The next morning Annie Forest opened her eyes with that strange feeling of indifference and want of vivacity which come so seldom to youth.  She saw the sun shining through the closed blinds; she heard the birds twittering and singing in the large elm-tree which nearly touched the windows; she knew well how the world looked at this moment, for often and often in her old light-hearted days she had risen before the maid came to call her, and, kneeling by the deep window-ledge, had looked out at the bright, fresh, sparkling day.  A new day, with all its hours before it, its light vivid but not too glaring, its dress all manner of tender shades and harmonious colorings!  Annie had a poetical nature, and she gloried in these glimpses which she got all by herself of the fresh, glad world.

To-day, however, she lay still, sorry to know that the brief night was at an end, and that the day, with its coldness and suspicion, its terrible absence of love and harmony, was about to begin.

Annie’s nature was very emotional; she was intensely sensitive to her surroundings; the grayness of her present life was absolute destruction to such a nature as hers.

The dressing-bell rang; the maid came in to draw up the blinds, and call the girls.  Annie rose languidly and began to dress herself.

She first finished her toilet, and then approached her little bed, and stood by its side for a moment hesitating.  She did not want to pray, and yet she felt impelled to go down on her knees.  As she knelt with her curls falling about her face, and her hands pressed to her eyes, one line of one of her favorite poems came flashing with swiftness and power across her memory: 

“A soul which has sinned and is pardoned again.”

The words filled her whole heart with a sudden sense of peace and of great longing.

The prayer-bell rang:  she rose, and, turning to Susan Drummond, said earnestly: 

“Oh, Susy, I do wish Mrs. Willis could know about our going to the fairy-field; I do so want God to forgive me.”

Susan stared in her usual dull, uncomprehending way; then she flushed a little, and said brusquely: 

“I think you have quite taken leave of your senses, Annie Forest.”

Annie said no more, but at prayers in the chapel she was glad to find herself near gentle Cecil Temple, and the words kept repeating themselves to her all during the morning lessons: 

“A soul which has sinned and is pardoned again.”

Just before morning school several of the girls started and looked distressed when they found that Mrs. Willis lingered in the room.  She stood for a moment by the English teacher’s desk, said something to her in a low voice, and then, walking slowly to her own post at the head of the great school-room, she said suddenly: 

“I want to ask you a question, Miss Drummond.  Will you please just stand up in your place in class and answer me without a moment’s hesitation.”

Phyllis and Nora found themselves turning very pale; Mary Price and one or two more of the rebels also began to tremble, but Susan looked dogged and indifferent enough as she turned her eyes toward her teacher.

“Yes, madam,” she said, rising and dropping a courtesy.

“My friends, the Misses Bruce, came to call on me yesterday evening, Susan, and told me that they saw you running very quickly on the high road in the direction of the village.  You, of course, know that you broke a very distinct rule when you left the grounds without leave.  Tell me at once where you were going.”

Susan hesitated, colored to her dullest red, and looked down.  Then, because she had no ready excuse to offer, she blurted out the truth: 

“I was going to see old Betty.”

“The cake-woman?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“I ­I heard she was ill.”

“Indeed ­you may sit down, Miss Drummond.  Miss Good, will you ask Michael to step for a moment into the school-room?”

Several of the girls now indeed held their breath, and more than one heart beat with heavy, frightened bumps as a moment later Michael followed Miss Good into the room, carrying the redoubtable picnic-basket on his arm.

“Michael,” said Mrs. Willis, “I wish you to tell the young ladies exactly how you found the basket this morning.  Stand by my side, please, and speak loud enough for them to hear.”

After a moment’s pause Michael related somewhat diffusely and with an occasional break in his narrative the scene which had occurred between him and Moses that morning.

“That will do, Michael; you can now go,” said the head mistress.

She waited until the old servant had closed the door, and then she turned to her girls: 

“It is not quite a fortnight since I stood where I now stand, and asked one girl to be honorable and to save her companions.  One girl was guilty of sin and would not confess, and for her sake all her companions are now suffering.  I am tired of this sort of thing ­I am tired of standing in this place and appealing to your honor, which is dead, to your truth which is nowhere.  Girls, you puzzle me ­you half break my heart.  In this case more than one is guilty.  How many of the girls in Lavender House are going to tell me a lie this morning?”

There was a brief pause; then a slight cry, and a girl rose from her seat and walked up the long school-room.

“I am the most guilty of all,” said Annie Forest.

“Annie!” said Mrs. Willis, in a tone half of pain, half of relief, “have you come to your senses at last?”

“Oh, I’m so glad to be able to speak the truth,” said Annie.  “Please punish me very, very hard; I am the most guilty of all.”

“What did you do with this basket?”

“We took it for a picnic ­it was my plan, I led the others.”

“Where was your picnic?”

“In the fairies’ field.”

“Ah!  At what time?”

“At night ­in the middle of the night ­the night you went to London.”

Mrs. Willis put her hand to her brow; her face was very white and the girls could see that she trembled.

“I trusted my girls ­” she said; then she broke off abruptly.

“You had companions in this wickedness ­name them.”

“Yes, I had companions; I led them on.”

“Name them, Miss Forest.”

For the first time Annie raised her eyes to Mrs. Willis’ face; then she turned and looked down the long school-room.

“Oh, won’t they tell themselves?” she said.

Nothing could be more appealing than her glance.  It melted the hearts of Phyllis and Nora, who began to sob, and to declare brokenly that they had gone too, and that they were very, very sorry.

Spurred by their example Mary Price also confessed, and one by one all the little conspirators revealed the truth, with the exception of Susan, who kept her eyes steadily fixed on the floor.

“Susan Drummond,” said Mrs. Willis, “come here.”

There was something in her tone which startled every girl in the school.  Never had they heard this ring in their teacher’s voice before.

“Susan,” said Mrs. Willis, “I don’t ask you if you are guilty; I fear, poor miserable girl, that if I did you would load your conscience with a fresh lie.  I don’t ask you if you are guilty because I know you are.  The fact of your running without leave to see old Betty is circumstantial evidence.  I judge you by that and pronounce you guilty.  Now, young ladies, you who have treated me so badly, who have betrayed my trust, who have been wanting in honor, I must think, I must ask God to teach me how to deal with you.  In the meantime, you cannot associate with your companions.  Miss Good, will you take each of these eight girls to their bedrooms.”

As Annie was leaving the room she looked full into Mrs. Willis’ face.  Strange to say, at this moment of her great disgrace the cloud which had so long brooded over her was lifted.  The sweet eyes never looked sweeter.  The old Annie, and yet a better and a braver Annie than had ever existed before, followed her companions out of the school-room.