The girls were speechless. Where was the anger and the indignation they had expected to meet with when the knowledge of their carelessness came to Gwendoline’s ears? Was this white, subdued, quiet-looking girl the proud and haughty Gwendoline, whose wrath they had been afraid to encounter? Surely they were dreaming, and had reversed the two—Gwendoline for Linnæa, and Linnæa for Gwendoline; there must be some mistake. They heard the timepiece mark the seconds as they passed, and not one could break the silence. Tick—tick—tick—tick—someone must speak. Each one looked at another; who was it to be? Gwendoline rose. “Will you do as I asked, and tell Miss Elder? I am going up now.” The spell was broken, and Janet Hillyards found her voice. “Will you forgive me, Gwen? It was my fault—I began it. I never thought of her being near.” Surely Gwendoline would speak to them now; she could not mean to cut them all for this mistake they had made. Surely their friendship was of more value to her than Linnæa March’s. They would much rather she would scold them roundly, and be done with it. “There is no question of my forgiving you. The fault was mine, and I must suffer for it. I blame no one but myself.” She was gone, and the girls were free to talk it over—this strange and unexpected development of affairs. To say they were astonished would be to put the case very mildly. They were perfectly thunderstruck. It had been food for surprise that Linnæa should betray a capacity for wounded pride and anger they had not dreamed her capable of, but that the quick-tempered Gwendoline should receive fiery and contemptuous words from Linnæa—for of this they had little doubt—and also the information of their neglect of her command, with such meekness and evident sorrow and regret, was beyond their comprehension. If it were regret for the feelings she had stirred and not returned, why did she do it at all? She had done it with her eyes open—had only attained the object she had desired; the only thing for her to regret seemed to them to be that her designs should have been made known to Linnæa: and she had as much as said it was not this that troubled her. Altogether it was too deep for them, and they gave it up. And the two girls who had caused this unusual excitement, what of them? Linnæa lay on her bed in a passion of tears. Rage, wounded pride, love, and hate, all strove for the mastery. What had she done, she moaned, that everyone should be against her? Was it not enough that she should be naturally unattractive, but this cruel siren must go out of her way to find a refined system of torture for her? How was she to live in the school with this girl she had loved, and who had so basely deceived her? And Gwendoline? She sat on a chair by her bed, her head laid on the pillow, hot tears chasing one another down her cheeks.