Matilda flushed more hotly than ever. She looked in the direction of the door, and made a sudden dart toward it. Hester Temple was standing close to it.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Home; I am suffocating. This room is too hot for me."

"I'll open the window, and you can stand near it. You really can't go now, Matilda; it would be awfully rude; just when Kate is going to make her birthday speech."

Matilda looked round her wildly; there was no means of escape. She resigned herself sullenly to her fate.

There was a little empty space in the middle of the room, and into this space Kate now lightly stepped. She looked around her to right and left. Her eyes, bright as stars, met Molly's. They did not rest a moment on her old friend's face. From Molly she looked full at Matilda.

"There is a seat in front for you," she said. "Come forward, Matilda; you are choking, back there in the crowd. Come and sit near Miss Leicester."

"Yes, my dear; here is a comfortable chair, in which you will be quite cool," said Miss Leicester.

Poor Matilda was dragged unwillingly to the front. Kate's eyes danced more brightly than ever, and smiles of delight soon rippled all over her face.

"It was so kind of you all to come to celebrate my birthday," she began. "I am seventeen to-day; quite old for a girl. I have been at St. Dorothy's exactly a year. It has been a very happy year to me. I have made a good many friends. The girls in the house have been particularly kind to me. I want to thank all the girls here for their kindness. I want also to say something else."

Here her manner suddenly changed. The gay sparkle and fun went out of her face. She pressed one hand for an instant to her left side; her eyes, troubled and misty, were fixed on Miss Leicester's face.

"I think Miss Leicester knows all about me," she said. "She knows my origin; she knows what I was before I came to St. Dorothy's."

"Kate, dear, I would rather you did not allude to that subject," said Miss Leicester, distress and astonishment in her tone.

"I am very sorry to disobey you, Miss Leicester, but I have thought it all out, and I think it is best," replied Kate. "I am ashamed of nothing. I should like now to describe the life – the early life – of a girl."

Here she looked quickly from one eager face to the other.

"The girl is myself," continued Kate. "If I were to shut my eyes now, I should see a picture. Perhaps I can describe that picture to you with eyes open. There is a little farm, far, far away in the west of Ireland. The country is beautiful, although somewhat wild. The mountains seem in parts to reach the very sky. Now and then the clouds come right down and cover them. The grass is very green, and the streams make a merry sound as they ripple past the little farmstead. The house would be thought a poor one by most of you. It has a thatched roof; there is a kitchen, and a great open hearth. On the hearth the fire blazes merrily. A lot of bacon hangs from the rafters across the ceiling. There is a deal table in the middle of the room, and a great dresser at one side. The table is clean and white, as white as snow. The dresser is white also, and the plates and cups and saucers, and jugs and bowls, and the tins and saucepans, all shine with good washing and good rubbing. You see, it is a very humble kitchen, and there is no parlor, nor drawing room, nor any regular sitting room in the little old house. Upstairs there are two bedrooms. You go upstairs by means of a step-ladder. One of the rooms is prettier than the other. It has a lattice window, and there are lots of monthly roses, creepers, myrtle, and other flowers twining about it. A sweet smell comes in when you open the window, and you hear the robins and swallows chirping in the eaves, and you get a sweet whiff of strong air from the mountains opposite. The little room inside is very poor, but the window and the view without are lovely. The inner room looks out on the yard or byre. You can see the cattle from this window; the four cows in their stalls, and the dairymaid, with her red elbows, milking them. I am not the dairymaid, but I go to superintend the milking. At the back of the kitchen is the dairy. The dairy is lovely; it is cool and sweet and dark. On the hottest day in summer you feel a breath of ice on your cheek when you enter here, and the milk and cream look good in the large glass pans; and the churn stands open, waiting to receive its daily portion of cream; and there are piles of yellow butter standing on the shelves, and great dishes of fresh eggs not far away.

