Turquoise and Ruby

likethat?"

  "I know not, _ma chere_; I only do know that once you got money fromyour school friends. You would like not that story to be known; but itcan be spread all over the school at Hazlitt Chase, and Honora Beverley,that most saintly and esteemed young lady, can hear of it. She will notwish to have you any longer a visitor at her beautiful home; for she isof the lofty sort that stoop not to the ways of the wicked. Think whatit will mean. And your sister--she will be, oh, in peril of graveimprisonment. Think of the public trial and the so great disgrace.Madame at the Chase will not receive you back; she would not dare toreceive the sister of a thief! _Oh, fi donc_! She could not it endure.That is your position. But I deliver you therefrom if you once againexercise that spell which you possess; and get from your companions--itmatters not which--the leetle, leetle sum of twenty pound. That is thewhole, you understand."

  "I understand," said Penelope. She spoke in a low voice; her face waswhite as death.

  "I give you until the morning. You are puzzled, _pauvre petite_, andmost truly do I you pity. But never mind; it is _necessaire_ that thepoor governess be helped in her hour of so great need. To her it isequal about the disgrace to you and yours; in one way or the other she,the poor French Mademoiselle, makes a _grand coup_ in this matter! Andnow, I wish you `adieu' for the night. Communicate with me beforetwelve o'clock to-morrow. If at that hour I have no news from you, Itake my own steps. _Adieu, cherie. Pauvre enfant, dormez tranquille_."

  Mademoiselle turned away. She walked quickly down the dusty road. Shehad done her evil deed; she had exploded her bomb. Her wicked heartfelt no sense of shame or sorrow for the innocent girl whom she had putin so cruel a position.

  As to Penelope, she stayed for a little time just where Mademoiselled'Etienne had left her. Then she turned and walked up the drive. Shewas stunned. She had not walked half-way up the avenue before a gayyoung voice sounded in her ears; and, of all people in the world, thoseshe least wished to see at this juncture, rushed up to her and flungtheir arms round her neck and wrist.

  "You have come back!" said Nellie Hungerford.

  "We are _so_ delighted!" said Pauline. "We have missed you justdreadfully. But we have had a good day. We went to the sands at CarlinBay. Uncle Beverley took us, and we did enjoy ourselves! But still itisn't half so much fun when you're away. You're so splendid at tellingstories, you know. But come along now; you're just in time for supper,and after supper we mean to have a grand game at hide-and-seek before weall go to bed. Honora! Nora dear, here is Penelope--she is come back!"

  Honora ran down the grassy sward to meet her friend.

  "Why, surely," she said, "you didn't walk home?"

  "No, no--I left the carriage at the gate."

  "But why did you do that?"

  "I thought I'd like to walk up the avenue."

  "You look dead tired; is anything the matter?"

  "I have a--a--headache," said Penelope, taking refuge in thistime-honoured excuse for low spirits.

  "Poor thing! I expect you found the sun very hot at Marshlands. As toNellie and Pauline--I call them a pair of salamanders; they can standany amount of heat. They would insist on father taking them to Carlinsands to-day; and they came back fresher than ever. The rest of usstayed more or less in the shade, for I never remember the sun being sohot."

  "Come in, and have some supper, Pen; that'll do you good," said Pauline.

  Penelope said she would. They had now reached the house. She ran up toher own room. She bathed her face, washed her hands, and brushed backher hair. She tried to believe that the dreadful thing that hadhappened in the wagonette was a dream, that there was no such horrorsurrounding her, lying in wait for her, clutching at her very vitals.She would keep up at any cost for the evening. When the night came, shewould be alone. Then she could think.

  Honora's voice was heard calling her. She ran downstairs. They allwent into the long, cool supper-room. There a cold collation was spreadon the table.

  "I won't let you go to Marshlands again," said Nora, looking criticallyat Penelope. "You're just as white as a sheet. It is much too tiringthis hot weather. Your sister must come to us instead."

  Poor Penelope gave a little inward shiver. Pauline Hungerford nestledclose to her.

  "I've something to whisper to you," she said.

  "Oh, no--not now," said Penelope.

