Laura Richards
Honor Bright

Honor looked at him, wondering. His face was like a lamp. Books? Of course, one always had books; some of them were good, but others were dull.

“But – but you have the mountains, Zitli,” she cried.

A perfect shower of nods responded. “Ah! yes! I return to the mountains, that understands itself. But with a little learning, too, all I can get, my faith! I shall love my mountains the better for it, and they also will understand. They are not ignorant fellows, those!”

He nodded toward the grave giants, who seemed to watch them kindly. “And – who knows, Mademoiselle? We may meet some day in Vevay. I might even sell Mademoiselle a cheese, if old Gruyère would permit it. My faith! if my sister Margoton waits too long, that one will dry up and blow away. Better might she marry a cockchafer, to my thinking. But he is a kind man, and a sober,” he added hastily. Honor knew he was thinking of Uncle Kissel.

Now Gretli was heard calling.

“I must go!” cried Honor. “We will surely meet in Vevay, Zitli. You will come to see me, won’t you? And you’ll tell me – ”

Both were hobbling as fast as they could, for Gretli sounded imperative, though cheerful. Sure enough, when they reached the front of the châlet, there was Atli, smiling his broadest (which was very broad!) and holding in his hands a curious kind of chair; canvas seat, wooden arms, with an arrangement of straps and buckles fastened to the top. These straps, he explained, went round his neck and waist; one even encircled his head. As thus!

Suiting the action to the word, with Gretli’s help he assumed the harness, shifting a strap here, a buckle there, till, he said, it was easy enough to sleep in.

“Now if Mademoiselle will take her seat, she will find herself as if in the pocket of Ste. Gêneviève!” he declared, as Gretli had declared a week ago. Ah! a week ago!

Honor flung herself into Gretli’s arms, murmuring in a half-choked voice her good-by, thanks, love, many things that at fourteen one feels as never before or after. The good giantess was quite overcome, and returned the caress heartily.

“Au revoir, my little Mademoiselle,” she cried. “Till thou comest again, my cabbage! ah! for example! thou takest our hearts with thee, little one!”

“Good-by, Zitli!” said Honor, making a brave effort to steady her voice. She would not cry any more!

“Don’t forget me, Zitli!”

“Sapperli poppette!” Zitli’s own eyes were suspiciously bright, and he was blinking hard. “Does one forget the sunshine, Mademoiselle? And – and remember the cheese I am to sell you!”

“All ready, Atli! oh, yes, as comfy as can be, thank you! Good-by, dear, dear châlet! Good-by, Gretli! good-by, Zitli! don’t forget me! Oh! there are the goats! good-by, Nanni, Séraphine, Moufflon! where – oh, there is Bimbo! Good-by, dear Bimbo! and thank you, oh, thank you a hundred thousand times, for knocking me down!”

A waving hand; a bright head turning ever backward for a last look; a clear voice calling, faint and fainter as the big shepherd strode down the mountain path; so Honor left her Alps, and went back to her other world.

CHAPTER XII
STORMY WEATHER

“What is it?” asked Honor. “Is it a birthday? Whose, then?”

“Goose!” said Patricia Desmond. “It is a re-birthday, don’t you see? You died up there – or any one else would have died – of sheer dullness; now you are alive again, that’s all. Don’t be stupid, Moriole!”

The dining room of the Pension Madeleine was ablaze, with lights; there must have been fully a dozen candles, where ordinarily two sufficed. The table was decked with flowers and bonbons; the best china was displayed, that with the roses and the gold sprig, even to the four tall compotières which seldom emerged from their cupboard. Now they stood at the four corners of the table, filled with translucent preserves of Madame’s very best; peach, apricot, greengage, nectarine. Little Loulou heaved a sigh of rapture, and clasped her hands.

“Ah! Moriole,” she cried, “how we are glad of thy return!”

Seeing Honor stand bewildered, Madame came forward and took her by the hand.

“It is for thee, little one!” she said in her kind, cordial voice. “It is thy festival of return. Welcome back, my child, to our home and to our hearts!”

She must not cry! it would be wicked, not to say ridiculous. She must be glad, and thankful. Honor clenched her hands and shook herself; no tears fell, though her eyes brimmed with them. Her voice trembled as she stammered out her thanks, but it was full of real affection and gratitude. How dear it was of them! how kind they all were! and how could they possibly know?

She sat in the place of honor at Madame’s right hand. Next her was Patricia, regally beautiful in pale green organdie, which set off her exquisite fairness to perfection. Opposite was Stephanie, in her best frock of red silk, with narrow black velvet ribbon – three rows of it – on skirt and bodice. (Floods of tears had been shed over this ribbon. Stephanie wanted five rows; her thrifty mother considered two enough; it was Honor who suggested the compromise of three, and restored harmony to the household.)

Vivette, too, was in her best, the black alpaca which was only less rusty than the one she wore every day. Vivette, so pretty, who might be made so chic if one could only dress her properly. How often had Honor and Patricia debated as to how they would dress Vivette had they but the power! Patricia was for apricot velvet with topazes; Honor maintained that Nile green satin with emeralds was the only thing. Vivette, stolidly French, smiled, and thanked them both, but was entirely satisfied with the suitability of her sober dress.

Jacqueline de la Tour de Provence sat next Vivette, all in white. It was the gala costume of her House, she whispered to Honor. The La Tour de Provences never rejoiced in colors. She spoke gravely, conveying the impression that the wearing of white had originated in, and was confined to, the House of which she spoke. A smile trembled on Honor’s lips, but she suppressed it, and gave a glance of appreciation instead. This too was kindly meant.

Among all the bright faces glowing with pleasure and affection was one which startled Honor as she glanced round the table. Maria Patterson sat in her accustomed place between Rose Marie and little Loulou, both of whom were bubbling with joyous talk; she paid no attention to them, nor, it seemed, they to her. Her eyes were bent on her plate; her face was dark and gloomy. Never an attractive girl, there was, it struck Honor, something tragic in Maria’s face now. What could be the matter? Had she had bad news from home, or was she ill? Honor’s sympathy was ready to flow in any direction; sad at heart herself, she felt strangely out of place in this gay party. Was poor Maria sad too? Honor tried to catch her eye, but without success; the girl never looked up from her plate, but ate her supper in sullen silence.

The dessert appeared; a wonderful Charlotte Russe, Honor’s favorite dish; orange jelly with whipped cream; little cakes in profusion, white, pink, brown.

“Ah! Moriole,” sighed the descendant of good Queen Bertha; “would you might return to us every day, cherished one!”

Now appeared pretty, smiling Sophie, trimmest and most correct of maids, bearing a great jug of crystal and gold, the glory of the Pension. It had been given to Madame by the Countess of Lablache-Tournay, “her affectionate and ever-grateful pupil,” as the inscription read. It was filled with “nectar,” Madame’s own special compound of orgeat, raspberry syrup and lemon, which must be tasted to be appreciated. The tall glasses were filled; Madame Madeleine rose, and in a few simple words welcomed “their beloved young friend, pupil, compagne”, whose absence had darkened the horizon of their family life, whose return once more brought light and joy to their little circle. As was well known, Madame had little knowledge of the majestic language which was the native speech of their dear Honor, and of several other of her young friends. She would ask her sister to express for them both, in English, the sentiments which at the present auspicious moment filled their bosoms.

With an affectionate glance and a wave of her kind hand, Madame sat down, and Soeur Séraphine rose to her feet. There was a flush on the clear rose-white of the little Sister’s cheek; her voice trembled as she began.

“My dear Honor, and young ladies; eet ees wiz grand plaisir– pardon! eet ees wiz ’eart-felt plaisure zat I bid you vonce more vell come to Pension Madeleine. We ’ave meessed you treestfulli. Ze ’ouse vas not ze semm wizout La Moriole, ze birrd of plumage d’or, of golden fezzaires I should to say. And zou, petite, hast also been long for ze pension, n’est-ce pas? As says ze poète Jonovard Payne,

 
“Be eet evair so ombel,
Zere’s no place like ’ome!”
 

And ze immortel Shakspire, ’e say also —n’importe! zat escape from my mind. We ozzaires, in Pension Madeleine, ve are not poète, ve ’ave not ze génie, but our ’earts zey seeng wiz joy, and yet von time ve bid vell-come back our dear Honor!”

Soeur Séraphine kissed her hand to Honor, and sat down amid tumultuous applause.

“Speech!” cried Patricia. “Speech!” cried all the girls, echoing the cry in varying shades of English; all save Maria Patterson, who still sat, an image of gloom, staring at her plate.

Blushing and tearful, Honor rose.

“Thank you! oh, thank you all!” she cried. “I am so – so glad to see you all again. Dear Madame, dear Sister, you are perfectly angelic to give me this lovely party. I – I can’t say anything but thank you, but I do, with all my heart!”

She could at least say this. She was glad to see them, all the dear good friends. Not to come back – no! no! to say that would be telling a lie; but to see the kind, friendly faces, to hear the welcoming voices – of course she was glad! she would be a wicked, wicked girl if she were not.

At last the feast was over, and after grace and réverénces, the girls swept out laughing and chattering, into the garden. Here they surrounded Honor, seizing her hands, pulling her this way and that, all talking at once.

“This way, Honor! come with me!”

“À moi, Moriole! I have a thousand things to say to thee. Ah! for example, Loulou, cease thy pushing, little imbecile!”

“There’s no particular sense in smothering Honor to death!” drawled Patricia. “I prefer her alive myself. Sit down here on the bench, Moriole! I’ll keep them off you with this rake.”

Honor sat down, out of breath, and looked round. Stephanie, Patricia, Rose Marie, Vivette, – were they all here? No!

“Girls,” she asked abruptly, “what’s the matter with Maria Patterson?”

Silence. The girls all looked at each other; then they looked at Patricia. No one except Honor was very fond of Patricia; her tongue was too biting, and she was too openly contemptuous of them all – still excepting La Moriole; but they admired as much as they feared her, and were accustomed to follow her lead, even Stephanie, who detested her.

Patricia now looked up with a peculiar smile that Honor knew well, and gave a little shrug of her graceful shoulders.

“Maria Patterson? My dear, she has ceased to exist, for us. As to what is the matter with her” – another shrug. “What does it matter what is the matter with her? Pouf! I blow her away. Tell us about your exile, child! we are all dying to hear.”

“Not till I know about Maria!” Honor’s tone was resolute; she was not in the least afraid of Patricia.

“And why this sudden interest in Maria Patterson, if I may ask?” Patricia was still smiling in the way Honor knew and did not like. “She never was your heart’s own that I know of, chérie. What, I say, does it matter about her? We are all happy, aren’t we?”

“Voyons, Patricia! tell her!” said Vivette. “We know our Moriole. When her face sets in that manner, she is Gibraltar in person. If we want to hear anything, we must first tell; that sees itself.”

“Tell yourself, then!” Patricia yawned delicately. “The subject fails to interest me.”

Honor turned to Vivette, whose honest face was pleasanter to look on at this moment than that of the school beauty.

“Marie is – avay!” said Vivette. “She is vat you call in Cov-en-tri. There are six days, we speak her not, we look her not.”

“But why? What has the poor thing done?”

“She has thiefed!” Vivette spoke low, with a glance over her shoulder. “Chut! Madame knows not, nor our Sister. Solely of ourselves we de-cide to – vat vord is dat, Patricia? Carve? Cot?”

“Oh, do hush, Vivette!” said Patricia rather rudely. “You make my ears ache. If you must know, Honor, the poor thing – as you call her – and as she certainly is – stole a ring from my jewel-box. There! are you satisfied? We were not sent here to consort with thieves, so we have simply – shall I say eliminated her? As I told you, she no longer exists.”

