"So I will," said Susan earnestly; "and then will you forgive me?"

"Oh, I don't know about that!" said Sophia Jane, shaking her head till the frill of her cap trembled. "You see it was so very bad of you."

"I know," said Susan humbly. Then venturing to glance at Sophia Jane's face she was surprised to see a sudden little smile appear, and to hear her exclaim:

"At any rate there's _one_ thing! They'll never be able to say again, 'try to be as good as Susan,' because you've been much naughtier now than I've ever been!"

She chuckled softly to herself, and then said--suddenly and sharply:

"Why don't you write the letter?"

It was not the least part of Susan's punishment to be treated as a child who could not be trusted. But she bore it patiently, fetched her desk, and wrote the words sternly dictated by Sophia Jane. The latter then requested that she might read the letter, and having done so watched while Susan directed the envelope and put a stamp on it. Then she said:

"Give it me," and immediately pushed it under her pillow.

"Sha'n't I post it?" asked Susan humbly.

"Certainly not!" said Sophia Jane decidedly. "That would be a pretty thing indeed!"

Susan felt humbled to the dust, and yet when she left her companion's room her heart was lighter, and she was really happier than she had been for a long time. She had done what she could to repair her fault, and all the p.r.i.c.ks and stabs which Sophia Jane thrust into her were not nearly so hard to bear as the reproaches of her own self. True they were painful, for Susan was a proud child and liked to be well thought of; but after all she was suffering justly. Even if Monsieur and Mademoiselle should always despise her after reading that letter she should deserve it. But, oh, what a pity it was! So the thing next to be dreaded was the meeting with Mademoiselle Delphine, and to see her kindly brown face look cold and displeased. Susan could not help hoping that it would not happen just yet. She did not want to see either her or Monsieur for a long time. She wondered whether Sophia Jane had sent the letter at once, and whether Mademoiselle would write in answer or come herself. She was not, however, kept long in uncertainty about this, for two days after her interview with Sophia Jane there came a note for Aunt Hannah, which she opened at breakfast, saying:

"This is from Mademoiselle Delphine."

Susan watched her face anxiously, and saw a puzzled expression as she read on.

"She wants to know," said Aunt Hannah, at last looking up, "if she may come and see Sophia Jane this evening at five o'clock, and says she brings a friend. What friend can she mean?"

"Very strange, indeed!" said Margaretta. "I've no objection whatever to Mademoiselle's seeing the child," continued Aunt Hannah. "In fact, I think it would interest and amuse her to have a visitor. But the friend! I must say I consider that rather thoughtless and ill-judged.

I am always glad to see Monsieur La Roche or his sister--but their _friends_! That is quite another matter."

"Quite," said Nanna and Margaretta both at once.

Susan was at first too occupied with the idea that Mademoiselle was coming that very evening to think about the friend at all, or to wonder whom it could be; she hastened with the news to Sophia Jane, who had now so far improved in strength that she was allowed to sit up a little while every afternoon. She was delighted at the idea of the visit, and at once made a suggestion about the friend which filled Susan with dismay, it was this:

"Perhaps, as she's so fond of Mrs Jones, she means to bring her."

What an idea! and yet when Susan thought it over it did not seem unlikely, for Mademoiselle always spoke with great admiration of "Madame Jones" as an acquaintance to be much valued. "A n.o.ble-hearted being,"

she had called her more than once. Susan wondered what Margaretta and Nanna would think of her if she came. They always talked so much about appearance, and manner, and dress, and if they disapproved of it they said, "rather common." They would certainly call Madame Jones "rather common," for they would not understand about her n.o.ble heart; and indeed Susan remembered she should not have done so herself without Mademoiselle's explanation. It was a pity that when people had n.o.ble hearts it did not make them look n.o.ble outside, and she ended by hoping very much that Madame Jones would not come.

It was between four and five o'clock in the afternoon of the expected visit, and the little girls were alone together. Aunt Hannah had promised that Mademoiselle should have a snug tea with them upstairs if she came alone, so that they were awaiting her arrival with some anxiety. Susan could not help a little secret hope now that she would _not_ be alone, so that the dreaded meeting might be deferred. Sophia Jane had made no further reference to the collar, but Susan felt as much abashed in her presence as any prisoner before his judge, and sometimes found it difficult to talk. She gave a timid look at her; she was in a large arm-chair close to the fire, very much covered up and surrounded by pillows, in the midst of which she looked like a small white mouse in a red-flannel gown. Her features were sharpened by illness, and she still insisted on wearing Aunt Hannah's cap; but though all this made her more like an old woman than a child, there was to-day a softened light in her blue eyes which Susan noticed at once. She had never seen it there before. She took courage.

