path: root/66034-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 66034 ***

[Illustration: School Girls in No. 40.--Frontispiece.

“How am I ever to get all these things into two trunks?” p. 9.]




[Illustration]




  THE
  SCHOOL-GIRLS IN NUMBER 40;
  OR,
  PRINCIPLE PUT TO THE TEST.

    “Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.”

  PHILADELPHIA:
  AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
  1122 CHESTNUT STREET.

  NEW YORK DEPOSITORY: 375 BROADWAY.




_Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by the

  AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of
Pennsylvania._

-->_No books are published by the_ AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION
_without the sanction of the Committee of Publication, consisting of
fourteen members, from the following denominations of Christians, viz.:
Baptist, Methodist, Congregational, Episcopal, Presbyterian, Lutheran,
and Reformed Dutch. Not more than three of the members can be of the
same denomination, and no book can be published to which any member of
the Committee shall object._




CONTENTS.

                                   PAGE

  CHAP. I.--A REMOVAL                 9

       II.--GETTING SETTLED          30

      III.--OLD FRIENDS AND NEW      33

       IV.--THE TABLEAUX PARTY       44

        V.--A TRAP SET               62

       VI.--CAUGHT                   71

      VII.--ANOTHER MYSTERY          85

     VIII.--THE SECRET OUT           93




THE SCHOOL-GIRLS IN No. 40.

CHAPTER I.

A REMOVAL.


“Dear me! dear me!” sighed Carrie Stanley, as she kneeled beside an
empty trunk and glanced around her room. “How am I ever to get all
these things into two trunks? It’s an impossibility! Where to begin I’m
sure I don’t know.”

It was not surprising that Carrie was puzzled as to the proper mode
of procedure; for that usually neat apartment was in a state nearly
approaching to perfect confusion. The wardrobe stood open, displaying
empty hooks; for the dresses and other articles of apparel which
had hung upon them had been taken away and were piled, without order
or arrangement, on the chairs and bedstead. The four bureau-drawers,
instead of being in their proper places, were all upon the floor,
forming a barricade about the trunk; the book-shelves, too, had been
rifled, and their contents were strewn over the dressing-table, from
which some of them had fallen to find a resting-place upon the pretty
carpet. Indeed, it would have required no little care and skill, in
moving about the chamber, to avoid stepping on books, glove-boxes,
perfumery-bottles, and the like, which were strewed around everywhere
but where they should have been.

Carrie’s glance around the disordered room seemed only to add to her
perplexities; and, tossing back her bright curls, she bent over the
large trunk, looking into its depths with a thoughtful air, as if
studying the best possible arrangement. She did not appear to derive
much satisfaction from her investigations; for, before she had put in a
single article, her mother stopped at the open door and looked on the
scene of confusion. A roguish smile parted her lips, as she stood for a
moment looking on quietly without a word.

“My dear Carrie,” she said, at last, “this is a perfect chaos!”

“I know it, mother,” returned the girl, starting up. “I was just
wondering if I ever could put things in any sort of order again. But I
must have another trunk. All these clothes and books will never go into
two, no matter how large they are. Look for yourself, mother. It is
quite out of the question. What do you think about it?”

“I think that two trunks will be quite sufficient, after we lay aside
all the articles not absolutely necessary.” And, suiting the action
to the word, Mrs. Stanley selected several dresses from the heap of
clothing on the bed, saying, “Just put these in the wardrobe again.”

“What, mother! My pretty pink tarletane to be left behind,--and this
green silk, so becoming to me?” exclaimed Carrie, in a tone of
expostulation.

“Yes,” replied her mother, decidedly, as she proceeded to separate
other articles in the same way.

At first Carrie’s fair brow clouded, as she saw her prettiest dresses,
her nicest linen and her most interesting books consigned to their
resting-places on shelves, in drawers and closets again; but, quickly
recovering her good humour, she followed her mother’s directions, and
ere long the trunks were all packed, locked, strapped and ready, even
the cards marked

  +------------------------+
  | MISS CAROLINE STANLEY, |
  | Manchester,            |
  | Mass.                  |
  +------------------------+

and nailed on the ends.

The pretty little room was once more in order; but it looked desolate
indeed. Mrs. Stanley could not help sighing deeply, and tears filled
her eyes as she looked around her; while Carrie, all unconscious of her
mother’s sadness, danced about in high glee, declaring that she “was
never so happy in all her life.”

“Oh, mother, can it be possible,” she exclaimed, “that I am actually
going away to school,--to boarding-school, too, where I have wanted to
go so long? Oh, it is too delightful! It seems almost too good to be
true!”

Mrs. Stanley smiled faintly.

“When you have put on your travelling-dress, my dear, come to me, in my
room,” she said. “I want to see you and Susie together once more before
you go. I must see if Susie needs any help now. You can dress for your
journey without any further assistance from me, can’t you?”

“Oh, yes, indeed, mother,” returned Caroline; and Mrs. Stanley walked
away, crossed the wide hall and entered another apartment.

A young girl about the same age as Carrie was the only occupant of this
room. She was dressed in deep mourning, and was sitting by the open
window, looking out over the spacious and pleasant garden.

“What! all ready, Susie?--trunk packed, travelling-dress on and all?”
said Mrs. Stanley.

“Yes, aunt,” replied Susan.

“I meant to have come to you before; but I see you did not need me. You
are quite an expert little body. I was detained longer than I expected
to be in assisting Carrie to pack her trunk. She was quite helpless in
the midst of her wardrobe.”

“I do not wonder,” replied Susie. “I remember what a formidable task it
was to me when I first had it to do; but it is no new business to me
now.” And her voice faltered.

“You have been crying, Susie,” said her aunt. “Are you unwilling to go
to Manchester? You know, my dear, that I am very sorry to part with
both my children at once; but I think it best for you to go. It will
make it harder still for me if you are unhappy about going.”

“I am not, dear aunt. I know you would not send me if you did not think
it best; but I have had a home for so short a time, and found it so
sweet, that I dread to lose it,--even for a little while. But I don’t
mean to be home-sick: so don’t feel badly about it, dear aunt.”

Just then Carrie came dancing along.

“I’m all armed and equipped as the law directs,” she said; “and now,
mother, I’ve a proposition to make. Instead of adjourning to your room,
let us go to the arbour. It is too lovely a day to stay in the house;
and, besides, it will be a long time before we sit together in the
garden again.”

“Very well,” said her mother; and away she went, followed by her mother
and Susie, while Carrie scampered on ahead to the arbour.

It was a very pleasant spot. The large trellis of lattice-work was
completely covered with climbing roses of different colours; and the
interior was equally charming. It was furnished with garden-chairs, and
a little table, where it was often Mrs. Stanley’s custom to have tea
served in the summer evening. Carrie had already reached the arbour,
and was busily engaged in arranging the seats near the entrance, from
which a small pond or lake was to be seen gleaming through the trees
that surrounded it, and the garden, with its terraces and winding paths
that led through a grove down to the water’s edge.

“There’s your favourite seat, mother,” she said, pointing to a low
chair. “Susie may sit by your side. I shall take this stool at your
feet.”

After all were seated and Mrs. Stanley had given the girls some
directions about their journey, she said, “One thing more, my children.
It is only six months since you both made a profession of religion and
united with the Church; and now for the first time you are about to be
placed in circumstances which will test the strength and sincerity of
your Christian principle. You will have many trials, many temptations.
I confess I almost shrink from the thought of applying such tests to
your piety.”

“Why, mother!” exclaimed Carrie, much pained. “Do you doubt our
sincerity?”

“No, my child,--not your sincerity, but your strength.”

“You need not fear for that, dear mother. I rather hope we shall have
some trials,--though I can’t imagine exactly what they will be.”

“You will discover them soon enough, my daughter. Never forget that
you are Christians,” Mrs. Stanley continued. “I do not mean, by that,
that you are to have grave faces continually and be always talking of
religious matters; but be guided by religious principle. Read your
Bibles regularly, and do not forget to pray.”

“Forget to pray!” repeated Carrie. “I should as soon forget my regular
meals.”

Mrs. Stanley kissed her child’s upturned face.

“Go into the library, my dear,” she said, “and bring me a small
package which you will find on the table.”

Carrie ran off, and soon returned with the parcel. Mrs. Stanley opened
it and displayed two beautiful little Bibles. The girls were loud in
their admiration of the elegant crimson morocco bindings, fine type and
heavy gilding; but the clasps--of real silver, and on which their names
were engraved--were pronounced “perfect.”

Both declared that they had never seen such beautiful Bibles before;
and they kissed and thanked the dear giver repeatedly.

“Put them in your baskets now,” said Mrs. Stanley. “I see Hannah coming
with our lunch. I told her we would have it here to-day.”

Hannah entered, bringing a basket, which contained a table-cloth,
napkins, dishes and all that was necessary to spread the table. The
girls showed her their presents; and, after she had admired them
sufficiently, they proceeded to set the table, while she went back to
the house and soon returned with the eatables.

“Just the very things I love best,” said Carrie,--“even coffee for your
especial benefit, Susie. They begin to treat us as if we were of some
consequence, now that we are going away: don’t they? Here’s that quince
marmalade that I teased for in vain the other night at supper, and the
almond sponge-cake you like so well. I don’t know whether to take it as
a compliment or not, Sue. It seems a little like a feast of rejoicing
at getting rid of us.”

So Carrie rattled on, till a servant announced that the carriage was
in readiness to take them to the depôt, where Mrs. Stanley accompanied
them and left them in charge of the gentleman who was to go with them
to Manchester.




CHAPTER II.

GETTING SETTLED.


Caroline Stanley and Susan Cameron were cousins, and very nearly of the
same age; but neither from their looks nor from their characters would
one have supposed that there was any tie of relationship between them.

Carrie was very pretty; and it was not strange that she knew it. Ever
since she could remember, she had heard from her nurses the praises
of her curling hair; bright, black eyes, rosy cheeks and white teeth.
Even strangers whom she met in the street spoke of her beauty; and if
she had not been blessed with a judicious mother, she would probably
have had her little head quite turned by the flattery which she
received. But Mrs. Stanley had taught her that mere external beauty
was no substitute for loveliness of character. Carrie was by no means
free from faults. She was impulsive, hasty and extremely careless and
disorderly; but she was the life of the house, and the idol of all the
servants, from the oldest to the youngest,--so that they were too apt
to try and screen her from her mother’s just reproof by failing to
report her wrong-doings. If she was ill-natured or angry, she was so
sorry for it afterwards, and so ready to apologize, that the domestics
could not bear to have Mrs. Stanley hear of it, since they well knew
that Carrie would be punished, and there was not one of them who did
not prefer to be in disgrace rather than to see “Miss Caro” in trouble.

The only drawback to her happiness was her father’s long absences,--for
he was a sea-captain, and of course much away from home; but she was
passionately attached to her mother; and there was always her father’s
return, to which she looked forward with joy.

Even in his absence the time did not pass heavily. They had a great
deal of company, and sailing-parties, picnics and rides were
frequent,--so frequent that they interfered sadly with Carrie’s
studies; and it was for this reason that Mrs. Stanley had decided to
send the girls away to school, instead of employing a teacher at home
for them, as had been her custom.

Carrie’s life had been all sunshine; but poor Susie’s had been stormy
enough.

Before she was fifteen, she had passed through more trouble than falls
to the lot of many women in a lifetime. Her father, Lieutenant Cameron,
was an army-officer, and had been stationed chiefly on the frontier.
Moving from one military post to another, where of necessity they
were deprived of many comforts, Susie’s life had been a succession of
changes and hardships. Her mother’s health was delicate; and in their
frequent removals a great part of the care had fallen on Susie. She
was an active, willing and able assistant to her feeble parent, and by
degrees Mrs. Cameron came to depend on her for almost every thing.
The younger children were intrusted to her charge also, and most of
the duties of housekeeping were resigned to her. She was her mother’s
constant companion; and this, together with the trust reposed in her,
had developed her character prematurely. She shared all her parent’s
troubles and perplexities, and had never known what it was to be a
careless, happy child.

When at last her mother died, it was to her that her father turned for
consolation; and, almost heart-broken as she was, she was obliged to
control herself for his sake, lest the sight of her grief, added to his
own wretchedness, should unman him altogether.

One short year after Mrs. Cameron’s death the whole family had been
attacked by cholera, and of them all Susie alone was spared! The
desolate little orphan then came to live with her aunt Stanley, who had
been her mother’s favourite sister; and here no pains were spared to
make her as happy as possible.

It was not a long journey to Manchester, but both the girls were very
glad to hear the conductor call out the name of the station,--for
Carrie was impatient to see the place where she was anticipating so
much pleasure during the next six months, and Susan was anxious to get
established again quietly somewhere, even if it were at school.

The school-building was a large brick edifice, situated very pleasantly
in the midst of finely-laid-out grounds; and the girls were received
very cordially by the principal, Mr. Worcester, who had been expecting
them, as he had received intelligence of their intended coming. He was
an old friend of Mrs. Stanley’s; and this fact made Carrie feel quite
at home immediately.

They were soon shown to their room,--“No. 40,”--a large and airy
chamber.

“Very liberal in the way of furniture,” said Carrie, as she looked
around. “Two beds, two bureaus, two tables, two closets! They don’t
intend to give us any excuse for quarrelling as to the disposal of our
traps.”

They occupied themselves for the remainder of the day in unpacking and
getting settled, so as to be ready for school-duties in the morning. At
tea-time they were ushered into a large dining-room, where more than
sixty girls were seated round the table, all of whom looked curiously
at the new-comers. Poor Susan could hardly eat a mouthful, it was so
awkward to feel that so many eyes were upon her; and even Carrie lost
some of her appetite. After tea, they all went into the large parlour,
where Mr. Worcester conducted prayers; and then came the study-hour to
be spent in their own chambers.

Carrie and Susan gladly escaped to their room; but hardly were they
seated when two other girls entered and took seats as if they were very
much at home.

“This is our room,” said Carrie, modestly; for she supposed they had
made some mistake.

“This is our room too,” said the one she addressed,--a tall and
fine-looking girl.

“I beg pardon,” Carrie answered; “but I supposed my cousin and I were
to have it alone. It seemed quite unoccupied. The bureaus and closets
were both empty.”

“A very natural mistake,” was the reply; “but the way of it is, we have
just been moved from our room to accommodate two new girls who are
distant relations of our old room-mates, and who want to room together:
so we are put in here, and our ‘fixins’ will follow this evening. As we
are to be such near neighbours, we might as well introduce ourselves,
I suppose. I am Florence Anderson, at your service; and this is Sallie
Wendell.”

“My name is Caroline Stanley; and this is my cousin, Susan Cameron,”
said Carrie.

This introduction served to loosen the girls’ tongues, and they talked
quite fast, without appearing to remember that it was the study-hour.

Florence gave the new-comers an account of the teachers, and told
them beforehand which they would like and which they “would perfectly
abominate and despise.”

Carrie listened with deep interest, and was quite charmed with the
frankness and sociability of her new acquaintance. The clock struck
nine while they were in the full tide of discourse. This was the signal
for retiring, as Florence informed them; and they proceeded to put up
their books and papers and make ready for the night.

Florence and Sallie were soon snugly ensconced in bed, having first
politely offered the choice of beds to their new room-mates. Susan
took her little Bible and read a chapter, as was her custom, and then
kneeled by her bedside to pray. Carrie was still brushing her hair,
when she heard a whisper and a suppressed laugh from the other girls.
She glanced at them and saw the cause of their merriment. She said not
a word; but, having put up her hair, she took her Bible also and read a
short chapter.

“Ahem! Saint number two,” she heard, in a loud whisper from the other
bed.

The blood rushed to Carrie’s face. She felt indignant and a little
ashamed: she extinguished the light hastily and then kneeled by her
bedside a few moments in prayer. The next morning, Susie, as usual,
after dressing, read her Bible and offered up her silent prayer,--a
proceeding which seemed to afford Florence and her companion much
amusement; and Carrie delayed her dressing purposely till her
room-mates went out, when she hastily performed her morning devotions.

“I wish,” she said to Susie, “that those girls did not room with us!”

“Why?” asked her cousin. “I thought you liked them last night.”

“So I did,” was the reply; “but I don’t now.” And Carrie went on to
describe their conduct while Susie was on her knees. This did not seem
to trouble Susan in the least.

“Poor, foolish girls!” said she; and, having said this, she seemed to
dismiss the subject from her mind. But for Carrie it was not so easy a
task,--particularly as she saw Florence talking with a whole bevy of
school-girls on the piazza, who were laughing merrily; and, as they
immediately grew very sober and silent when she approached them, she
felt sure that Florence had been ridiculing her cousin and herself.

The school-bell soon rang, and the new pupils followed the other
girls across a covered gallery to the school-room. It was a pleasant
apartment, and the cousins had very excellent seats given them near a
window. Florence was quite a near neighbour here also.

“The Fates seem to throw us in each other’s way,” she whispered, with a
pleasant smile.

  “What can’t be cured
   Must be endured,”

whispered Carrie back again,--half in jest and half in earnest.

After the introductory exercises, Miss Forester, the principal teacher,
came to the new pupils, and, after talking with them about their past
studies,--how far they had advanced, &c.,--she told them what classes
they were to join, and added that although she did not expect them to
learn the morning’s lessons, yet she wished them to take their places
in the different classes, that they might see the mode of recitation.

When the History class was called, the girls came as they had been told
to do; and here they sat close beside Florence again. In the Arithmetic
class, in Thomson’s Seasons and in spelling it was just the same.

The spelling class was conducted on a new plan; at least, it was new
to the cousins. Each pupil wrote the words given out by the teacher on
her slate, and, after having done so, exchanged slates with her next
neighbour, who corrected and marked the misspelled words while they
were spelled properly by the teacher.

Carrie had to give her slate to Florence, who sat next to her. When
Florence gave it back to her, she pointed to something which she had
written under the list of words. It ran thus:--

  “Room-mate and seat-mate, let me know
   If you wish me as friend or foe:
   If friend, extend your hand to me;
   If not, we’re foes: so let it be.”

Carrie was much amused and quite pleased by Florence’s rhymes. All
her momentary displeasure had passed away, and she stealthily put her
hand into that of her neighbour, who pressed it warmly. At recess,
Florence invited the cousins to go with some of the girls to play,--a
proposition which they received with alacrity, and both entered into
the game with great spirit. This lively play did more to make them feel
acquainted with the other scholars than any thing else could have done,
and it dissipated entirely the slight feeling of home-sickness which
was beginning to creep over them.

At the study-hour, the four room-mates learned their lessons
together, and then arranged and re-arranged their respective uses
of their apartment. They consulted together about the best division
of book-shelves, bureaus, and the most convenient places for their
trunks; and during the whole evening Florence was so accommodating, so
pleasant and so lively that Carrie quite forgot her morning’s regrets
that she was her room-mate.




CHAPTER III.

OLD FRIENDS AND NEW.


Several days passed, and nothing occurred to mar the harmony of the
occupants of No. 40.

Carrie, Susan and Sallie were one evening studying their Arithmetic
together. The lesson was in Miscellaneous Questions, and they found
it uncommonly hard. One problem in particular troubled them all
exceedingly. At last Susan turned to Florence, who was reading a book
which one of the girls had loaned her.

“Flora,” said she, “I wish you would be so kind as to show us how to do
this twenty-seventh sum.”

Florence looked up pleasantly.

“I would if I could,” she replied; “but I don’t know any more about it
than the man in the moon.”

“Now, Flora,” said Susan, “of course you do. It’s just like the
fourteenth that we had yesterday, that so many of us missed; and you
know you did them all.”

“I beg your pardon: I don’t know any such thing.”

“You told Miss Forester you had done them all, at any rate.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why, Florence!” exclaimed Sallie.

“If you didn’t, I’m very much mistaken,” said Susan.

“Then you are very much mistaken. I will tell you just how it was. Miss
Forester asked me if I had correct answers to all the questions. I
said I had; and I told the truth; for I had got a key and copied every
answer as correctly as possible.”

The girls said not a word, but were astonished at the coolness of their
companion’s explanation of her answer.

Florence was the first to break the silence.

“You needn’t look a whole volume of sermons at me, Miss Susan,” said
she. “Pray, what would you have had me do under the circumstances?”

“I would have had you speak the truth.”

“I should like to know if I didn’t speak the truth! As nearly as I can
understand, your advice would have been, when Miss Forester asked me
if I had correct answers, to have said, ‘No.’ Very singular advice,
I must say, from a person possessing your remarkable virtues! No, my
dear young woman: that would have been a lie; and I’m altogether too
conscientious to be guilty of such a thing!”

“How can you talk so, Florence? You know it was very wrong. In the
first place----”

Florence put her hands over her ears.

“Bless me!” she exclaimed. “We are actually going to have a sermon!
You must be used to preaching, for you begin in regular ministerial
fashion:--‘In the first place!’ Excuse me: I don’t care about hearing
the other seventy-seven heads of the discourse.” And she rose and left
the room abruptly.

She left the door open behind her, so that the girls heard her say
to several of her companions who were sitting in the hall, round a
favourite study-table,--

“I am going to ask Mr. Worcester to have my room changed. The fact is,
it’s altogether too much for one sinner to monopolize the benefits
arising from such saintly room-mates. Besides, saints are dreadfully
tedious, I find. I did suppose there would be some advantages
from having such room-mates,--for instance, that I could have the
looking-glass all to myself; but, to my surprise, I find that the
saints make as much use of it as I do. The only thing to be gained
is a very large number of moral lectures. I left Saint Susan holding
forth as I came out; and she was quite horrified and disgusted at my
wickedness in not staying to hear her discourse to the end. If any of
you feel the need of a sermon, walk into No. 40. Seats free; and she
hasn’t got more than half through yet.”

The girls laughed,--some of them heartily.

“I declare, it is shameful!” exclaimed Carrie, angrily. Susan said
nothing. Her lip quivered as she bent over her slate; but she
controlled herself, and at last, declaring that she had solved the
difficult problem, she proceeded to explain the proper process to her
fellow-students.

“Is the sermon ended?” called out Florence, popping her head in at the
door.

“Yes,” said Susan, pleasantly, as she came in, followed by several of
the girls.

Carrie would not speak: she felt too indignant. Florence saw this, and
mischievously attempted to draw her into conversation. It was in vain.
At last she exclaimed,--

“Girls, I verily believe Saint Caroline is mad with me! I shouldn’t
wonder if there was the material for a very good sinner in her, after
all.”

This was too much for Carrie’s gravity. She laughed outright.

“Florence Anderson, you are the most provoking girl I ever saw!” she
said. “You are enough to make a saint angry.”

“So I perceive,” said Florence, gravely.

From that evening Florence always spoke of Susan as “Saint Sue,”
until at last it became quite the general custom to address her in
that manner, greatly to Caroline’s annoyance; but if she ventured to
expostulate she was in danger of being dubbed “Saint” also. But, in
spite of her odd ways, Carrie could not help liking her room-mate
exceedingly; for Florence had taken a fancy “to be friends with
her,” and when she tried to make herself agreeable she was sure to
succeed. Glaring as were her faults, she had qualities which made her
a general favourite. She was, when she chose to apply herself, a very
fine scholar. She was full of life and spirits and was always the
leader in all sports and pastimes. She was universally cheerful and
good-humoured, and never at a loss for something new in the way of
amusements: in short, in whatever was going on, right or wrong, she was
the leading spirit. It was quite flattering to Carrie to be singled
out as a chosen companion by one who was such an acknowledged leader
in the school; and perhaps this appeal to her vanity blinded her eyes
to many of her new friend’s faults. Susan was in danger of no such
blindness, for Florence disliked her quite as much as she liked her
cousin; and, if Carrie regretted her friend’s prejudice against Sue,
the latter regretted her fancy for Carrie with equal sincerity.

To show how thoroughly she disapproved of this intimacy, Susan would
have nothing whatever to do with Florence, except to treat her with the
most distant politeness and chilling formality. If she proposed a walk
or any scheme of amusement, Susan would invariably make some excuse for
not joining the party, and, not content with this, she would exert all
her influence to prevent her cousin’s making one of the number. She
felt that Florence was a dangerous associate; and again and again she
would advise Carrie to have nothing to do with her. But her advice
met the usual fate of such unwelcome counsel: it was listened to with
ill-disguised impatience and at last disregarded altogether.

When Susie talked of Florence’s want of principle and steadiness, her
cousin would retort that she was unreasonably prejudiced against her.

Carrie’s position was by no means a pleasant one. She was sincerely
attached to both her friends, while they not only disliked each other
cordially, but were jealous of each other’s influence. She was like a
shuttle-cock kept flying between two skilful players.

“I wish you liked Susie better!” she said one day to her friend.

“You had better wish that Susan liked me,” was Florence’s reply. “How
can I like her, when she treats me as if I were such a wretch that she
hardly dared speak to me for fear of pollution? You know she warns you
against me and thinks I am the most awful creature that ever lived.”

“Well, Florence, you know, too, that you show your very worst side to
her. You always sneer at every thing good when you are with her. She
thinks you have no respect for religious things at all; and sometimes I
almost think so too.”

“But I have a great respect for Christian people.”

“Then why do you laugh at Susie and call her ‘Saint’?”

“Oh, because she is so solemn and so dismal and so easily shocked, and
seems to set herself up for something so good.”

“Now, Florence, you are unjust. I am sure Susie is as full of fun, in
her quiet way, as any of the girls.”

“Well, it’s of no use for us to talk about it. Saint Sue don’t like me,
and I don’t like her; and we shall probably always remain of the same
opinion. There is no love lost between us. If she could have her way,
she would never let you speak to me again.”

Not long after this conversation, Susan said to her cousin,--

“I really think you ought not to make such a constant companion of
Florence.”

“That is just what Florence said you would tell me,” replied Carrie;
“and she said, too, she thought it was a strange idea of your’s that
saints should not associate with anybody but other saints, leaving the
poor sinners to their own destruction without the benefit of any good
influences.”