“Oh, Patricia! Oh, girls! there must be some mistake!”

Genuinely distressed, Honor looked from one face to another. But now an excited babble broke out, the shrill young voices rising higher and higher.

Maria had always been a sneak, Moriole knew she had. She was a tale-bearer, a meddler, a spy. She was always poking her nose into other people’s affairs; and so on and so on.

Honor listened, her eyes growing wider and wider, as they did when she was troubled. Suddenly her cheeks flushed; her heart began to beat violently. She seemed to hear a voice speaking; a rich, mellow voice, with the sound of bells in it.

“And thus it is our custom to allow no evil to be spoken of any person without a good word being added by each one of the family.”

Honor covered her face with her hands.

“If I had dark hair,” she said to herself, “I could do it! If I had dark hair, I could do it!”

Then suddenly she looked up, first at Patricia’s beautiful, scornful face, then at the others, all excited, all full of anger.

“Maria is very tidy!” she said. “Her bureau drawers are beautiful, and you know she got the prize for the best-made bed last year.”

For a moment all the girls stared, open-mouthed; then Patricia laughed her little silver laugh.

“Even if so?” she said. “We allow her that lofty virtue! My ring was in her pocket, you understand, my dear. Come, Moriole!” she added in a different tone. “A promise is a promise. We have told you what you wanted, now it is your turn. What did you do in that place during seven whole days? We must know!”

“I cannot!” thought Honor. And then – “I must!”

“Come then!” she said. “Sit down, all of you! The sand is as dry as dry. Loulou, I cannot tell if you hop on one foot. Listen then!”

She told them about the spinning and knitting; about the bridal quilt; about pretty Madelon, whom she had not seen, and Big Pierre, whom she had; about the carving, and all the marvels and mysteries of cheese-making.

About her three friends themselves she could not talk, she found. And no one knew, no one cared, no one could possibly understand —

“And I made the cheese all myself, the one we had for supper. Was it good?”

“Good? It was mirific! You made it yourself? Ah! Bah! Gretli let you stir it, pat it a little, like that!”

“Gretli did not touch it with the end of her finger! She told me, of course, what to do. ‘Take this and that! do thus and so!’ but not a finger did she put to it. Wait a little! When Margoton next has sour cream, I will make another, and you will see.”

“It must have been rather fun!” said Vivette. “I should like to make cheese, I think. Will you teach me, Moriole?”

“My dear! it would ruin your hands!” Jacqueline examined her own pearly fingertips, over which she spent much of the “meditation hour” when we sat alone in our little rooms and were supposed to think of holy things. Then with a glance at Vivette’s brown, rather stubby hands, she added, “But it might not after all make so much difference!”

“But, Moriole!” said Stephanie, who had been listening eagerly, “the animals! all those terrible animals! were you not in perpetual terror? Me, I never expected to see you alive again. I wept the whole of every night – ”

“Thou snorest prettily in thy sleep all the same, Stephanie!” cried Rose Marie. “Heavens! it was a litany to all the saints at once!”

“You shan’t tease my Stephanie!” Honor was slipping back naturally into her school attitude of championing the weak. “Stephanie dear, the animals were darling; but perfectly darling! You have only to learn to know them. Why, Bimbo ate bread from my hand, and danced for me when I held his forefeet. It is true he tried to butt me every day, but he never succeeded. Zitli was too quick, and always caught him over the nose with his crutch.”

“The lame boy? Was he possible at all, Honor?” It was Jacqueline who asked. “Of course the big Twins are very nice in their way: but to be shut up a whole week in a peasant hovel with – ”

Honor’s eyes flashed; she felt the blood surging into her cheeks, and she clenched her hands tight in the vain effort to keep it down.

“A hovel?” she cried, and her voice trembled, spite of all she could do. “The Châlet des Rochers is simply the most delightful house I ever was in. The people are the dearest and best people – except Madame and our Sister – I have ever seen, and the week I spent there was the happiest time of my whole life!”

CHAPTER XIII
THE WAY TO COVENTRY

Honor lay awake a long time that first night after her return. Her mind was too full of what Vivette called “thinks.” (“Oftentimes,” said poor Vivi, “I have in the night sorry thinks!” That was when she had the toothache, which explained matters.) Her body lay in its own bed – the plain little white enameled bed; no quaint faces of friendly apostles to bless it! Her mind was away at the Châlet; the eyes of her spirit were gazing through the little square window at the great snow mountain, towering in the blue-black sky thick-set with stars, “rising like a cloud of incense from the earth.” In her ears was the low tinkle of musical bells, as the goats moved hither and thither, browsing on the short turf.

“If only I could hear it always!” sighed Honor. “If only every night I could go back, like the Enchanted Fawn! I would sing, as she did, only change the words a little:

 
“‘Say, how is my Gretli,
And how are they all?
Oh, say but the word,
And I’ll come at your call!’”
 

How cool and sweet the air came in at the window, the breath of the Mountain himself! (Honor was nearly asleep now, and really fancied herself at the Châlet!) How clear and – silvery – the bells – hark! – who was crying? Gretli was asleep; goats could not cry —

All of a sudden Honor came wide awake, and sat up in bed, listening. Some one was crying! not far from her; long, heavy sobs, full of a dull, hopeless pain. Where – what – who? Honor put out her hand and encountered the smooth iron of her bed. Of course! she was at home, in Pension Madeleine! In the cell on her right was Stephanie: in that on the left – Maria Patterson.

It was from the left that the sobs came. Honor listened intently; dreadful sobs; her heart ached to hear them! She slipped quietly out of bed, turned the handle of the door noiselessly, groped for the next handle – another moment and she was beside Maria, where she sat sobbing in her bed; her warm arms were pressing close the cold, shivering body, her smooth cheek was laid against the other, wet with bitter tears.

“Maria! don’t, my dear! don’t cry! hush! oh, poor thing, hush! there! there!”

Honor rocked back and forth, as if she were soothing a little child. Pity flowed from her like a warm current; she felt the rigid form relax, the head sink on her shoulder. The sobs continued, but they were less heavy and dreadful, more like natural crying.

“There! there!” repeated Honor. “Now you are better, dear. Let me cover you up a little; you are half frozen.”

“Is it – is it Honor?” Maria spoke in a broken whisper.

“Yes! but let me rub your hands, Maria! I’m going to get my hot-water bottle!”

“No! no! don’t leave me! stay just a little longer! You don’t know – or did they tell you?”

“You shall tell me!” Honor gently forced Maria to lie down, and tucked the bed-clothes round her. “Lie still a moment, and I’ll come back.”

In three minutes she was back with the hot-water bottle.

“There! it’s not very hot, just right to hold in your hands. Now tell – no, I won’t take cold; I have my wrapper on, and it’s warm as soup. Tell me all about it, Maria!”

Maria drew a long sobbing breath.

“How good you are!” she said. “But you won’t believe me, Honor: nobody would; and then you will go, and I shall be all alone in the world!”

“Nonsense!” said Honor decidedly. “I shall believe you! Go ahead!”

Brokenly, in a voice shaken by sobs, with bursts of bitter weeping, Maria told her piteous story; how she had seen and admired the ring on Patricia’s finger; a curious little ring, a circle of gold wire with a tiny golden mouse running loose on it. She wanted to see how it went; Patricia hated her so, she could not ask. Then – one day – Patricia’s door was open, and Maria knew she was in the garden.

“Honor, I didn’t mean any harm! I swear to you I didn’t mean any harm. I went in, and the ring was on the pincushion, and I tried it on, and – and – just then Sophie came in, and I didn’t want her to see me with it, and I slipped it into my pocket, meaning to put it back when she had gone out – oh, dear! oh, dear! how could I?” The wailing sobs broke out again.