"I think I have described the house well enough to you now. You must see for yourselves that it is just the sort of place where poor people would live. The people who live in it are an old man and a girl. They keep no servant; they do their own work. There is a dairymaid who comes morning and evening to milk the cows and help the girl with the butter, and there are two men who help with the land, and that is all. The old man and the girl have the house to themselves most of the time. I should like to describe that old man. He does a lot of rough work; he lays the fire for the girl day after day, and fills the kettle for her, and won't allow her to do anything except the lightest part of the daily toil; but, for all that, he is quite a gentleman. I say nothing about the girl. She may belong, in every sense of the word, to the class from which she springs, but the old man is a king in his way. He has a very noble head, and hair as white as silver. His eyes are dark and soft, his nose aquiline. When he stands up, he looks dignified; when he looks at you, you get a peep at his grand soul.

"That old man is between seventy and eighty years of age. He has spent his entire life in one county, and he is known all over the place. The old people know him, and the young people, and the children; and there is not an individual who does not love him. Not an evil word has ever been flung against him. During the whole of his long life no one can accuse him of having ever done a mean thing, of having oppressed the fatherless and the widow, of having taken money that did not belong to him. All during his long life he has lived by the golden rule, 'Do to others as you would be done by.' He is not a learned man, but he knows his Bible very well, and he can quote whole pages from Shakspere. He also understands nature splendidly. It is wonderful to hear him when he talks about nature's secrets. There is nothing that grows on the land, or feeds on the soil, or flies in the air, or lives in the sea (which is not far away), that this old man does not know about. He can tell you about the habits of all the birds, and the ways of all the fishes, and about the medicinal uses of a great many herbs, and the food uses of all the vegetables and the fruits. It is delightful to hear him when he speaks, for he chooses his words with grace, and his grammar is perfectly correct. He has the most beautiful mind the girl ever came across in the whole course of her life. It is an idyl and a poem to live with him.

"I must now tell you something of the life of the girl. She is naturally very fond of books, but she has not much time for them. She gets up at five o'clock in the morning, summer and winter; she is busy from early morning till early bedtime. There are the cows to see to – she loves those cows. She wishes she could describe to you the look in Cusha's eyes. Cusha has the most perfect brown eyes of any creature in all the world. The girl cannot think of them now without tears coming into her own. She loves the memory of the other cows, too, but Cusha comes first. She has even milked Cusha – yes, with these hands; look at them. She and Cusha enjoyed themselves at these times. The girl has not only the dairy to see to and superintend, but she has also the poultry yard. Do you like fluffy little balls of yellow chickens? There is nothing vulgar about them, is there? The girl walked about the yard, and through the gardens, with the chickens pressed to her neck, and cuddled in her arms, hundreds and hundreds of times; and there are the goslings, almost prettier still. You see for yourselves that she must have plenty to do.

"She has also the flower garden to see to. All the mignonette, and the sweet peas, and the roses; the great hedges of Scotch roses, white and red, are her care. She lives with her flowers. The old man talks to her about them while she tends them. It is strange, but it seems to me there is nothing vulgar nor commonplace in her life. She has no time for commonplace thoughts, nor for slander and gossip, nor evil speaking. She is not to be praised for not indulging in these things; she has simply no time for them. In the evening she studies. She reads Shakspere and many books of history, and she always ends up with the Bible. She goes to bed quite early. Perhaps I have not half described her life; perhaps also I have told you enough.

"The girl – the girl who now stands before you – lived this beautiful ideal life until she was nearly sixteen years of age; then God thought it right, for reasons of his own, to take it away from her. The old man, the grand old king of the hamlet, was found dead in his bed one morning. It was a very fitting end for him, and he was quite ready to go. But the girl! somehow or other, her heart broke then. She has never been the same since that dreadful summer's morning. The sun of her early happy youth seemed to set for her then, and though the bees hummed, and the birds sang, and the flowers bloomed, and all the creatures of the world went on in their happy way, the girl felt that nothing could be perfect with her again until she joined the old man in the land beyond the sea.

"Great troubles came to her after this. Perhaps some of you here would not have thought them so. The little old farm, the shabby, dear old house, had to be sold, and Cusha went to strangers, and the other cows followed her example, and the chickens and goslings, and all the other live stock, even to dear Black Beauty, the farm horse, who was so sweet and noble that the girl can't talk about him without tears – they were all scattered far and wide, and the girl herself was left with money in the bank; not much, but a little. Then she remembered her grandfather, and she said to herself, 'For his sake I will stop fretting, and I will make the most I can out of my life.' She wrote to Miss Forester, and Miss Forester wrote back, and begged of her to come to Redgarth. She came, and in the fresh, glad, full life she tried to drown her sorrow.