“That sounds just like Florence; but I’m afraid she has more influence
over you than you have over her. Carrie, I don’t like to say it, but
I am really afraid you are not so constant in the performance of your
Christian duties as you ought to be and as you used to be. Aunt Stanley
said we should have temptations and trials, and warned us not to yield
to them.”

“She said, too, that she did not think we need to have long faces and
be always talking of religious things.”

“Very true. But there’s a great deal more danger of being too
indifferent than too earnest; and, Carrie, I really think it my duty to
tell you that----”

The blood rushed to Caroline’s face.

“Susie,” she exclaimed, “I wish you didn’t lecture me every time you
get me alone. Lately it seems to be all you talk to me about, whenever
we are together, that I’m doing very wrong. I actually almost dread to
be left with you.”

Susan began to cry.

“Don’t cry,” said her cousin, kissing her tenderly. “I know you mean it
all for the best and because you love me; and perhaps I deserve it all.
But it a’n’t pleasant, you know, to be lectured, even if you do deserve
it. Don’t cry. You make me very unhappy!”

Susie brushed away her tears and kissed Carrie, and so the subject
dropped,--for the time, at least.




CHAPTER IV.

THE TABLEAUX PARTY.


This conversation did not have the effect of re-establishing the
intercourse between the cousins on its old familiar footing. When they
were together, both the girls felt that they must be very careful what
they said, lest they should injure each other’s feelings; and this
necessity of constant watchfulness over one’s words in presence of
another is any thing but pleasant. Nothing can be more surely fatal to
a friendship than such a state of mind. It was not strange, therefore,
that the cousins, though outwardly as fond of each other as ever,
rather shunned than sought each other’s society.

Susan felt this estrangement far more keenly than her cousin. She was
not one who made many friends; while Carrie was of a social nature,
and was a general favourite. Susie was proud, too, and her cousin had
taunted her with being jealous. This had stung her to the quick. It
prevented her from saying any thing more against the intimacy existing
between the room-mates; and her pride, too, forbade her to accept any
invitations to join them in their walks.

“Florence doesn’t want me,” was her invariable reply.

“But I do,” Carrie would say.

“I don’t care about being a third one,” was Susan’s answer,--a reply
which annoyed her cousin exceedingly.

“Let her alone: she’s a jealous thing. She must be every thing or
nothing,” was Florence’s consolation to her friend when she came to her
with these troubles; and at last the advice was taken. Carrie ceased to
ask Susan altogether.

Poor Susie spent many unhappy hours alone in her chamber, and shed many
bitter tears over this neglect, quite unconscious that she herself was
partly in fault. And (not a little conscience-smitten at her treatment
of the poor orphan) Carrie, instead of changing her course, tried to
keep out of sight of her sad face as much as possible. This threw her
still more into Florence’s society,--so that they were soon quite
inseparable.

One day, while walking to the village accompanied by Miss
Winthrop,--for it was against the rules to go out of the school-grounds
unless under the charge of a teacher,--they met a handsome carriage,
which suddenly stopped close by them, and a young lady, who was riding
alone, called out,--

“Is that you, my dear little Florence, or only your apparition?”

Florence looked up. “Oh, my dear Cousin Fanny!” she exclaimed; and,
springing to the carriage, she was up on the step in an instant, and
showering kisses enough on her relative to convince her of her identity.

“I was on my way to call on you,” said Miss Fanny, as soon as she
could take breath after her little cousin’s ardent embrace.

“I’ll go back at once, then, for I don’t want to lose your visit.”

“No,” said the young lady, “I have a better plan than that. Who is that
with you?”

“Miss Winthrop, and my best friend, Carrie Stanley.”

“Miss Winthrop,” said the stranger, with a most bewitching smile, “will
you not allow me to take my little cousin and her friend out for a
short drive?”

Miss Winthrop hesitated.

“Oh, I’ll make it all right with Mr. Worcester. I know him very well.
Tell him, if you please, that Miss Montague will be responsible for the
safe return of his pupils. Jump in, girls. It is not so very long since
Miss Winthrop and I have been school-girls ourselves; and we know what
a treat a drive is.”

Miss Winthrop smiled pleasantly.

“On condition that you don’t keep them out too long, Miss Montague, I
consent,” she said. “I hope you will enjoy your drive, girls.” And
amidst their thanks the carriage drove on.

“How lucky it was,” exclaimed Flora, “that hateful old Forester wasn’t
with us! She would never have let us go. I can see her shake her old
corkscrew curls and make up her mouth and say, ‘It’s contrary to the
rules, young ladies.’”

Florence was an excellent mimic; and she had caught Miss Forester’s
very tone.

Her cousin laughed.

“I expect you need one such dragon to keep you in order,” she said.

The drive was a very pleasant one, for Miss Fanny was most agreeable
company; and sorry indeed were both the girls when it was time to
return.

Mr. Worcester met them at the gate. He appeared very happy to see
Miss Montague, and promised to call on her during her visit at Mrs.
Sidney’s. The girls thanked her for their ride.

“I shall come for you again, with Mr. Worcester’s permission,” was her
reply. “Mr. Worcester knows that I am to be trusted.”

“You must have changed somewhat, then.”

“Oh, what an ungallant speech! But I have changed wonderfully. I have
grown so old and staid! Come and see for yourself!”

She looked at her watch. “It is really late,” she said. “Drive home as
quickly as you can, James. Good-night!”

The coachman touched his spirited horses with the whip; away rolled the
carriage, and in a few minutes all were out of sight. The girls went
to their room, full of animation and eager to tell their companions of
their adventure.

“Oh, Susie, how I wish you had been with us!” concluded Carrie.

Susie made no reply. Her throat swelled and her eyes filled; for she
had been crying almost all the time they had been gone.

Carrie did not observe her red eyes, for she was too full of the
subject of the drive; and the tea-bell rang while the girls were still
dilating on Miss Fanny’s charms.

A few days after this, Florence took her friend aside very
mysteriously, whispering to her that she had something to tell her.

“What is it?” asked Carrie, eagerly.

“I had a note from Cousin Fanny this morning; and--what do you
think!--Mrs. Sidney is going to have a tableaux party, and you and I
are to be invited! Won’t that be splendid?”

Carrie clapped her hands in delight.

“But do you suppose Mr. Worcester will let us go?” she asked, a little
doubtfully.

“Oh, yes! Cousin Fanny says she will make it all right,--that she can
manage Mr. Worcester; and I guess she can, for she always does make
everybody and every thing do just as she chooses. We shall go, I know;
and won’t we have a grand time?”

“I wish Susie could go too,” was her friend’s only reply. “It looks a
little selfish in me to go and leave her behind.”

“Nonsense! No, it doesn’t. She won’t think any thing of it. Cousin
Fanny never heard of her, you know. Of course, Susan wouldn’t want you
to stay at home on her account. That would be selfish enough!”

“If she were only invited too,” persisted Carrie, “I should be
perfectly happy.”

“She can’t think it strange that she isn’t, when Fanny never heard of
her existence,” replied Florence. “Sometimes I wish I never had myself.
She’s a regular nuisance. I’m sick to death of her very name. It’s
always ‘Susan! Susan!’ with you, if any thing comes up. But don’t let
us talk any more about her now. She isn’t invited; and that’s all about
it.”

Florence had her own reasons for not wishing to talk on this subject.
In her cousin’s note she had told her that if there were any others of
her school-mates whom she wished to invite, she had only to let her
know; and, though Florence was determined that Susan should not go,
Carrie’s regrets on the subject made her feel very uncomfortable.

“What shall you wear?” she asked, as much for the sake of diverting her
friend’s mind as for any other reason.

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Carrie. “I wish mother had let me bring
some of my evening dresses; but there wouldn’t be time to send home for
one now.”

“Why not wear our white muslins? With pretty sashes and bows on the
sleeves, they will look quite nice.”

“It’s as well to think so, at least,” returned Caroline; “for they are
the only dresses we have here at all suitable.”

In the course of the next day the invitations came in due form.
Mr. Worcester was invited also. Cousin Fanny’s magic had not been
over-estimated: he yielded to its power; for he told the girls, when
they showed him their notes, that, if they learned their lessons well
during the two days that were to intervene before the party, they
should go under his escort.

The girls were half wild with excitement. There was nothing to mar
their happiness. Susan had so kindly tried to make her cousin feel that
she did not care at all about going, and was so much interested in the
necessary preparations for her dress, that Carrie’s pleasure was not
quite spoiled, as Florence at one time had feared it might be. Yet her
regrets that Susan could not go were so sincere that the latter, even
without an invitation, was happier than she had been for many weeks;
for she began to feel that Carrie had not ceased to love her altogether.