“Quiet! quiet!” Honor was stroking her forehead with a firm soft hand. “There! there! Go on! You meant to put it back; of course you did. And then – ”

“The bell rang for class, and Sophie was still there, sweeping, you know – and I had to go. It was dictée, and you know that takes all there is of me, and then I can’t do it decently! Honor, could any one believe I could forget it – the ring, I mean? I did! oh, truly, truly I did! And out in the garden at recess – I pulled out my handkerchief, and – and – ”

“And out it came!” Honor finished for her. “Of course I believe every word, Maria. Of course any one would who had any sense. Didn’t you tell Patricia? Didn’t you tell them all, that moment?”

“I couldn’t!” Maria’s voice fell into an agonized whisper. “I couldn’t, Honor! Patricia looked at me – oh, pray to God that no one will ever look so at you as long as you live!” cried the poor girl. “And she said – ”

“What did she say? Quiet, my dear! quiet! words never killed anybody!”

“She said, ‘Tiens! are there two mouse-rings in the Pension? Or perhaps only one?’ Then she picked it up and went away, and I saw her telling the other girls. None of them has spoken to me since then!”

“You poor child! what a wicked, wicked shame!”

“Do you – do you really believe me, Honor?”

Maria spoke timidly, and in the half darkness of the room, Honor could feel her eyes peering anxiously into her own.

“Of course I believe you!” she cried. “Every single word, Maria. Nobody could possibly doubt you. Of course it was a pity, and a silly thing to do, and all that; but – why – there’s nothing dreadful about it, Maria. It has only to be explained, and every one will understand in a minute, and everything will be all right. You see if it isn’t!”

“But I can’t explain! How can I, when no one will speak to me? It’s no use, Honor!”

“I’ll explain! I’ll tell the girls all about it to-morrow, after breakfast, and then everything will be all right. Now you must go to sleep like a good girl. Shut your eyes and let go, and I’ll sing to you.”

Exhausted with misery and weeping, Maria was only too glad to shut her eyes and “let go,” while Honor, still stroking her forehead, crooned softly,

 
“‘On the Alp the grass is sweetest,
Li-u-o, my Queen!’”
 

It was midnight when Honor, chilly but happy, crept back to bed, leaving Maria fast asleep. She nestled down on her pillow cozily.

“Play the heads are here!” she murmured. “Play they are smiling at me:

 
“Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,
Bless the bed that I lie on!”
 

Honor was sleepy enough next morning after her vigil; but the thought of what she had to do soon roused her. She ran into Maria’s room, hairbrush in hand; it was not permitted, but she could explain; the Sister would understand.

“Hush! listen!” she cried. “Don’t come out in the garden after breakfast, Maria! Come straight back here, and wait till I come for you. It will be all right, see if it isnt!”

Poor Maria, her eyes swollen with weeping, gave her a look of such dog-like devotion and gratitude that Honor could only give her a pat in return, and hurry away. Her heart was beating high. It was a shame; but they had not known; they had not understood; in a little hour now, all would be well.

How slow they were at breakfast! It seemed as if the meal would never end. Nobody looked at Maria; none of the girls at least. Soeur Séraphine cast a keen glance at her swollen, discolored face; one, and then another; but said nothing. Madame called from the head of the table, “Marie, thou dost not eat, my child! How then! It is necessary to eat; finish at least thy little bread!”

Maria crumbled her roll, and made a pretence of eating.

“Tiens!” said Soeur Séraphine. “The child is without appetite, my sister. I myself will give her a cup of tea presently. That encourages the stomach.”

After what seemed a really interminable time, the girls streamed out once more into the garden. It was the custom after every meal in good weather. Honor, breathless with eagerness, led the way, beckoning the others to follow. They flocked to the seat under the great trumpet vine.

“What is it?” they all cried. “More tells, Moriole? We haven’t heard half enough!”

“Sit down, girls! I’m out of breath. I want to tell you all – you first, Patricia, but all together – you are all wrong about Maria. Poor thing, she meant no harm. Listen!” and she poured out Maria’s story, the words tumbling over one another with eagerness; the girls listening with wide-open eyes.

