"Figure to yourself," she said, as she carefully took some fresh eggs out of her basket and laid them on a dish, "how rejoiced I am that his patience is at length rewarded. As I went out this morning I said to myself, 'Delphine, this occasion demands a little fete of some kind; it would be well to prepare an omelette au fines herbes for supper.' I therefore buy fresh eggs in addition to my usual outlay. I return, and behold! all good things arrive at once. You are here, pet.i.te, and have been so amiable for our cherished Gambetta. He, too, will join the fete this evening in his charming new toilette, for I have not forgotten to provide the morsel of liver he loves much."

Susan looked on and listened, and soon became very much interested in Mademoiselle's preparations. It appeared that as Adolphe was never home till late they were accustomed to have their princ.i.p.al meal together in the evening; to-day, however, in honour of her guest, she was bent on preparing a choice little mid-day repast. First she made some coffee and put the pot on the hearth to keep warm, and then, Susan having helped her to lay the table, she proceeded to make a sweet omelette.

This process was most attractive. It was delightful to see how deftly she shook the handle of the little pan, how she coaxed and patted and tossed the eggs into the form of an omelette, and how, just at the very right moment, she hastily removed it into a hot dish, swiftly inserted the jam, and folded it over. It looked like magic to Susan, and for the moment it put everything about Sophia Jane out of her head. She soon thought of her again, however. Mademoiselle, having taken off a large white ap.r.o.n, sat down to do the honour of the table with a slightly increased colour but unsubdued powers of conversation, and her first remark was:

"So the poor little companion is ill. That is a great pity. You are quite alone, pet.i.te, are you not?"

Here was the very moment to correct the mistake, and Susan was just going to speak when Delphine added:

"Adolphe has informed me of the excellent progress she has lately made.

It is a child of much ability he considers, and very amiable."

Alas for Susan! This remark checked the words on her lips, and brought back all her jealous feelings of Sophia Jane. She could not bear to hear her praised. She would put off saying anything about the present just now, she thought. She would still do it of course; but it would be easier out of doors when she and Mademoiselle were walking home together. And it really seemed as though she were to have constant opportunities given to her; for, when they started an hour or so later, Mademoiselle remarked that the doll Grace wore her new bonnet, and asked:

"And does your little friend yet possess a doll with a head?"

What could be better? The answer in Susan's mind was, "she might have had one, but she bought the collar instead;" but somehow she could not get the words out. A strange voice seemed to reply for her:

"She doesn't care about dolls, now she's ill."

"Pauvre pet.i.te!" exclaimed Mademoiselle in a tone full of sympathy, then suddenly glancing across the road her face became alight with smiles, she waved her hand to someone, bowed repeatedly, and said in a low voice, "It is that brave Madame Jones!" Susan looked in the same direction; she had always been curious to see Madame Jones since the story of the beefsteak. There she was, standing at the door of her shop with her sleeves tucked up; joints of meat and carca.s.ses hung all round.

Her face was broad and red, and she wore a black net cap with pink roses in it. She might be brave, and n.o.ble, and all that Mademoiselle had said, but Susan thought her not at all nice-looking, and was quite disappointed. She had not expected her to be like that.

"It is a most excellent woman," murmured Delphine enthusiastically, "and of a n.o.ble heart. It is to her we owe the commencement of our success."

Aunt Hannah's gate was reached wonderfully soon after this, and still Susan had not told her of the mistake. "It was only put off, however,"

she said to herself, "and it really had not been her fault. She would explain all, the very next time they met."

Mademoiselle left her at the gate with an affectionate good-bye, and as Susan walked up the path to the door the doctor came out. He was generally in's great hurry, but to-day he stopped and smiled at her:

"Good news," he said. "If this improvement continues you may see your companion to-morrow, and sit with her an hour. She's much stronger and better."

Was it good news? Of course Susan was glad that Sophia was better, but the thought at once came into her mind, as she watched the doctor out of the gate, "she will ask me about the collar. She will expect a message from Mademoiselle." All that evening she was troubled about this, and even hoped that Sophia Jane might not be _quite_ so well to-morrow, so that she might have time to see Mademoiselle again and make it all right. "What should I do if Sophia Jane asks me straight out whether I said the collar was from her? I couldn't tell her I didn't, and I couldn't tell her I did. Oh, how I wish I had not put it off." Now, in all her reflections, Susan still made excuses for herself, and still said, "it was not my fault." She did not see that she had been mean and jealous and deceitful; but she did see that she had got herself into a difficulty, and was anxious, not to atone for her fault, but to escape the consequences of it. When conscience told her that the right thing was confession to her companion, she would not listen. "After all," she said, "she perhaps won't ask me, and then it will be all right; for I _certainly will_ explain it to Mademoiselle, as I always meant to." And in this way Susan got more and more enclosed in the tangled web she was weaving; for how can we make anything right unless we first see that it is wrong?

Sophia Jane continued better, and was much looking forward, Aunt Hannah said, to her companion's visit. Susan was cautioned before she went upstairs to be very kind and gentle, not to vex or thwart the invalid, and to call Buskin if anything should be wanted. Aunt Hannah would go out a little while, which she had scarcely done since Sophia Jane's illness. All this was promised, and it seemed another reason against saying anything about the collar; for, if Sophia Jane knew the truth, it would certainly vex and thwart her. Susan collected some things which she thought might amuse her, and perhaps prevent her from dwelling long on the dreaded subject. The game of dominoes, Grace, a box of beads, and Andersen's fairy tales. Struggling upstairs with these, she was soon in the invalid's room.

Sophia Jane looked much more like herself than when Susan had last seen her. She was lying quietly down among her pillows with a very white little face, and one hand resting feebly on the substantial form of Dinah, Margaretta's black doll. By her side was a tiny bunch of snowdrops which Nanna had found in the garden that morning; how kind everyone was to her now! It gave Susan a little pang to remember that she herself had done nothing to please her, but just the opposite.

Often, when Sophia Jane was well, she had asked to be allowed to have Dinah to herself for a little while, but had always been refused. Now, here she was. She was a most attractive doll, for there was a foreign air about her that distinguished her from all English ones. The nuns at Bahia had stuffed her so cleverly that her plump black face and limbs glistened; she wore earrings, a gay turban, and very full flowered chintz skirts. All her under-garments would "take off," and were trimmed with curious hand-made lace. It was a great privilege to be allowed to play with her.

Sophia Jane received her visitor quietly, with a small pinched smile.

In answer to Susan's inquiries she p.r.o.nounced herself better, but added with her usual old-fashioned air:

"I'm not well yet, though. I'm still ill and shaky."

"What would you like to play at?" was Susan's next inquiry put rather hastily.

"Nothing at all," was the decided answer. "I want to talk."

"But," said Susan earnestly, "aunt told me you were not to talk much-- she did, really."

"Well, I'll ask questions, and you talk," said Sophia Jane.

"Wouldn't you rather have a game of dominoes?" Susan ventured to suggest.

"No," answered Sophia Jane snappishly, "I wouldn't." Such an angry gleam came into her eyes that Susan, remembering she was not to vex or thwart her, resigned herself to be questioned. Her heart beat quickly.

What would the first question be? It was quite an easy one.

"Did she like it?" asked Sophia Jane, settling herself comfortably on her elbow, and staring at her companion.

"Very much indeed," answered Susan.

"Did it fit him? Tell me all about it."

"Beautifully. I put it on myself, and he looked very nice in it. I had dinner with Mademoiselle, and she made an omelette--and coffee--and I helped to lay the table--and to wash the things afterwards--and she told me Monsieur has got some more lessons. Then she brought me home, and on the way we saw Mrs Jones standing in the door of the shop. She's not a nice-looking woman, but Mademoiselle says she has a n.o.ble heart. I should think it must be horrid to be a butcher's wife. Shouldn't you?"

Pausing for a reply, Susan gave a nervous glance at her companion, whose eyes were still fixed upon her, and who took no notice whatever of the question.

"Did Mademoiselle send a message to me about the collar?" she asked.

"No, she didn't," said Susan. Then, seeing how crest-fallen the poor little face looked, she added hastily:

"I expect she means to come and thank you herself, or perhaps to write you a letter."

A small tear had gathered in each of Sophia Jane's eyes, but she winked them quickly away.

"You're _sure_," she said in a troubled voice, "that she understood it was from me?"

The moment had come. Susan looked straight back in her friend's face and answered instantly:

"Yes; I am quite sure."

It was over. She had now told a real story--a very bad one. Nothing worse could happen.

Sophia Jane seemed satisfied, She gave a little sigh, and said softly:

"Thank you. Then I expect she'll write."

After this she did not mention the collar again, but was willing to play at dominoes, though she could not get through more than one game.

"I'm tired now," she said. "You may read aloud." When, however, she found that Susan had only brought a book of fairy tales, she was much displeased, and declared fretfully that fairy tales were nonsense.

"They're wicked too," she added, "because they tell stories."

Susan disputed this, whereupon Sophia Jane grew so excited and angry, and spoke in such a shrill voice that Buskin came in from the next room to see what was the matter.

"You've been here long enough, Miss Susan," she said, glancing at Sophia Jane's flushed cheeks. "You better go down-stairs and let Miss Sophia Jane be quiet. It's time she took her medicine."

Susan collected her property and went away. There were a good many things to carry, but she took one with her which weighed more heavily than all the rest put together--the knowledge that she had told a story.

And now, at last, her eyes were opened wide, and she could see clearly the tangled web she had been weaving for some time past. She could see that she had first despised Sophia Jane, and then been jealous of her; first been conceited and proud, and then mean and deceitful. Good Susan no longer, but far far worse than her poor little friend, whom she had always considered so naughty. Little by little the web had become more and more twisted and confused. Would it ever be straight again? She made no excuse for herself now. Her heart was so full of sorrow and repentance that she hardly knew how to bear it, and, creeping sorrowfully up into the attic, she cast herself down on the big black box and cried. She had thought herself so good since she had come to Ramsgate, they had all told her so, and yet how naughty she had been-- naughtier and naughtier, until at last she had told a story. What should she do? An old rhyme of Maria's came into her head as she lay there sobbing: