"But I thought your people objected to novel-reading. Do none of them ever catch you at it? and how do you manage to do your home-work?" said Monica, still incredulous. "No, they haven’t yet; but I live in dread of discovery every day," confessed her friend. "As to lessons, I manage to scrape along somehow." "Well, I’m almost sorry I ever lent you a book," said Monica, who could detect a subtle difference in Olive, and felt uneasy. "Oh, Monica, how often and often I’ve wished that I’d never borrowed that first one!" said the poor infatuated girl; "and, sometimes, I think I’ll never touch a novel again. But I always have to; I can’t seem to live without reading them now. There’s a hungry feeling in my brain. I can’t explain what I mean, but it feels quite empty, somehow, until I have a good read, and then I feel better. Don’t you ever get sensations like that?" and the poor child looked pitifully at her companion. "No, I can’t say I do," admitted Monica; "and I hope I never shall. I like reading, certainly, and there is more excitement in a regular novel than there is in ordinary little goody-goody books. But I’m not so keen on them as I was; they’re rather horrid sometimes. But I think you’d better give them up, Olive." "Oh, I can’t, Monica!" "Well, I really don’t think I shall lend you any more." But Olive pleaded so pitifully for just one, that Monica reluctantly gave in, saying: "That’s the only one I’ve got that you haven’t had, so you must make the most of it. I’m not sure that I’m going to have any more." "Oh, Monica, _do_, to please me!" pleaded Olive. "I’m not at all sure. By the way, did, you bring back those you’ve finished, because they must go to the library." "No, I couldn’t; they would have made rather a large parcel, and I had no way of hiding it, especially as Elsa and Paddy came half-way with me." "Well, take good care no one spies them," cautioned Monica. "I don’t want to have the credit of leading you astray." And Olive promised to be careful, as indeed she always was. As a matter of fact, not the least of the sins to be laid at the door of her novel-reading on the sly was the deceit she had to practise in order to hide the books. Three weeks had already sped since the half-term holiday, and still Monica could scarcely bear to stand on her ankle, so severe had been the sprain. There was little likelihood of her being back at school for quite another week or ten days; indeed, Mrs. Beauchamp had hinted that it seemed hardly worth while for her to go again that term, at all. But the kindly old doctor, seeing that Monica’s heart was set upon it, had said: "Oh, yes, it will do her good to rub up against the other girls for a week or two. The holidays will be quite long enough, seven weeks or more." And so it was settled that, as soon as the ankle was really to be depended upon, Monica should go back to finish out the term.