CHAPTER III.

IT was only by a strong effort that Emily was able, so far, to turn her thoughts from her pecuniary embarrassments, as to allude to her lessons for the evening, and it was not till Miss Gilbert, whose turn it was to preside in the school-room, had spoken to her once or twice, that she threw off her abstraction, sufficiently to hear and answer what was said to her. After they returned to their room, Delia rallied her a little upon her absence of mind.

"Any one would think you had all the cares of the nation upon your shoulders, Emily, instead of a little bill for worsted. People Will begin to suspect something presently, if you are not more careful. When Mrs. Pomeroy spoke to the girls at the table, you started as though you had been shot, and when she stopped you coming out of the room, you turned as pale as ashes. Why cannot you learn to put a good face upon matters."

"I never before had a secret to hide, Delia," said poor Emily, sighing heavily; "and I am sure I hope I shall never have another. Oh, I do think it is dreadful to live in such constant fear of being found out."

Delia looked rather annoyed. "When you have been at school as long as I have, you will not mind it," said she. "I think it rather good fun to have a secret, but, Emily, if you are so afraid of them, I do not see—"

"Do not see what?" added Emily, as Delia came to a full stop.

"I do not see how you are to help me as you promised," returned Delia. "I expected you would be so, or I should never have begun."

"Begun what?" asked Emily again. "You are so very mysterious, Delia, I don't know at all what to make of you. Ever since the day that we went down to Barton's after the braid, you have acted as if you had some wonderful secret upon your mind, which you were determined to keep all to yourself."

"And so I have," said Delia, "only I have no desire at all to keep it all to myself; but if you have such a great dread of knowing anything which you cannot talk about, I don't see but I must do so whether I wish it or not. I did not think you would fail me just when I needed you, especially after what you said this afternoon." And Delia seemed just ready to cry.

"But I have not failed you, Delia," said Emily, much disturbed at the implied accusation. "I am sure I never told anything that you asked me to keep, and it is my own secret that troubles me, not yours. That would be a very different matter. There is no one in the world that I would do more to oblige than yourself, for I am sure I don't know what would have become of me without you."

"Then you will promise solemnly not to betray me, if I let you into my secret," said Delia.

"Of course I will," returned Emily, confidently, but feeling nevertheless a little frightened. "I have promised already."

Delia paused and played with her chain, as though she did not exactly know where to begin. Emily was surprised at her embarrassment.

"Why, you are as bad as I am," she said, laughing, and really rejoiced at the prospect of hearing something which might divert her mind from her own troubles. "One would think you had a love affair upon your hands at the very least."

"I never said I had not," returned Delia abruptly. She paused a moment, and then went on, apparently recovering her confidence after the first step. "You were speaking of that day we went down to Barton's—do you remember the gentleman we met there?"

"The one with the black whiskers who spoke with such a French accent—yes, what of him?"

"He is come to teach French and Italian at the academy," pursued Delia, "and he hopes that Mrs. Pomeroy will employ him, as Mademoiselle is going away at holidays."

"Mademoiselle going away—how sorry I am!" exclaimed Emily.

"So am not I," said Delia; "nor will you be either, when you know all about it. Mr. Hugo used to teach at the Gymnasium and all the girls there worshipped him."

"And so you want him to come here," said Emily, as Delia stopped again. "But, Delia, I don't think I like reciting to a gentleman as well as to a lady."

"I thought you liked Mr. Fletcher?" said Delia.

"Yes, because he is so patient and makes one understand so well, but I am afraid of him, if I don't have my lesson. His eyes flash so, and his voice sounds so deep when he is displeased, it is quite awful. That is why the girls call him Jupiter Touans."

"Pshaw, Emily, cannot you be serious?" said Delia sharply. "I tell you I am in earnest. If Mr. Hugo can only come here in Mademoiselle's place, I shall be perfectly happy."

