"But I don't think there's any poison in them," said little Janie West in a regretful tone, as she gobbled down a particularly luscious chocolate cream; "they are all big, and fat, and bursty, and _so_ sweet, Annie, dear."

"Never mind, Janie, they are dangerous sweeties all the same. Come, come, throw them into my ap.r.o.n, and I will run over and toss them into the fire, and we'll have time for a game of leap-frog before tea; oh, fie, Judy," as a very small fat baby began to whimper, "you would not eat the sweeties of one of Annie's enemies."

This last appeal was successful. The children made a valiant effort, and dashed the tempting goodies into Annie's alapaca ap.r.o.n. When they were all collected, she marched up the play-room and in the presence of Susan Drummond, Hester Thornton, Cecil Temple, and several more of her school companions, threw them into the fire.

"So much for _that_ overture, Miss Drummond," she said, making a mock courtesy, and returning once more to the children.

CHAPTER XVIII.

IN THE HAMMOCK.

Just at this time the weather suddenly changed. After the cold and dreariness of winter came soft spring days--came longer evenings and brighter mornings.

Hester Thornton found that she could dress by daylight, then that she was no longer cold and shivering when she reached the chapel, then that she began intensely to enjoy her mid-day walk, then that she found her winter things a little too hot, until at last, almost suddenly it seemed to the expectant and anxious girls, glorious spring weather broke upon the world, the winds were soft and westerly, the buds swelled and swelled into leaf on the trees, and the flowers bloomed in the delightful old-fashioned gardens of Lavender House. Instantly, it seemed to the girls, their whole lives had altered. The play-room was deserted or only put up with on wet days. At twelve o'clock, instead of taking a monotonous walk on the roads, they ran races, played tennis, croquet, or any other game they liked best in the gardens. Later on in the day, when the sun was not so powerful, they took their walk; but even then they had time to rush back to their beloved shady garden for a little time before tea and preparation for their next day's work. Easter came this year about the middle of April, and Easter found these girls almost enjoying summer weather. How they looked forward to their few Easter holidays!

what plans they made, what tennis matches were arranged, what games and amus.e.m.e.nts of all sorts were in antic.i.p.ation! Mrs. Willis herself generally went away for a few days at Easter; so did the French governess, and the school was nominally placed under the charge of Miss Good and Miss Danesbury. Mrs. Willis did not approve of long Easter holidays; she never gave more than a week, and in consequence only the girls who lived quite near went home. Out of the fifty girls who resided at Lavender House about ten went away at Easter; the remaining forty stayed behind, and were often heard to declare that holidays at Lavender House were the most delightful things in the world.

At this particular Easter time the girls were rather surprised to hear that Mrs. Willis had made up her mind not to go away as usual; Miss Good was to have a holiday, and Mrs. Willis and Miss Danesbury were to look after the school. This was felt to be an unusual, indeed unheard of, proceeding, and the girls commented about it a good deal, and somehow, without absolutely intending to do so, they began to settle in their own minds that Mrs. Willis was staying in the school on account of Annie Forest, and that in her heart of hearts she did not absolutely believe in her innocence. Mrs. Willis certainly gave the girls no reason to come to this conclusion; she was consistently kind to Annie, and had apparently quite restored her to her old place in her favor. Annie was more gentle than of old, and less inclined to get into sc.r.a.pes; but the girls loved her far less in her present unnatural condition of reserve and good behavior than they did in her old daring and hoydenish days. Cecil Temple always spent Easter with an old aunt who lived in a neighboring town; she openly said this year that she did not wish to go away, but her governess would not allow her to change her usual plans, and she left Lavender House with a curious feeling of depression and coming trouble. As she was getting into the cab which was to take her to the station Annie flew to her side, threw a great bouquet of flowers which she had gathered into her lap, and, flinging her arms tightly round her neck, whispered suddenly and pa.s.sionately:

"Oh, Cecil, believe in me."

"I--I--I don't know that I don't," said Cecil, rather lamely.

"No, Cecil, you don't--not in your heart of hearts. Neither you nor Mrs.

Willis--you neither of you believe in me from the very bottom of your hearts; oh, it is hard!"

Annie gave vent to a little sob, sprang away from Cecil's arms, and disappeared into a shrubbery close by.

