"Don't be silly now, Ro. It's a big disappointment, and I'm sorry for you, but it's not a bit of use working yourself into hysterics. Face the thing quietly, and see--" "All that it means--. It means a good deal, Harold; more than you can understand. I think I'd rather be alone, please. You are very kind, but I can't stand consolation just yet. I'll sit in the arbour." "Just as you please. I don't want to force myself, but I'd like to help you, old girl. Is there nothing else I can do?" "Yes; keep mother away! Don't let her come near me until lunch. I am best left alone, and she doesn't understand--no one understands except those who have been at school, and know how--how hard--" The girl's voice trembled, and broke off suddenly, and she walked away in the direction of the summer-house, while Harold thrust his hands into his pockets and kicked the pebbles on the gravel path. He was very fond of his impetuous young sister, and the quivering sob which had strangled her last word echoed painfully in his ears. He realised as neither father nor mother could do what such a failure meant to a proud, ambitious girl, and how far-reaching would be its consequences. It was not to-day nor to-morrow that would exhaust this trouble; the bitterest part was yet to come when she returned to school, and received the condolences of her more successful companions; when she sat apart and saw them receive their reward. Harold longed to be able to help, but there was nothing to do but persuade his parents to leave the girl alone, and to return at intervals to satisfy himself that she was still in her retreat, and not attempting to drown her sorrows in the lake. Three times over he paced the path, and saw the white-robed figure sitting immovable, with elbows planted on the table, and falling locks hiding the face from view. So still she sat that he retired silently, hoping that she had fallen asleep, but on the fourth visit he was no longer alone, but accompanied by a graceful, girlish figure, and they did not halt until they stood on the very threshold of the arbour itself. "Rhoda!" he cried, then, "look up! I have brought someone to you. Someone you will be glad to see." The flaxen mane was tossed back, and a flushed face raised in protest. "I don't--" began Rhoda, and then suddenly sprang to her feet and stretched out her arms. "Oh, Evie--Evie! You have come. Oh, I wanted you--I wanted you so badly!" Miss Everett stepped forward and drew the girl to her side, and Harold waited just long enough to see the fair head and the dark nestle together, and then took himself off to the house, satisfied that comfort had come at last. "I have _failed_, Evie!" cried Rhoda, clasping her friend's hands, and staring at her with the same expression of incredulous horror with which she had confronted her brother a couple of hours earlier. "Yes, darling. I know." "And what are you going to say to me, then?"