"The love-letter of a young chap who should never trust himself to write one," Deleah told her, calmly. "His love-letter was abominable, Emily." She had a love-letter of another sort that morning. It was brought to her, and given in the presence of her pupils at the mal à propos moment when Miss Chaplin had unexpectedly entered the little class-room in which the juniors were taught, and where was Deleah's domain. Miss Chaplin had thought that she had heard laughter issuing from this direction, and had burst into the room to beg of Miss Day to keep the children in order. Poor Miss Day was desperately anxious to retain her post in Miss Chaplin's Academy, and for that reason, and because Miss Chaplin was quite aware of the fact, she found it safe and convenient to make of the poor young teacher the scapegoat for whatever irregularities were committed in the school, to discharge upon her the pent-up irritabilities she dared not vent upon the more valuable assistants, who might resent such ebullitions at inconvenient times. She had received notice that morning that three pupils of whom she was proud, who did the school credit, were to leave next quarter. She had had a "brush" with the German governess, and Fräulein had been insolent. But Fräulein was valuable, and Miss Chaplin had bottled her wrath, to empty it on the innocent head of Deleah. "I must really ask you, Miss Day, to maintain better order in your class. I heard laughing. Frequently when I pass the door I hear laughing--" But where was Miss Day who should be responsible for such a terrible state of things? One of the tots of pupils had slipped off the form on which she sat, and rolled under the table, and Deleah had crept under the table too, in search of her, at which the other pupils had laughed. The abashed governess received the reproof of her principal on all fours. "Really, Miss Day!" cried the scandalised woman. "Yours is hardly a seemly attitude to assume before the pupils, is it?" And at that least opportune moment, the door of the class-room burst open again and Kitty Miller, that day scholar who sometimes walked home with Miss Day and kept "The Deleah Book," appeared. She flourished a letter in her hand. "What will you give me for this, Miss Day?" she cried, not till too late perceiving the awe-inspiring figure of Miss Chaplin. Deleah took the missive, and it would have been hard to decide whether she who gave it or she who took it had the guiltier look. The outraged voice of Miss Chaplin arrested Kitty Miller in the moment of ignominious flight. "Wait!" commanded the alarming tones. Kitty stood still, trembling as she heard. "Who employs you to convey letters to Miss Day, Kitty?" Kitty, the colour of beet-root, looked at Deleah, lily-white. "Who gave you that letter, Kitty?" And poor Kitty, looking piteously at Deleah, lied--futilely, but for the sake of her friend--and said she did not know. "Was it a gentleman?"