Both girls were still weak and unfitted to bear long mental strain. The shaking of the bed testified to the nervous tremblings of Norah's body. Dreda lay back against her cushions, and the weak tears rolled down her cheeks. The scones and cakes lay neglected upon the table, and the tea grew cold in the cups. Each minute seemed like an hour, crowded as it was with thoughts of such intensity as come rarely to careless, happy youth. Norah looked back on her finished schooldays, and acknowledged to her own heart that her want of popularity was the result, not of the prejudice of others but of her own jealous, ungenerous nature. Dreda, looking forward to the future, resolved to be less egotistical, less confident, to consider more tenderly the feelings of her companions. She had made many resolutions before now--too many! And they had known but a short lifetime. But never before had they been born of suffering, and never before had they been strengthened by prayer. This last resolution was made in a very humble and anxious spirit, strangely different from Dreda's former airy complacence. "Norah," she said slowly at last, "Norah, you have told me the truth, and it must have been awfully difficult. It's your affair and mine, Norah; let's keep it to ourselves. If you were going back to school, it might be your duty to tell; but you are not, and you want all the girls to remember you kindly. I don't see that it would make anyone happier to know. They believe that it was a mistake for which no one was to blame. Let them go on believing it! It will be better for you, and for everyone else. I promise you, Norah, I will never tell." "Not--not Susan?" "Oh, never Susan Susan last of all." "Why last?" "Because you, like her best, and because she would be so sorry. Susan is so good that it hurts her when people do wrong. I couldn't bear Susan to think badly of me, and neither would you Susan shall never know." Then for the first time the tears started to Norah's eyes. "Oh, Dreda, you are generous," she sighed; "you know how to forgive." Then, with a sudden flash of intuition, "Susan will write books. She will be great; but _you_, Dreda, you will live! You will be better than famous--you will be loved!" When Mrs Saxon entered the room a few minutes later her quick eyes realised at once the mental exhaustion of her two patients, and she escorted her daughter back to her room and tucked her up in bed. Dreda's fair head rested on the pillow; but her eyes followed her mother's movements about the room with a wistful expression whose appeal could not be denied. Mrs Saxon asked no questions, but with true mother insight she divined the need at the girl's heart, and hastened to fill it.