The Letter of Credit

studied with a consuming kind of intensity. Not a teacher that she had to do with, but took delight in her. She gave them absolutely no trouble. She was not a timid girl; so was not, like some, hindered by nervousness from making a fair presentation of herself. Her mind was opening, greedy for the food it got, and taking it in rapidly.

  And happy? There was not seemingly a happier girl in the house. Crowding new interests had driven into the background, for the time, the demands of conscience; and Rotha was one of those people whose cup of life is a large one; capacities of heart and intellect alike wide in their possibilities, but if satisfied, making existence very rich. She was quiet enough in manner, never forgetting her beloved model; yet eye and lip and varying colour, and the involuntary movement of head and hand, and foot too, testified to the glad growing life of her soul. Mrs. Mowbray saw it with perpetual satisfaction; it got to be a habit with her that her eye sought and rested on that one unmistakeably honest and loyal member of her family. And Rotha's eye never met hers but there came a sparkle and a look of love into the young face.

  All day was a delight now to the girl; beginning with the morning prayers, which to be sure she loved mostly because she heard Mrs. Mowbray's voice in them. Then came breakfast; bright and cheery, with the hope and the work of the day in prospect, and a lively, pretty, pleasant table and company in possession. It was not like school; it was a large family; where all arrangements and supplies were as in the best appointed private house, and the only rules that reigned were the rules of good manners. Then came the brisk walk in the bracing morning air; and then, study. Some lesson hours were particularly interesting to Rotha. Latin she did not like, but French she took to kindly; and Madame Bonton told madame with a satisfied nod of her head, that Miss Carpenter was "not a soap bubble",--high praise, which only a few of the girls ever attained.

  Among her schoolmates Rotha made no particular friends. Some of them asked captiously who she was? others remarked critically that she thought herself too good looking; others declared enviously that she was a "favourite." Rotha did not take to any of them; made no confident of any of them; and was felt by most of them to be somehow uncongenial. Those who saw most of her felt this most decidedly. She presently was out of favour with all her roommates.

  It was a rule of the house that lights should be all out at ten o'clock. Then one of the under teachers made a progress through the rooms to see that this was done and everybody in bed. Rotha made one of four girls who occupied a large room on the third floor. Each young lady had her own bed, her own press and drawers, and everything comfort called for; of course absolute privacy could not be given. When Rotha had been in her new quarters two or three weeks, there came a collision between her and her fellows in that room. One night Miss Jewett had been round as usual and turned off the gas. As soon as her retreating foot-steps were heard to reenter her own room, at the further end of the passage, one of the girls sprang up and lit the gas again. The burner was near the head of her bed, so that she could see pretty well to read when she was lying down; which to Rotha's great surprise she went on to do for some time--till Rotha fell asleep. The next night the same thing happened, and the next. Rotha became uneasy, and finally could bear it no longer. The fourth time this trick was played, she lifted her voice in protest.

  "Miss Entable," said she, "what you are doing is against the rules."

  She spoke clearly enough, though with a moderated voice; but not the least attention was paid to her remonstrance. One of her three companions was asleep; the second giggled; the reader took no notice. Rotha grew hot. What was she to do? Not give way. To give way in the face of opposition was never Rotha's manner. She slipped out of bed and came near the one where the reader lay.

  "Miss Entable, it is against rules, what you are doing."

  "Mind your own business," said the other shortly.

  "I am minding it," returned Rotha. "It is my business to keep Mrs. Mowbray's rules, and not to help break them; and I will not."

  "Will not what? You want to curry favour with old Mowbray--that's what you do. I have no patience with such meanness!"

  "You had better go and tell her what we are doing," said the third girl scornfully.

  "Miss Mc Pherson," said Rotha, her voice trembling a little with wrath, "I think Mrs. Mowbray trusts you. How can you bear to be false to trust?"

  "Stuff!"

  "Cant!"

  "Nobody asks your opinion about it. Who are you?" said the Mc Pherson, who in her own opinion was somebody.

  "Nor do I ask yours," said Rotha. "I will not help you break madame's rules. The light is one fourth part mine; and my part shall not burn after hours."

  With which deliverance she turned off the gas. Words of smothered rage and scorn followed her as she went back to bed; and the next day Rotha was plainly ostracised by a large part of her school-mates.

  The next evening the gas was lighted again after ten o'clock.

  "Now you Carpenter," said the reader, "I am not going to stand any of your ill manners. You will let the gas alone, if you please."

  "I cannot let it alone," said Rotha. "I should be a sharer in your dishonour."

  "Dishonour! well, let it alone, or I'll--"

  "What, Miss Entable?"

  "Mc Pherson and I will put you in bed and tie you there; and Jennings will help. We are three against one. So hold your tongue."

  Rotha reflected. It did not suit her feeling of self-respect to be concerned in a row. She raised herself on one elbow.

  "I do not choose to fight," she said; "that is not my way. But if you do not put the gas out, I shall tell Mrs. Mowbray that she must make somebody watch to see that her orders are observed."

  Now there arose a storm; rage and contempt and reviling were heaped on Rotha's head. "Informer!"--"Spy!"--"Mean tell tale!"--were some of the gentle marks of esteem bestowed on her.

  "I am not an informer," said Rotha, when she could be heard; "I am not going to mention any names. I will only tell Mrs. Mowbray that she must charge somebody to see that her orders are observed."

  "Orders! She is a mean, pinching, narrow-minded, low, school ma'am. You should see how it is at Mrs. De Joyce's. The girls have liberty--they receive their friends--they go to the opera--they have little dances--they do just what they like. Mrs. De Joyce is such a lady! it is another thing. I am not going to stay in this mean house after this term is out."

  "Mary Entable!" said Rotha, rising up on her elbow and speaking with blazing eyes; "are you not ashamed of yourself? Mrs. Mowbray, who has just been so kind to you! so generous! so good! How long is it since she was nursing you through a terrible sickness--nursing you night and day--entertaining your mother and your sister for ten days, in her crowded house. Do you dare call her narrow? Answer me one thing, if you can; did your mother and sister bear the expense of their stay here, or did she? Answer me, if you have a fraction of a soul in you!--Aren't you ashamed! I should think you would cover up your face in the bedclothes, and never look at anybody again!"

  Leaning on her elbow, raised so up in her bed, Rotha had delivered herself of the foregoing; in a moderated voice it is true, but with a cutting energy and directness. The other three girls were at first silent, partly with astonishment, Rotha's usual manner was so contained.

  "You may do as you like," she went on more composedly, "but help you I will not in your wrong ways. If the gas is lighted again after ten o'clock, I shall take my measures. I come of an honest family."

  That last cut was too much. The storm of abuse burst forth again; but Rotha wrapped herself in her coverlets and said no more. The gas was not relighted that evening. However, in the nature of the case it followed that lawless girls would not be long kept in check by the influence of one whom they regarded so lightly as these did Rotha. A fortnight later, the latter came to Mrs. Mowbray one day when she was alone in the library.

  "Well, my child--what is it?" said the kind voice she had learned to love devotedly. Mrs. Mowbray was arranging
some of the displaced books in the bookcases, and spoke with only a fleeting glance at the person approaching her, to see who it was.

  "May I speak to you, madame?"

  "Yes--speak. What is it?"

  "I do not know how to say what I want to say."

  "Straight out, my child. Straight out is best. What is the matter?"

  "Nothing, with me, madame. But--if it would not give too much trouble--I thought I would like it very much if I could be put in another room."

  "Sleeping room?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Why?"--Mrs. Mowbray's quick hands were busy all the while she was