"But," continued Kate, stopping abruptly, and turning with flashing eyes from Molly to where Matilda crouched by Miss Leicester's side, "she can never drown the sorrow which tells her that the old beautiful life is over. Lately, quite lately, a report has reached this girl, which for a day or two drove her nearly mad. There are certain girls at St. Dorothy's, and at other houses of residence, who think the ideal life which she used to live desecration. This fact cut her to the heart. Perhaps, girls," continued Kate, "I am not a lady in your acceptation of the word, but I wish to tell you all to-night, every one of you, that I would not change with you. I would not give up that old memory. I would not give up that near relationship to the grand old king of that humble hamlet for any you could confer on me. You know everything now. You can gossip as much as you like. You can speak of me as low, as uneducated, as of humble birth. Do you think I care? No, not now; now that you know the simple truth. I have only one word more to say. Among the gossip which has reached my ears, I am told that I am the recipient of Miss Forester's charity. I am quite certain that Miss Forester would give charity in the kindest and most thoughtful way, but my grandfather was proud as well as great, and he left me enough money when he died to give me all the advantages of this home of learning. Girls, I may be poor and humble, but I am not here on charity."

As Kate uttered her last words, she walked quietly out of the room. She had spoken with force; there had been an earnest ring in her voice, and a look about her eyes which had caused a queer sensation in the minds of all who listened to her. When she went toward the door of the room, no one stirred to call her back; there was a dead silence. After a time, Miss Leicester rose to her feet and spoke.

"I am very much surprised at all this," she said. "Has anyone in this school dared to be unkind to Kate O'Connor? Has anyone dared to gossip about her, or laugh about her? No, I don't expect an answer to-night, for this matter must be thoroughly investigated."

Then she also left the room.

Her departure was the signal for a perfect babel of tongues. The girls of St. Dorothy's were immensely excited. Matilda sought an opportunity to find her way to the door; no one noticed her departure now, and she rushed out of the house trembling a good deal, and glad when she found herself in the open air. Matilda was a thorough coward. She perceived at a glance that the full weight of public opinion would be against her, if her part in this sorry story were known.

"There is nothing for it now, but for me to take up Kate O'Connor," she said to herself; "to make much of her; to consider it the finest thing in the world to have been a dairymaid and a peasant girl when you were a child. Kate is wonderfully clever, and she has scored a point in her favor. By and by, however, there will come a reaction, and then my hour will have arrived."

CHAPTER XIII.
CECIL INVESTIGATES

"DO sit down, Molly! Where are you going?" said Hester Temple.

Molly Lavender paused when Hester said these words to her.

"I want to find Kate," she said. "There is something dreadful the matter with Kate. She looked at me as if she thought I had said something. Oh, I must go to her; don't keep me."

"Perhaps you had better," said Hester, giving Molly a queer glance.

Molly ran out of the room. Hester was dragged down on an ottoman between two of her friends. They were both excited.

"Do let us talk the thing over!" they said. "Did you ever know anything so dramatic? and didn't Kate look charming? I'm sure one wouldn't mind being a peasant, or a dairymaid, or anything else, if one could look as she did just now."

"It wasn't the look so much as the words," said a tall, dark girl who stood near. "I scarcely looked at her, but her words were like a poem. I never knew anyone choose her language so well. I suppose she inherits her talent from that wonderful old man. How I wish I were an artist, that I might sketch that scene which she depicted the old man and the girl! Anyone in all the world would be proud to be that girl. Oh, what is it, Miss Ross? Did you speak?"

Cecil had been waiting all this time to find an opportunity.

"The thing to do," she said, "is this. We must not waste our time in admiring the beautiful picture which Miss O'Connor sketched for us; we must get at the bottom of the mischief which has been going on. Molly Lavender and Kate were great friends; now Kate is unkind and cold to Molly. Did you say anything, Hester?"

"Well, the fact is," said Hester, "I am not greatly surprised."