Emily stopped laughing, and looked grave enough. She did not yet see the whole of Delia's meaning, but a light began to dawn upon her understanding. "And so you want him to come here," she repeated; "did you like him so very much?"

"Like him!" said Delia—the tone was expressive. "He liked me at any rate. You know that beautiful bracelet I showed you?"

Emily nodded.

"He gave it to me. I never wear it at home for fear Mrs. Mason should notice it, and make inquiries about it, for as for my father, I might wear the Koh-i-Noor diamond in a ring, and he would never see it."

"But how could you accept such a present from a gentleman, Delia? Aunt always said it was very improper to put ourselves under such obligations," she stopped for Delia began to look vexed again.

"I wonder you did not think of that, when you wrote to ask your cousin for money," said she. "I should think that was about as bad as accepting a bracelet when it was offered."

It was now Emily's turn to color. "I think that was different," said she. "There was no harm in that."

"If there was no harm in it, why did you send it down by Miss Stone, instead of in the regular way?"

Emily had no answer ready, and Delia continued, "But there is no use in going on so. All I wanted to say was, that if you happen, during holidays, to hear anything said about Mr. Hugo, you must not let any one think that you have ever known anything about him before. He told me that Mr. Glover gave him a very high recommendation, and that he had little doubt of succeeding in engaging himself here."

"But if Mrs. Pomeroy knows that he came from L., and of course she must, she will be sure to ask me if I have heard you say anything about him," said Emily. "What then?"

"Then you can simply say that I thought him a very good teacher," replied Delia. "I can say that with a safe conscience, for he really does teach admirably, though he is sharp sometimes."

"But I don't understand it yet," said Emily. "Why are you so very anxious to have him here?"

"I am not going to tell you any more at present," said Delia, "you will see for yourself after a while. Only remember your promise."

Emily promised again, and the conversation was ended by the ringing of the night bell, after which all talking was forbidden. But she felt nervous and excited and could not sleep soundly. The wind, too, was awake, and moaned drearily round the corners of the building, rattling the doors and the windows as though trying to find some place to get in.

Their room looked out on a narrow street or alley, seldom used in winter, but Emily felt sure that she more than once heard some one walking under the window. She raised her head to listen. She certainly heard footsteps. They passed on, came back and paused, and then there was a low whistle.

"Delia! Delia!" she whispered. "Wake up and listen. What can that be?"

"I am awake," returned Delia, in the same low tone. "Don't make any noise, Emily, it is all right." She rose from her bed as a second whistle was heard and softly raised the window.

Emily uttered a terrified exclamation, for she was always a coward, and the present state of her mind did not tend to increase her courage.

"Hush, you little goose; you will raise the house!" said Delia in a low but energetic tone. "It is all right, I tell you."

She dropped out something white through the blind as she spoke, and lowered the sash again, but not before some one was heard stirring in the hall.

"There, you have roused Miss Thomas by your noise," said Delia. "Now to put a good face on the matter!"

Candle in hand, Miss Thomas entered as she spoke.

"What are you about, girls?" she said in her sharp way, and looking suspiciously round the room. "I heard some one open the window."

"I opened it, Miss Thomas," replied Delia, with perfect calmness, settling herself in bed once more. "The blinds rattled in the wind, and I got up to try and fix them. Then Emily waked, and seeing me standing there, she was frightened and made a noise."

The explanation seemed probable enough, and Miss Thomas was not inclined to keep up in the cold longer than was necessary. "The blinds are noisy," she remarked. "I wish they might be put in order a little. Good night, and don't let me hear any talking."

"Good night, Miss Thomas!" returned Delia, politely. "And a new pair of spectacles to you," she added, as the door was closed. "Did I not carry it off nicely, Emily?"

Emily made no reply. She did not, indeed, know what to say.

"What a verdant old soul she is, for all her suspicions!" continued Delia. "She is always smelling a rat, as the boys say, but she never can contrive to see one. She is more than half blind, if she would only confess it, but I suppose she would die before she would confess it."

