"I must put a question to each and all of you. I had hoped the guilty person would confess; but as it is, I am obliged to ask who has done this mischief."

She then began to question one girl after another in the cla.s.s. There were twelve in all in this special cla.s.s, and each as her turn came replied in the negative. Certainly she had not done the mischief; certainly she had not torn the book. Evelyn's turn came last. She replied quietly:

"I have not done it. I have not seen the book, and I have not torn out the inscription."

No one had any reason to doubt her words; and Miss Thompson, looking very sorrowful, paused for a minute and then said:

"I have asked each of you, and you have all denied it. I must now question every one else in the school. When I have done all that I can I shall have to submit the matter to Miss Henderson, but I did not want to grieve her with the news of this terrible loss until I could at least a.s.sure her that the girl who had done the mischief had repented."

Still there was silence, and Miss Thompson left the schoolroom. The moment she did so the buzz of eager voices began, and during the recess that followed nothing was talked of in the Fourth Form but the loss which poor Miss Henderson had sustained.

"Poor dear!" said Sophie Jenner; "and she did love her brother so much!

His name was Walter; he was very handsome. He came once to the school when first it was started. My sister Rose was here then, and she said how kind he was, and how he asked for a holiday for the girls; and Miss Henderson and Miss Lucy were quite wrapped up in him. Oh, who could have been so cruel?"

"I never heard of such a fuss about a trifle before," here came from Evelyn's lips. "Why, it is only a book when all is said and done."

"Don't you understand?" said Sophie, looking at her in some astonishment. "It is not a common book; it is one given to Miss Henderson by the brother she loved. He is dead now; he can never give her any other book. That was the very last present he ever made her."

"Have some lollipops, and try to think of cheerful things," said Evelyn; but Sophie turned almost petulantly away.

"Do you know," Sophie said to her special friend, Cherry Wynne, "I don't think I like Evelyn. How funnily she spoke! I wonder, Cherry, if she had anything to do with the book?"

"Of course not," answered Cherry. "She would not have dared to utter such a lie. Poor Miss Henderson! How sorry I am for her!"

CHAPTER XVI.-SYLVIA'S DRIVE.

"I have something very delightful to tell you, Sylvia," said her father.

He was standing in his cold and desolate sitting-room. The fire was burning low in the grate. Sylvia shivered slightly, and bending down, took up a pair of tongs to put some more coals on the expiring fire.

"No, no, my dear-don't," said her father. "There is nothing more disagreeable than a person who always needs coddling. The night is quite hot for the time of year. Do you know, Sylvia, that I made during the last week a distinct saving. I allowed you, as I always do, ten shillings for the household expenses. You managed capitally on eight shillings. We really lived like fighting-c.o.c.ks; and what is nicest of all, my dear daughter, you look the better in consequence."

Sylvia did not speak.

"I notice, too," continued Mr. Leeson, a still more satisfied smile playing round his lips, "that you eat less than you did before. Last night I was pleased to observe how truly abstemious you were at supper."

"Father," said Sylvia suddenly, "you eat less and less; how can you keep up your strength at this rate? Cannot you see, clever man that you are, that you need food and warmth to keep you alive?"

"It depends absolutely," replied Mr. Leeson, "on how we accustom ourselves to certain habits. Habits, my dear daughter, are the chains which link us to life, and we forge them ourselves. With good habits we lead good lives. With pernicious habits we sink: the chains of those habits are too thick, too rusty, too heavy; we cannot soar. I am glad to see that you, my dear little girl, are no longer the victim of habits of greediness and desire for unnecessary luxuries."

"Well, father, dinner is ready now. Won't you come and eat it?"

"Always harping on food," said Mr. Leeson. "It is really sad."

"You must come and eat while the things are hot," answered Sylvia.

Mr. Leeson followed his daughter. He was, notwithstanding all his words to the contrary, slightly hungry that morning; the intense cold-although he spoke of the heat-made him so. He sat down, therefore, and removed the cover from a dish on which reposed a tiny chop.

"Ah," he said, "how tempting it looks! We will divide it, dear. I will take the bone; far be it from me to wish to starve you, my sweet child."

He took up his knife to cut the chop. As he did so Sylvia's face turned white.

"No, thank you," she said. "It really so happens that I don't want it.

Please eat it all. And see," she continued, with a little pride, lifting the cover of a dish which stood in front of her own plate; "I have been teaching myself to cook; you cannot blame me for making the best of my materials. How nice these fried potatoes look! Have some, won't you, father?"

"You must have used something to fry them in," said Mr. Leeson, an angry frown on his face. "Well, well," he added, mollified by the delicious smell, which could not but gratify his hungry feelings-"all right; I will take a few."

Sylvia piled his plate. She played with a few potatoes herself, and Mr.

Leeson ate in satisfied silence.

"Really they are nice," he said. "I have enjoyed my dinner. I do not know when I made such a luxurious meal. I shall not need any supper to-night."

"But I shall," said Sylvia stoutly. "There will be supper at nine o'clock as usual, and I hope you will be present, father."

"Well, my dear, have something very plain. I am absolutely satisfied for twenty-four hours. And you, darling-did you make a good meal?"

"Yes, thank you, father."

"There were a great many potatoes cooked. I see they are all finished."

"Yes, father."

"I am now going back to my sitting-room. I shall be engaged for some hours. What are you going to do, Sylvia?"

"I shall go out presently for a walk."

"Is it not rather dangerous for you to wander about in such deep snow?"

"Oh, I like it, father; I enjoy it. I could not possibly stay at home."

"Very well, my dear child. You are a good girl. But, Sylvia dear, it strikes me that we had better not have any more frying done; it must consume a great quant.i.ty of fuel. Now, that chop might have been boiled in a small saucepan, and it really would have been quite as nutritious.

And, my dear, there would have been the broth-the liquor, I mean-that it had been boiled in; it would have made an excellent soup with rice in it. I have been lately compiling some recipes for living what is called the unluxurious life. When I have completed my little recipes I will hand them down to posterity. I shall publish them. I quite imagine that they will have a large sale, and may bring me in some trifling returns-eh, Sylvia?"

Sylvia made no answer.

"My dear," said her father suddenly, "I have noticed of late that you are a little extravagant in the amount of coals you use. It is your only extravagance, my dear child, so I will not say much about it."

"But, father, I don't understand. What do you mean?"

"There is smoke-_smoke_ issuing from the kitchen chimney at times when there ought to be none," said Mr. Leeson in a severe voice. "But there, dear, I won't keep you now. I expect to have a busy afternoon. I am feeling so nicely after our simple little lunch, my dear daughter."

Mr. Leeson touched Sylvia's smooth cheek with his lips, went into the sitting-room, and shut the door.

"The fire must be quite out by now," she said to herself. "Poor, poor father! Oh dear! oh dear! if he discovers that Jasper is here I shall be done for. Now that I know the difference which Jasper's presence makes, I really could not live without her."