Turquoise and Ruby

wouldn't ask thegirls again for all the world--but there's the squire; he might--mightlend it to me. I'd have to tell him a lot of lies--and I shouldn't likethat. I must sink down to Brenda's level in order to save her! Oh,Brenda, I can't, I just can't! Brenda, why did you do it? And I hadgot that twenty pounds for you. Why _did_ you steal the bangle and putevery one on the wrong scent and get us into the power of that terrible,unscrupulous Mademoiselle! She'll do what she said she would--there'sno sort of hope from her. Oh, what am I--what am I to do!"

  "Do right," whispered a voice in her ear. This voice spoke light andclear from the conscience of Penelope Carlton, and it was so startlingin its tone that it seemed to her that some one spoke to her. Shestarted and looked out, gazing to right and left. As she did this, someone who was walking below, saw her. That some one was Honora. Sheobserved the white, very white face of the girl and noticed its agony.All of a sudden, Honora came to a resolve.

  "There is something wrong," she thought to herself. "It's not anordinary headache. I don't like that sister of hers a bit--we none ofus do. She has done something to make poor little Pen unhappy. I justthink that I'll force myself on her this very night. She is toomiserable to be left alone; of that I am sure."

  Mary L'Estrange and Cara Burt, walking arm in arm, came now into view.

  "What is the matter, Honora?" said Mary.

  "Why do you ask?" questioned Nora.

  Mary gave a laugh.

  "You look something like what you did that evening when you refused totake the part of Helen of Troy."

  "Oh, we needn't bother about that now," said Honora, a slight tone ofvexation in her voice. Then she added, suddenly: "I am not quite happyabout Pen; I don't think she is well. I am going to her."

  "But she has only a headache," said Cara, "and no wonder, out all thishot day in the sun."

  "I feel somehow that it's more than a headache," said Honora. "I sawher just now looking out of her window, and somehow, I feel she may wantme: in any case, I am going to her. Will you, Cara, and you, Mary, justlead the games, and don't let the children stay out very much longer;it's time for the young ones, at least, to go to bed."

  Cara and Mary promised, and immediately turned away.

  "I," said Cara, addressing her companion, "also thought there wassomething queer about Penelope to-night. It is odd that Honora shouldhave worn the expression she did when she refused to act as Helen ofTroy."

  "And another thing is also odd."

  "What do you mean?" asked Cara.

  "Why, at supper to-night, it seemed to me that Penelope looked as shedid when she made that extraordinary request of us, asking us to giveher five pounds apiece for her to take the part."

  "I didn't notice that expression," exclaimed Mary. "But it was veryqueer of her to want the money. I didn't like her a bit then, did you,Cara?"

  "Of course not," said Cara. "I despised her utterly."

  "So did I, until she acted Helen, and then I could not help admiringher--she was quite, quite splendid."

  "And since she has come here," continued Cara, "she has been very, verynice. Honora is wonderfully taken with her. Honora told me to-day thatshe loves her dearly and means to help her after she has left school.Honora says she's such a lady, and so different from her elder sister."

  "Oh, _she's_ quite an impossible person," said Mary. "But here comesome of the stragglers. Now we must resume our play. Hullo! Nellie;is it my turn to be blindfolded?"

  The elder girls, the boys, and the little girls continued their play,Honora ran up to Penelope's room and tapped at the door. Penelopestarted, and at first did not reply. But the tap was repeated, and shewas forced to say, "Who's there?"

  "It is I--Honora," called a voice.

  "Oh, Nora--I am just going to bed," answered Penelope.

  "No, you're not, dear. Let me in, please."

  There was another moment of hesitation. Then the door was unlocked, andHonora entered. The room was full of moonlight, for Penelope had notlighted any candle.

  "What is it, Nora?" she said.

  "I thought I'd come and sit with you for a little, for--you naughtything--you've not gone to bed; I happened to see you from the gardenbelow. What is the matter, Pen?"

  "I want to be alone to-night so very badly," said Penelope.

  "You're very unhappy, Pen--I want to know what is the matter."

  "I am unhappy--but I can't tell you, Honora."

  "What is the good of a friend if you can't confide in her?" said Honora.

  "If," said Penelope, speaking very slowly, "I do what I ought to do, youwill never be my friend again; you will never wish even to have my namementioned. And if I do what I ought not to do, then perhaps, you willbe my friend--but I shall be unworthy of you."

  "I don't know anything whatever about that," said Honora; "but I do knowone thing. If you are in any sort of trouble (and perhaps your sisterhas got you into some trouble--for, to tell you the truth, Penelope, Ido not greatly care for your sister, and I must say so just now), youwill, of course do what is right."

  "That is the dreadful thing my conscience said just now," said Penelope.

  "Then you really are in great trouble, dear?"

  "Don't call me dear," said Penelope. "I am in great trouble."

  "On your own account?"

  "Practically. I did wrong a little time ago, and it is reflecting onme; and anyhow, of course it _is_ my trouble--and it's--Oh, Nora--don'ttouch me--don't look at of! Go away, please--I'm not fit for you tolook at me. I belong to--to--the wicked people! Go away, Nora--you'reso pure, and so--so--sort of--holy. I am frightened when I see you--letme be alone to-night!"

  "It's your sister Brenda, it's not you!" said Honora, startled.

  "Oh, don't blame her too much--please, please! She is my only sister.Oh, what shall I do!"

  Penelope flung herself on her bed and burst into a tempest of weeping.Perhaps those tears really saved her brain, for the poor girl wasabsolutely distracted. While she wept, and wept, and wept, Honora kneltby her, now and then patting her shoulder gently, now and then utteringa word of prayer to God. For this was the sort of occasion whenHonora's real religious training came strongly to the fore. She knewthat her friend was tempted, that something had happened which couldscarcely by any possibility come into her own life, and that if she didnot stand by her now, she might fall.

  "But I won't let her," thought the girl. "I'll stick by her throughthick and thin. I love her--I didn't when I was at school, but I donow."

  After a time, however, poor Penelope's tears ceased. Honora bent downand put her arm round her neck.

  "I want to whisper something to you," she said. "I want to confidesomething. I was not nice to you at school. I thought you, somehow,not a bit the sort of girl that I could ever care for. Then, when I sawyou act as Helen of Troy and look so transformed, it seemed to me thatmy eyes were opened about you, and I wanted to have you here much morebadly than I wished to have any other girl here; and since you came, Ihave learned to love you. Now I don't love very, very easily--I mean Idon't give my deepest love. Having given it, however, I cannot possiblytake it back--it is yours for what it is worth. I know somethingterrible has happened, and I want you to do right, not wrong, for it isnever worth while to do wrong. I want you to try and understand thathere, and to-night--it is always worth while to do right, and neverworth while to do wrong. So choose the right, darling; I will ask Godto help you."

  "But you don't know--you can't even guess!" sobbed Penelope.

  "Do you think you could bring yourself to tell me? We are all alonehere, in this dark room, for even the moon will soon set, and I am yourtrue friend. Don't you think you could just tell me everything?"

  "Oh, I don't know--no, I couldn't--I couldn't!" Penelope rose. "I haveno words to thank you," she continued. "You have comforted me, andperhaps--anyhow, I must have until the morning to think."

  "Very well," said Honora, "I will go away to my own room and think ofyou
all night, and pray for you, and in the morning, at seven o'clock, Iwill come back to you. Then, perhaps you will tell me--for you have gotsomething to _do_, have you not?"

  "I have to do something, or not to do something."

  "If you do that something, what will happen?"

  "Apparently nothing, only I--"

  "I understand," said Honora.