CHAPTER VII.

STARTLED as she was by the unexpected effects of her words, Delia did not lose her presence of mind. She gently turned the key in the door, and then applying herself to a judicious use of such restoratives as were within reach, she had soon the satisfaction of seeing Emily open her eyes. She seemed bewildered at first, and asked what was the matter.

"You fainted," replied Delia, quietly, continuing to bathe her head.

"Do you feel better?"

Emily looked at her for a moment, and then as the tide of recollection rushed back upon her mind, she turned away her head, and burst into a passion of tears and hysterical sobs.

"Listen to me Emily," said Delia firmly, but not unkindly, and taking Emily's hand in hers. "This will never do. You must command yourself and be quiet, or I shall have to send for Mrs. Pomeroy, and then an exposure will be inevitable. For your own sake, make an effort and compose yourself."

"I wish she did know all about it," said Emily, as soon as she could speak, "and then it would be over."

"I think you are mistaken there," replied Delia. "You do not know as much of schools as I do. Are you quite prepared to take the consequences?"

"What consequences?"

"In the first, place, expulsion from the school. Mrs. Pomeroy, as you well know, values the reputation of her school above every thing else in the world. Do you think she would keep a girl in the house who had deliberately robbed an orphan child, and that child Kitty Mastick, whom she loves as the apple of her eye? It is true she might send you away privately, but that would make little difference. The whole affair would soon become known, and your reputation would be ruined forever. Then where would you go? You have no home. Your father—"

Emily groaned, but Delia pitilessly pursued her course—

"Your father, as you always say, detests nothing so much as dishonesty in money matters, and from what you have told me of him, I imagine that he would visit such a sin more severely upon the head of his own daughter, than upon that of a stranger. If you were terrified at the very idea of his knowing that you had made a little bill at a store, with what sort of feeling will you tell him that you have stolen money enough to send you to the Penitentiary?"

"I wish I were dead—I do wish I were dead," said Emily despairingly.

"That is quite useless; and if all Mr. Fletcher says is true, you would not improve your condition much by dying. No, Emily, the case is simply this. You must listen to reason and be guided by me, and I promise you that I will be your friend; but then you must be willing to do something for me in return. I can save you from expulsion and disgrace, and I will do so, but it must be on my own terms."

"And how do I know that you will not bring me to disgrace instead of saving me from it?" demanded Emily.

"Simply because I have not yet done so," replied Delia. "Though I have known your secret from the beginning, I have never before hinted my knowledge even to you, nor should I have done so now, if you had not forced it upon me."

"But to have disgrace always hanging over my head—always to be under—" Emily shuddered without finishing the sentence. "No, Delia, I cannot bear it. I must confess and have it over at once; I will go to Mrs. Pomeroy this minute."

She tried to rise from the bed as she spoke, but her head was still giddy—the room seemed to turn dark, and she nearly fell. Delia caught her, replaced her on the bed without speaking, and then turning the key in the lock, she opened the door as if to go out.

"Where are you going?" asked Emily, fearing she knew not what.

"I am going to ask Mrs. Pomeroy to give me another room-mate," said Delia decidedly. "If she asks me the reason, of course I shall have to tell her the whole story."

"You forget that I have also a story to tell!"

"And who will believe you? You have no proof. No one has seen the letter but yourself, and it is not now in existence; while I have my corrected exercise to show, and all the girls will bear witness to my conduct in class. You have told Mrs. Pomeroy more than one lie already, and she will think you have manufactured this story, simply out of revenge. I repeat again, you have not one particle of proof for your story, while I have plenty for mine."

Emily had nothing to say. She saw how completely she had ensnared herself, and that Delia had her altogether in her power.

"At the same time," continued Delia, her tone relenting a little, "I have not the least desire to make an ungenerous use of my knowledge. I do not want to injure you, and I think I have proved it by not betraying you at the time of the inquiry. I repeat, if you will be guided entirely by me, I will save you from disgrace and ruin, and all things shall go well. You have no occasion to trouble yourself as to how my affairs are likely to turn out. I am perfectly well able to manage them myself. Take your choice! Promise to be guided by me, and to help me when I wish it, or prepare yourself for expulsion from school, perhaps for being discarded by your father, for the ruin of your reputation, and of all your prospects in life. It is now half past eleven. I give you till twelve o'clock to make up your mind."

"You are so hard upon me, Delia!" pleaded poor Emily.

"I have no desire to be so," returned Delia, in a softened tone. "I want to serve you if I can. How many girls in this school would have done for you what I have done? Do you think Lucy Spencer or Belle Faushane would have gone on treating you just the same as before, if they had known what I know? Would they have lent you money without the least chance of being repaid, or risked disgrace for themselves to keep it from you? I don't say these things by way of upbraiding you, Emily; you know very well that is not my way. I only wish to set before you the reasons you have for confiding in me. But I will say no more. I leave you to make your own decision."

Delia took up her book, and seating here by the window was soon apparently absorbed in study.

The tumult in Emily's mind maybe better imagined than described. At one moment she thought she would confess, at all hazards. Then came the thought of all the train of consequences which Delia had set before her. Mrs. Pomeroy's anger—the stern wrath of her father, of whose uncompromising temper she had already had some experience, and who would feel himself involved in her disgrace—the contempt of her schoolmates, with whom she had always been a favorite, and the loss of the good opinion of Mr. Fletcher—all these lay in her way. What a despicable hypocrite they would think her, especially after her late religious professions!

How Almira Crosby, and Sue Dayton, and all that set of girls would triumph, not only over her, but over Lucy and Belle, and all the religious girls in the school. There would be some reason in what they were always saying—that after all, people were no better for being so pious. The cause of true religion in the school would receive a wound, through her fault, from which it might be years in recovering. Would it not be better, if only upon that account, to conceal the matter, even though such a concealment involved the necessity of a certain complicity in Delia's designs, which, after all, might never come to any thing?

Delia was not the only one in the school who did such things. There was Jane Emmons—she corresponded all last term with a young gentleman she had never seen, sending her letters in those of his sister, and all the girls knew she did, but nothing came of it, and Almira Crosby had almost always some love affair in hand. Delia was shrewd enough, and would keep herself from disgrace, and suppose she did marry Mr. Hugo, what harm would there be in that? A great many people married teachers. Mrs. Pomeroy's own niece had done so, and every one thought it a fine thing for her. Besides, Delia was so determined, that she would have her own way at any rate, so that by interfering she probably would succeed in ruining herself, without saving her friends.

And then came the bitter reflection that she had indeed no proof of her assertions, while Delia had plenty of them. Who would believe a thief and a convicted liar?

Then, after all, something might turn up. Delia or Mr. Hugo might go away, or she might leave school herself—her father might send her some money, or perhaps—she shuddered at the idea that she could find relief in such a supposition—perhaps he might never return. Was it not better to run the chances of concealment, rather than those of exposure?

Was it not better, at least, to wait? At any rate, she did not see that she could do any thing else at present, but accede to Delia's proposition, and by and by she might take advantage of some favorable time and set the matter right, so far as it was now possible to do so. By confessing at present, she could do nothing but harm to herself, to Delia, and the cause of religion. She should leave school some time, and then she could write to Mrs. Pomeroy, tell the whole story, and enclose the money. At present she could only keep silence.

The twelve o'clock bell rang as she came to this conclusion, and Delia closed her book and turned round.

"Well, Emily!"

"I don't see what I can do, except to follow your advice," said Emily. "I have no choice. But oh, Delia, don't ask me to do any thing else that is wrong! I have sins enough upon my conscience already."

"I have not asked you to do any thing, except to keep silence," returned Delia. "All the rest I can manage myself. You are not obliged to know any more than I choose to tell you, and if I want you to give me any active help, I will be sure to contrive matters so that no harm shall happen to you."

"That is true," said Emily, catching eagerly at the first part of the reply, and hardly heeding the concluding sentence. "It is only keeping silence, after all, and Mrs. Pomeroy herself says, she never wants us to tell of each other. I promise you, Delia."

