell 
 just after breakfast in agonies of laughter half-way between 
 the diningroom and the schoolroom, and when she stopped 
 to hear the reason why, she was begged, if she had any 
 influence with Emily Gordon, to persuade her never to 
 make a pun again, as the consequences would certainly be 
 fatal to some of her companions. 
 
 Gerty passed on, laughing a little, but she had been 
 deeply touched by Emily's conduct, and in her heart she 
 could not help envying this girl to whom Nature seemed 
 to have given every good and lovable quality except a 
 sense of the ludicrous. She sometimes wondered if original 
 sin had found any abode in the peaceful country-home 
 where the Gordons had been born and bred, for their very 
 weaknesses leant to virtue's side; and Gerty was now 
 inclined to think that the sisters made serious faults out of 
 trifles, because they hnd really nothing else to reproach
 
 308 gerty's temper receives a shock. 
 
 themselves with. One like herself, whose feelings and 
 passions were so strong, and who dreaded the powers of 
 evil within her as a force over which she held but the 
 slightest control, and which might break forth at any time 
 in the most unexpected and terrible ways, might well think 
 lightly of a piece of childish folly over which purer, sweeter 
 spirits had time to meditate and mourn. 
 
 It was very easy for some people to be good and happy, 
 was the conclusion Gerty had come to then in the early 
 morning, and she was not likely to change her mind now 
 when she found that all the awkwardness of their repentant 
 and forgiving feelings had passed away from the sisters; 
 the two were their natural selves once more — Emily talking 
 gently and gravely as usual, and Minnie's rippling laughter 
 constantly interrupting her speech. 
 
 That Gerty herself was not of that race of good and 
 happy beings to which the Gordons belonged, she got a new 
 and startling proof, when, just as she was finishing her 
 letter, Mrs. Martyn came to seek her, bringing May ready 
 equipped for going out. May also was to spend the fore- 
 noon with an aunt, and as it had turned out that their 
 ways lay in the same direction, she and Gerty were to 
 drive together ; which was a very natural and proper 
 arrangement, of course, yet the news of it gave Gerty's 
 temper a shock which rather frightened herself. She was 
 astonished to find what a pleasure it had been to think 
 that she would not see May again till the afternoon, for 
 the thought of even the few minutes in the cab alone with 
 her seemed almost intolerable. Nobody almost ever wanted 
 May to visit them; why should it happen then that her aunt 
 chose to invite her the very same day, and that she lived in 
 the very same street as Gerty's relative did 1 Gerty was 
 inclined to be indignant at Mrs. Martyn for allowing May
 
 A DAY OF DELIGHTS. 309 
 
 to go at all ; Miss Maria would surely not approve of her 
 yesterday's trespasses being forgotten so soon. May herself 
 had a scared, restless look, as if conscious that she ought 
 to be detained. Her silent terror moved Gerty quite as 
 much to contempt as pity; and, dressed out as she was in 
 all her best, she only showed more plainly what a pinched, 
 delicate-faced creature she was. It had been easier to bear 
 with May when she was really rather a pretty little girl, 
 as she used to be. Oh, it was very dreadful to be so ill- 
 tempered as Gerty was! Emily and Minnie certainly 
 never had such feelings. 
 
 The two girls drove away from Miss Martyn's together 
 in silence : Gerty sitting back in the cab and thinking her 
 own mingled thoughts of remorse and pleasure, of May and 
 Freddy; while her companion kept her face away from her 
 all the time, and stared out of the window. 
 
 " Good-bye, May. Be sure to be ready when I call for 
 you at four," said Gerty as they parted; and two minutes 
 afterwards she had forgotten there was such a person as 
 May in the world, while she clung round her own Freddy's 
 neck, almost weeping with delight. 
 
 Oh, the joy of walking along the finest street in the city 
 with plenty of time to look at the shops, and your brother 
 as escort and companion ! How dearly loved is an old aunt 
 who, after dispensing a dainty dinner to her young relatives, 
 falls asleep in an arm-chair and leaves them to talk unre- 
 strained, — only wakening up to present each with half-a- 
 sovereign before they go away ! Such delights did Gerty 
 taste that day with great happiness and gratitude, the glow 
 of which was still all about her when Master Fred put her 
 into a cab again, and was with difficulty persuaded that 
 something dreadful would be done to him if he drove with 
 his sister and her companion to Miss Martyn's.
 
 310 THE RUNAWAY HORSE. 
 
 May, limp and peevish-looking as ever, was a poor 
 exchange. for the schoolboy-brother and his merry chatter, 
 and the first chill of the atmosphere she was returning to 
 struck on Gerty's heart as she took her place beside her. 
 Oh no ! May had not enjoyed herself. Aunt Janet was 
 cross, and the children were not at all nice, and she was tired 
 and cold. Gerty sighed, and her happy mood passed alto- 
 gether away. She leant back and meditated, and May sat 
 beside her and shivered, and again the two girls drove on 
 in silence. 
 
 They did not speak even when they reached Miss Marty n's 
 door. The driver went up the steps to ring the bell, and 
 while Gerty was all ready to jump out May was still huddled 
 up in her corner, when that happened which Gerty told her 
 schoolfellows after was "nearer an accident than anything 
 she had ever been in before." 
 
 The horse, either taking a sudden fright at something, or 
 moved by a desire to leave its master behind and so get rid 
 of him altogether, started off, and went tearing wildly down 
 the street. Gerty sat perfectly calm and steady; she did 
 not know whether the danger might be great or small ; I 
 think her first fear was of mischief happening to any who 
 might be walking, rather than to herself and May. 
 
 But, if it were so, this was only a darting thought ; she 
 had no time for more, as all her wits were occupied in at- 
 tending to the child by her side. May rose with a wild 
 shriek and threw herself towards the open window, as if 
 she would ti-y to spring out. Gerty had to catch and hold 
 her back with all her strength. " May — May ! sit down, 
 May ! are you mad 1 " said Gerty, scarcely hearing her own 
 voice amidst May's screams. 
 
