Miss Martin was not long in making her business known. "I am inspecting drawers, and I am late to-day. Things seem to have piled up so this week. Shall I begin with yours? It is quite unnecessary; they are always immaculate--but rules are rules." She smiled pleasantly, and glancing through the drawers found them neat and orderly. She then turned to Blue Bonnet's bureau. Under the usual pallor of Joy Cross's face a dull red mounted, dying out quickly, leaving it whiter than before. "Miss Ashe is away, isn't she? Gone home for the week-end. She seems to be an unusually sweet, attractive girl--so unaffected and genuine. You must count yourself very lucky, Miss Cross--Why, what is this?" She drew from its hiding-place the book that had been placed there only a moment before, and held it closer to the light. "To whom does this belong, Miss Cross, do you know? I am amazed to find such a book in this room. French literature of this kind is expressly forbidden." Joy shook her head slowly. Her lips refused to speak. "You have never seen it before?" Again the head shook slowly. "Have you seen Miss Ashe reading it at any time?" "No, Miss Martin." "This is her drawer, is it not?" "Yes--it is her drawer." Miss Martin finished the inspection of the bureau rather hurriedly, and book in hand, left the room. Joy went over to the window and stood looking out. The color had come back into her face, but her hand trembled as she put it up to brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead. She had not really meant to incriminate Blue Bonnet Ashe, but circumstances were against her. It had all happened so quickly--she hadn't had time to think clearly. There had been but one thought in her mind; she, a Senior, could not afford to be found with a book of that character in her possession. It might mean defeat after three years' struggle--struggle to graduate with the highest honor. She had been cheated out of so much in Miss North's school--_that_ should not escape her, now! No, her record must go on, clear to the end. She took a few steps round the room and then came back to the window. She was frightened. Her heart beat like a trip hammer and her face was hot, burning, as if with fever. She threw the window open and let the cold air fan her face--her hot hands. What should she do? What _could_ she do, without bringing down upon herself the gravest consequences? A Senior in Miss North's school stood for something--was supposed to stand for _all_ that was honorable, above board. She was trusted, looked up to--privileged. Anything that touched her honor touched the school,--lowered the standard of the class. A Senior stood as an example--a pattern for juniors and younger girls, and she ... well, she had blundered--terribly! If it became known that she was the owner of the book--that she had lied to Miss Martin--