Turquoise and Ruby. Meade L. T.

go and tell those silly children to get into bed.”

      A wave of astonished colour swept over Penelope Carlton’s cheeks. She had been seated, but now she rose. She walked restlessly towards the window. There was within her breast undeveloped, but very strong, ambition. She saw herself quite truly, for she was not the sort of girl to be self-deceived. But she had always hoped that her opportunity might come. She had always known that she possessed possibilities. She was young; she was clever. That she was born plain, she admitted with scathing frankness. She called herself hideous and took little pains with her appearance. She hoped that her brain, however, might bring her laurels. She was strong, and young, and certainly clever. Against these advantages lay the disadvantages of extreme poverty, absolute friendlessness, and of a very plain face. There is, perhaps, no plainer woman than a very fair woman when she is plain, for she seems to have nothing to relieve the insipidity of her appearance. This was Penelope’s case. But now, all of a sudden, a chance was given to her. She – Helen of Troy! It would be taking her out of her place. She would not be able to do the part at all. Nevertheless, there was such a thing as a make-up, and that could be employed in her behalf. She looked eagerly at the three girls and said, in a low voice:

      “Do send Deborah to the children: I will play with them another night; and tell her to take them some chocolates from the school store and to give them my love, and let us go into the garden.”

      It took but a few minutes to fulfil all these requests, and Penelope, Mary, and Cara were soon pacing up and down on the front lawn. Other girls were also walking about in groups. The one subject of conversation was Tennyson’s “Dream of Fair Women.” It was so interesting, so beautiful, so suited to the school. It seemed so ridiculous and unreasonable of the one girl who could be Helen of Troy not to take the part.

      “Well,” said Mary, eagerly, to her companion – “will you, or will you not?”

      “But I am so ugly,” began Penelope.

      “Yes – there is no doubt of it, you are very plain,” said Cara.

      “Poor and ugly,” quoted Penelope, half under her breath. “What possible chance have I? Then I am not even tall; I am just fair – that is all.”

      “Your height can be magnified by your coming a little more forward,” said Cara, “and, of course, Mrs Hazlitt manages the dresses. Yours will be severity itself, and it won’t matter whether you have a good figure or not. Oh, surely you can do it; you have got the main characteristic – great fairness.”

      Penelope laughed.

      ”‘A daughter of the gods’!” she quoted.

      The other girls also laughed.

      “Why do you want me to do this thing?” said Penelope, glancing around. “You have never taken any special notice of me until now. Why are you, all of a sudden, so – so – civil? I don’t understand.”

      “We had best be frank,” said Cara.

      “Tea, of course, that is what I wish. In the world, no one will be frank; each person will disguise his or her true feelings; but at school one expects frankness. So say what you like.”

      “Well,” said Cara, “we do not want to give up our own parts, and, next to Nora, you are the fairest girl in the school. In fact, all the others are mediocre, except the dark ones.”

      “I am very dark,” said Mary, “and the part allotted to me is that of Jephtha’s daughter.”

      “Who will be Fair Rosamond?” suddenly asked Penelope.

      “Oh, we’ve got a girl for her – Annie Leicester. She is nothing remarkable, but can be done up for the occasion. But, you see, Helen comes first of all the fair women, and the lines about her are far more beautiful than about anybody else. Special pains must be taken with regard to her entrance on the scene. You will do all right: I don’t pretend that you will be as good as Honora, but as she refuses – if you only would consent – ”

      “You want this very much, indeed,” said Penelope, her eyes sparkling once again with that queer, by no means pleasant, light in them.

      “You will consent,” said Mary. “We have to let Mrs Hazlitt know within twenty-four hours, and the sooner she is acquainted with the fact that we have found a Helen of Troy, the better.”

      “Oh, I can’t consent all in a hurry,” replied Penelope. “I must take the night to think it over. This is exceedingly important to both of you – that I can see – and I have few, very few, chances. I must make the most of all that come in my way. I think I know just what you want. Good-night, girls.”

      She went slowly back into the house. Mary and Cara looked at each other.

      “Do I like her?” said Cara, suddenly.

      Mary gave a laugh.

      “I detest her,” she said. “I never could understand why she came amongst us. Honora Beverley has her cranks, but she is aboveboard, and honest to the core. I don’t believe this girl is honest – I mean, I don’t think, in her heart of hearts, she would mind a dishonourable action. From the very first she has been different from the rest of us: I often wish she had never come to the school.”

      “Why so?” asked Cara. “She doesn’t interfere with you.”

      “But she interferes with Molly, my younger sister. Molly is devoted to her – most of the fourteen-year-old girls are. I can’t imagine why a woman like Mrs Hazlitt should have such a girl in the school.”

      Cara laughed.

      “We can’t fathom Mrs Hazlitt,” she remarked. “Of course, we love her, every one does; and there isn’t such a school as ours in the length and breadth of England. Everything that is necessary for a girl’s education is attended to, and yet there is no pressure, no over-study, no strain on the nerves. A girl who leaves Hazlitt Chase and goes into society, or to Newnham, or Girton, is equally well-fitted for the career which lies before her.”

      “Well, come in now,” said Mary, sleepily. “I am dead tired. I only hope that ugly Penelope will take the part of Helen of Troy.”

      Chapter Three

      A Startling Condition

      During the night that followed, most of the girls at Hazlitt Chase slept soundly. The day through which they had just lived was conducive to healthy slumber. There was nothing to weigh on their young hearts. They were tired, healthily tired, from a judicious mixture of exercise and work – of mental interest, moral stimulus, and the best physical exercise.

      But one girl lay awake all night. She tossed from side to side of her restless pillow. Now, this girl was not Honora Beverley, who, having clearly stated her mind, had felt no further compunction. She had a brother – a clergyman – to whom she was devoted, and she did not think that he would like her to act Helen of Troy. Be that as it may, she had made her decision, and would abide by it. She therefore, although sorry she had upset the arrangements of the school, and in particular had annoyed Mrs Hazlitt, slept the sleep of the just.

      The girl who lay awake was Penelope Carlton.

      Now, Penelope, being poorer than the others, was not in any way subjected on that account to severer rules or to poorer accommodation. Each girl in the old Chase had a bedroom of her own, and Penelope, who paid nothing a year, but who was taken altogether out of good will and kindness, had just as pretty a room as Honora Beverley, whose father paid two hundred and fifty pounds per annum for her education in this select establishment. No one in the school knew that Penelope was really taken out of a sort of charity. That would, indeed, have been to ruin the girl: so thought Mrs Hazlitt. Her room was small, but perfectly decorated, and although in winter there were dark red curtains to all the windows, and bright fires in the grates, and electric light to make the place bright and cheerful: yet in summer every schoolgirl’s special apartment was draped in virgin white.

      Penelope now lay down on as soft a bed as did her richer sisters, and had just as good a chance as they of peaceful slumber. But alack – and alas! she could not sleep! Penelope’s mind was upset, and a possibility of doing a