 " Let me out ! We'll all be killed ! It's because of me ! 
 I took Miss Cathcart's cross ! I've got it on just now! "
 
 AN ALARMING STATE. 311 
 
 The unhappy child did indeed seera as if she were out of 
 her senses as she struggled wildly in Gerty's arms, crying 
 in piercing entreaty, " Let me out — let me out ! " Whether 
 it was merely that she thought getting out of the cab by 
 any means was her only chance of safety, or whether she 
 might also have had some Jonah-like idea that by flinging 
 herself on the worse peril she might deliver her companion, 
 was never distinctly known. Let us give May Allardyce 
 the benefit of the doubt, as G-erty always did. 
 
 Long as it all seemed to the girls, it really only lasted a 
 very short time. Happily a cab-stand was near, and the 
 horse was speedily stopped by some of the men. But May 
 was almost in hysterics before she and Gerty again reached 
 Miss Martyn's door. 
 
 Mrs. Martyn received them full of anxiety and dismay, 
 and brought them hastily into the drawing-room, as beirig 
 the nearest room where there was a sofa to get May down 
 upon. The child's state had become really alarming, and 
 no assurances of safety could still her cries. In vain Mrs. 
 Martyn strove to soothe and coax with kindly words ; in 
 vain Miss Martyn brought water, and wine, and sal- 
 volatile ; May could not be persuaded either to hear or 
 swallow anything from them. And when Mrs. Martyn would 
 have unloosed her jacket and dress, her screams redoubled, 
 and, with both hands clasping the fastenings at her neck, she 
 writhed and struggled as if she were really going into con- 
 vulsions. It was a relief, as giving some clue to what she 
 might possibly want, when she began to call for Gerty, 
 though whether she knew in the least what she was saying 
 was very doubtful to the good ladies. They stood back 
 then and beckoned to Gerty, who had been looking on with 
 a very white grave face. She came forward immediately, 
 and kneeling on the floor beside the sofa, put her arms
 
 312 THE MISSING CROSS. 
 
 round the poor little shaking form. " My poor May! " she 
 said, in a voice full of pity and tenderness ; " my poor 
 May ! " And as Gerty held May so, the crying gradually 
 became less violent, calming down into weary sobbing, 
 which only grew passionate again when Mrs. Martyn oi- 
 lier daughter came near. 
 
 " Nobody but Gerty ! Nobody but Gerty ! " 
 " Perhaps if we were alone altogether it would be better," 
 said Gerty at last; and Mrs. Martyn and Miss Martyn 
 went away. Afterwards she could not but be amused and 
 horrified when she remembered how coolly she had ordered 
 the august ladies out of their own drawing-room, and how 
 meekly they had obeyed ; but at the time she was thinking 
 of no one but May. 
 
 " It's only Gerty now, dear," she said when the door had 
 closed. 
 
 " Take it off 1 " gasped May. " It's choking me ! " 
 Then Gerty unfastened May's jacket, and took Nettie 
 Cathcart's cross from her neck. She wrapped it up in its 
 velvet ribbon, and put it away in her own pocket — the 
 very calmness of her actions seeming to quiet May. Then 
 she sat down on the sofa herself, and gathering the child 
 up in her arms, she pillowed the disordered head in her 
 lap. 
 
 " Hush, hush, my poor little girl — my clear little girl." 
 When all had been quiet for a while, Mrs. Martyn peeped 
 softly in at the door, and saw the two girls on the sofa to- 
 gether, Gerty supporting May, who lay as if asleep, though 
 she was sighing and sobbing still. Gerty smiled, but was 
 evidently afraid either to speak or move, and the old lady 
 felt she could do nothing but leave them alone again. 
 
 Thus it was that Gerty's presentiment was fulfilled, and 
 she found out that May had done a thing which to her
 
 THE GUILTY LITTLE GIRL. 313 
 
 honest, unflinching eyes seemed infinitely worse than any 
 schoolgirl fault which had ever come to her knowledge be- 
 fore. Her presentiment had been fulfilled, but not the 
 accompanying horror : the moment of Gerty's dreaded trial 
 God too had foreseen, and chosen it to grant her heart's 
 wish and her prayer ; for as she knelt beside the conscience- 
 stricken, terrified child a new spring of love welled up in 
 her heart, whose natural outcome it was when she took 
 May in her arms. 
 
 And now, when Gerty sat alone watching over the guilty 
 little girl, it was her own sins, not May's, she looked at with 
 horror and with hatred. She told herself that she had 
 never done her part to Ada's baby; she had been hard; she 
 had been cold ; she had ever held her at a distance ; the 
 promise she had made by a dying bed had been kept in the 
 letter and not in the spirit. When first she tried to help 
 and take charge of May, it had seemed as if all her powers 
 of making fun and pleasure for other girls had gone from 
 her fur ever; she did not wish to love or be loved by any 
 other little friend. She had been selfish then in her grief, 
 and it was impossible that the child could have learned to 
 cling to and trust a creature who had very few words at 
 all, and never any tender ones. And when God took away 
 the first bitterness of Gerty's sorrow, and she turned from 
 the little grave growing green in the sweet still cemetery 
 back to Miss Martyn's school, it had never been to May 
 that she had given her best ; for her she had only patience, 
 and advice, and attention ; all her love, and mirth, and 
 liking had gone to others. 
 
 For others, too, she had reserved her tenderness of judg- 
 ment, making excuses for their faults as she never had done 
 for May's. Did she not continually remind herself and her 
 companions that Meta Campbell was but a child, and that
 
 314 SITTING IN JUDGMENT. 
 
 her babyish follies ought to be lightly dealt with 1 Yet May 
 had come to school a year younger than the privileged pet 
 of the present era, and May's weakness and helplessness 
 had always provoked anger rather than pity. Gerty was 
 ever anxious too that it should be remembered how delicate 
 Emily Gordon was, and would trace her friend's occasional 
 fits of low spirits back to a walk which had been very long, 
 or a course of study which had been harder than usual ; but 
 she had seldom any thought that May's complaints about 
 weary limbs, "nasty, nasty" lessons, food she was not hungry 
 for, and early rising, could have any foundation in the state 
 of her health. Gerty had palliated Nettie Cathcart's defects 
 of character to herself by attributing them to the circum- 
 stances of her dreary, comfortless position at home ; but it 
 could not be said that she had ever considered May's situa- 
 tion much, though that was little better than Nettie's, for 
 her mother was too entirely devoted to gaiety to have time 
 or thought to spare for her children, and her father's paternal 
 feelings were all centred in his little son. 
 
