Monica started with astonishment, for she had no idea the Franklyns were what she called "religious," and scarcely knew what to answer, but the kind, motherly eyes seemed to read her very thoughts, and she felt constrained to reply as she did. "No,--I am not. But my father wants me to be." "Then, oh! my child, why don’t you?" "I don’t think I want to be one," said Monica, slowly; "at least, not yet." "Don’t put it off, childie; life is very short. If you know the way----" "But I don’t," interrupted Monica; "that’s just what I don’t know. Perhaps if I knew how to set about it I might be one." "The Lord Jesus----" began Mrs. Franklyn. But, alas! Olive came bursting into the room, and the precious opportunity had gone. The invalid could only whisper: "Read the 3rd chapter of St. John, and ask God to show you the way, dear child," when, a few moments later, Monica bent over her to say, "Good-bye." And Monica said she would. But, alas! she put the thought aside that night, thinking Sunday afternoon would be a good opportunity for reading the chapter; and when the next day came she was deep in the pages of a fascinating book, and had completely forgotten her promise to Mrs. Franklyn. *CHAPTER VIII.* *"MIND YOU ARE NOT LATE!"* The days and weeks passed quickly at school, once the new term’s work was well begun, and the half-term holiday was drawing near. Monica had never forgotten Lily Howell’s trick to get her into trouble, but she felt above paying her out, so she left her severely alone. As it happened, that was perhaps the most trying punishment she could have devised for a girl of Lily’s disposition, who ardently longed to be "taken up" by people such as the Beauchamps, whom her father called "The Quality"; and Monica’s absolute indifference to her piqued her terribly. Lily was telling her mother about it one day, and complaining of being sent to Coventry by "that Monica Beauchamp, who gives herself such airs, just for all the world as if she was a duchess!" Mrs. Howell, a kindly creature of ample proportions, who always felt impelled to address her magnificent housekeeper as "ma’am," and who never ceased to wish for the happy olden days when first she had married Bob Howell, and kept house on little less than a pound a week, sighed feebly as she looked helplessly at her young daughter, who tyrannised frightfully over her "Ma," as she called her. "Well, I’m sure, my dear," she ventured, "you might be content with havin’ such nice young ladies as the Miss Masters to make friends of, without ’ankerin’ after the gentry." "I do wish you wouldn’t leave out all your ’g’s,’ ma," cried Lily, pettishly; "it’s dreadful the way you talk. And as for the Masters, they’re only butchers, and I detest being mixed up with shop people." And the girl stamped her foot in disgust.