"Why? Do you know anything of this?"

"Something; please don't look at me so indignantly, Cecil. We all love Molly, and it was quite the last sort of thing we expected her to do."

"But she did nothing. What do you mean? Molly loves Kate with all her heart; there is nothing she would not do for her. What is this mystery?"

"Perhaps the mystery is being put straight now," said Hester. "Molly did the very best thing she could, when she said she would go to Kate. Kate is excited and softened now, and if Molly goes to her and confesses, and says she is sorry, I have not the least doubt that Kate will forgive her."

"But," said Cecil indignantly, "Molly has nothing to be sorry about. If ever a girl in the world was as true as steel, it is Molly Lavender. Come," she added, "I am a stranger at present at St. Dorothy's, I don't know any of you girls, but I do know Molly Lavender. She and I were at school together when we were children, and have been great friends all our lives."

"Then of course you take her part," said Hester.

Cecil's eyes flashed fire.

"I do," she answered with spirit, "and I insist on knowing the truth. What has Molly done?"

"Well, it is this. Kate, for all her high spirits and her fun and nonsense, has a lot of reserve about her. She will hardly tell her innermost thoughts to anyone. Not a soul in the place, except, of course, Miss Forester and Miss Leicester, knew about the story which she told us to-night. We thought of her just like any other girl. We did not know that she had a romance at the back of her; we did not know anything about her origin. Of course she is, in every sense of the word, a perfect lady, and we just thought, if we thought at all, that she had been brought up like the rest of us in a comfortable home, and with all the usual refinements of life. Well, when Molly came, Kate took a great fancy to her, and Molly seemed equally fond of Kate. You know Molly Lavender is rich, and she has a bedroom to herself, and all kinds of little luxuries which the girls who live in dormitories can't aspire to. Well, when poor Kate began to sigh, and tried to get up a society in the cause of the Dwellers in Cubicles, as she called them, Molly was one of her most stanch supporters; she shared her room with her night after night until you came, Cecil. In short, they were inseparable, and scarcely ever apart; and one day Kate opened her heart to Molly, and showed her that picture which she sketched so graphically for us all to-night. She never told another soul, and of course she thought that she was safe with Molly. What do you think happened? In less than a week the story began to be known all over the school. Not dear Kate's own beautiful story, but a vulgar, common edition of it. Kate was no lady, Kate used to do menial work, Kate was received here on charity! You know how silly schoolgirls can be over this sort of thing; and although everybody liked Kate, there were some silly girls who began to look down on her. At last it reached my ears, and I thought it only fair to tell her."

"Who did you trace the report to?" asked Cecil.

"Well, of course, Matilda Matthews was in it. You know what a horrid, disagreeable girl Matilda is. There is no girl in the whole school so disliked, and how Molly could have so completely forgotten herself as to give Matilda her confidence passes my comprehension. There is not the least doubt that she did tell her, for the simple reason that Molly alone, in the whole school, knew the truth."

When Hester had finished speaking, there was a little pause. Cecil was standing up, her face was white, her eyes stared straight in front of her; she was evidently thinking hard. Hester looked at her, and so did several of the other girls, expecting her to make some response, but she did not speak.

"Kate was cut to the heart," continued Hester. "I could see that; not that she said a great deal to me. She evidently made this little plan to let the whole school know the real truth. For my part, I think it very brave of her to stop gossip in this way; but I am very sorry indeed about Molly Lavender."

"Thank you for telling me," said Cecil.

"Have you nothing to say?"

"Nothing at present."

"Do you mean to do anything?"

"Yes, everything; but I have nothing to say on the subject at present."

Cecil left the room. On her way up to her own room she met Molly. Molly's eyes were red, her face pale.

"Have you seen her, Molly?" asked Cecil.

"No; she locked herself into her cubicle, and would not see me. I called to her through the door, but she would not reply. Cecil, what does it all mean?"

"It means treachery," said Cecil. "I have got to the bottom of it now. This thing must be put right, somehow. I made Hester tell me the whole story."

"Kate seems to suspect me," said Molly, putting up her hand to her head. "I never felt so puzzled in my life."

"Well, come into your room, and let us talk it out," said Cecil.

The girls entered Molly's room. She turned on the electric light, and they sat down side by side on her little bed.

"It is a great matter to know the truth," said Cecil. "The facts of the case are simply these: Kate confided her story to you."

"Yes; about three weeks ago."

"Well, since then it has got into the school, and Kate suspects that you betrayed her confidence to Matilda Matthews."

"How dared she?" said Molly, coloring crimson. "What kind of girl must she think me?"

"Well, Molly, we must get to the bottom of it somehow. There is not the least manner of doubt that you are the only person in the school who had been told Kate's secret until to-night. Of course you never told: you would not breathe a word – that goes without saying. We need not waste our breath over that. The thing to find out is, how Matilda got her knowledge."

"I have not the faintest idea," said Molly. "I remember the day when Kate told me. We had taken a long walk together. She is a great botanist, and she was explaining to me some wonderfully interesting things about some plants which we had come across in our walk; then we went into the playground, and we sat in the summerhouse. It was a warm day for the time of year, and we were both tired and hot from our walk. There was not a soul anywhere near – not a single soul. Some girls in the distance were playing hockey; we did not take any notice of them. I asked Kate quite suddenly how she knew so much about plants. She looked at me – she gave me one of those straight glances which always somehow went to my heart, and then, she began to speak about her grandfather. The moment she mentioned him, she began to get enthusiastic. She drew such a picture that I became almost beside myself with delight and appreciation, that fact drew her on to tell me more. She described the cows and the little cottage, and the view from her bedroom window. Perhaps she did not make such a graphic picture of the whole thing as she did to-night, but the story was the same. I never loved her more, nor respected her more. Of course it was told in the greatest confidence, and it never passed my lips – never, until now when I am telling you."

"It is no secret now," said Cecil; "all the world knows, or, at least, all our school world knows, that you have been confided in, and that you are supposed to be the betrayer. How in the world did the story get out?"

"That I can't tell," said Molly. "It is a mystery which I can't explain."

"Are you quite certain there was no one near?"

"Quite, quite, quite! Don't you know the house in the playground, Cecil? It is nothing but a bare room – just a few chairs and a couple of benches, and lots of hooks on the walls to hang up our cricket and tennis bats. We had the summerhouse to ourselves, and there was not a soul in sight."

"I must try and get to the bottom of this," said Cecil.

"What do you mean to do? I feel quite in despair. I shall, of course, tell Kate the moment I see her that I am quite innocent, that she is unjust in suspecting me; but I greatly fear, from her manner to-night, and from her refusing to see me, that she will not believe my word."

"Dear Molly, she shall believe you yet," said Cecil, in a caressing voice.

Molly leaned up against her friend.

"It is such a comfort to have you in school, Ceci," she said. "Oh, it is very wrong of me to think so much of myself in this matter."

"How can you help it, you poor dear? You, of all people, to be suspected of this sort of thing; but, never mind, I am going to take it up now."

"I can't imagine what you will do."

"I don't quite know myself yet, but I am not sister to four brothers for nothing. If you only could guess, Molly, what scrapes those boys have been in – the kind of things even Maurice has been suspected of doing. But I have always got them to confide in me; and somehow, when we talked the thing out, and straightened it a bit, and got the tangles out of it, as it were, we always began to get glimpses of daylight. Of course I could not interfere in the boys' affairs as I can in yours, but I have before now set quite hopeless sort of scrapes – indeed they seemed so at the time – straight."

"Well, I wish you would take me up," said Molly.

"I intend to, you may be sure, and also that poor Kate O'Connor. Of course I am angry with her for suspecting you, but it is impossible not to love her and be interested in her. Now, Molly, I want you to promise me one thing."

"What is that?"

"Just tell Kate the truth quite simply to-morrow; don't exaggerate, and don't protest. Tell her you know she suspects you, assure her of your innocence, and then leave the matter in my hands; don't say another word. Of course it is easy to guess who is at the bottom of all the mischief."

"Who?" inquired Molly.

"Why, Matilda Matthews! Did you notice how anxious Kate was to keep her in the room this evening, and how often Matilda made for the door? I was quite amused watching the clever way in which Kate kept her victim within sight. Of course I could not guess her motive at the time; now I see that she wanted to shame Matilda thoroughly."