The morning of the anxiously-looked-for day at last dawned, but Mr.
Worcester was not at the breakfast-table. The girls were dreadfully
afraid that he was ill. Never had they felt so great an interest in
his health before; but in a short time they learned the cause of his
non-appearance at table. He had left a note for them, which he had
intrusted to Miss Forester, telling them that he had been called away
suddenly and unexpectedly on business and should not return in season
to accompany them to the party; but he had made arrangements for a
carriage to convey them to Mrs. Sidney’s, and he hoped they would have
a pleasant evening.

The morning wore slowly away. It was in vain that Carrie attempted
to study. Her head was too full of the delights of the evening to
permit her to devote herself to her lessons; and it must be confessed
that neither she nor Florence acquitted themselves remarkably well in
Arithmetic or History.

At the close of the morning session, Miss Forester informed them that,
as they had broken the conditions of perfect recitations, they had
forfeited the right to go to the party, and she should consequently
countermand Mr. Worcester’s order for the carriage which was to have
conveyed them to Mrs. Sidney’s. The disappointment of the girls may be
readily imagined. Their expostulations were numerous but ineffectual,
and their anger against Miss Forester was fierce indeed.

“If Mr. Worcester were at home, I know he would let us go,” persisted
Florence.

“I am head-teacher in his absence,” replied Miss Forester; “and, since
you have not recited perfectly, I shall not let you go.”

Carrie cried, and Susan attempted to comfort her, for Florence had no
time to devote to consolation. She was not so easily disheartened. She
said nothing, but proceeded to act. She had always an abundance of
pocket-money; for her father kept her liberally supplied, and she had
long since learned that “money is power.”

During her practice-hour in the afternoon, while Miss Forester was
engaged in school, she stole out to the livery-stable and made an
arrangement with the keeper to send a carriage a half-hour later than
Mr. Worcester’s order. She explained to him the circumstances of the
case, and assured him that Mr. Worcester, had he not been absent,
would have allowed them to go, and that he would not be offended at
their disobeying Miss Forester. These assurances, together with a
liberal bribe, induced him to agree to have a carriage in waiting at
the appointed hour, a little distance from the house.

Having accomplished this, on her return she made one of the
chambermaids her confidant, and promised to pay her well if she
would be in readiness to let her in after the party, promising to be
back at one o’clock. The girl readily agreed to do so; and when her
arrangements were all completed, Florence informed Carrie of what she
had done.

At first Carrie was too much frightened to think of accompanying her;
but Florence insisted that it “was no more than fair.” She rehearsed
again her arguments to the livery-stable-keeper, and, as a grand
finale, urged her to rely on Cousin Fanny, who would make it all right
with Mr. Worcester.

“The reason old Lady Forester won’t let us go is because she’s
affronted to think she isn’t invited: she is as ugly and hateful as
she can be, and she tried to make us miss. I shall go at all events:
you can do as you please.”

So said Florence, and then proceeded to depict the pleasures of the
evening and the certainty that their absence would never be discovered.
The temptation was too great for poor Carrie.

She yielded in spite of Susan’s remonstrances, and at the hour the two
friends stole softly out of the house. The carriage was ready according
to the agreement; and, once at the party, Carrie quite forgot all her
misgivings.

The tableaux were very beautiful, the ladies and gentlemen very polite,
and Fanny spared no pains to make her little guests perfectly happy.
Never was there so short or so delightful an evening.

The carriage at the appointed hour conveyed them home. They alighted
where they had been taken up, and crept softly up to the house. All was
dark. They tapped at the kitchen-window. The back-door opened at the
signal, and there stood Miss Forester!

“Good-evening, young ladies,” said she, with a grim smile.

She said not another word, and the girls, quite crest-fallen, crept up
to bed. They well knew that such an offence would never be overlooked.
Even from Cousin Fanny’s intercession little was to be hoped. But how
Miss Forester had learned their absence was a mystery.

Had Bridget turned traitor? Or had Susan been mean enough to think it
her duty to tell of their disobedience? Florence was impatient to see
Biddy, to upbraid her for her faithlessness, or Susan, to express her
contempt for her if she was the guilty one; but the next morning she
learned that both were quite free from blame.

Bridget’s mother, who lived in the vicinity, had sent for her in
great haste, as her youngest brother was in convulsions; and Bridget,
even in her distress, was not forgetful of her promise to the young
ladies. She had confided their secret to one of her fellow-servants,
who promised to perform her part in letting them in. Miss Forester,
happening to have occasion to go to the kitchen, had overheard all
this in the passage, and had sent the servants to bed, volunteering to
relieve Margaret of her attendance on the door.

“The mean old thing! The spying, prying old thing!” said Florence.
“She is always prowling round and eaves-dropping. The contemptible old
sneak!”

To all this Nora, her informant, assented,--for Miss Forester was no
favourite; but such epithets, though they might possibly act as a
safety-valve for Florence’s indignation, were powerless to extricate
the culprits from their dilemma.

It was in vain to look for counsel from Carrie; she was too much
frightened to be of the least service: indeed, it seemed to afford
her great relief when Florence, nerving herself up for the penalty,
exclaimed,--

“There’s one consolation, Carrie. They can’t kill us! For even Miss
Forester--though I’ve no doubt she’d be glad to do it--can’t make it
out a hanging-matter. At worst, it will only be the State’s prison for
life!”

“How can you talk so?” said Susan. “I believe you would make fun of any
thing.”

“We may as well laugh as cry,” retorted Florence. “We’re in for it.
There’s one thing certain, though: I won’t give Miss Forester the
satisfaction of thinking that I care a straw about it, or that I’m
afraid of her.”

On Mr. Worcester’s return, the facts were duly laid before him. The
girls were sent for into his study.

It was useless to attempt any defence of their conduct; and so Florence
wisely said nothing. Carrie could only cry; and perhaps her distress
touched their teacher’s heart, for after some deliberation he sentenced
them to the loss of all holidays for four weeks; and during that time
they must not go out of the school-grounds.

This was so much better than they had expected, that the delinquents
left him with a light heart. But, though at first it seemed a slight
punishment, it proved to be a severe one; for soon after Miss Fanny
called with an invitation for them to go on a picnic, which she had
arranged on a holiday expressly for the sake of their being able to
attend.

She interceded with Mr. Worcester for a reprieve, but in vain; and, as
she was expressing her sorrow and disappointment on leaving without
them, Miss Forester passed.

She had heard enough to understand what was going on; and, as they went
up the staircase to their rooms, she met them and smiled. It was a
smile of triumph,--or so, at least, the girls fancied.

It was too much for Florence. She turned and shook her clenched fist
behind her teacher’s back, and muttered, between her shut teeth,--

“I’ll be even with you yet.”




CHAPTER V.

A TRAP SET.


This was no idle threat. For days Florence spent much time and thought
in devising various plans for revenging herself; but for a long while
she could not hit on any thing satisfactory.

At last, one day, as she was sitting in her room, she flung her book on
the table and clapped her hands, exclaiming,--

“I have it! I have it!”

Her room-mates looked up in surprise.

“What is it?” both asked.

“Oh, my lesson: that’s all,” returned Florence, quietly. She rose,
and, beckoning to Carrie to follow her, passed out of the room. Carrie
obeyed the signal, and found her friend waiting for her in the hall.

“Come with me,” she said, leading the way out of the house, and
through winding paths away to a secluded spot at the very extremity of
the grounds. Here she stopped.

“Well, what now?” asked Carrie, who had followed her guide in silence.

“Do you suppose it is possible that any one else should be here?” said
her companion, without replying to her question.

She peered round behind the trees, and, having satisfied herself that
there were no listeners, she proceeded in a low voice to tell Caroline
that she had at last hit on a plan for paying what they owed to Miss
Forester.

“That was what you meant, then, when you called out, ‘I have it!’”

“Certainly it was; and it is a capital idea. I am going to get a bowl
and fill it with water and set it on the top of the door of her room,
so that, when she opens it, splash--will come all the water over her.”

“But how can you fix it so that it will stay till she comes?”

“Oh, leave the door a little ajar; and I sha’n’t put it there till
just before she goes in, when it is a little dark. You know she always
retires to her room just before tea, to arrange those beautiful curls
of her’s so as to look her prettiest at the supper-table. I’ll save her
the trouble of wetting her hair for once.”

“But, Flora, where will you get a bowl?”

“Why, take her own wash-bowl, of course!”

“But in the fall that would be too heavy: it might hurt her badly, or
it might break, and cut her.”

“So much the better.”

“No,” said Carrie, steadily: “I don’t object to her getting a little
frightened and a good deal wet. She deserves that. But I shan’t go in
for any thing that might hurt her.”

“Poh! poh!” exclaimed her accomplice. “There isn’t one chance in a
thousand of its hitting her.”

But Carrie was resolute. Florence reflected a few minutes.

“Well, Carrie, how would a tin basin do? That couldn’t hurt her: the
more’s the pity!”

“But where can you get one?”

“Oh, buy one: they are cheap.”

“But we cannot go out of the grounds ourselves, you know; and I don’t
like to give such a commission to any one else.”

“Well, leave that to me. I will arrange it somehow,” said her friend,
as they walked back to the house.

On her return to her room, Carrie found her cousin anxiously waiting
for her.

“I know Florence is up to some new mischief,” said she. “Don’t let
her get you into any fresh difficulty. If she has contrived some new
scheme, let her carry it out alone. Don’t you have any thing to do with
it.”

Carrie hesitated.

“She is a very bad and dangerous girl,” continued Susie; “and I can see
that she influences you more and more every day.”

Well meant as this was, Susan could not have said any thing more
injudicious. Carrie flamed up in defence of her friend in an instant.

“She is not so bad as you make her out to be; and, as to influence,
Florence says (and she ought to know) that I have a great deal over
her.”

“All I can say,” replied her cousin, “is that I judge of a person’s
influence by the effect it produces. The reason why I think Florence
influences you more than you do her, is because I see that you are
changed very much, and I don’t see that she is, one particle. You are
in great danger, Carrie. Perhaps this is a turning-point with you. I
tremble for you!”

“You are not my judge, thank goodness! If you were, I should tremble
for myself.”

“Oh, Carrie!” exclaimed Susie;--but she had left the room.

“I think perhaps we had better let Miss Forester go,” said Carrie to
Florence; for, though she would not confess it, Susan’s words had
influenced her somewhat.

“Nonsense!” retorted her friend. “What harm will a little ducking do
her? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Have you got the basin yet?”

“No; but, if worse comes to worst, there’s the bowl.”

“No. I insist on it, _that_ shall not be used. I will have nothing
to do with it if it is.”

“Well, well,” said Florence. “But it is next to impossible to procure
the tin. I can’t get out myself; and I don’t like to trust any one to
buy it.”

Carrie secretly hoped that this difficulty would upset the whole
scheme; but she did not know her friend.

A few days later, Florence drew her into their room, and, removing
a pillow from the bed, displayed a tin basin under it, which she
flourished before her eyes.

“All ready now!” she cried, triumphantly.

“But how did you get it? Did you trust a servant with our secret?”
asked Carrie, anxiously.

“Not I. I borrowed this, without leave, from the pantry. All I wonder
is that I didn’t think of doing it before.”

“Nobody knows you have the basin, then?”

“Nobody but Susan. She came in just in season to see me hide it. I was
clumsy; and nothing, you know, ever escapes her eyes. She asked me what
I was going to do with it, and I told her she would find out before
long. I am sorry she saw it; but then I guess she won’t betray us.”

That evening, as if for Florence’s especial benefit, Miss Forester was
detained at the school-room, after the session, long enough to allow
her to arrange the basin of water just as she wished it. When all was
ready, she whispered to Carrie,--

“Just before tea, look out for Miss Forester’s shower-bath.”

It was quite dark. The tea-bell was rung. The girls were sitting in
expectation close by their own half-opened door. There was a quick step
on the staircase.

“Now!” whispered Florence, breathlessly.

There was a splash, a heavy fall, a groan, and then, for a second, all
was still,--but only for a second. Suddenly there was a great stir in
the hall, and the frightened girls heard exclamations of, “She has
fallen down-stairs! She is half killed!”

Hardly daring to move, they clung to each other in silence. Just then
Susan rushed in.

“Oh, girls,” she said, reproachfully, “what have you done? Miss
Winthrop is dreadfully hurt!”

“Miss Winthrop!” exclaimed both, in dismay.

“Yes. She was going into Miss Forester’s room, and when she opened the
door, down came a basin of water. She started back, her foot slipped,
and she fell down-stairs. They took her up senseless.”

Her listeners wrung their hands in anguish.

“Oh! If we have killed her!” said Carrie, aside.

Florence paced up and down the room almost beside herself. It had never
entered into her calculations that any one but Miss Forester could be
the sufferer from her trick.

That Miss Winthrop, who was a general favourite and whom she herself
dearly loved, should have received the bath intended for Miss Forester
would have been bad enough; but to have been the means of injuring her,
perhaps fatally, was almost too much to bear.

The injury, however, proved to be of a less serious character than was
at first supposed.

Miss Forester’s room was situated at the head of a flight of stairs;
and when Miss Winthrop’s foot slipped, as she started back from the
sudden fall of water, she had wrenched her ankle. Fainting from the
pain, she had fallen down the stairs; but, though she had received
numerous bruises, she was not seriously injured. Her sprained ankle
would, however, confine her to her room for some time.




CHAPTER VI.

CAUGHT.


After their first fright with regard to Miss Winthrop’s injuries
was over, the girls began to think of their own cause for alarm.
Fortunately for them, nothing was said by Mr. Worcester that night
about the authors of the mischief; and by degrees they regained their
self-possession.

But they well knew that their teacher’s silence would not last long,
and were not surprised when, the next day, after the school was called
together, Mr. Worcester made a speech, setting forth the enormity of
the offence, and at the close asked those who were concerned in it to
rise.

This Carrie could not do, for from terror she was absolutely incapable
of moving; and Florence would not, for she knew that her secret was
in her own keeping; and she felt pretty sure that, though she might be
suspected, it could not be proved that she was guilty.

Mr. Worcester was very angry. He threatened severe punishment against
the offenders, and declared that it was useless to hope to escape
detection.

Never were there two more wretched girls than the culprits. Florence
was thoroughly frightened for once, and neither she nor her accomplice
could think or talk of any thing else. Of course, Susan knew all about
it; for the basin which she had seen had given her a clew to the secret
of the room-mates, and, knowing this, they did not hesitate to talk of
the affair before her.

It was only the day after Mr. Worcester’s speech that Florence was
summoned to the study. Several girls who had been supposed to have some
reason for disliking Miss Forester had been previously sent for and
cross-examined,--so that Florence’s summons did not add much to her
alarm.

She was not detained long, but came back in quite good spirits, saying,
as she entered the room,--

“Carrie, Mr. Worcester will send for you in a minute. Go down and
declare that you know nothing about it. I’ve lied right straight along:
all you’ve got to do is to stick to it.”

“Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” exclaimed the poor girl, wildly.

“Tell the truth, Carrie,” said Susan, firmly.

“Oh, Carrie, you wouldn’t do it!” exclaimed Florence, eagerly.

“It’s your only course,” persisted Susan, not heeding this remark. “It
is the very best thing you can do.”

“And what’s to become of me?” interrupted Florence. “A pretty position
I shall be in! Proved guilty, and a liar into the bargain! Carrie,
you couldn’t be so cruel! What would Mr. Worcester do to me? I should
be expelled at the very least. You won’t bring me out, just to save
yourself? You couldn’t be so mean, Carrie!”

“What shall I do?” was the poor girl’s only reply.

“Tell the truth,” persisted her cousin.

“But--Florence----”

“If she had not lied herself,” began Susan.

“But I have lied,” interrupted Florence. “It’s done and can’t be
helped. Carrie, you will not expose me! I hear some one coming for you
now. Promise me that you won’t tell.”

Caroline said not a word. She trembled from head to foot. There was a
rap at the door. She did not move. Florence looked at her an instant,
then sprang to her and shook her fiercely by the shoulder.

“Don’t tremble so, you little fool!” she said. “Your very looks will
betray you!”

By a strong effort Carrie controlled herself, and walked to the study.

When she returned, a half-hour later, Florence and Susan were still
in earnest conversation.

“What if you should be questioned, Susan?” asked Florence.

“I do not think it at all likely that I shall be.”

“But if you were?” persisted her questioner.

“I would not tell a lie.”

“What!” exclaimed her companion, “would you be so mean?”

“Nothing can be meaner than a lie,” returned Susan.

Carrie by the half-open door had overheard all this. She waited for no
more. Susan’s words, “Nothing can be meaner than a lie,” rung in her
ears, as she turned away sick at heart.

Of this contemptible meanness she had just been guilty. At that moment
she despised herself thoroughly. She could not endure to see any one.
She felt as if she could never look any one in the face again.

She stole away into her favourite spot in the garden, and, throwing
herself on the ground, she wept long and bitterly. She thought of her
mother’s warning and of her own boasted strength! How her mother would
feel if she knew of her child’s disgrace and sin! She shrunk from the
thought. She would rather die, almost, than to have her know of it; and
yet--God knew it all! Jesus, whom she had professed to love, saw all
her sin and knew how she had forgotten him,--how she had disgraced her
Christian character. What had her influence been?

She groaned aloud. She could not pray. She sprang from the ground, and
walked up and down the path, wringing her hands in anguish.

She heard footsteps approaching and some one calling her name. She did
not answer: she looked about for some place of escape, but there was
none; and in an instant Florence was by her side. Her arms were round
her neck and she was kissing her most passionately.

“Don’t feel so badly, my darling,” she said. “They will never find us
out in the world!”

Carrie said nothing: she leaned on her friend’s shoulder and cried
bitterly.

Florence caressed her again and again, and repeated her assurances of
their security from discovery. All this seemed to afford the weeping
girl no comfort.

“It isn’t that,” at last she whispered; “but--my lie!--and I a
professed Christian, too!”

She shuddered. “I despise myself,” she exclaimed; “and I know you must
despise me too.”

Florence only pressed her closer to her heart. “_I_ despise you?”
she cried,--“when it was all my fault, from beginning to end? Carrie,
never say such a thing again!”

Somewhat comforted by Florence’s tenderness, Carrie returned to the
house.

Susan looked at her coldly, sternly, almost contemptuously, as she
entered the room, but she made no remark; and after that one glance,
which spoke volumes and cut the poor delinquent to the very heart, she
went on with her studies.

No allusion to the difficulty Carrie had passed through was ever made
by Susan; but the cousins were now more estranged than ever. Caroline
felt that Susan despised her; and, though she felt also that she
deserved this, she yet resented it keenly.

For several days nothing had been said by their teacher about the late
incident, and the girls had settled down quite composedly, hoping that
it was never to be revived, when one morning, after prayers, in the
school-room, Mr. Worcester rose and informed the young ladies that he
had at last discovered the authors of the mean and contemptible trick
to which he had once before alluded. He had learned the whole story, he
continued,--from the theft of the basin down to the lies to hide their
guilt. He proceeded then, in no measured terms, to speak of the trick:
he held its authors up to contempt; and, after a half-hour’s scorching
rebuke and cutting sarcasm, he concluded by calling the girls by name
and bidding them come forward.

With flashing eyes and compressed lips, Florence, whom this speech had
only stung to fierce anger, walked haughtily forward; while Carrie,
pale and hardly able to walk, tottered to her place beside her. Every
eye in the school was upon the culprits.

Carrie reeled, and would have fallen if Florence had not supported her.
Mr. Worcester hardly noticed the girls’ emotion, as he addressed them
in a few bitter, sarcastic sentences and then pronounced the penalty.

They were to make an apology first to Miss Winthrop, next to Miss
Forester, in presence of the school, confessing also that they had
lied, and, moreover, were each to write home an account of the whole
affair to their parents.

When Carrie heard this, she was completely overcome and fell back in a
partial swoon.

In an instant all was confusion. Susan sprang to her cousin’s side;
but Florence pushed her violently away.

“You shall not touch her!” she said, between her teeth; and when at
last Carrie regained her consciousness, it was to Florence that she
turned, begging to be allowed to go to her own room.

“Is it all true?” she said, when she was left alone with her friend,
who had placed her, unaided, on the bed. “Oh, how dreadful it is! I
could bear it all, but---- Oh, my mother!”

She buried her face in the pillows, and her whole frame was convulsed
with emotion.

“This is all Susan’s doings. From saints like her, good Lord, deliver
me!” said Florence, bitterly. “I hate her! I hate her!” And she set her
teeth firmly, and clenched her hands, as she paced up and down the room
like some wild animal furious with rage.

The penalty which they had incurred was indeed a severe one. Nothing
could have been more humiliating than such an apology and confession as
they were to make before the whole school. Carrie was quite unnerved
by the prospect of it, and by the still greater punishment,--the
writing home to her mother.

Several days had passed, and the first part of their sentence had been
performed. Caroline (how she hardly knew) had repeated her confession;
but she was as yet utterly unable to write a word.

Meanwhile, Susan’s position was no enviable one. The tide of popular
feeling was altogether on the side of the culprits, whose penalty
was universally declared to be too severe; and, as Florence did not
hesitate to accuse Susan of having been the informant, repeating her
own declaration that if questioned she should not lie, it was the
conviction of most of the girls that she had been the traitor.

An informer is always despised at school; and poor Susan soon
experienced the whole force of this prejudice. No one accused her of
having told; but every one avoided her as if she were beneath contempt.

Carrie’s state of health (for she spent most of her time lying on the
bed, crying and sobbing) only added fuel to the fire of anger kindled
against Susan. Carrie made no charges against her cousin; but she
shrank from seeing her and would tremble like an aspen if she came into
the room. This, too, told against poor Susan.

At last she could bear it no longer. She went into the room where her
cousin was lying, surrounded by sympathizing friends.

Florence looked up and demanded what she wanted, in a tone that proved
she felt her to be an intruder.

Susan did not heed her, or the glances of contempt cast upon her. She
walked straight to the bed.

“Carrie,” said she, “do _you_ believe I told Mr. Worcester?”

“Oh, I don’t know! I don’t know!” replied the girl, trembling with
excitement. “Please go away. Don’t look at me so! I can’t bear it!” And
she turned away her head.

Susan said not a word. She turned and walked out of the room.

From that time she made no further attempt to free herself from
suspicion; and, though some of the girls were inclined at first to
believe that she was not guilty, Florence left nothing undone to prove
that she was the informant.

Circumstances, indeed, were against her. She had been seen in Mr.
Worcester’s study the day before the discovery was made known; and,
more than that, if she did not tell, _who_ could have done so? She
alone knew of it.

It seemed almost impossible for Carrie to write to her mother. From
time to time she deferred it, until at last her teacher set a certain
day on which he said it must be completed and given to him.

With a faint heart, on the appointed day Carrie took it to his study.

He read it: then, after a glance at the wretched girl before him, he
said, pointing to a box containing sealing-wax and tapers, “Give me
that stand.”

Carrie obeyed; but, instead of sealing the letter, Mr. Worcester held
it to the blaze until it was consumed.

“You have had a sufficiently severe lesson, I think,” he said; “and I
release you from further punishment.”

Carrie tried to thank him; but glad tears, which she could not
restrain, were her only reply.

Again she attempted to speak; but her voice was choked.

“How can I ever thank you enough?” at last she said.

“Be a penitent, obedient girl,” he said; and she left the room half
wild with delight.

Florence, too, had been released from her letter of confession, and
they could rejoice together.

Their lesson had been indeed sufficiently severe to cure even Florence
of all wish to disobey; and she devoted herself to her studies with
a zeal that astonished her instructors quite as much as it delighted
them.




CHAPTER VII.

ANOTHER MYSTERY.


The quarterly exhibition was drawing near. It was a great day at the
school.

All the friends of the institution in town, and many from out of town,
were present on these occasions.

It was a sort of examination of the school; and prizes for scholarship,
declamation and composition were awarded by the principal.

There was no little emulation and rivalry among the pupils with
regard to the prizes; but it was generally conceded by all that the
composition-prize, which ranked first, would be gained by Susan or
Florence.

Both wrote remarkably good compositions; and it was a disputed point
which was the superior writer.

On this occasion both seemed determined to do their very best; and not
only they, but the whole school, felt deeply interested in the contest.

It was the night before the exhibition.

Florence’s essay, neatly copied and tied together with blue ribbon, lay
on the table before her; and, at the request of a large number of the
girls who were in the room, she read it to them.

It was warmly applauded, and pronounced the very best thing she had
ever written.

Susan had listened to its reading attentively.

“It is certainly very fine,” she said at its close.

“Read your’s now,” was the unanimous request; and she was about to do
so, when the signal for retiring was given.

“You must wait till to-morrow, girls,” she said, pleasantly, as they
left the apartment.

It was a bright and beautiful morning that dawned on the day of the
exhibition.

The girls were all absorbed in their preparation. White muslins were to
be in requisition, trimmed with different-coloured ribbons, according
to the various classes of which their wearers were members.

There was little enough time for dressing after breakfast; and all were
so much engaged in their preparations that the compositions were quite
forgotten.

It was not until the first bell rang for school that Florence gathered
up her books and papers for the day.

“Where is my composition?” she asked, rummaging over the table-drawer
into which she had thrown it the night before.

“Have you seen my composition, girls?” she inquired of her room-mates.
“Where can it be? It is strange enough where it can have gone!”

Strange enough it was; for, though several of her schoolmates
remembered seeing her put it in the drawer, it was not there.

Mr. Worcester was informed of the loss, and gave Florence permission
to be excused from school-duties for a while, that she might find it;
but, after a thorough examination of the room, she was obliged to give
it up in despair.

Where it had gone nobody could even guess; but that it had disappeared
past recovery was certain.

Unfortunately Florence had not even the first rough draft of her essay.
After having copied it she had torn it up and thrown it away.

Her schoolmates sympathized with her in her loss; but all their regrets
did not restore the missing paper.

To lose that essay on which she had worked so hard and which was to
have gained for her so much applause! What a trial.

It was a terrible disappointment; and it required all her self-control
to keep back her tears when her rival read her composition.

Florence knew that her’s was a better one, and so all the girls
felt who had heard it. So also Susan knew; and when Mr. Worcester
pronounced that the prize had been awarded to her by the decision of
the committee on essays, and bade her come forward to receive it, she
said, as she approached him, in a voice so low that it reached his ear
alone,--

“Mr. Worcester, if you please, I had rather not take it. I heard
Florence read her’s last night, and I know it was better than mine.
Please give the prize to her!”

Mr. Worcester looked at her admiringly.

“Your proposition does you honour,” he said: then, turning to the
audience, he continued:--

“In justice to Miss Florence Anderson, I must say a few words.”

He then told of her loss and of her school-mate’s generous proposal.
He paid Florence a just compliment on the excellence of her usual
compositions, and regretted her misfortune. “Yet, Miss Susan,” he
concluded, “the committee are obliged to decide on the merits of the
articles submitted to them; and, however much we regret that Miss
Florence’s was not among the number, the prize is fairly your’s.”

He threw a pretty gold chain around her neck as he spoke, and she took
her seat amidst murmurs of approval from all the audience.

Susan had gained what she had been striving for so long. The prize was
her’s; but all her enjoyment in it was gone.

At recess, the girls crowded round Florence to condole with her; and,
though some few spoke of Susan’s proposal as a very generous one, most
of them treated it with contempt.

“Fine words cost nothing,” said Florence. “She knew of course that Mr.
Worcester would never give me the prize without reading my piece.”

Her listeners agreed to this sentiment, and, “It’s very strange where
the composition can have gone,” was re-echoed again and again by one
and another. “Such things don’t go without hands!” said some, with
significant glances at each other and Susan.

Poor Susan! Her day of triumph was a most wretched one!

She gained some other prizes,--as did Florence also; but at night,
when she went to her room to put them away, she shed bitter tears over
her honours.

The suspicions of her schoolmates with regard to the share she had
in the betrayal of her cousin’s secret were just beginning to be
forgotten; and now she felt that a second time she was exposed to a
similar trial.

Cold looks, sneering remarks, neglect and dislike were again to be her
bitter portion. And, as she had foreseen, all this came upon her.

Days and weeks passed on, and nothing had been heard of the missing
essay. Wretched days and weeks were those to poor Susan.

In the midst of her schoolmates she lived almost alone. She was too
proud to assert her innocence or to seek for sympathy from those
who had suspected her. She was too proud, too, to show how much she
suffered.

In public she was as calm and quiet as ever,--to all appearance the
same; but many a night her pillow was wet with her tears.

Florence treated her with the utmost contempt, hardly deigning to speak
to her; and Carrie, she felt, distrusted her: this last affair had
shaken her confidence in her relative. She said nothing when Susan was
spoken of; and this silence cut her cousin to the heart.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE SECRET OUT.


Many weary weeks dragged by. On one Saturday morning Susan and Florence
were alone in their room.

Florence had been rearranging the furniture on her side of the
apartment, and, among other changes, was attempting to move the bureau
into a new position.

It was heavy and gave her trouble.

Susan saw her difficulty, and at first resolved not to aid her; but
after a second or two, reproaching herself for such a feeling, she
rose, and, going up to the bureau, took hold of one side of it without
speaking.

Florence half pushed her away.

“I can do it alone!” she said, petulantly; and, giving it a violent
shove, she succeeded in moving it; but off fell several boxes which
had stood upon it.

She stooped to pick them up, taking a mahogany box first; but its top
had been broken by the fall, and as she raised it the bottom dropped
out and its contents were strewn over the floor.

A paper tied with blue ribbon was among them.

Susan snatched it. It was the prize-composition!

Florence said not a word. She looked at her companion with a glance
full of hatred.

Susan did not heed it. She was too full of joy at this opportunity of
freeing herself from suspicion to think of any thing else.

For an instant that it was found filled her thoughts; but then arose
the question, “How came it locked up in Florence’s possession?” and the
answer flashed upon her.

“You hid it yourself, Florence!” she exclaimed, eagerly.

The girl still said not a word. She only looked at her accuser; but
such a look! Susan shuddered.

“You were willing to lose the prize for the sake of injuring me!” she
said. “Oh, how you must hate me!”

“Hate you!” repeated Florence, through her shut teeth. “Yes, I
hate you! But it is your turn now to triumph. Go and proclaim your
discovery!”

“It is strange that you hate me so!” said Susan, with a sigh.

“You have treated me, ever since we met, with such unvarying kindness
that it is ungrateful, I suppose. You have pointed out my faults in so
sweet a spirit and tried so hard to make me better! It is strange that
I do not love you!” said Florence, sneeringly.

Susan was speechless. There was a germ of truth in these words. Her
conscience smote her.

But if she had erred in her conduct towards Florence, was that a
sufficient excuse for all her unkindness,--for so contemptible a plot
to injure her in the estimation of her schoolmates?

All that she had suffered rose before her,--her wretched days, her
sleepless nights! All these she owed to Florence.

“It is only justice to myself to expose her,” she thought.

“Love your enemies; bless them that curse you; do good to them which
hate you; pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you,”
came to her mind.

It was a terrible struggle, but a short one. She approached Florence
and put the essay in her hand.

“Your secret is safe,” she said.

Florence was speechless with astonishment.

“What do you mean?” she asked, at last.

“I have wronged you,” said Susie. “I see it all now. I have been unkind
to you from the first. Will you forgive me?”

Florence was confounded. She had held the paper doubtfully, as if
hardly comprehending Susie’s intention, and distrusting her sincerity;
but when she asked her forgiveness in tones of such humility she could
doubt her no longer.

Tears rushed to her eyes.

“You ask me to forgive you!” she exclaimed, in a voice choked with
emotion. “Oh, Susan!”

She could say no more. Sobs impeded her utterance.

Susan went up to her side and put her arm around her softly. This was
more than Florence could bear. Such kindness quite overcame her.

“Oh, Susie, how can you forgive me?” she cried.

“‘Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors,’” said her companion,
softly. “If Jesus could die for me and loves me still when I so often
forget him and all he has done for me, I ought at least not to be
severe in my judgment of others. I often think of the parable of the
debtor whom his lord forgave, and who went out and, forgetting his
release, treated the man who owed him so harshly. I am too wicked, and
need too much mercy myself, to be severe on others.”

“You wicked!” said Florence. “Then what am I?”

“And yet Jesus loves you,” said Susie.

They talked long and seriously, and Florence listened earnestly.

From that time the girls were firm friends. Florence wished to tell
all her schoolmates of her injustice towards her room-mate; but Susie
would not consent to this. She would only permit her to tell that the
composition was found. Even Carrie knew nothing except this; and all
supposed it had been mislaid.

Not long after this, as Susan, Florence and Carrie were walking in
the grounds together, they went to the quiet nook which was Carrie’s
favourite spot. Taking a little by-path, they wandered on, till
suddenly they came upon Miss Forester, who was sitting on a log,
reading.

The trees grew so thickly around her seat that they did not see her
till they were close beside her.

Florence saw that the place was quite near “Lina’s Nook,” as they had
named her favourite spot.

“This _is_ a pretty place,” said Susan, kindly.

“Yes,” replied Miss Forester. “I come here often. It is one of my
favourite haunts.”

It flashed upon Florence in an instant that she it was who had been a
spy on her interview with Carrie in the grounds after their visit to
the study, and had been Mr. Worcester’s informant.

“You have acquired a great deal of useful information here, no doubt,”
she said, a little sarcastically.

Miss Forester looked at her with a glance of keen intelligence.

“There _is_ a great deal to be learned, as you say, even in a quiet
nook like this, if one keeps both eyes and ears open,” she replied,
meaningly.

The girls passed on.

“The hateful old thing!” exclaimed Florence, indignantly.

“Hush! She will hear you,” said Carrie.

“I don’t care if she does! Listeners never hear any good of themselves;
and she is no exception to the general rule. The old eaves-dropper! She
deserves to be----”

“‘Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors,’” said Susan, gently.

“I am not like you, Susie. I dare not say that yet.”

“I hope you will before long,” replied her friend.

“So do I,” said Florence, reverently.

The time came at last when Florence could say this; for Susan’s
faithful and kind words were not lost. And never were there two happier
beings than the cousins when, some months later, Florence told them,
with happy tears glistening in her eyes, that she now understood what
they meant by “loving Jesus.”


THE END.




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  XXVIII. The Bridge Over the Brook.




Transcriber’s Note:

Spelling, hyphenation and punctuation have been retained as they appear
in the original publication. Changes have been made as follows:

  Page 15
    Carlo scampered on ahead _changed to_
    Carrie scampered on ahead

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 66034 ***