"Oh, Delia, how could you do so? I am sure it is very wrong," exclaimed Emily, finding her voice at last. "What would your father say?"

"What does this mean?" asked Delia in surprise. "How long do you mean to have it last this time—till you want me to run away with you to-morrow, I suppose, to pay a debt which you had no business to make, and about which you have told two or three lies, already. Well, I must say, consistency is a jewel! Perhaps your next fit of it may lead you to betray me to Mrs. Pomeroy."

"For shame, Delia," said Emily, who was now crying bitterly, "you know I would not betray you for anything in the world."

"Well, I hope not, I am sure, but when you begin to talk in that way, I don't know what to make of you, nor what you will take it into your head to do next. But come, don't cry! There is no use in that, and you will only make yourself sick. Only have confidence in me, and I will bring everything out right for you and myself too."

Emily suffered herself to be persuaded, and tried to check her tears, but without success, for her spirits had been deeply burdened for several days, and this was the first time she had given way. She cried herself to sleep, and awoke unrefreshed, miserable with the consciousness of deception and disobedience.

The first thing she thought of was the walk to the dressmakers, and having obtained the desired permission, they set off directly after breakfast that they might have time for their stolen expedition, and still be back before school. As they closed the gate, they saw little Kitty Mastick wrapped in a large shawl and hood coming timidly down the steps.

[Illustration: Kitty Mastick.]

"How very imprudent in Kitty to come out so early!" observed Delia. "I wonder if Mrs. Pomeroy knows it?"

"If it were any one else, I should think she had gone without permission," said Emily. "But, hurry Delia, we have no time to lose."

Their plan was perfectly successful. Miss Sampson kept them only a few minutes, and they almost ran down to the shops, happy at meeting no one by the way. Mr. Barton's face looked unpromising as they entered, but relaxed when Emily took out her purse.

"So you have come to pay the bill!" said he.

"Yes," replied Delia. "You need not have been so dreadful afraid of being cheated, Mr. Barton."

"Well, Miss Mason, when you have been in the fancy business as long as I have, you may learn to be suspicious too," returned Mr. Barton, making change with his usual deliberation. "You see it is an irregular thing for me to allow any of Mrs. Pomeroy's young ladies to make a bill at all, and more than once it has happened that a young lady has gone home for the holidays, promising to pay me when she came back, and that has been the last I have ever heard of it. However, all's well that ends well. There is your bill receipted, Miss, and what goods shall I show this morning?"

"Nothing!" replied Emily, who felt at this moment as though no shop would ever offer any temptations to her again. "Come, Delia, you know we have another errand."

"There is something wrong about that girl," said the shrewd old man, as he watched them out of the shop. "I wonder where she got the money to pay me, for I am sure she did not have it last night. However, that is no business of mine."

Her jeweler's bill turned out less than two dollars, which was considerably below what Emily had expected.

"How thankful I am to have them all off my hands," said she as they walked rapidly back to school, "I never felt so relieved in my life. If any one ever catches me in such a scrape again! There are the other three dollars, Delia, and I am much obliged to you. I shall never forget your kindness as long as I live."

"Keep it," said Delia, putting back the bill which Emily proffered. "You might want some money in holiday time very much, and I can wait for it as well as not! Indeed you had better keep it," she continued, as Emily still held the money in her hand. "You might not like to ask Mrs. Pomeroy for money so soon again. Your father will be sure to send you a supply one of these days, and then you can repay me. There is the first bell; we have saved our distance wisely. I think you must acknowledge Emily, that a friend in need is a friend indeed."

"Yes, that she is!" replied Emily with earnestness. "I would do anything in the world for you Delia!"

"We shall see," said Delia rather coldly, "You know I think much more of practice than of professions. Now don't go into a taking, but put away your things and get ready for school."

As they entered the school-room, they observed that both boarders and day scholars were gathered into groups, talking of something with a great appearance of interest.

