"I am deeply sorry. I was prepared for this. It will take more than this to subdue you."

"Are you going into the schoolroom with those sc.r.a.ps of paper, and are you going to tell all the girls I am guilty?" said Evelyn.

"No, I shall not do that; I will give you another chance. There was to have been a holiday to-day, but because of that sin of yours there will be no holiday. There was to be a visit on Sat.u.r.day to the museum at Chisfield, which the girls were all looking forward to; they are not to go on account of you. There were to be prizes at the break-up; they will not be given on account of you. The girls will not know that you are the cause of this deprivation, but they will know that the deprivation is theirs because there is a guilty person in the school, and because she will not confess. Evelyn, I give you a week from now to think this matter over. Remember, my dear, that I know you are guilty; remember that my sister Lucy knows it, and Miss Thompson; but before you are publicly disgraced we wish to give you a chance. We will treat you during the week that has yet to run as we would any other girl in the school. You will be treated until the week is up as though you were innocent. Think well whether you will indeed doom your companions to so much disappointment as will be theirs during the next week, to so dark a suspicion. During the next week the school will practically be sent to Coventry. Those who care for the girls will have to hold aloof from them. All the parents will have to be written to and told that there is an ugly suspicion hanging over the school. Think well before you put your companions, your schoolfellows, into this cruel position."

"It is you who are cruel," said Evelyn.

"I must ask G.o.d to melt your hard heart, Evelyn."

"And are you really going to do all this?"

"Certainly."

"And at the end of the week?"

"If you have not confessed before then I shall be obliged to confess for you before all the school. But, my poor child, you will; you must make amends. G.o.d could not have made so hard a heart!"

Evelyn wiped away her tears. She scarcely knew what she felt; she scarcely comprehended what was going to happen.

"May I bathe my eyes," she said, "before I go with you into the schoolroom?"

"You may. I will wait for you here."

The little girl left the room.

"I never met such a character," said Miss Henderson to herself. "G.o.d help me, what am I to do with her? If at the end of a week she has not confessed her sin, I shall be obliged to ask Lady Frances to remove her.

Poor child-poor child!"

Evelyn came back looking pale but serene. She held out her hand to Miss Henderson.

"I do not want your hand, Evelyn."

"You said you would treat me for a week as if I were innocent."

"Very well, then; I will take your hand."

Miss Henderson entered the schoolroom holding Evelyn's hand. Evelyn was looking as if nothing had happened; the traces of her tears had vanished. She sat down on her form; the other girls glanced at her in some wonder. Prayers were read as usual; the head-mistress knelt to pray. As her voice rose on the wings of prayer it trembled slightly. She prayed for those whose hearts were hard, that G.o.d would soften them. She prayed that wrong might be set right, that good might come out of evil, and that she herself might be guided to have a right judgment in all things. There was a great solemnity in her prayer, and it was felt throughout the hush in the big room. When she rose from her knees she ascended to her desk and faced the a.s.sembled girls.

"You know," she said, "what an unpleasant task lies before me. The allotted time for the confession of the guilty person who injured my book, _Sesame and Lilies_, has gone by. The guilty person has not confessed, but I may as well say that the injury has been traced home to one of your number-but to whom, I am at present resolved not to tell. I give that person one week in order to make her confession. I do this for reasons which my sister and I consider all-sufficient; but during that week, I am sorry to say, my dear girls, you must all bear with her and for her the penalty of her wrong-doing. I must withhold indulgences, holidays, half-holidays, visits from friends; all that makes life pleasant and bright and home-like will have to be withdrawn. Work will have to be the order of the hour-work without the impetus of reward-work for the sake of work. I am sorry to have to do this, but I feel that such a course of conduct is due to myself. In a week's time from now, if the girl has not confessed, I must take further steps; but I can a.s.sure the school that the cloud of my displeasure will then alone visit the guilty person, on whom it will fall with great severity."

There was a long, significant pause when Miss Henderson ceased speaking.

She was about to descend from her seat when Brenda Fox spoke.

"Is this quite fair?" she said. "I hope I am not asking an impertinent question, but is it fair that the innocent should suffer for the guilty?"

"I must ask you all to do so. Think of the history of the past, girls.

Take courage; it is not the first time."