"Yes; I hate Matilda!" said Molly. "I never did hate anyone before, but I hate her! Of course she has made the mischief; but how did she find out? That is the puzzle of all puzzles, Cecil."

"Of course it is a puzzle," said Cecil; "but we'll drag it into the light of day somehow. Now, Molly, I'm dead tired, and I think I must say good-night."

"Good-night!" said Molly.

A moment later her friend went away.

Cecil ran upstairs to her own cubicle. It was next to Kate's, and as she laid her head on her pillow she thought she heard a sound something like a sob not far away. She longed to speak and give a word of comfort, but she knew that anything she said would be overheard by other girls. There was nothing for her to do but to bide her time.

Cecil's new life was full of the keenest interests. Her examinations had been successful. She had taken a high place in the school. Miss Forester had already singled her out for special notice. It was arranged that she was to try for the great yearly scholarship given by the governors of Redgarth to the best pupil, and her head was absorbed with the new and vivid interests which her different studies were bringing to her. Nevertheless, Cecil had lived an unselfish life; she loved Molly with all her heart and soul, and determined not to leave a stone unturned to get her out of her present difficulty. She lay awake for a short time thinking about her, suppressed a sigh as she thought of the valuable help Maurice, not to say Jimmy, could give her in this emergency; for Maurice was the soul of common sense, and Jimmy was a born detective. But as the boys were far away, she had to trust to her own ingenuity. Suddenly an idea darted through her mind. Why not write to Jimmy and ask his advice?

"I never knew such a lad for ferreting out mysteries," thought Cecil. "I need not give him any names, but I'll just put the case in a few strong words, and see what he suggests. The thing to find out is this: How did Matilda get her knowledge? I'll put the whole case to Jimmy."

Cecil knew that she would have no time to do this in the morning. She got softly out of bed, lit her candle, sat down before her writing-desk, and wrote the following letter:

Dear Jimmy:

You know you are fond of mysteries. Can you make anything out of the following? You must forgive me for not mentioning names. The case is just as I am putting it. There is a very nice girl in this school; she is what you would call a brick; she has a friend who is just as nice in her own way. The friend is the sort of true girl who would not tell a secret for all the world. One day these two girls were sitting together in a little summerhouse, made of wood, in our large playground. The one girl told the other girl a secret. It was an important secret, and just the sort which any person who had a grain of honor in him or her would rather be cut in pieces than tell again. Well, Jimmy, in some mysterious way the secret has got out; everyone in the school knows about it, and the poor dear girl, who would rather have her tongue cut out than betray her friend, is supposed to have been treacherous, and to have betrayed her friend's confidence. In some dreadful way the secret has got into the hands of a very unscrupulous girl in the school, and she is making use of it, and we're all unhappy. There was not a soul anywhere near the summerhouse when the one girl told the other the secret. How did the mischievous, cruel girl get hold of it? That is what I want to know. Now, Jimmy, dear, set your keen detective wits to work and give me a clew, if you can. Give my love to Maurice; I will write to him on Saturday. I hope you all try not to make poor Mr. Danvers too unhappy.

Your loving sister,
Cecil.

P.S. – Write by return, if you can. Set your keen wits to work, Jimmy, and give me a solution of this mystery as you love me.

Cecil felt absurdly cheered when she had written this letter. She went back to bed, and soon afterward fell asleep.

The next morning Kate came down to breakfast looking just as usual. She was watched with great interest when she entered the breakfast room, but except that she held her head a little higher than usual, and that her cheeks were even brighter than of yore, there seemed no change whatever about her. She talked a good deal during breakfast, and even addressed Molly Lavender as if nothing special had happened. Cecil watched her with anxiety; Molly avoided meeting her eyes. Immediately after breakfast followed prayers, and then the girls went up to their rooms to get ready to go to school. Molly ran up to hers, put on her hat and jacket, snatched up her exercise and note books, and went and waited in the hall. Kate, as a rule, was one of the first to go to school. Molly felt her heart beating faster than usual as she heard her light footsteps coming downstairs.