"Only think, girls!" began Lucy Spencer, who seemed roused quite beyond her usually quiet manner—but the ringing of the bell on Mrs. Pomeroy's table put a stop to her intended disclosures, and they were obliged to take their seats.

When prayers were over, the girls were to disperse to their daily occupations as usual, when another touch of the bell warned all to resume their seats.

"I have an important matter to mention to you, young ladies," said the principal with more than usual gravity. "Kitty Mastick has lost a ten dollar bill. She very carelessly put it loosely into her pocket when she went out to exercise upon the long walk yesterday, and she supposes she must have dropped it there. What are you doing, Miss Arlington? I wish the attention of all the young ladies."

"I stooped to pick up my handkerchief, Mrs. Pomeroy," replied Emily with a burning blush, telling the first story that came into her mind.

Mrs. Pomeroy noticed the additional color, but supposing it to be caused by the suddenness of her question, she went on,—

"I am very much afraid she will never see it again, as the wind was so high last night, but I hope you will all keep watch, and if any one is so fortunate as to find it, she will bring it directly to me."

Mrs. Pomeroy then made some general remarks upon the evil effect of carelessness, and having dismissed the young ladies to their several employments, she returned to her own room to comfort Kitty, whom she considered to have been already sufficiently punished by the loss of her treasure.

"I should not mind it so much," said the poor little thing amid her sobs, "though I did want to give some presents this Christmas, if I had not been so naughty about it. You told me to put it away carefully, but I was in such a hurry to go out—"

A fresh burst of sobs brought on a terrible fit of coughing, which lasted so long that Mrs. Pomeroy became seriously alarmed and almost feared she would never breathe again. When at last the paroxysm had worn itself out, she was so much exhausted that the only thing to be done was to put her to bed, and keep her as quiet as possible. Such was the termination of the day to which Kitty had looked forward with so much pleasure only the night before.

But Kitty was a docile little creature, and had a wonderfully patient spirit, and before long, she was amusing herself placidly with a story book, and with her dear friends the old cat and her two kittens, which she was allowed as a special favor to have on the bed; while only an occasional quiver of the lip, and a sigh which seemed to come from the very depths of her heart, showed when the loss of her treasure returned to her mind.

Recess came at last to unloose the tongues in the school-room. Of course Kitty's misfortune was the subject of general conversation.

"Mrs. Pomeroy has often told Kitty that it would take some sharp lesson to cure her carelessness," remarked one of the girls; "and she has certainly got it now. I don't believe she will ever do such a thing again."

"I am afraid she will not live to do much more of any thing," said Lucy Spencer, sadly. "She looks so like my little sister that it seems sometimes as if it must be Anne herself. She had just such a cough for a year before she died, and her skin had that clear, waxy look that Kitty's has. I do not believe she will ever live to grow up."

"After all, perhaps it will be as well for her if she does not," remarked one of the elder scholars, a sad and depressed looking girl. "It is a miserable thing for a girl to be dependent upon strangers."

"Mrs. Pomeroy can hardly be called a stranger," replied Lucy. "She knew Mrs. Mastick long before Kitty was born, and besides Alice," she added with a little hesitation, "I do not think any girl need be dependent who has her health and a good education."

"I think you don't know much about it, Lucy," said Miss Parker. She seemed as if she were about to add more, but checked herself abruptly and walked to the other end of the room.

"I wonder why she is always so sad," said Lucy. "As to being dependent, I am sure with her splendid musical talent, she might support herself as she pleased."

"I suppose she thinks herself bound by the wishes of her friends," said Janet Graves, who knew Alice at home. "She was the daughter of a poor relation of Mrs. Williams, who adopted her when she was about ten years old, and agreed to give her the best possible education, upon condition that she should see her own mother only once a year. It seems rather singular that a mother should consent to part with her daughter upon such terms, but no doubt she put aside her own feelings under the idea that she was acting for the good of the child. From what I know of Mrs. Williams, however, I should imagine that Alice might be happier with almost any one else, and a great deal of that vulgar sort of pride which considers poverty a degradation. But for this sort of feeling on the part of Mrs. Williams, Alice would willingly support herself, but she feels herself to be under obligation to the person who has brought her up."

"Kitty will not suffer in that way, at all events," remarked Delia Mason. "I have no doubt Mrs. Pomeroy will be perfectly willing to allow her to work for a living, particularly if she works for her."

"For shame, Delia!" said Lucy, much more sharply than usual with her, "I am sure Mrs. Pomeroy does everything in the world for Kitty, as much as if she was her own daughter."

"Who said she didn't?" asked Delia, laughing. "Were not you saying just now, that it was a wonderful privilege to work for one's living?"

"I said I should prefer to be independent, if that is what you mean."

"Well, then, according to your view, would it not be the greatest kindness Mrs. Pomeroy could do, Kitty, to allow her to be independent as you call it. And would not Kitty herself, naturally prefer living with Mrs. Pomeroy to working for strangers?"

"I never know how to answer you, Delia," replied Lucy, "because I never know whether you are in jest or in earnest."

"It does not greatly matter in this case," returned Delia, carelessly. "However, I hope the poor little thing will find her money. So many people are constantly passing over that walk, that it is very curious it should not have been picked up."

She happened to look at Emily as she spoke, and all at once a light flashed upon her mind. She was very quick witted, and a dozen circumstances at once crowded to her mind, all pointing unmistakably to the same conclusion. Emily had found the money, and had spent it to pay her debts! She went on talking, however, in the same half careless tone.

"But then a stranger, or one of the servants, might have picked it up, in which case, of course, we should hear no more of it."

"I don't quite think it is right to say that, Delia," observed Emily, who had hitherto been very silent, but who now felt the necessity of urging herself to speak. "It is never right to suspect people without reason, and Mrs. Pomeroy thinks all the servants are honest."

"Mrs. Pomeroy always thinks all her own geese, swans," replied Delia. "I fancy servants are pretty much alike about such matters."

"In this case, the wind seems to be the suspected one," said one of the girls. "It blew hard enough last night to carry away a gold piece, let alone a bill."

"The wind did not begin to blow till about nine o'clock," replied Delia, "and the bill was dropped before four. However, that is nothing. It will all come to light, sooner or later."

"I am sorry for the thief, if any one has really stolen it," said Bella Faushane, who had just come in from assisting in the vain search for the missing money; "I should not like to be the one to rob an orphan child! I should never expect to prosper afterwards."

"Ill-gotten gain never prospers," said Lucy.

"Well, I often hear people say so, but I am not so sure about it," said Annette Flower, rather doubtfully. "There was Capt. Brown, of our place—he made a great fortune by all sorts of wickedness—people said he had even been a pirate. I don't know how that was, but there was no doubt at all that he was a very bad man, yet he seemed to be prosperous enough, and he died very rich. Such cases as that seem to contradict your idea, don't it?"

"Perhaps they might, if this life were all," replied Lucy, seriously, "I don't think we could decide the matter, unless we could look beyond the grave, and see how we prospered there."

"Of course," agreed Annette. "He had to leave all his wealth behind him, but so does every one else."

"And he might have carried away with him something which he would have been very glad to leave behind," continued Lucy.

"Yes, if he had to carry all his sins, his money would not do him much good," replied Annette, thoughtfully: "because I suppose, even if he had enjoyed life ever so much, it would seem as nothing to look back upon from the other world. And so it will be with the person who has got Kitty's money."

"Yes, unless he repents and makes restitution," said Lucy.

"We will not suppose that any one has taken it, until we know something about the matter," said Delia, seeing that Emily was in danger of losing her self-control, and anxious for several reasons to prevent any one from coming to the same conclusion as herself. "As Lucy says, it is not fair to suspect any one on such slight grounds, and a hundred things might have happened. You know Grip, Mr. Fletcher's little dog, always tears to pieces every bit of waste paper he finds. Kitty was playing with him at the time she lost it, and he might easily have picked it up and gnawed it all to bits, before any one saw what he was about."

