Annie stared very hard at Leslie; then she rose to her feet. There was a look of despair in her eyes; her cheeks were ghastly white.

"Fourteen shillings," she said in a whisper.

She returned her purse to her pocket, and looked again at Leslie.

"Are you sure you won't yield?" she said. "Remember, whatever you do must be done to-day; he is going to decide to-day."

Leslie struggled with herself.

Just at that moment the door was quickly opened, and Marjorie rushed in.

There was a queer look on Marjorie's face, traces of recent tears in her eyes, and a softness about her mouth. She went up to Leslie and kissed her. She did not see Annie at all.

"Eileen is better," she cried; "she has had a long, quiet sleep, and the nurse says she is certainly better. The doctors have just gone, too, and they believe that she is on the mend. They think that the worst is over.

Leslie, G.o.d did hear our prayers. I shall believe in G.o.d now as long as ever I live. I wish Belle Acheson would come, in order that I might tell her how G.o.d heard our prayers. Yes. I shall believe in Him as long as I live. It was your thought, Leslie; your splendid thought, and it has succeeded. Oh, I am so happy!"

She kissed Leslie again, and ran out of the room as quickly as she had entered. She did not even notice Annie Colchester, who stood near the window.

When Marjorie closed the door behind her. Leslie looked full at Annie.

"What can it all mean?" said Annie. "How queer Marjorie Chetwynd looked!"

"No wonder," said Leslie. "Her sister Eileen was at death's door; but she is a little better to-day."

"Only Marjorie talked some humbug about prayer. Did she imagine that you-you prayed? I thought you were too hard."

"No, no," said Leslie, with a catch in her voice, and a suppressed sob.

"I am a miserable girl; but I-it does not matter. Annie, I will do what you wish."

"Then you are an angel after all. I thought you one once, and so did Rupert; but you yourself choked us off. Well, come with me now. You are an angel after all."

The words were scarcely out of Annie's lips, her hand, hot and trembling with excitement, had scarcely touched Leslie's sleeve, before the door was thrown open and Belle Acheson was announced.

Belle came in with a queer, eager look on her face, a kind of hungry, half-starved look. She went straight up to Leslie.

"I did not ask the man at the door," she said. "I didn't wish to; I felt I would rather get the news, good or bad, from you. Do you know what a queer thing happened? I was so impressed by what you told me yesterday that I, actually I, Belle Acheson, began to pray in real earnest. All night long I kept asking G.o.d to spare Eileen; and now the question is, has He done so? Leslie, how is Eileen? Is she better?"

"She is, Belle; oh, she is," cried Leslie. "It is too wonderful; but it is true. G.o.d has heard all our prayers. It is only a moment back that dear Marjorie ran into the room and told me that Eileen was better."

"Thank you," replied Belle; "you need not say any more." She turned her back on Leslie, and walked to the window. She stood there, behind the shelter of the curtains, and looked out. No one knew what she saw or what she felt. After a time she looked round.

"Then it is all right," she said. "There is a G.o.d who answers prayers; Eileen will get well again. It is a great thing for a girl to discover the truth of that; it makes a great difference in her life. It is quite too interesting, and too-too wonderful. It makes everything worth while, somehow. Oh, there! I cannot speak about it."

She stopped abruptly. Leslie did not reply; but Annie now ran up to Belle.

"Don't you know me?" she said. "Or are you too absorbed with this-this wonderful discovery, to notice that I am one of the St. Wode's girls."

"Of course I know you; you are Annie Colchester, the queer, extraordinary girl who was almost as enthusiastic as I am to win distinction, to solve problems, to acquire the great, the glorious possession of knowledge."

"I am the same," answered Annie; "although in some ways my views have changed."

"Don't tell me so. If you are one of those who put their hand to the plough and then look back I will have nothing to do with you. By the way, you have pa.s.sed your exam before now; how have you succeeded?"

"I have not succeeded at all-that is, I have only just taken an ordinary."

"And you meant to take a first-cla.s.s in honors?"

"Yes."

"Then you have done poorly."

"I know I have," replied Annie, hanging her head.

"Let me look at you," said Belle. She went straight up to her, put her hand under Annie's chin, and lifted up the blushing face.

"And yet you have a fine, well-developed brow," she said; "plenty of brains there, and your eyes are clear and dancing with intelligence.

Stay though, let me feel your pulse."

She caught Annie's wrist between her finger and thumb. Belle herself was all eagerness now; her att.i.tude was that of one who stood at attention.

"Come," she said. "H'm! I'm not a doctor, but I don't like that pulse.

One moment it seems to be running away, the next it stops dead-then it is wabbly, quite uncertain. Annie Colchester, do you eat enough?"

"Don't question me," answered Annie.

Belle's gray eyes traveled to Leslie's face. Leslie's lips formed a voiceless "No." Belle understood her.

"By the way, where are you staying?" she asked, turning again to Annie; "have you any friends in town?"

"I have no special friends. I am in lodgings."

"What address?"

"I cannot give you an address, because I am leaving to-day."

"Then that is delightful; you shall come home with me."

"With you? Do you mean it?"

"Of course I mean it. I am not in the habit of saying things I don't mean. I should consider such conduct a breach of truth. Do you imagine for a moment that I am a liar; I, who wish to cultivate all the sacred virtues, to stoop to a lie. When I ask you to come home with me, I wish to have you. I want a friend to keep me company, an intelligent friend.

You shall stay with me for a week at least. I don't believe in that failure of yours. If you did not take honors, you ought to have taken them. That brow and those eyes were not given you for nothing. By the way, did I ever mention to you-no, I don't think I did-that I am starting a little hostel of my own, that I am saving money for it. I do not know the exact sum that I have saved, but it is not very far from a hundred pounds. You are one of the girls I should like to live with me there. You are just the sort to fling aside every weight, and devote yourself heart and soul to the acquiring of glorious knowledge."

"I have felt like that now and then," said Annie; "but somehow the motive has gone. It is unfair, absolutely unfair, for me to come to you on false pretenses."

"Oh, whether you are clever or not, you look as if you wanted a week's rest. I am very happy to-day-what occurred has given me-I cannot exactly tell you what, but a wonderful feeling. I am in the humor to do a good deed, and you are the person who wants it done to. You want rest and good nourishment and peace. You have been tossed about in a sore battle.

I do not know where, and I do not know how; but the proof lies in the queer, desolate expression of your face. My home is comfortable, and mother always does exactly what I like; so come at once."

"I thank you from my heart, and I will come," said Annie. "It is a great boon to me; but I must first go out with Leslie Gilroy."