One evening six or seven were together in the small schoolroom after preparation hours were over, and their conversation turned upon this ever-interesting topic. “I never saw anything like it in my life. Linnæa March simply worships her.” “It is most amusing to see Gwendoline single her out whenever she comes into the room; you would really think, to watch her, it must be real and not put on.” “Well, for my part, I think it is a very mean proceeding to pretend to be so fond of the girl, all to show what she can do; and very probably when she has led her far enough she will cast her off!” “Oh, she may never find out that it isn’t genuine! Do you think she would mind very much if she did? We all thought she had no feelings of that kind. I wonder if we have been mistaken?” “I am beginning to think——” At this moment the schoolroom door opened and Linnæa March entered. But was it Linnæa? She had never looked like this before. She was transformed from the dull, uninteresting girl, who had lived amongst them for seven years—unknowing and unknown—to a trembling, excited, and passionate being, almost terrible in her rage and indignation. Before she spoke she seemed to force back the tumult of angry words that rushed to her lips. She paused a moment in the doorway, and then said, in a voice, calm though piercing— “Girls, I have heard what you said. It may have been mean of me, but I heard what Janet said about—Gwendoline—pretending to love me—and—I could not help it—I listened until now.” The girls were dumb. What could they say to this injured and justly indignant girl? They could not retract what they had said; alas, it was all too true! One and all pitied her; and yet, pity was scarcely the word—they almost feared her. Yes—feared Linnæa March, whom before they had scarcely noticed. But, as she stood there in her anger, she might have struck them, and they would not have been surprised. She stood for a moment, then turned and shut the door. Not a word was spoken until the sound of her footsteps had died away. Then they faced the situation. Would it come to Miss Elder’s ears? What would Gwendoline say? If Linnæa’s anger were so terrible when roused, what would Gwendoline’s be, who had seldom, or never, been crossed in her life? What would Linnæa say or do when she met Gwendoline? These were some of the questions that presented themselves to the girls’ minds. They did not know whether they wanted to witness the meeting or not. “I don’t care,” said one, “it serves her right, she had no business doing such a mean thing, and it was right she should be found out. She would not have kept it up much longer in any case, she would soon have tired of paying her such attention after she had gained her object.” “But she will blame us for it—she will say we ought to have been more careful how we talked about it.” “Ought we to tell Gwendoline what she has heard, do you think?” “I think it would be better.”