She stayed there until the sound of the retreating cab died away in the avenue, then, tossing back her hair, rearranging her rather tattered garden hat, and hastily wiping some tears from her eyes, she came out from her retreat, and began to look around her for some amus.e.m.e.nt. What should she do? Where should she go? How should she occupy herself? Sounds of laughter and merriment filled the air; the garden was all alive with gay young figures running here and there. Girls stood in groups under the horse-chestnut tree--girls walked two and two up the shady walk at the end of the garden--little ones gamboled and rolled on the gra.s.s--a tennis match was going on vigorously, and the croquet ground was occupied by eight girls of the middle school. Annie was one of the most successful tennis players in the school; she had indeed a gift for all games of skill, and seldom missed her mark. Now she looked with a certain wistful longing toward the tennis-court; but, after a brief hesitation, she turned away from it and entered the shady walk at the farther end of the garden. As she walked along, slowly, meditatively, and sadly, her eyes suddenly lighted up. Glancing to one of the tall trees she saw a hammock suspended there which had evidently been forgotten during the winter. The tree was not yet quite in leaf, and it was very easy for Annie to climb up its branches to re-adjust the hammock, and to get into it. After its winter residence in the tree this soft couch was found full of withered leaves, and otherwise rather damp and uncomfortable. Annie tossed the leaves on to the ground, and laughed as she swung herself gently backward and forward. Early as the season still was the sun was so bright and the air so soft that she could not but enjoy herself, and she laughed with pleasure, and only wished that she had a fairy tale by her side to help to soothe her off to sleep.

In the distance she heard some children calling "Annie," "Annie Forest;"

but she was far too comfortable and too lazy to answer them, and presently she closed her eyes and really did fall asleep.

She was awakened by a very slight sound--by nothing more nor less than the gentle and very refined conversation of two girls, who sat under the oak tree in which Annie's hammock swung. Hearing the voices, she bent a little forward, and saw that the speakers were Dora Russell and Hester Thornton. Her first inclination was to laugh, toss down some leaves, and instantly reveal herself; the next she drew back hastily, and began to listen with all her ears.

"I never liked her," said Hester--"I never even from the very first pretended to like her. I think she is under-bred, and not fit to a.s.sociate with the other girls in the school-room."

"She is treated with most unfair partiality," retorted Miss Russell in her thin and rather bitter voice. "I have not the smallest doubt, not the smallest, that she was guilty of putting those messes into my desk, of destroying my composition, and of caricaturing Mrs. Willis in Cecil Temple's book. I wonder after that Mrs. Willis did not see through her, but it is astonishing to what lengths favoritism will carry one. Mrs.

Willis and Mr. Everard are behaving in a very unfair way to the rest of us in upholding this commonplace, disagreeable girl; but it will be to Mrs. Willis' own disadvantage. Hester, I am, as you know, leaving school at midsummer, and I shall certainly use all my influence to induce my father and mother not to send the younger girls here; they could not a.s.sociate with a person like Miss Forest."

"I never take much notice of her," said Hester; "but of course what you say is quite right, Dora. You have great discrimination, and your sisters might possibly be taken in by her."

"Oh, not at all, I a.s.sure you; they know a true lady when they see her.

However, they must not be imperilled. I will ask my parents to send them to Mdlle. Lablanche. I hear that her establishment is most _recherche_."

"Mrs. Willis is very nice herself, and so are most of the girls," said Hester, after a pause. Then they were both silent, for Hester had stooped down to examine some little fronds and moss which grew at the foot of the tree. After a pause, Hester said:

"I don't think Annie is the favorite she was with the girls."

"Oh, of course not; they all, in their heart of hearts, know she is guilty. Will you come indoors, and have tea with me in my drawing-room, Hester?"

The two girls walked slowly away, and presently Annie let herself gently out of her hammock and dropped to the ground.

She had heard every word; she had not revealed herself, and a new and terrible--and, truth to say, absolutely foreign--sensation from her true nature now filled her mind. She felt that she almost hated these two who had spoken so cruelly, so unjustly of her. She began to trace her misfortunes and her unhappiness to the date of Hester's entrance into the school. Even more than Dora Russell did she dislike Hester; she made up her mind to revenge herself on both these girls. Her heart was very, very sore; she missed the old words, the old love, the old brightness, the old popularity; she missed the mother-tones in Mrs. Willis' voice--her heart cried out for them, at night she often wept for them. She became more and more sure that she owed all her misfortunes to Hester, and in a smaller degree to Dora. Dora believed that she had deliberately insulted her, and injured her composition, when she knew herself that she was quite innocent of even harboring such a thought, far less carrying it into effect. Well, now, she would really do something to injure both these girls, and perhaps the carrying out of her revenge would satisfy her sore heart.