 Such were Gerty's thoughts. And yet there was not 
 another girl in all the school who would not have said 
 that she had kept her promise nobly, holding to it with 
 pathetic patience even in the stupor of her first great grief ; 
 standing fast by May, in spite of all ingratitude, with a 
 heroism which won admiration even from those who could 
 not understand its motives, and the memory of which was 
 borne by some of her friends through all their lives as a 
 precious proof of the power of Christianity. 
 
 Are we to say, then, that Gerty's ideas were false, her self- 
 reproach morbid, her grief unnecessary 1 ? God forbid! Every 
 word that she said in blame of her conduct as she sat alone 
 in judgment on herself was doubtless true, for the Lord's 
 commandment is exceeding broad : the standard we have
 
 FAITH, HOPE, AND LOVE. 315 
 
 to measure ourselves by is the perfection of our heavenly 
 Father. 
 
 In such times of conviction of sin and distrust of self 
 there is but one sight that can bring comfort ; and this 
 sight was given to Gerty now, who, lifting up her sad and 
 guilty eyes, beheld the cross of Jesus Christ. Thank God, 
 she had seen before that thorn-crowned head, those pierced 
 hands ; but perhaps never with such a full understanding 
 that in the shadow of her Saviour's cross was the one rest- 
 ing-place for her in all the world. She crept very near it, 
 and her grief was stilled ; under the blessed, wounded feet 
 her repentance blossomed forth into new faith, and hope, 
 and love. Burnside itself had never given such joy as 
 Gerty's was now. 
 
 Long time she sat in the drawing-room alone, and it did 
 not seem long to her. The other girls came to her mors 
 than once, but she motioned them away, for May seemed 
 to sleep peacefully as time went on, and Gerty would not 
 have her disturbed. "You must not waken my baby," 
 she said to them ; and for love of her they went out a3 
 softly as they could, and had neither dancing nor riotous 
 games in the schoolroom that night. And perhaps Gerty's 
 words recalled an almost forgotten name, and her absence 
 unloosed the conversation on a subject that scarcely ever 
 was mentioned before her, while the danger that had come 
 near two of the schoolgirls solemnized the rest unusually, 
 for they gathered about the fire and talked of her who had 
 been of all others the child of the school, and who only left 
 Miss Martyn's when the golden gates of heaven opened to 
 let her in. They talked of her under their breath and not 
 without tears; the girls who had played with, and scolded, 
 and petted her, who had stood by her in her last illness and 
 received the parting message of love from her ; and the
 
 31G THE MEMORY OF THE PAST. 
 
 girls to whom Ada was the unknown child who had died 
 before they came to Miss Martyn's, a creature whom they 
 imagined half-angel and half-fairy, whose memory shed a 
 sweet and tender radiance still about the places where she 
 had been. But to one and all of these schoolgirl-hearts 
 the story of the little one who had loved her friends so well 
 and left them so willingly to go to Jesus, came home with 
 a more powerful impression than any sermon they had ever 
 heard. The path to heaven had looked very near and very 
 distinct to Miss Martyn's girls, since a child from the very 
 midst of them had risen and gone up the shining way. 
 When Christ came to take Ada to Himself the school had 
 all heai'd His voice, and that solemn time was never quite 
 forgotten. There were some who remembered it now with 
 gladness, for He had bidden them also be ready, and they 
 had heeded what He said.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A TIME OF SUSPENSE. 
 
 AY had a very restless night, tossing and moaning 
 in her sleep, and waking up now and then with 
 a start and a cry. Gerty was always ready to 
 speak to and soothe her, and probably, on the whole, got a 
 good deal less sleep than the child. But she was not dis- 
 posed to lay much weight on this fact when morning came, 
 and she went down to breakfast alone, feeling a little 
 amused, as she often was in those days, over the new Gerty, 
 who could take upon herself the responsibility of bidding 
 her companion stay in bed, in full security that her word 
 was enough to persuade the authorities of the school that 
 such a measure was judicious. 
 
 " I don't think that child has been looking well for a 
 long time," said Mrs. Martyn, when Gerty told her May 
 had not risen (Miss Maria was not at breakfast). " 1 
 think I'll have the doctor to see her to-morrow; and whether 
 her mother takes her home or not, I can't help it ; but I 
 don't think she should be allowed to look at a lesson till 
 after Christmas." 
 
 Gerty, knowing that Miss Maria always yielded to her 
 mother's opinions on the matter of health, would have been 
 glad at the prospect of no lessons for May, had it not 
 occurred to her that the poor child's stay at school might 
 come to a sudden and disgraceful end before many days
 
 318 GERTY AND HER CHARGE. 
 
 were over. What was to be the outcome of the present 
 matter she could not see, but was content to leave it with 
 One who did, while she went through her own part as 
 faithfully as she could. Only she felt sad and embarrassed 
 when she heard May's future discussed by those who knew 
 so little of her present crrcumstances, and was relieved 
 when Mrs. Martyn allowed her to return to the bedroom 
 to see if the child had been able to take any breakfast. 
 
 " I may stay from church with her, mayn't 11" were 
 Gerty's first words when Mrs. Martyn followed her in a 
 few minutes. Gerty was sitting on the bed with the tray 
 in her lap, trying to coax May to take her tea and toast. 
 May herself was lying back on the pillows, her face pale 
 and her eyelids swollen with yesterday's crying; the usual 
 listless, dejected expression on her face changed into one of 
 restless, nervous terror. Mrs. Martyn, looking at her in 
 some trouble and anxiety, wondered whether it would not 
 be better to send for the doctor that very day, and, I 
 believe, secretly vowed that May should have no lessons 
 till spring. She said nothing of this to May, however, — 
 only ransacked her kind old brains to think of something 
 that might tempt her to eat ; but to each and all of Mrs. 
 Martyn's proposals May returned a negative that grew 
 ever more fretful, till at last her answers ended in a burst 
 of tears as she hid her face in the pillow. 
 
