Turquoise and Ruby. Meade L. T.

drop it into the post box, will she not?”

      “Yes; that is true also.”

      “I shall do something which I am not accustomed to doing, but I must do it for the sake of the school,” said Mrs Hazlitt. “I shall open Penelope’s letter before it goes, and acquaint myself with the contents.”

      Miss Duke gave a start.

      “You will not do that,” she said. “It would distress Penelope very much.”

      “She need never know. If the letter is straightforward and above board, nothing will occur. If the spirit of mischief – nay, more, of intrigue – is abroad, the sooner I can nip it in the bud, the better. I sent for you to consult you. I am within my rights in this matter. Don’t say a word to any one. I think that is all.”

      “I am very much distressed,” said Deborah. “I wish you would not do this thing.”

      “I have made up my mind, dear friend; we will not argue the point. I will read the contents of the letter, and it shall reach its destination if there is nothing in it. No harm will be done. If there is mischief in it, I shall at least know where I stand.”

      Deborah sighed profoundly and left the room.

      Now, upstairs a girl, who had hastily finished a hasty scrawl and had thrust it into its envelope, was busily engaged putting on her hat and drawing some cotton gloves over her hands.

      “I daren’t put the letter into the post box,” she said. “I wish Deborah hadn’t come into my room; she saw quite well that I was writing. I must manage somehow to get to the village and will post the letter myself.”

      She flew downstairs. A minute later, she was out of doors. She looked swiftly round her; there was not a soul in sight. The children, who were her constant companions, were playing happily in the distant woods. The girls whom she trusted were in the Queen Anne parterre or in the Queen Elizabeth garden. All the world seemed still and sleepy. Penelope made a hasty calculation. Mrs Hazlitt’s oak parlour looked out on the Queen Anne parterre. There was no one to see her. The village was a mile away; yes, she could get there; she would get there. By running fast she would accomplish this feat and yet be back just within time for afternoon school.

      Outside Hazlitt Chase was just the reverse of peace and quietude. There was a wide and dusty road over which motors flew at intervals; and heavy carts, drawn, some by horses and some by oxen, toiled over the road; carriages, pony traps, governess carts also traversed the King’s highway, and amongst them, flying in and out, ran a girl in a dusty brown holland dress, her fair face suffused by ugly colour, her eyes full of dust, her lips parched.

      All in good time she reached the village and dropped the letter, which she had already stamped, into the post box. She was safe. She drew a long breath of relief. Nothing would induce the village postmistress to give up her letter; all was right now; Brenda would be happy to-morrow morning and she – she could perform her task with a light heart.

      She had done a great deal for her beloved sitter. Deborah had given the whole show away by coming to visit her in her room. Penelope was quick enough, to be certain that there was something up, or the English teacher would not have come in looking so distraite and unlike herself. Deborah was the last person in the world ever to ask Penelope to take care of the younger children. Yes; it was all too plain; Mrs Hazlitt’s suspicions were aroused. Well, they would never be verified, for the letter was posted. If only Penelope could get back in safety – could creep up to her own room without being observed, she might snap her fingers at the enemy; all would, all must be – well.

      She returned to the school by the same dusty highway, entered by a back door, went to her room, threw herself on her bed for five minutes, then washed her face and hands and went downstairs for afternoon school. Not a soul had seen her go; not a soul had witnessed her return.

      Mrs Hazlitt watched her as she took her place in class – her face flushed, her lips dry. Miss Duke raised a guilty and startled face when the girl – whose secret, if she had one, was so soon to be exposed – took her usual place and went through her usual tasks with that skill and ability which always characterised her. Mrs Hazlitt was more determined than ever to take steps to discover what she felt was wrong; but she looked in vain in the letter box. Childish productions from more than one member of the school were there, but there was no letter addressed to Miss Brenda Carlton – no letter of any sort in Penelope Carlton’s upright and somewhat remarkable handwriting. What could have happened? Had the girl dared to go to that extreme of disobedience? Had she posted her letter herself?

      Chapter Six

      Preparations for the Visit

      For a few days Mrs Hazlitt examined the post box, but there was no letter of any sort from Penelope. In the end, she was obliged to confess to Deborah that she had been – she supposed – quite mistaken in the girl.

      “I am distressed about her,” she said; “for she doesn’t look well or happy. But there is no doubt that she has not written anything which I ought to see. Do not make yourself unhappy therefore, Deborah dear, but let us continue our usual pleasant life and trust that my suspicions have not been justified.”

      “Oh, I am certain they have not,” said Deborah. “Meanwhile,” continued Mrs Hazlitt, “we are exceedingly busy; I find the tableaux are going to be much better than I expected. The little plays too, and the garden of roses – an extravaganza – will be quite sweet. But I am really putting all my strength and energy into Tennyson’s poem; I am only vexed that Honora Beverley cannot be Helen of Troy.”

      “But what do you think of the present Helen?” enquired Miss Duke.

      “She is much more remarkable than I thought it possible she could be. I am most anxious to see her to-night, when we have a dress rehearsal and she will wear her costume for the first time. She is a queer girl, and not a happy one. I wonder what sort of creature that sister of hers is.”

      “By the way,” said Miss Duke, “she came to me this morning with a petition. She wants to know if she may invite her sister to the performance. It seems that Miss Brenda Carlton could take an early train from where she is now staying and reach here in time for the day’s festivities; and Penelope would take it as a great favour if she might sleep in her room that night.”

      “No,” replied Mrs Hazlitt with decision. “That I do not allow. Were I to accede to Penelope’s wish, the same request would be presented to me by each of my pupils. The girls will especially require their night’s rest after the excitement of the day. I don’t know anything about Miss Brenda, but I am quite willing to invite her here as Penelope’s relation, only she cannot sleep in the house.”

      “I will speak to Penelope and tell her what you say,” remarked Miss Duke.

      She moved away rather sadly. She was fully convinced, in spite of herself, that there was something not quite right in the school, but not for worlds would she give hint to Mrs Hazlitt with regard to the matter.

      She found Penelope, as usual, surrounded by some of the younger girls. She dismissed them with a playful word and then, taking her pupil’s hand, led her into the oak parlour where such a serious conversation had taken place between herself and the headmistress.

      “What in the world is it, Deborah?” said Penelope.

      She had a sort of defiant manner in these days – quite different from her old way which, although languid, provokingly so at times, was at least downright and matter-of-fact.

      “What is it?” she said. “Why are you so mysterious?”

      “I thought you wanted your sister to come to see the tableaux.”

      “Oh, Brenda – yes, she says she will come; I heard from her only this morning. Is Mrs Hazlitt agreeable?”

      “Quite agreeable.”

      “And may she share my room and bed?”

      “That is just the point that I want to speak to you about, Penelope. She may not do so. Mrs Hazlitt’s ideas on that subject are quite fixed and cannot by any possibility be altered. If your sister comes, we must find a room