"That is acting like my own sensible Emily," said Delia, kissing her. "I was sure you would come to the right view of the case at last, and I promise you in return, that I will never betray your secret so long as you are faithful to me. Not only that, but I will take care that other people do not suspect you. You must be aware that there are many prying eyes about this house, besides Mrs. Pomeroy's. Almira Crosby and her set would be perfectly delighted to find out one of the 'pious girls,' as they call them, in such a scrape."

"I thought of that," said Emily, in a low tone.

"I don't pretend to be influenced by such considerations, myself," continued Delia, "though I think it very bad taste to talk upon those subjects as Almira does—but if I were—however, that is not what I was going to say. You know how prying Almira is. She was never quite satisfied about that money, and she is always hinting that she will find out about it some day. But I know how to manage her ladyship, and I think I can insure you from any mischief from that quarter. I know too many of her secrets for her to be very willing to offend me."

"How much better off people are, who have no secrets at all," sighed Emily. "I don't suppose either Lucy or Belle ever had a concealment in their lives—"

"There are about half a dozen girls in this school whom we can thoroughly respect!" said Delia, with considerable feeling. "There is Lucy to begin with, and there is Janet Graves, though the girls do call her the Queen of Sheba, and Belle, though she is not always careful enough of what she says, and poor dear Annette, and three or four others, who have a right to call themselves Christians. I should not mind exchanging places with any of them. As for the rest—I did not mean to hurt your feelings," she added, seeing the tears in Emily's eyes, "but you must be aware that it is not possible for me to consider you very consistent."

Emily sighed. "I cannot blame you, Delia. I don't think I shall ever make any more pretensions in that way. Oh, how I wish I had never come to school."

"It seems to me that your religious principles could not be worth much, if they only kept you out of trouble just so long as you could not get into it," replied Delia. "But never mind that now. The dinner bell will ring in a few minutes, and you will not have more than time to get ready. Try to sit up, and I will brush your hair for you."

"I don't believe I can possibly go down to dinner," said Emily. "Every thing turns dark to me the moment I rise up. I shall faint at table, if I try."

"I don't believe you can, indeed," said Delia, watching her friend's changing color. "Lie down again, and I will make your excuses, and get Mrs. Pomeroy to send you something. You had better lie still till tea-time, and if Mrs. Pomeroy comes to see you, take care you don't betray yourself. I shall tell her that you stood too long at the blackboard, and fainted away in consequence. Mr. Hugo does keep the girls up there an unconscionable time. I shall speak to him about it."

Delia was as good as her word. Her excuse was accepted, and she obtained permission to carry up Emily's dinner herself. Mrs. Pomeroy soon followed to ascertain Emily's condition, satisfied herself that the attack was not a dangerous one, and would be best treated by allowing the patient to lie still, excused her from duty, and sent her an entertaining book to read; rather to the disgust of Miss Thomas, who was accustomed to look upon all illness among the girls as only a pretext to escape from school duties, and who thought that Emily might as well have amused herself with her algebra and slate.

By tea-time, Emily was so far recovered as to be able to go down, but all the girls noticed her paleness and want of appetite. Delia had told all inquirers that Emily had fainted in consequence of standing too long at the blackboard, and they were all very ready to believe it—the blackboard exercise being a very unpopular innovation introduced by Mr. Hugo.

Almira connected Emily's illness with the affair of the exercise, and decided that there must be something in it after all, but on hinting her suspicions to Delia, she received from that young lady such an answer as convinced her that she had much better hold her peace.

All things now went on in their accustomed train for some time. Delia handed in her exercise every day, and received a paper in return, but Emily neither knew nor sought to know whether the correspondence was continued. Mr. Hugo won golden opinions from all sorts of people about the house, unless it might be from Mr. Fletcher, who never expressed any opinion whatever. The girls liked him because he gave moderate lessons, and explained them clearly—and Mrs. Pomeroy was pleased with his manners, and thought his appearance creditable to the school. Emily regarded him with mingled disgust and terror, but she kept out of his way, and never spoke to him if she could help it.

The end of February was marked with extraordinary mild weather for the season. The brook in the garden babbled as freely as in summer, there was no ice on the lake, and warm clothing was really burdensome. If it had only been as pleasant under foot as over head, the weather would have been delightful; even as it was, many long walks were enjoyed in spite of the mud, and woeful were the complaints of the laundress at the number of white skirts and stockings that the young ladies put in the wash. The only really dry promenades in the neighborhood were the long paved walks in the garden, which being swept every day, were always clean and pleasant, and consequently very popular.

"How I should like to come down here by moonlight, sometime," said Emily, one afternoon, when nearly the whole school were amusing themselves on these walks.

"You had better let Miss Thomas hear you say 'moonlight,'" said Belle Faushane, laughing. "She would think you were all ready to make a runaway match to-morrow, and she would watch you as a cat watches a mouse."

"It would not be very difficult to escape from her if she did," observed Emily. "She is so near-sighted that she cannot distinguish countenances six yards off. I would wear spectacles, if I was in her place."

"It would be much better," said Lucy, "but she is so absurdly sensitive on the subject, that there is no use in talking to her about it. The only time I ever got into disgrace with her, was by asking her very innocently, why she did not wear glasses. She did not get over it for a week, and I got more marks during that week than I ever had before or since. But she is a good soul, in spite of her crotchets."

"So she is," said Janet. "It is a pity she should think so much of her personal appearance, for it really injures her influence in the school. I should think any woman could be above thinking all the time, whether she was looking as pretty as she possibly could. It seems so degrading."

"There spoke the Queen of Sheba!" said Emily laughing.

Janet laughed, too. She had borne the nickname too long to be sensitive about it, and she had long ago learned the great secret that the best way of disarming ridicule is to laugh one's self. She could well afford to be laughed at a little, as notwithstanding her dignified carriage and grand airs, as the girls called them, her obliging disposition made her a general favorite in the school, and all the little girls especially, all but worshipped her. She accepted the sobriquet of Queen of Sheba with a perfectly good grace, and answering to it as readily as to her own name, and she had borne it so long that even Mrs. Pomeroy ceased to look grave when she heard it.

"I really should like to come down here by moonlight," said Emily to Delia, after the other girls had left them. "The moon will be almost full to-night, and it will be as bright as day."

"I am coming out," said Delia quietly, "and as I want you to come with me, your desire will be gratified."

"You don't really mean it," said Emily, surprised. "How in the world will you manage to get permission!"

"I shall take it," replied Delia.

"But how will you get out?"

"Easily enough. We will go to bed as usual, but without entirely undressing, and wait till every thing is quiet. Then we will put on our frocks and cloaks, and taking the water pitcher, we will go down quietly and slip out of the garden door. Miss Thomas is officer, and she sleeps as sound as a log, and besides, if she does catch a glimpse of us, she is so near-sighted she will never know who it is."

"But suppose she comes down and catches us?"

"Then we will say we went out for some water, which is no very heinous crime. Some of the girls do so every little while, and even they are caught, there is very little said about it."

Emily could not help feeling some misgiving, but she had been so passive in Delia's hands, that she hardly thought of dissenting from any plan that the other proposed. Then, too, she really enjoyed the idea of a ramble in the garden by moonlight, and as she said, "There was no more harm in walking by moonlight than by daylight," forgetting that the harm lay not in the nature of the act itself, but in the disobedience it involved.

But as the Scotch poet remarks in the oft quoted lines—

"The best laid schemes of mice and men Gang aft agley."

About sunset, the sky became overcast, and a heavy winding wind coming up from the southwest, drove before it such a tremendous shower of rain, that Emily decided at once that the expedition must be given up.