"I think," said Brenda Fox later on that same day to Audrey, "that Miss Henderson is right."

"Then I think her wrong," answered Audrey. "Of course I do not know her as well as you do, Brenda, and I am also ignorant with regard to the ordinary rules of school-life, but I cannot but feel it would be much better, if the guilty girl will not confess, to punish her at once and put an end to the thing."

"It would be pleasanter for us," replied Brenda Fox; "but then, Miss Henderson never thinks of that."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Miss Henderson is the sort of woman who would think very little of small personal pain and inconvenience compared with the injury which might be permanently inflicted on a girl who was harshly dealt with."

"Still I do not quite understand. If any girl in the school did such a disgraceful thing it ought to be known at once."

"Miss Henderson evidently does know, but for some reason she hopes the girl will repent."

"And we are to be punished?"

"Is it not worth having a little discomfort if the girl's character can be saved?"

"Yes, of course; if it does save her."

"We must hope for that. For my part," said Brenda in a reverent tone, "I shall pray about it. I believe in prayer."

"And so do I," answered Audrey. "But do you know, Brenda, that I think Miss Henderson was greatly wanting in tact when she mentioned my poor little cousin's name two days ago."

"Why so? Your cousin did happen to be alone in the room."

"But it seemed to draw a very unworthy suspicion upon her head."

"Oh no, no, Audrey!" answered Brenda. "Who could think that your cousin would do it? Besides, she is quite a stranger; it was her first day at school."

"Then have you the least idea who did it?"

"None; no one has. We are all very fond of Miss Thompson. We are all fond of Miss Henderson; we respect her and Miss Lucy as most able and worthy mistresses. We enjoy our school-life. Who could have been so unkind?"

Audrey had an uncomfortable sensation at her heart that Evelyn at least did not enjoy her school-life; that Evelyn disliked Miss Thompson, and openly said that she hated Miss Henderson. Still, that Evelyn could really be guilty did not for an instant visit her brain.

Meanwhile Evelyn went recklessly on her way. The _denouement_, of whatever nature, was still a week off. For a week she could be gay or impertinent or rude or defiant or good, just as the mood took her; at the end of the week, or towards the end, she would run away. She would go to Jasper and tell her she must hide her. This was her resolve. She was as inconsequent as an infant. To save herself trouble and pain was her one paramount idea; even her schoolfellows' annoyance and distress scarcely worried her. As she and Audrey always spent their evenings at home, the dulness of the school, the increase of lessons and the absence of play, the walks two and two in absolute silence, scarcely depressed her; she could laugh and play at home, and talk to her uncle and draw him out to tell her stories of her father. The one redeeming trait in her character was her love for Uncle Edward. She was certainly going downhill very rapidly at this time. Poor child! who was there to understand her, to bring her to a standstill, to help her to choose right?

CHAPTER XXIV.-"WHO IS E. W.?"

The one person who might have helped Evelyn was too busy with her own troubles just then to think a great deal about her. Poor Sylvia was visited with a very great dread. Her father's manner was strange; she began to fear that he suspected Jasper's presence in the house. If Jasper left, Sylvia felt that things must come to a crisis; she could not stand the life she had lived before the comfortable advent of this kindly but ill-informed woman. Sylvia was really very much attached to Jasper, and although she argued much over Evelyn, and disagreed strongly with her with regard to the best way to treat this unruly little member of society, Sylvia's very life depended on Jasper's purse and Jasper's tact.

One by one the fowls disappeared, the same boy receiving them over the hedge day by day from Jasper. The boy sold each of the old hens for sixpence, and reaped quite a harvest in consequence. He was all too willing to keep Jasper's secret. Jasper bought tender young c.o.c.kerels from a neighbor in the village, conveyed them home under her arm, killed them, and dressed them in various and dainty manners for Mr. Leeson's meals. He was loud in his praise of Sylvia, and told her that if the worst came to the worst she could go out as a lady cook.

"Nothing could give me such horror, my dear child," he said, "as to think that a Leeson, and a member of one of the proudest families in the kingdom, should ever demean herself to earn money; but, my dear girl, in these days of chance and change one must be prepared for the worst-there never is any telling. Sylvia, I go through anxious moments-very, very anxious moments."