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Title: The School-Girls in Number 40; or, Principle Put to the Test

Author: Anonymous

Release date: August 11, 2021 [eBook #66034]

Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: American Sunday-School Union, 1859

Credits: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SCHOOL-GIRLS IN NUMBER 40; OR, PRINCIPLE PUT TO THE TEST ***

THE

SCHOOL-GIRLS IN NUMBER 40

OR,

PRINCIPLE PUT TO THE TEST.

School Girls in No. 40.—Frontispiece.

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

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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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

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Table of Contents

The School-Girls in Number 40 OR, PRINCIPLE PUT TO THE TEST.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. A REMOVAL.

CHAPTER II. GETTING SETTLED.

CHAPTER III. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW.

CHAPTER IV. THE TABLEAUX PARTY.

CHAPTER V. A TRAP SET.

CHAPTER VI. CAUGHT.

CHAPTER VII. ANOTHER MYSTERY.

CHAPTER VIII. THE SECRET OUT.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE