"I am going to do something which I shall be punished for. I am going to spend to-night, if necessary, with Maggie Howland."

"Is she ill, Neta? Ought we to send for the doctor?"

"Oh no, she is not a bit ill in that way. Good-night, Lucy; I felt I ought to tell you."

Aneta continued her way until she reached Maggie's room. It was now past midnight. The quiet and regular household had all retired to bed, and Maggie had feverishly begun to prepare for departure. She knew how to let herself out. Once out of the house, she would be, so she felt, through the worst part of her trouble. She was not unacquainted with the ways of this cruel world, and thought that she might be taken in at some hotel, not too far away, for the night. Early in the morning she would go by train to some seaside place. From there she would embark for the Continent. Beyond that she had made no plans.

Maggie was in the act of removing her father's treasures from the tin boxes when, without any warning, the room-door was opened, and Aneta, in her pure white dress, with her golden hair surrounding her very fair face, entered the room.

"Oh!" said Maggie, dropping a curiously made cross in her confusion and turning a dull brick-red. "Whatever have you come about?"

Aneta closed the door calmly, and placed her lighted candle on the top of Maggie's chest of drawers.

"I hoped you were in bed and asleep," she said; "but instead of that you are up. I have made arrangements to spend the night with you. It is bitterly cold. We must build up the fire."

Maggie felt wild.

Aneta did not take the slightest notice. She knelt down and put k.n.o.bs of fresh coal on the fire. Soon it was blazing up merrily. "That's better," she said. "Now, don't you think a cup of cocoa each would be advisable?"

"I don't want to eat," said Maggie.

"I should like the cocoa," said Aneta; "and I have brought it with me.

I thought your supply might be out. Here's your gla.s.s of milk which you never drank, and here's a little saucepan, and there are cups and saucers in your cupboard, and a box of biscuits. Just sit down, won't you? while I make the cocoa."

Maggie felt very strange. Her dislike of Aneta was growing less and less moment by moment. Nevertheless, she by no means gave up her primary idea of running away. She felt that she must hoodwink Aneta.

Surely she was clever enough for that. The best plan would be to acquiesce in the cocoa scheme, afterwards to pretend that she was sleepy, and go to bed. Then Aneta would, of course, leave her, and there would still be plenty of time to get out of the house and disappear into the foggy world of London. The glowing fire, the beautiful young girl kneeling by it, the preparation for the little meal which she made with such swiftness and dexterity, caused Maggie to gaze at her in speechless amazement.

Maggie drank her delicious cocoa and munched her biscuits with appet.i.te, and afterwards she felt better. The world was not quite so black and desolate, and Aneta looked lovely with her soft eyes glowing and the rose-color in her cheeks.

"Why are you doing all this for me?" said Maggie then.

"Why?" said Aneta. "I think the reason is very simple." Then she paused for a minute and her eyes filled with sudden tears. "I think it is, Maggie, because quite unexpectedly I have learned to love you."

"You--to love me--me?" said Maggie.

"Yes."

Maggie felt herself trembling. She could not reply. She did not understand that she returned the love so suddenly given to her--given to her, too, in her moment of deepest degradation, of her most utter misery. Once again the feeling that she must go, that she could not face confession and the scorn of the school, and the awful words of Bo-peep, and her poor mother as Bo-peep's wife, overpowered her.

"You are--very kind," she said in a broken voice; "and the cocoa was good; and, if you don't mind--I will--go to bed now, and perhaps--sleep a little."

"What have you been doing with all those lovely curios?" said Aneta.

"I?" said Maggie. "I--oh, I like to look at them."

"Do pick up that cross which is lying on the floor, and let me examine it."

Maggie did so rather unwillingly.

"Please bring over all the other things, and let me look at them,"

said Aneta then.

Maggie obeyed, but grudgingly, as though she did not care that Aneta should handle them.

"Why have you taken them out of their boxes and put them all in a muddle like this?" said Aneta.

"I--I wanted something to do," said Maggie. "I couldn't sleep."

"Was that the only reason--honor bright?" said Aneta.

Maggie dropped her eyes.

Aneta did not question her any further, but she drew her down to a low chair by the fire, and put a hand on her lap, and kept on looking at the treasures: the bracelets, the crosses, the brooches, the quaint designs belonging to a bygone period. After a time she said, "I am not at all sure--I am not a real judge of treasures; but I have an uncle, Sir Charles Lysle, who knows more about these things than any one else in London; and if he thinks what I am inclined to think with regard to the contents of these two boxes, you will be"----She stopped abruptly.

Maggie's eyes were shining. "Aneta," she said, "don't talk of these any more; and don't talk either of wealth or poverty any more. There is something I want to say. When you came into my room just now I was packing up to run away."

"Oh yes, I know that," said Aneta. "I saw that you had that intention the moment I entered the room."

"And you said nothing!"

"Why should I? I didn't want to force your confidence. But you're not going to run away now, Mags?" She bent towards her and kissed her on the forehead.

"Yes," said Maggie, trembling. "I want you to let me go."

"I cannot possibly do that, dear. If you go, I go too."

"I must go," said Maggie. "You don't understand. You found things out about me to-day, and you have behaved--well, splendidly. I didn't give you credit for it. I didn't know you. Now I do know you, and I see that no girl in the school can be compared to you for n.o.bleness and courage, and just for being downright splendid. But, Aneta, I cannot bear that which is before me."

"The fact is," said Aneta, "you are in the midst of a terrible battle, and you mean to give in and turn tail, and let the enemy walk over the field. That is not a bit what I should have expected at one time from Maggie Howland."

"I will tell you," said Maggie. "I am not really a bit brave; there is nothing good in me."

"We won't talk about that," said Aneta. "What we have to think about now is what lies straight ahead of you; not of your past any more, but your immediate future. You have a tough time before you; in fact, you have a very great battle to fight, but I do not think you will turn tail."

"You want me," said Maggie, "to go to Mrs. Ward and tell her everything?"

"You must do that, Maggie. There is no second course to pursue. There is no way out. But I have been thinking since I saw you that perhaps you might have your day on Sat.u.r.day. I think it would be best for you to tell Mrs. Ward to-morrow; and I think she would not prevent you having your day on Sat.u.r.day. Perhaps it will be necessary--but she is the one to decide--that some of your schoolfellows should be told; and of course your little brooch which you sold to Pearce must be got back. Even Pearce is far too honest to keep it for the price he paid you."

"He gave me five pounds, and I have spent one. There are still four pounds left," said Maggie. "I meant to run away with the help of these."

"I will lend you a pound," said Aneta, "and we'll get the brooch back to-morrow."

"But, Aneta, I have not yet told you--it is too fearful--you cannot conceive what my stepfather is like. It isn't only his being a grocer--for I have no doubt there are lots of grocers who are quite, quite tolerable; but you cannot imagine what he is. I had a letter from him a little time ago--that time, you remember, when he sent me those perfectly awful dresses--and he said then that he and my mother were coming to see me, as he wanted to interview Mrs. Ward and to look at the school for himself. Well, that poor Tildy brought me a letter to-day from mother. I had written to mother to beg of her not to let him come; but he got hold of the letter, and he was nearly mad about it. The end of it is that he and she are coming on _Sat.u.r.day_, and, somehow, I can't bear it. I must run away; I _cannot_ endure it!"

"I don't wonder," said Aneta. "Let me think. Lay your head on my shoulder, Maggie. Oh, how tired you are!"

"Aneta, you seem to me quite new--just as though I had never seen you before."

"I think you and your story have opened my eyes and done me good,"