CHAPTER XIX.

CUP AND BALL.

Just toward the end of the Easter holidays, Hester Thornton was thrown into a great tumult of excitement, of wonder, of half regret and half joy, by a letter which she received from her father. In this letter he informed her that he had made up his mind to break up his establishment for several years, to go abroad, and to leave Hester altogether under Mrs. Willis' care.

When Hester had read so far, she flung her letter on the table, put her head into her hands, and burst into tears.

"Oh, how cruel of father!" she exclaimed; "how am I to live without ever going home--how am I to endure life without seeing my little Nan?"

Hester cried bitterly; the strongest love of her nature was now given to this pretty and sweet little sister, and dismal pictures rose rapidly before her of Nan growing up without in the least remembering her--perhaps, still worse, of Nan being unkindly treated and neglected by strangers. After a long pause, she raised her head, wiped her eyes, and resumed her letter. Now, indeed, she started with astonishment, and gave an exclamation of delight--Sir John Thornton had arranged that Mrs.

Willis was also to receive little Nan, although she was younger than any other child present in the school. Hester scarcely waited to finish her letter. She crammed it into her pocket, rushed up to Susan Drummond, and astonished that placid young lady by suddenly kissing her.

"Nan is coming, Susy!" she exclaimed; "dear, darling, lovely little Nan is coming--oh, I am so happy!"

She was far too impatient to explain matters to stolid Susan, and danced down stairs, her eyes sparkling and smiles on her lips. It was nothing to her now how long she stayed at school--her heart's treasure would be with her there, and she could not but feel happy.

After breakfast Mrs. Willis sent for her, and told her what arrangements were being made; she said that she was going to remove Susan Drummond out of Hester's bedroom, in order that Hester might enjoy her little sister's company at night. She spoke very gently, and entered with full sympathy into the girl's delight over the little motherless sister, and Hester felt more drawn to her governess than she had ever been.

Nan was to arrive at Lavender House on the following evening, and for the first week her nurse was to remain with her until she got accustomed to her new life.

The morning of the day of Nan's arrival was also the last of the Easter holidays, and Hester, awakening earlier than her wont, lay in bed, and planned what she would do to welcome the little one.

The idea of having Nan with her continually had softened Hester. She was not unhappy in her school-life--indeed, there was much in its monotonous, busy, and healthy occupation to stimulate and rouse the good in her. Her intellect was being vigorously exercised, and, by contact with her schoolfellows, her character was being molded; but the perfect harmony and brightness of the school had been much interrupted since Hester's arrival; her dislike to Annie Forest had been unfortunate in more ways than one, and that dislike, which was increasing each day, was hardening Hester's heart.

But it was not hard this morning--all that was sweetest, and softest, and best in her had come to the surface--the little sister, whom her mother had left in her charge, was now to be her daily and hourly companion. For Nan's sake, then, she must be very good; her deeds must be gentle and kind, and her thoughts charitable. Hester had an instinctive feeling that baby eyes saw deep below the surface; Hester felt if Nan were to lose even a shadow of her faith in her she could almost die of shame.

Hester had been very proud of Dora Russell's friendship. Never before had it been known in the school that a first-cla.s.s girl took a third into such close companionship, and Hester's little head had been slightly turned by the fact. Her better judgment and her better nature had been rather blinded by the fascinations of this tall, graceful, satirical Dora. She had been weak enough to agree with Dora with her lips when in her heart of hearts she knew she was all wrong. By nature Hester was an honorable girl, with many fine traits in her character--by nature Dora was small and mean and poor of soul.

This morning Hester ran up to her favorite.

"Little Nan is coming to-night," she said.

Dora was talking at the moment to Miss Maitland, another first-cla.s.s girl, and the two stared rather superciliously at Hester, and, after a pause, Dora said in her finest drawl:

"Who _is_ little Nan?"