 " Well, well, my dear ; we'll leave Gerty to stay with 
 you, and you must just try to get a sleep and forget all 
 about yesterday," said Mrs. Martyn, as she departed and 
 beckoned Gerty to follow and speak to her outside the 
 door. " I really don't think she's looking well at all," she 
 said when the two were alone ; " and she's scarcely tasted 
 a mouthful of breakfast. I'll tell Jane to bring her up a 
 little soup about twelve o'clock, and I think she'd better
 
 A COMPLIMENT FROM MISS MARIA. 319 
 
 just lie still till she feels inclined to get up herself. And 
 if you want anything, my dear, be sure just to ring for it. 
 Indeed, I don't like leaving you alone. I'm sure, if it were 
 any good I would willingly stay with her myself, but you 
 see she won't let me near her." 
 
 " She's accustomed to me," said Gerty, not knowing 
 what else to say. 
 
 " Yes, that's it," said the old lady warmly. " And I'm 
 sure you're a dear, kind girl to take so much trouble with 
 her. She's a queer little ill-brought-up thing; but she's 
 got a terrible fright, and we must have patience and not 
 cross her to-day. What you have to thank your good 
 mother for, Gertrude ! To think of the difference between 
 that poor child and you ! Miss Maria herself was just 
 saying, when we were talking of the cab running off, ' No 
 need to ask how Gerty behaved ; I'm quite sure she did 
 bravely.' " 
 
 Gerty flushed and looked pleased, for though good Mrs. 
 Martyn's praises did not count for much in the estimation 
 of the schoolgirls, a compliment from Miss Maria was too 
 rare a thing not to be valued highly. 
 
 " I don't think I had time to think how I ought to 
 behave," said Gerty. But even while she spoke May's 
 frightened, fretful voice was heard calling her name, and 
 after another injunction from Mrs. Marty n about being 
 sure to ring if she wanted anything, Gerty hastened back 
 to her post. 
 
 For some time May tossed on her pillows without speak- 
 ing, but when the house was all silent, and the church-goers 
 departed, she lifted her head and again called " Gerty ! " 
 
 Gerty was on her knees on the rug, putting coal on the 
 fire, thinking her own thoughts meanwhile, and wondering 
 what she ought to say to May.
 
 320 A HARD PATH. 
 
 " Gerty ! " 
 
 " Yes, May ; I'm here." 
 
 "Have you got it?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Oh, where? oh, where?" 
 
 " In my locked-up drawer." 
 
 " Gerty," said May eagerly, " put it back. Put it ba?k 
 — oh, quick, quick ! — before she comes — into her drawer." 
 
 Gerty did not speak for a minute, although she had 
 thought the matter well over before, and had no doubt 
 about the answer she was to give. 
 
 " I couldn't, May," she said at last. " Even if it were 
 right — and I'm afraid it wouldn't be — it would be no 
 use. We would need to be a great deal cleverer than we 
 are to cheat Nettie Cathcart. She knows perfectly the 
 cross wasn't in any of her drawers when she went away." 
 
 "What will I do, then?" 
 
 " I suppose you won't have to choose," said Gerty 
 sadly. 
 
 May's voice rose almost to a shriek of terror as she cried, 
 " Oh, you're not going to tell on me ? " 
 
 " Nettie Cathcart must be told," said Gerty, still kneel- 
 ing with her back to May, and gazing right into the fire. 
 
 " The French school ! — they'll send me to the French 
 school ! " said May, beginning to writhe and sob im- 
 mediately. " Miss Maria will never — never — never let 
 me stay here no more." 
 
 Gerty had expected an outburst of weeping, and though 
 distressed and pitiful she was not at all surprised. She 
 went and sat down by May, and tried to caress her. 
 " Don't lose all hope. Do you know I was once in sad 
 trouble? It was before you ever came to school. I was 
 thinking about it this morning. T was just your age, and
 
 " IT WASN'T WORTH MUCH." 321 
 
 I behaved very ill, and thought I was going to be expelled. 
 But God helped me, though I didn't deserve it." 
 
 " If Miss Cathcart knows she'll make them send me to 
 the French school," sobbed May. " They'll send me — and 
 it wasn't worth much, it wasn't very pretty." 
 
 Gerty, inexpressibly pained by these last words, made no 
 answer, and May calmed down of her own accord much 
 more rapidly than could have been expected from the 
 violence of her crying at first. But she doubtless had 
 derived consolation of her own from Gerty's affectionate 
 manner, as well as from the thoughts of self-vindication 
 which she continued to pursue ; for after a little she said, 
 almost in her usual tone, — " If it had been gold, now, like 
 mamma's ! But it's only sort of blue stone. Julia says it 
 isn't worth much ; it's only blue stone." 
 
 "What made you take it, then?" asked Gerty, per- 
 plexed. 
 
 " Julia said I hadn't a cross, and she had. And I 
 couldn't bear it, and I said I'd a prettier one. And she 
 said I hadn't, or I'd put it on sometimes. ' Put it on, then ! ' 
 — that was what Julia said \ and so I had to take it." 
 
 " O May ! you told your cousin a lie, and then thought 
 you had to steal ! But you meant to put it back, didn't 
 you 1 " said Gerty, eagerly seeking some palliation for May's 
 guilt. " You didn't mean to keep it always 1 " 
 
 " Why should I want to put it back 1 " said May, begin- 
 ning to writhe again. " It's only blue stone — it isn't worth 
 much ; and Miss Gathcart's got such a many things ! And 
 you said I couldn't put it back without her knowing. You 
 said that just now, Gerty !" 
 
 May's weak stupidity and her utter want of moral sense 
 were terribly trying ; but God had given Gerty great faith 
 and patience. Still she was beginning now to see that too 
 
 (584) 21
 
 322 TERRIBLE WORDS. 
 
 great tenderness in this case would be real cruelty. She 
 must no longer give May any chance of excusing herself; 
 the only hope for the child was that she might be awakened 
 to a sense of the blackness of her sin. 
 
 " We're not going to put the cross back," said Gerty, 
 gently but firmly, " because we're going to give it back to 
 the girl you stole it from." 
 
 The hysterical sobbing and crying began again afresh, 
 trying Gerty's resolution terribly, but not making her 
 yield. 
 
 " Hush ! " she said. " Don't cry that way; you'll make 
 yourself ill. Be quiet, and listen to me. I've something 
 to say to you that you must hear." 
 
 She lay down on the bed and took May in her arms, 
 holding her fast, and speaking in that tone of suppressed 
 earnestness which always commands attention. 
 