  "Yes, but I must. They don't mind what we do at supper--we're all quitefree at supper. It is this: listen. Mother's coming here earlyto-morrow--think of that!--And I do believe she is bringing a bangle,the same as mine, for Nellie! She didn't _say_ so in so many words, butI think she is. Then we'll be perfectly happy! Aren't you glad? Iknow I am. I've never half enjoyed my darling bangle at the thought ofNellie's sorrow. But Nellie has been very good lately, and hasn'ttalked about it a bit, or even once asked to look at mine. She wouldn'tdo that at first; she used to shut her eyes whenever she found herselfforced to see it, just as though it gave her the greatest pain. Ihate--and _hate_ wearing it. Mother said I must, for it would be so badfor Nellie if she didn't bear a thing of this sort well. But now, it'sall right, and darling Nellie will be as happy as a sand-boy. Oh, I_am_ delighted!"

  "Paulie, you mustn't whisper any more," said Fred Hungerford at thatmoment. "Hullo, Pen!" he added, "I am glad to see you back. Did youand your sister stay much longer on the quay? and did you meet thatlow-down fellow, Jordan, again? I can't imagine how your pretty sistergot to know him."

  "We didn't meet him any more," said Penelope, "and we went back to the_pension_ soon after."

  Supper came to an end. Pauline asked wildly, her bright eyes gleaming,when the grand game of hide-and-seek in the moonlit garden was to begin.

  Here Penelope's fortitude failed her.

  "I have had a tiring day," she said. "Do you mind, Nora, if I go to myroom?"

  "Is your head aching badly?" asked Honora.

  "Yes, I'm afraid it is."

  "Then of course you must go. And, children, we won't shout too loudlyunder Pen's window. Good-night, dear. Would you like me to come andsee you before I go to bed myself?"

  "Oh, no, please; not to-night, Nora."

  "Very well--good-night. You really don't look at all well."

  Penelope felt a brief sense of relief when she was all alone in herroom. She took off her dress and put on a light dressing-gown. Thenshe flung the window wide open and sat down by it, resting her elbow onthe deep window ledge. Her pale, despairing face gazed out into thenight. How happy she had been at Castle Beverley! What a joyful, glad,delightful sort of place it was! How merry the voices of the childrensounded! She could hear shrieks of mirth in the distance. Oh, yes;Castle Beverley was a delightful home. She knew quite well why. Itseemed to her that night that the whole secret of its gladness, of itsgoodness, of its beauty, was revealed. Castle Beverley was delightful,not because its owner was a rich man and well born; not because thechildren who came there were ladies and gentlemen by birth; but simplybecause the laws that governed that household were the laws of truth andlove and unselfishness and righteousness. It was impossible to be meanin that home, for here the highest things were practised more thanpreached. There were no ostensible lessons in religion, but thereligious life was led here, by Honora, by all the children, and, mostof all, by the father and mother.

  "That accounts for it," thought Penelope. "It is because they are sogood without being priggishly good, that I have been so happy. Theyalways think nice thoughts of every one; and they are unselfish, andeach gives up to the other. I don't belong to them--I belong to Brenda.Brenda and I have the same mother, and the same father. We are twosisters. Brenda has fallen very low indeed, and I suppose I shall falltoo; for how can I endure, even for a moment, what Mademoisellecontemplates doing--what Mademoiselle will do? It will mean Brenda'sruin, Brenda's public disgrace, and my disgrace! Oh, to think that Ishould be living here, and that the children--Nellie and Pauline--shouldlove me, and confide in me, and
all the time my sister--mine! has stolenNellie's bangle! Oh, Brenda, Brenda!"

  Poor Penelope did not cry: she was past tears. She sat and gazed outinto the night. Her perplexities were extreme; she could not rest.What was she to do? Mademoiselle had put her, indeed, into a cleftstick; whichever way she turned there seemed to be nothing but despair.

  "I was so happy; but that doesn't matter," she thought. "The thing nowto do is to know how to save Brenda. Can I save her by--by--trying toget money for her? But then I couldn't get money. Oh, yes, I could,though--or at least perhaps I could, I don't know. I