Delia was not quite so ready to be convinced. She looked dismayed when the first burst of rain rattled against the window, but prophesied that it would not last long, and that the sky would be as bright as ever in half an hour. But the clouds thickened more and more—the wind came in heavier and heavier gusts, and shook the building sensibly. Presently one of the large school-room windows was driven in with a tremendous crash, the glass flying half across the room, and at the same time, a bright flash was followed by a terrific peal of thunder which shook the building like an earthquake.

A scene of confusion ensued, such as that school-room had seldom seen. A chorus of shrieks rose up from the terrified girls, who all thought the building had been struck by lightning. Even Miss Gilbert uttered a terrified exclamation. Alice Parker fainted away, and Almira Cosby went into hysterics, while even the most energetic and sensible of the girls were paralyzed for the moment.

Good Mr. Holz, who had come into the school-room for a missing book, rushed to the window and put his head out with a vague idea of doing something, when the wind catching his wig, it was carried up into the air, and borne away to parts unknown. Having offered this propitiatory sacrifice to the powers of the elements, Mr. Holz returned to his place, meekly conscious of the comical appearance of his bald head, as contrasted with his heavy moustache and whiskers, and seemed to be pondering as to what he should do next.

Another loud peal of thunder augmented the alarm of the girls, and at the same moment, a gust of wind extinguished the remaining light, all but a solitary gas jet over the desk, which happened to be covered by a shade. A new burst of shrieks was heard above the roar of the elements, and the confusion was at its height, when a man's voice made itself heard, calm and clear amid all the tumult—

"What is the meaning of all this noise? Let me have silence instantly!"

The noise was hushed on the instant, and all eyes were now turned to the desk, where stood Mr. Fletcher. His cloak was dripping with wet, as though he had just come in, but he stood composedly at his post, looking with flashing eyes, upon the disorderly assembly.

"Silence!" he commanded again, as a hysterical sob made itself heard. "Almira Crosby, sit up and be quiet."

Almira's sobs ceased. Much as she feared the storm, she feared Mr. Fletcher more.

"It is impossible for you to stay here," he continued in a quiet way, as though in the exercise of his ordinary school duties. "The window cannot be repaired immediately, and the room is quite cold. You will therefore go quietly to the dining room, and take your seats there with as little confusion as possible. Miss Graves, Miss Spencer, Miss Mason, you seem to have your wits about you: please take charge of the little girls; Miss Faushane and Annette will attend to Miss Parker; Miss Gilbert will you have the kindness to go before and see that the lamps are lighted."

The confusion was quelled at once. Every one felt relieved at leaving the exposed school-room, while the coolness and promptitude displayed by Mr. Fletcher calmed the fears of the most timid. Lucy, Janet, and Delia, each took one or two of the little ones by the hand; Miss Parker roused herself by a brave effort, and all were soon quietly seated in the dining room, which was sheltered from the wind, and where the closed blinds kept out the glare of the lightning.

Mr. Fletcher was too wise to expect impossibilities. He had seen upon his first entrance into the school-room, that authority was absolutely needful, and he had used it accordingly. But he also saw that the girls' minds were in no condition for study, and he did not require it of them, while at the same time, he endeavored to divert them from their fears. He spoke of a thunder storm in winter as a thing unusual, indeed, but by no means unprecedented, and described two or three remarkable instances which he had witnessed in different parts of the globe. Then, in answer to some questions, he diverged to other incidents and scenes of his extensive travels, describing scenery and manners with that vividness which belonged to him, and which kept every one's attention entranced as long as he chose to speak.

After a time, seeing that the painful excitement had passed away, he returned again to the events of the evening. He uttered a mild reproof for the alarm, and the lack of presence of mind which had been manifested by the girls in general, "with some honorable exceptions," and recalled to their thoughts the fact that wind and storm fulfil the word of the Almighty, who is also the All-wise and the All-merciful, and to whom the night is as clear as the day. Even the giddiest of the girls felt ashamed of her terror as she listened.

And they were few who did not join heart and soul in the prayer which followed these remarks.

By bed-time, the minds of all were tranquilized and prepared for repose. The storm, too, had passed over, and the moon was shining as brightly as ever.

"You will hardly think of taking a walk to-night," said Emily to Delia, as they were undressing. Since the day of their memorable explanation, she had given up even the semblance of prayer, feeling it to be, as indeed it was, only a mockery of the Almighty.

"No, indeed," replied Delia, "nothing would tempt me to go."

"Mr. Fletcher complimented you on having your wits about you," pursued Emily, "but I think you were as much frightened as any of us. I saw you turn pale at every clap of thunder, and even when all the rest of us were attending to Mr. Fletcher's stories, you seemed to be listening to the wind."

"I was very much frightened," replied Delia, "but you know it is not my way to make a fuss about things. Do you know, Emily, I could not help feeling as though it were a warning?"

"I had the same feeling," replied Emily.

"A thunder storm is not like any other danger," pursued Delia, thoughtfully. "One is so perfectly helpless. In sickness, or an accident, or even in case of fire, there is always something that one can do, but in a storm there is nothing for it but to sit still and await one's doom. I suppose really religious people feel differently, though Alice Parker was as much alarmed as any one. She was the only person that fainted."

"You know her health is very delicate," said Emily, apologetically. "But about the storm—I felt just as you did—that it was a warning. Oh, Delia, let us take it so. Let us leave off doing wrong, and try to do as we ought. I am sure we shall both be happier in the end. Just think, if we had been killed, where should we be now?"

Emily hid her face, and wept bitterly, and even Delia seemed affected, and said seriously that she would think of it. She evidently desired to avoid further conversation upon the subject, and Emily could not force it upon her.

"To-morrow!" said Delia to herself, as so many have said before her. To-morrow came, and found her seriousness vanished. She made light of her alarm of the night before, and when Emily adverted to their conversation, she turned it off with a jest and an allusion to the past, which silenced Emily completely.

"A thunder storm is not enough to convert me, Emily. It will require an earthquake, at the very least, and then you will see that I shall stay converted. My religion will not be of the intermittent kind."

Of course the storm and its result were the subjects of conversation for the day, and many were the jokes uttered at the expense of the hysterical young ladies, and of poor Mr. Holz, whose wig had been discovered by Cornelius Agrippa, lying on the ground in the farthest part of the garden, and brought to his master by that sagacious quadruped, who was clearly under the impression that he had discovered a rare specimen of the animal kingdom.

"You may laugh, if you please," said Belle, who always took the part of the meek little music master. "Mr. Holz at least tried to do something. He did not think only of himself, as most of the rest of us did. Wasn't Mr. Fletcher grand, though? I wonder what it is about him, that always governs every body on the instant. Even Almira acknowledged the force of his genius last night. Which did you fear most, Almira, the thunder or the Professor?"

"Well, I am afraid of him," said Almira, sulkily, "and I cannot bear him. For my part, I think it was very hard-hearted in him to show so little regard to our feelings. He told me to be quick, as though I had been a dog."

"You should have minded the first time," said Belle. "Besides, you know that you made more than half of it. It was not more than five minutes after we got into the dining room, before I saw you eating the cake you stole from the tea-table."

"Perhaps it was the consciousness of the theft that shamed her," remarked some one in the group. "But Alice fainted away, and Mr. Fletcher did not scold her at all."

"Thunder always makes me faint," said Alice. "It is not because I am afraid, either, for I should like to watch the storm coming up, if it did not make me sick. I suppose it must be something in the air. I had been feeling very unwell for some time before the window blew in, but I thought I would brave it out. You know I never could make the experiment with the electrical machines, because they made my head ache so."

"Yes, and if it had been any one but you, Mr. Fletcher would say it was affectation," returned Almira.

"Oh, Almira!" said Lucy. "I think there are a good many girls in this school whose word Mr. Fletcher would take in such a case."

"Well, I was frightened for one, I confess," said Annette, "though I tried hard not to show it on account of the children, for I remembered how I was first taught to be afraid of thunder."

"How?" asked some one.

"By seeing other people afraid. I had never thought of such a thing till I was almost five years old, but I used to stand at the window and watch the flashes. About that time a lady came to our house, who was afraid of all sorts of things, especially of thunder. It was not long before a storm came up, and she flew round the house, shutting all the windows and doors—"

"A very unphilosophical thing to do," interrupted Janet, "as any one may see who takes the trouble to think about it."

"Well, at any rate she did it, and then she got into the middle of a feather bed, and there she sat and covered her eyes and cried. Of course I thought something dreadful was going to happen, and I cried and screamed because she did. That was the first time I thought of being afraid of thunder, and it was a long, long time before I got over it."

"What cured you at last?" asked Emily, who had come out of her room just in time to hear Annette's story.

"Why, I was sitting up with my little sister one night. She had had a dreadful time of the ear-ache, and had not slept any for several nights, nor mother either, and finally I persuaded her to go to bed and leave Josy with me. I sang to her, and told her stories, and after a while she got asleep in my lap. About eleven o'clock a terrible thunder storm came up—oh, a great deal worse than that last night. I had left the blinds open and the curtains up to please Josy, because she liked to look out and see the moonlight, and of course, as she was asleep in my arms, I could not get up to shut them."

"Couldn't you put her down?" asked Almira.

"Not without waking her, and I wouldn't have done that for the world. She did not seem to mind the thunder at all, though it was the loudest I ever heard. So I began to repeat all the Psalms and Bible verses I could remember, and then all the hymns, and I managed to sit still all through the storm, though it was pretty hard work, especially as the lightning struck a tree in the meadow close by our house."

"How could you do it?" asked Almira.

"Why I had to!" said Annette. "Because I did not want to wake mother or Josy. Mother never knew a word about it till morning."

"Well," said Almira, "all I have to say is, I should like to see myself sitting with the blinds open all through a thunder storm, for fear of waking one of our young ones. I guess it will be after this when I do."

"I guess it will!" said Belle. "And did that cure you, Manny?"

"Pretty much," replied Annette. "I never seemed to care much for thunder after that. I always say to myself, if I could keep from making a fuss once, I can again; and besides," she added, blushing, as she always did when she spoke on religious subjects,—"you know Somebody can take care of us as well in a thunder storm as any other time."

"True!" said Belle. "And it certainly shows a want of faith in Him to be so much alarmed." She looked at Emily as she spoke, but Emily did not answer, and the bell now summoned them to the French class.

The Professor was undeniably cross this morning. The lessons had been somewhat interrupted by the events of the evening before, and were not as well prepared as usual, but Mr. Hugo seemed to think the storm offered no excuse, and was particularly severe upon those who could be induced to break their engagement by a paltry disturbance of the elements. Fears like those, he said, were unworthy of rational beings, and none but fools would indulge them, either in themselves or others. The young ladies might be glad that they had not him to deal with.

"I am!" whispered Janet to her neighbor. "I perfectly agree with him there."

"What insolence is that Miss Graves?" thundered the Professor. "Repeat your remark!"

"My remark was that I agreed with you," returned the Queen of Sheba with spirit—"if you consider that impertinent. Permit me to add, that I never am guilty of insolence myself, nor do I suffer it from others."

Two or three of the girls looked terribly frightened, but Mr. Hugo only bowed grimly, and said as the subject of the storm seemed exhausted, they would now proceed with the lesson.

"What ailed Mr. Hugo?" asked Emily of Delia, after they had returned to their room. "He was perfectly savage, and I for one was glad that Janet answered him as she did. I must say I think his insinuations about Mr. Fletcher were very improper."

"It was uncalled for certainly," said Delia. "No one can deny that Mr. Fletcher behaved very well. But every one is out of humor sometimes, and I dare say he had had something to vex him before he came, We must have our walk to-night, Emily."

Emily was now very unwilling to consent to the scheme, and reminded Delia of what she had said the night before, but Delia only laughed and said it was certainly very foolish, as Mr. Hugo said, to be frightened from one's purpose by a mere disturbance of the elements. It was not however without a great deal of persuasion, and even an insinuated threat, that Emily consented, with many misgivings, to accompany Delia on her stolen expedition.