“Because,” continued Agatha, ignoring the question, “you shall wish yourself dead and buried under the blackest flag in the coal cellar if you don’t bring me the book before I count sixteen. One--two--” “Go at once and do as you are told, you disagreeable little thing,” said Gertrude sharply. “How dare you be so disobliging?” “--nine--ten--eleven--” pursued Agatha. The child quailed, went out, and presently returned, hugging the Recording Angel in her arms. “You are a good little darling--when your better qualities are brought out by a judicious application of moral force,” said Agatha, good-humoredly. “Remind me to save the raisins out of my pudding for you to-morrow. Now, Jane, you shall see the entry for which the best-hearted girl in the college is to be expelled. Voila!” The two girls read and were awestruck; Jane opening her mouth and gasping, Gertrude closing hers and looking very serious. “Do you mean to say that you had the dreadful cheek to let the Lady Abbess see that?” said Jane. “Pooh! she would have forgiven that. You should have heard what I said to her! She fainted three times.” “That’s a story,” said Gertrude gravely. “I beg your pardon,” said Agatha, swiftly grasping Gertrude’s knee. “Nothing,” cried Gertrude, flinching hysterically. “Don’t, Agatha.” “How many times did Miss Wilson faint?” “Three times. I will scream, Agatha; I will indeed.” “Three times, as you say. And I wonder that a girl brought up as you have been, by moral force, should be capable of repeating such a falsehood. But we had an awful row, really and truly. She lost her temper. Fortunately, I never lose mine.” “Well, I’m browed!” exclaimed Jane incredulously. “I like that.” “For a girl of county family, you are inexcusably vulgar, Jane. I don’t know what I said; but she will never forgive me for profaning her pet book. I shall be expelled as certainly as I am sitting here.” “And do you mean to say that you are going away?” said Jane, faltering as she began to realize the consequences. “I do. And what is to become of you when I am not here to get you out of your scrapes, or of Gertrude without me to check her inveterate snobbishness, is more than I can foresee.” “I am not snobbish,” said Gertrude, “although I do not choose to make friends with everyone. But I never objected to you, Agatha.” “No; I should like to catch you at it. Hallo, Jane!” (who had suddenly burst into tears): “what’s the matter? I trust you are not permitting yourself to take the liberty of crying for me.” “Indeed,” sobbed Jane indignantly, “I know that I am a f--fool for my pains. You have no heart.” “You certainly are a f--fool, as you aptly express it,” said Agatha, passing her arm round Jane, and disregarding an angry attempt to shake it off; “but if I had any heart it would be touched by this proof of your attachment.” “I never said you had no heart,” protested Jane; “but I hate when you speak like a book.”