"Do you suppose," she said, glancing at black Dinah, "that Margaretta will let you play with Dinah when you are well?"

"I don't want to get well," said Sophia Jane at once.

"Don't--want--to get--well!" repeated Susan in surprise.

"I shouldn't mind always being ill," said Sophia Jane. "Everyone's kind, no one scolds you; you have nice things to eat, and lemonade. I don't want to get well."

"I want you to get well to play with me again," said Susan. "And I know everybody wants you to get well."

"Why do they?" asked the invalid.

"Oh, because--of course they do," was the only reason Susan could give.

"Well," said Sophia Jane thoughtfully, "of course there's the trouble of it, and the doctor to pay."

She wrinkled her brow as she said this, and looked sideways at Susan with her old cunning expression.

"Oh, it isn't that," said Susan very earnestly; "why, they're all dreadfully sorry. That night you were worst, you know, Aunt Hannah cried, and every one, and so did Buskin."

"I don't think I should cry if they were ill," said Sophia Jane after some reflection.

"Well, it shows how fond they are of you, doesn't it?" remarked Susan.

"Perhaps," replied Sophia Jane, and after that she was silent for a long time, and Susan stationed herself at the window to watch for Mademoiselle and her friend.

Whenever she saw two people in the distance she cried out, "Here they are!" And this happened so often, and turned out to be not the least like them, that at last it made the invalid quite peevish. So many false alarms, when she could not look out of the window herself, were most distracting.

"You're not to say it again," she exclaimed in a weak voice of command, "unless you see them _acshally_ coming in at the gate."

Susan controlled herself with difficulty, for she was getting very much excited as the time drew near. And now, stepping quickly and neatly along with a large basket on her arm, Mademoiselle's figure did really appear--alone. Where was the friend? Susan's heart sank, and her hands grew quite cold. In another minute she must meet Mademoiselle, and then-- "She's coming in at the gate," she announced to the invalid in a trembling voice; "and she hasn't brought Mrs Jones or anyone, but only a large basket."

"You're sure?" said Sophia Jane in a husky agitated tone; "then look here, quick, before she comes in."

Susan turned sharply round from the window. Sophia Jane was leaning forward over the grate, with a flush on her white cheeks and her eyes very bright, and in her hand she held, soiled and crumpled, Susan's letter of confession. The next second it had dropped into the heart of the fire, and as the door opened to admit Mademoiselle a little flame sprang brightly up. And that was how Sophia Jane posted the letter. It was such a sudden thing, and so completely altered the state of affairs that Susan could not at first take it in, or remember that she might now answer Mademoiselle's greetings without shame. These were most affectionate and cheerful, and she presently seated herself close to Sophia Jane's arm-chair with her basket on her knees, and untied her bonnet-strings.

"Madame, your aunt, is so kind to ask me to take tea with you," she said, "and I have taken the liberty to bring also a Monsieur who is anxious to make his compliments to Miss Sophia."

"Is he down-stairs?" asked Sophia Jane.

"Mais non," said Mademoiselle with a little burst of laughter; "he is here, in this room, and waits to make himself known."

She opened the lid of the basket a very little way and peeped in.

"It's Gambetta!" exclaimed Sophia Jane, in a voice hoa.r.s.e with excitement; "that's what you meant by a friend."

There was the tiny tinkle of a bell. Mademoiselle opened the basket wide, and there indeed was Gambetta in all the dignity of the new collar.

Nothing could exceed Sophia Jane's delight as she clasped her hands in an ecstasy and laughed aloud. "Doesn't he look nice in it?" she said.

Mademoiselle smiled and nodded in return; everyone looked pleased except Gambetta himself, who held his neck stiffly as though he said, "Pride must suffer pain."

Susan stood a little behind the group while this was going on; now she came in front of Mademoiselle and caressed Gambetta's soft furry neck.

"It's Sophia Jane's present," she said, "not mine. She sent it to Monsieur for him."

Mademoiselle looked puzzled.