 " You were frightened yesterday — May, it might have 
 been—" 
 
 " Oh dear! oh dear! I'll never, never, never go in a cab 
 again," May broke forth, as Gerty paused for a moment. 
 
 " We were saved yesterday," said Gerty, " but it might 
 have been that we were killed. And then you would have 
 gone before God — a liar and a thief!" 
 
 May did not speak this time. She seemed afraid even 
 to sob, as Gerty lowered her voice still more with the last 
 terrible words, and kept silence afterwards for a little 
 space. 
 
 " God is very holy, God is very good," said Gerty, going 
 on in the same tone. " May, if it had been, what would 
 have become of you 1 " 
 
 " Don't speak about it ! Don't speak about Him!" said 
 May, with a shudder. 
 
 " There's no one else to help us," said Gerty. " If you
 
 THE PUBLICAN'S PRAYER. 323 
 
 had died it would have been too late to pray. But God 
 saved you ; thank Him for it, and ask Him to forgive you." 
 
 " He's angry. He's always angry ! " wailed May. 
 
 " Oh no ! He gave up His own Son to die for us." 
 
 " He's always angry with wicked children. Everybody 
 always says that to me." 
 
 " He's forgiven a great many, then," said Gerty ; " as 
 many as have asked Him, for His dear Son's sake." 
 
 " But I'm frightened — T don't know how. Ask you for 
 me." 
 
 " I am asking; but ask yourself. my dear, ask your- 
 self ! Say, ' God be merciful to me a sinner.' " 
 
 The sobs which had been suppressed burst forth now 
 with redoubled violence, shaking the poor Little body from 
 head to foot; but through her crying May tried hard to 
 articulate something, and Gerty was almost sure she dis- 
 tinguished the words of the publican's prayer. 
 
 Then Gerty spoke no more. She was almost morbidly 
 afraid of marring sacred words by making them too com- 
 mon ; besides, May was able to bear no more excitement 
 now. She lay in Gerty 's arms, and let herself be rocked 
 and soothed like a baby, moaning if her friend changed her 
 position, or seemed about to let her go. Gerty took to 
 saying hymns to her at last, in a murmuring, monotonous 
 voice, which seemed to soothe her into a restful, half-dozing 
 state ; and if she did not heed the words, Gerty at least 
 got comfort enough out of them for herself. 
 
 May roused up before the others returned from church, 
 and said she felt better; allowing Gerty to rise at last from 
 the position in which she had been feeling very cramped 
 and uncomfortable for some time. As Gerty moved about 
 the room, putting it and herself tidy, May followed her with 
 her eyes, and finally said, — "Gerty, if they send me to the
 
 324 A SPARK OF LOVE. 
 
 French school, you'll get your mother to send you there too. 
 If I went alone I'd die, but I wouldn't mind so much if 
 you were there." 
 
 Lt was a very silly and selfish speech, but it was the first 
 token of affection May had ever given Gerty, and it was 
 prized as if it had been the most touching expression of 
 tenderness. Gerty took it very gladly, thanked God for it, 
 and carried it about in her memory many days ; hoping 
 and praying much that this one little spark of love might 
 kindle at last into a flame that would warm all that poor 
 cold little heart. 
 
 Gerty stayed at home with May again in the afternoon ; 
 but before it grew dark the child got up. She was tired of 
 bed, and she wanted to leave her room ; only nobody must 
 speak to her. The other girls, impressed by her ■ adven- 
 ture of the day before, were inclined to be kindly and 
 compassionate • but May turned away from them all and 
 kept close to Gerty's side, following her wherever she went. 
 
 Sunday afternoons were very different now from what 
 they had once been at school ; and the time before tea 
 was a very peaceful one, when the elder pupils went to the 
 schoolroom to have a prayer-meeting by themselves, while 
 Miss Martyn read a story to the younger ones in the 
 drawing-room. The prayer-meeting had been so long an 
 institution, that most of the girls had forgotten how it first 
 began , even Emily and Gerty did not often sj:>eak of the 
 old days when they and Mary Carr had first gained per- 
 mission from Miss Maria to go away with their Bibles to a 
 room alone for a while. One girl after another had joined 
 the little company as time went on, till now it would have 
 been thought a strange thing if any except the very little 
 ones had stayed away from the schoolroom on Sunday after- 
 noon. And the meetings which had at first been full of
 
 THE PRAYER-MEETING IN THE SCHOOLROOM. 325 
 
 lonely pain to Gerfcy, had now grown to be among her 
 greatest pleasures. 
 
 This afternoon May went with her for the first time. 
 She would not stay in the drawing-room with Meta as usual 
 — she must be with Gerty; and she took her place, sad and 
 shivering, with the girls in the schoolroom, where every 
 face except her own was bright. It was a very simple 
 service to which May listened, sitting at Gerty's side. 
 Emily Gordon conducted it this afternoon, and, raised 
 above all shyness by the height of her duty, read and prayed 
 with an unaffected solemnity, which was all the more im- 
 pressive because it was so maidenly. There was a good 
 deal of singing, and the voice of Nettie Cathcart, the usual 
 leader, was scarcely missed, for Minnie could sing as easily 
 and as freshly as a bird, and seemed to know all the hymns 
 that had ever been set to music. And there were a few 
 minutes for silent prayer, when the girls could lay their 
 own secret petitions before God, and remember the needs of 
 their old companions who were far away. Each had 
 doubtless her own special acquaintance to think of then, 
 but Gerty's mind generally turned to Mary Haye in her 
 Eastern home, to Kate Mackenzie teaching and training 
 her little brothers and sisters in the English country-town, 
 and to Janie Leslie (never a particular friend of Gerty's, 
 but always rather an annoyance to her), who kept her 
 father's house hi Glasgow now, and wrote occasionally to 
 one or other of Miss Martyn's girls to tell them how rich 
 and how gay she was. 
 
 Gerty was deeply glad to have May with her this after- 
 noon, and carried the thought of her in her heart through 
 all the services, praying and praising for her, whether the 
 child did so for herself or not. 
 
 When the last hymn had been sung, and May was going
 
 326 A SIGN FOR GOOD. 
 
 listlessly out with the rest, Minnie Gordon went and put 
 her arm round her in her loving, impulsive way. Gerty 
 would have come between them, but Emily held her back 
 with a smile; and after the others had all gone they two 
 stood together by the fire. They had scarcely spoken to 
 each other all day, and they linked arms affectionately now ; 
 but the sympathy between them then was too deep to have 
 need of many words. 
 
 " Let May and Minnie go," said Emily after a little. 
 " May is looking sad, and Minnie wants to try and make 
 her happy. Gerty dear, I'm beginning to see you were 
 right about it. I can't expect to make my little sister 
 good, if I don't allow her to go about doing as Jesus did." 
 
 " I believe it would be a blessing for May to be with 
 her," said Gerty, tears starting to her eyes. " But we'll 
 talk about it to-morrow — if it can be. At any rate, I must 
 tell you something before you can judge." 
 
 She had no time to say more, for May reappeared, almost 
 crying, having discovered that Gerty had not followed her 
 when she left the schoolroom. Gerty could scarcely be 
 sorry that she was too sad for Minnie Gordon's innocent, 
 happy companionship to-night ; but if May could only have 
 it in the future, what a boon that w T ould be ! 
 
 What the future might bring Gerty could scarcely guess; 
 but she was very hopeful, and took the Gordons' unexpected 
 friendliness to May as a sign for good. Most of all, however, 
 she drew comfort from the thought of the love that had 
 been given her for the child — a love that made her long for 
 further opportunities of helping her, and look with distress 
 on the idea of a separation. God had given Gerty strength 
 to do more for May than she had ever done before, and 
 she thought He would surely not give her the strength 
 unless He meant to give her the work.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE VICTORY THAT WAS GIVEN TO GERTY 
 
 ilERTY had calculated that Nettie would return to 
 school early on Monday morning, in order to 
 practise before her music-lesson ; nor was she 
 wrong in her calculations, for the party were just taking 
 their seats at the breakfast-table when a cab drove up to 
 the door, and three minutes afterwards Miss Cathcart, in 
 trim in-door dress, entered the room with polite greetings 
 and apologies for being late. Her place was not near 
 Gerty's, and her attention was, as usual, devoted to French 
 and Mademoiselle all the time of breakfast; but Gerty 
 watched her gravely and wistfully, and May sat and shivered 
 in her seat opposite Nettie. 
 
 Afterwards, when the governesses and girls departed en 
 masse for the schoolroom, where they were to be told off 
 to their several classes and duties, Gerty behaved in a very 
 singular way. Having accomplished about half of her 
 journey, she suddenly turned, and, without saying a word 
 to anybody, made straight for the dining-room again. Miss 
 Maria was just quitting it, and Gerty almost ran against 
 her in her haste. She was seeking Miss Maria, but had 
 not expected to find her so soon, and the manner of her 
 approach was certainly rather unfortunate. Gerty felt that 
 she must look more like a tomboy than a young lady in the 
 eyes of her dreadful schoolmistress ; and this idea increased
 
 328 AN UNUSUAL FAVOUR. 
 
 her awkwardness, and made her inoi*e abrupt than she 
 othei'wise would have been with the request she had to 
 make. 
 
 " Why are you here, Miss Stuart 1 " said Miss Maria, 
 in a tone of more frigidity than she generally used to Gerty. 
 
 " May I go to the front drawing-room to speak to Nettie 
 Cathcart alone?" said Gerty. 
 
 " You wish to speak to Miss Cathcart alone in the front 
 drawing-room !" repeated Miss Maria, in a tone which 
 seemed to say, " It is scarcely possible you are serious in 
 making such an audacious proposal ! " 
 
 In truth, Miss Maria would have made very short work 
 of any one else coming to her with a similar request ; out 
 in these days she believed in Gerty Stuart as she had once 
 believed in Mary Carr, and though it was disappointing 
 to meet her hurrying across the lobby in this rude, unlady- 
 like way, still the words of her pattern pupil should receive 
 all due attention. 
 
 " I want to say something particular to Nettie Cathcart," 
 said Gerty. " I can't do it in our bedroom, because we're 
 not alone. This is her hour for practising in the front 
 drawing-room. May I go to her 1 " 
 
 Miss Maria hesitated. It was a very unusual favour 
 she was asked, and one that it would be sorely against her 
 will to grant ; for keeping the hours for practising unbroken 
 was one of her pet ideas, and dire was the wrath that fell 
 upon any girl who left her own piano, or disturbed a com- 
 panion at her music. But then, on the other hand, it was 
 possible that Gerty had some good reason for her extra- 
 ordinary request, and Miss Maria was not so sure of the 
 infallibility of her own rules and her own ideas as she had 
 once been. She was keenly alive to the fact that the moral 
 feeling among her pupils was much higher than it used to
 
 THE M1SSINU CROSS RESTORED. 329 
 
 be; and whatever others might think, she at least could not 
 avoid tracing this to the influence of two little girls whom 
 she had once said were a disgrace to the school. 
 
 " What have you to do at present?" said Miss Maria. 
 
 "I practise too — in the Blue Room," said Gerty. "If 
 you'll please let me go, I'll not stay more than ten minutes 
 with Nettie." 
 
 " You may go." 
 
 Miss Maria said not another word. She was stern, she 
 might be hard, but at least there was nothing small-minded 
 or ungenerous about her. She did not try, and Gerty knew 
 perfectly that she never would try, to find out what was to 
 be said in the front drawing-room. To tell the truth, Miss 
 Maria had not much curiosity about the matter. It might 
 be something important to herself, or it might not, — it was 
 all the same : she had given the unusual indulgence to 
 Gerty because she trusted her ; and choosing to trust her, 
 she did it thoroughly. 
 
 When Gerty entered the drawing-room, Nettie Catbcart 
 stopped in the midst of a musical cascade, and held up her 
 hands in amazement. 
 
 " I'm allowed," said Gerty, making haste to prevent the 
 outburst of scoffing nonsense which she knew was coming. 
 " I want to speak to you, and I've ten minutes to do it in." 
 Then she walked straight up to Nettie, opened her hand, 
 and displayed the blue cross. 
 
 Gerty was unprepared for the start and flush of pleasure 
 with which Nettie rose and made a snatch at her trinket. 
 ' My dear old thing ! Where in the world did you get it?" 
 Then she suddenly turned round on Gerty with anger flash- 
 ing in her eyes, and quivering in her voice. " You hid it, 
 I suppose, and thought you were funny ! " 
 
 " No, not I," said Gerty. " May Allardyce took it,"
 
 330 all's well that ends well. 
 
 Nettie's great dark eyes opened, and her lips tightened 
 for a moment ; but almost immediately she began to smile 
 to herself, and nodded her head slightly as she looked down 
 at the cross. " After all, that's much more likely," said she. 
 
 At that instant she was far less provoked with May than 
 with herself. That her cross had been stolen, she could 
 bear (at least now it was restored) easily enough ; but that 
 she should have made a stupid mistake and lost her temper 
 about it, was very trying indeed. She had shown a want 
 both of penetration and of self-control in the matter, and 
 she felt herself lowered in Gerty 's eyes. " Of course, I 
 might have known," said Nettie, smiling but annoyed. 
 " It was just what might have been expected." 
 
 Gerty made no answer, but stood leaning on the piano, 
 watching the other girl as she toyed with the cross and 
 its ribbon. 
 
 "Well, all's well that ends well, as our late good 
 Catherine would have said," was Nettie's next remark. 
 " I've got back my piece of trumpery, and we'll all get rid 
 of that tiresome child — " 
 
 " Oh no!" said Gerty then, coming nearer and speaking 
 in an imploring tone. " Oh no !" 
 
 " Now, don't say you aren't glad to wash your hands of 
 her, because that will be so difficult to believe ! " 
 
 " I've never done what I ought to have done for her," 
 said Gerty. " If I had, she surely never would have done 
 this. But I want to try now." 
 
 "Oh, rubbish !" said Nettie Cathcart. "Every one knows 
 you would have made her good if it could have been done; 
 but it isn't in her. She's been a dead weight on you for 
 ever so long. You'll be twice as happy when she's gone. 
 We'll try to manage to get Mademoiselle into our room; 
 you've no idea what an amusing little soul she is."
 
 gerty's intercession. 331 
 
 " May must go then 1 " said Gerty, in a tone almost of 
 despair. 
 
 Nettie looked at her in astonishment. "I should suppose 
 so. What does Miss Maria say 1 Hasn't she been told ? " 
 
 "No, that part lies with you," said Gerty; and she 
 rapidly related the events of Saturday, giving no comments, 
 only facts. 
 
 " It's a queer story," was all Nettie said when the end 
 came. 
 
 " May's sorry," said Gerty, standing quite close to Nettie, 
 and meeting her sparkling eyes and half-incredulous smile 
 with earnest, nearly tearful gravity. " I'm sure May's 
 sorry. Forgive her." 
 
 " I haven't much chance of doing anything else," was 
 the somewhat enigmatical reply. 
 
 " I've done very wrong," said Gerty eagerly. " It's for 
 myself mostly I ask you. Give me another chance ! " 
 
 " How am I to do that 1 " 
 
 " Don't get May Allardyce expelled." 
 
 " Oh ! I'm not going to demean myself by turning tell- 
 tale," said Nettie Cathcart. "You needn't be afraid of 
 that. I'm not a good girl, you know. And if you didn't 
 tell in the first excitement, when it would all have come 
 naturally, I could scarcely do it in cold blood. It seems 
 to me you've lost a good chance of getting rid of the little 
 pest ; but you've left none — not the ghost of a chance to me ! 
 After all, it's more your affair than anybody else's ; May 
 will give me no trouble — except it be locking up my things 
 a little more carefully." 
 
 "Oh, thank you!" said Gerty in delighted gratitude. 
 "Will you let me kiss you? You've made me very 
 happy." 
 
 "It takes little to make children happy, I've always
 
 332 SCORNFULLY GENEROUS. 
 
 heard," said Nettie, kissing and patting Gerty kindly 
 enough. "And you're not going to cut May A Hardy ce 
 yet 1 "Will you do it the next time she steals something 1 " 
 
 " She'll never do it again, I think," said Gerty, shaking 
 her head. " But I must never cut her." 
 
 " You do stick like a burr to people when you once get 
 hung on," said Nettie; and Gerty laughed. 
 
 "I think that's a compliment. Did you mean it for 
 one 1 " 
 
 " Perhaps I did," said Nettie, as she pulled and twisted 
 her cross meditatively. " Gerty, if you had a Tom, you'd 
 stick to him 1 " 
 
 " I think I would." 
 
 " Well, sometimes I think I will too," said Nettie : " but 
 I'm not at all sure." 
 
 And neither, to tell the truth, was Gerty at all sure 
 of her. Liking this girl as she undoubtedly did, closer 
 acquaintance was nevertheless only showing her that never 
 was girl less to be depended on. This very day, she had 
 come to appeal to Nettie utterly unable to guess what her 
 conduct would be; the chances for or against May seemed 
 pretty equal. It is true she had known that Nettie, with- 
 out much reference to other people or their wishes, would 
 put herself in the position where she thought she looked 
 best ; but Gerty Stuart's ideas of what was becoming were 
 so utterly foreign to Nettie Cathcart's, that knowing this 
 was not much help. It had happened, however, that all 
 had gone well; Nettie had chosen to be scornfully generous, 
 and Gerty was too delighted and grateful to have much 
 time to spend in sentimental speculations about the fate of 
 cousin Tom in the Australian bush. 
 
 May did not appear at any of her classes that morning, 
 and Gerty only heard of her incidentally through Meta
 
 MAKING HOLIDAY IN THE DINING-ROOM. 333 
 
 Campbell, who was complaining loudly to some of the day, 
 scholars that she had never been allowed to lie on the sofa 
 in the dining-room and have apples roasting at the fire for 
 her. Meta thought that if people were really ill, bed and 
 Gregory's mixture were the proper things for them; she 
 did not believe in such remedies as the dining-room sofa 
 and roasted apples; at any rate, she thought they ought to 
 he kept for girls who said their lessons better than May 
 Allardyce ever did. Meta was really a kind-hearted little 
 creature, and not at all stupid, and yet how little idea she 
 had that she, at her desk in the schoolroom, with all her 
 lessons to do, and the prospect of nothing daintier than 
 bread and butter for lunch, was really infinitely happier 
 than May Allardyce making holiday on the dining-room 
 sofa, and watching the apples at the fire ! 
 
 Poor May ! Gerty would fain have gone to comfort her, 
 and tell that Nettie Cathcart had been merciful; but all 
 forenoon that was impossible. She could only call her up 
 to tender remembrance at odd moments, rejoicing over the 
 comparative freedom from lessons which Mrs. Martyn had 
 evidently determined upon for her, planning all sorts of 
 amusements in which she counted upon the assistance of 
 Minnie Gordon, and positively hugging the idea of a 
 Christmas visit to Burnside for her. Surely, if she could 
 breathe that delicious air, and enjoy the company of 
 
 mamma " and " the boys," even May Allardyce would be 
 well, and good, and happy ! 
 
 After all, it was not Gerty at all who told May she was 
 not to be expelled. The child did indeed come to her room 
 to make herself tidy before dinner, and Gerty was there 
 then; but so also was Nettie Cathcart, tying on her blue 
 cross. At sight of that May winced and made as though 
 she would have gone; but when no one took any notice of 
 
 a
 
 334 FASCINATED AND HELPLESS. 
 
 her (Gerty thinking it kinder not to speak until they were 
 alone), she stole in softly, apparently hoping she was un 
 perceived. But Nettie Cathcart was watching her in the 
 looking-glass, and waited till she had got to a corner where 
 retreat was impossible; then turned round on her suddenly. 
 The hair-brush dropped from May's hands, and she stood 
 in speechless terror, waiting what was coming. 
 
 " So you're tired of being here, and want to go to the 
 French school ! " said Nettie. 
 
 May gazed at her, fascinated and helpless, like a bird 
 when a cat is making ready to spring. 
 
 "It's a very nice school," said Nettie, "but I doubt 
 whether they'll take you in. Jail seems the place you're 
 making ready for." 
 
 Still the miserable child neither spoke nor cried, only 
 went slowly back and back into the corner with her eyes 
 fixed on her judge. She got to the wall at last, and then 
 she crouched down on the floor. 
 
 " If I don't have you expelled, it's only because Gerty 
 begged you off. One more chance I give you, to see if you 
 can grow a good girl like her. But if you take so much 
 as a pin that isn't yours, or say a word that isn't true, 
 nothing will save you again ; go you must. Yes, hold out 
 your hands to Gerty; she's the girl that saved you. Why 
 she thought you worth it, she best knows." 
 
 But though May's arms were stretched out towards her 
 friend, she dared not turn her eyes to Gerty till Nettie 
 cave her leave. 
 
 " There she is. Ask her why she takes anything to do 
 with you. I'm sure / see no reason." 
 
 Then May, looking up, repeated half-involuntarily ami 
 in a most piteous tone the question dictated to her. 
 "What makes you do it, Gerty 1 "
 
 LEADER OF THE SCHOOL. 335 
 
 Gerty smiled, though the tears were in her eyes. She 
 went to May, putting herself between her and Nettie, and 
 she took her hand to lift her xip. 
 
 " For Ada's sake, and for Christ's sake — I promised." 
 As the two girls drew close together and kissed, Nettie 
 Cathcart stood and looked at them, but said never a word 
 after that, only went out and left them alone. 
 
 Gerty Stuart is still at Miss Martyn's, and will be there 
 for some time longer, though she has grown into a tall 
 young lady with a long dress, and her mother is already 
 making plans about what is to be done when she gets her 
 dear daughter back to Burnside again. Gerty is looking 
 forward to the home-coming too, and yet she knows she 
 will be bitterly sorry to leave school when the time comes. 
 
 Every term brings changes at Miss Martyn's, and last 
 midsummer Nettie Cathcart and Emily Gordon went 
 away; Nettie to make a tour on the Continent with her 
 friend Mrs. Marshall, and Emily to return very gladly to 
 Laverock Hall. They both write to Gerty sometimes, and 
 the letters are about as unlike each other as the two girls 
 and their lives; for Emily only seems to grow sweeter and 
 better as she grows older, and Nettie and her ways are 
 still as tantalizing, teasing, and unsatisfactory as they used 
 to be. 
 
 Gerty is not weighed down and perplexed by her own 
 popularity now, though it is greater than ever, and she is 
 the undoubted head of the school. She has learned to be 
 very glad of her influence, esteeming it a precious legacy 
 and a sacred trust, which it makes her very happy to use. 
 And her work with May is much easier, though she still 
 has often cause to be thankful for the childish wisdom 
 which bound the promise on her with a stronger than
 
 336 CONCLUSION. 
 
 human tie. May has never ceased to be very provoking 
 sometimes, but for Christ's sake, and for Ada's sake, Gerty 
 is very patient ; and the hardest is over, now that love has 
 grown up between them. For Gerty loves May very dearly 
 — her heart cannot doubt that any longer; and her eyes 
 are very keen to see the child growing braver and more 
 truthful, less peevish and discontented. And she hopes, 
 oh how ardently ! that yet in the kingdom of heaven May 
 will look upon the tender Saviour, and the loving little 
 girl who left her as a charge for Gerty Stuart to keep. 
 
 Minnie Gordon has taken the vacant place in the room 
 with Gerty and May, and their chamber is the merriest 
 one in all the house. For Minnie, having grown less 
 childish without losing any of her gleefulness, is a most 
 delightful companion ; and Gerty has become as fond of 
 her as even Minnie's enthusiastic nature could desire. 
 
 Gerty is no longer afraid of loving other girls too well, 
 nor does she seek with jealous care to keep her whole 
 heart for her first, dearest friend. She has come to see 
 that, to the loving even more than to the loved one, all 
 great affection is gain. Besides, she knows that however 
 dear others may grow, no one will ever be just the sami 
 her as Ada was. 
 
 Does she think — that little girl gone to be with Christ 
 — how faithfully her memory and her love is kept by the 
 friend she left behind? Eye hath not seen nor ear heard 
 aught of the country where Ada is now; and yet I think 
 — I am almost sure — that, glad as her life is there, she will 
 be happier, even in heaven, when Gerty comes. 

 
 UINlVfcKSllI <J* ^ALUrUKINlA L1BKAKV 
 
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 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 PK 2 9 1987 
 
 DEC161987 
 
 Form L9-Series 4939
 
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