“So you see,” she concluded, “it wasn’t wicked, it was only silly; very silly, of course, and she knows it, and is – oh, so dreadfully sorry and ashamed! Pat, you can’t be angry with her any more; you must forgive her, and take her back, don’t you see?”

Patricia laughed. “I’m afraid I don’t see!” she said. “Stealing is stealing, Moriole, my child! No doubt she is sorry. Thieves are apt to be – when they are found out. They are also apt to trump up a pretty story to tell to sympathetic people. This is a very pretty story, my dear, but I don’t see that it alters the facts of the case. The ring was in Maria’s pocket. Et voilà!”

“You – you mean – that you do not believe what Maria says?”

Honor spoke slowly, as if bewildered.

“I mean precisely that! I don’t believe one solitary word!”

Honor looked from one to another.

“Girls! Vivette! Stephanie! You believe it?”

No one spoke; all looked embarrassed, except little Loulou, who was pirouetting about, paying little attention.

“I see – you don’t!”

Honor was silent for a moment, thinking. Then, suddenly, a flame seemed to surge up within her. She did not need dark hair this time; red hair would do to be angry with. She sprang to her feet. Her blue eyes flashed, and she clenched her hands, facing them all.

“Very well!” she said. “Then – that is all! You have sent Maria to Coventry: I go with her! Good-by!”

She was gone. The girls looked at one another with blank faces.

“Oh, Patricia!” cried Stephanie. “We can’t send Moriole to Coventry! She has just come back to us, and we all missed her so dreadfully! Do make up with Maria!”

“Pooh!” said Patricia. “She’ll come back. Honor isn’t going to leave us and take up with Maria Patterson. I give her half an hour!”

Honor flew to Maria’s room, her eyes blazing, her cheeks on fire. As she entered, Maria looked up, a spark of hope in her eyes; but at sight of Honor’s face, she cowered down in her chair and covered her face with her hands, with a broken moan.

“You couldn’t!” she said. “I knew you couldn’t! I knew they wouldn’t believe you. Thank you just as much for trying, Honor!”

“Hateful, hateful creatures!” Honor stamped her foot and clenched her hands. “I never want to speak to any of them again. Come, Maria, come out with me! They needn’t speak to us, and we certainly will not speak to them. We’ll live in Coventry together!” And she laughed a defiant laugh.

Maria shook her head drearily.

“No! I can’t go out; and I will not keep you from them. Go, please, Moriole! I will not bring disgrace on you. Please go!”

Honor stood her ground hotly, determined to carry her point; finally the school bell settled the matter by summoning all hands to the classroom.

It was a wretched morning. Maria drooped in her corner. Honor blazed and flashed in hers like a Catherine wheel. She flung her scornful glances here and there, and all quailed beneath them, except Patricia, who only laughed. Stephanie was on the verge of tears and made sad work of her lessons.

“What then ails these children?” said Madame to Soeur Séraphine at recess. “Do they conspire, or are they sickening? There is a fever in the suburbs, Margoton tells me. Perhaps it would be well to send for the doctor?”

“Wait a little, my sister! We shall soon know.” Soeur Séraphine was her usual serene self. “Our little casserole bubbles furiously; soon it will overflow, and we shall learn all about it. They are like that, our dear children! No, they are not sickening: I have examined tongue and pulse of all; all are perfect, except this poor Maria, who is the root of the trouble, I am convinced, and who as yet can tell me nothing. To-morrow I look to know all.”

That was the Sister’s way. She never “poked the nose,” as we said. She hardly ever asked a question; she simply waited and things came to her.

This time she had not long to wait.

The day wore through somehow; a dreadful day. Honor never liked to recall it. In the afternoon walk, she stalked ahead of the rest, her arm round Maria, her head thrown back defiantly, her heart full of rage and bitterness. If only Maria had a particle of spirit, it would be easier, she felt; but Maria had no thought of anything but despair, with the added misery of having involved Honor in her disgrace. She was not in the least a bad girl, poor Maria; only a silly, inquisitive one.