"To be sure," said Bella, "I never thought of that."

"Nor I, till this moment," replied Delia, "though I have often given him bits of paper on purpose to see him play with them. But now, girls, instead of conjecturing any farther as to the money which seems to be hopelessly gone; suppose we set on foot a contribution to replace it. There are so many of us that we can easily make up that sum among ourselves without any one's feeling it, and it would do her so much good. Poor child, she does not have too many pleasures at the best."

"Oh, thank you, Delia, how good-natured of you to think of such a thing," said Lucy, already repenting of having done her companion injustice, even in her thoughts. "But do you think we can raise it? Ten dollars is a good deal of money."

"We can raise as much as we can, at any rate," replied Delia. "You see here are forty boarders, to say nothing of day scholars whom we might include or not as we pleased. If we each give a quarter, there are over ten dollars at once. If the day scholars come into it—"

"Come into what?" asked two or three of the day scholars coming up as she spoke.

Delia unfolded her plan which was received with universal approbation, for the gentle, patient little Kitty was a favorite with all. Delia was appointed treasurer of the fund, and all the girls promised to bring their money in the afternoon.

"How wretchedly Emily Arlington looks lately," remarked Annette, as they were standing round the dinner table, waiting as usual for Mrs. Pomeroy to come in, before taking their seats. "She does not look like the same girl that she was when she first came here. I don't believe school life agrees with her."

"She has been working very hard for the Christmas tree," replied her companion, "and then I dare say she feels the confinement, for she was never at school before in her life. I believe Mrs. Pomeroy thinks she works too hard, for I heard her tell her that she might be excused from study last night."

"She is a good girl," said Annette. "Do you know, she cried this morning, when Mrs. Pomeroy told us about Kitty's losing her money? I saw the tears in her eyes several times."

"Yes, she has a great deal of feeling. But then every one is sorry for Kitty. I think Delia showed her sympathy in the best way by proposing the contribution."

Not one of the girls forgot to bring her money. Delia's little leather bag was quite filled with dimes and quarters, and when she came to count her money, there were twelve dollars instead of ten. Louisa proposed returning the surplus, but none of the girls were willing to take back what they had given, and finally Emily suggested that they should buy a present for Kitty with the extra two dollars, and hang it on the Christmas tree. Her idea was received with great applause, and Bella Faushane and one of the day scholars were appointed a committee to select the present. Emily was placed on the committee but she declined, and could not be prevailed upon to have any thing more to do with the matter, and Delia was put in her place.

"What in the world ails you, Emily?" asked Delia, as she went to her room to put on her bonnet. "It is a new thing for you to decline an opportunity of going out."

"If you had any idea how tired I am and how my head aches, you would not wonder that I am glad to keep quiet," said Emily. "I should wish I were dead, only I am not sure that I should be any better off. Oh dear, I would give all I ever had in the world, if I had never seen the inside of this school."

Delia was touched by the tone of utter despondency, and wretchedness in which Emily spoke. She had fully made up her mind as to the cause of all this misery, but it was no part of her plan to have Emily guess how much she knew, and she answered soothingly, "Oh, don't give way so, Emily. You are only tired and nervous. You will feel better to-morrow."

"I shall never feel better," said Emily, half to herself.

"You will feel better to-morrow," pursued Delia, without appearing to heed the interruption. "You have never been used to school, and you feel everything more upon that account. Take off your dress and lie down, and I will ask Mrs. Pomeroy to let me bring your tea. You will feel refreshed after a good long rest. The girls are all out of doors or in the school-room, so you will have a quiet time."

She busied herself in unfastening Emily's dress and settling her comfortably as she spoke, and Emily submitted passively, thankful for any kindness, too weary to resist, and above all glad to be left alone, that she might throw off the mask of constraint which she had been obliged to wear all day, and which seemed crushing her very life out. Poor Emily.