The girls downstairs wondered why Maggie Howland did not appear.  After an hour of waiting Kathleen O’Donnell took the lead.  The accounts were left alone, but the tableaux vivants were diligently rehearsed, the Tristrams and Jane Burns being the three critics; Rosamond Dacre, Kathleen O’Donnell, and Matty and Clara Roache the performers.  But, somehow, there was no life in the acting, for the moving spirit was not there; the bright, quick eye was missed, the eager words were lacking, with the pointed and telling criticism.  Then there was the scene where Maggie herself was to take a part.  It was from The Talisman, and a night-scene, which she was able to render with great precision and even beauty, and the dun light would be in her favor.  It was to be the crowning one, and the last of the tableaux.  It was expected to bring down the house.  But Maggie was not there, and the girls could not help feeling a little disconsolate and a little surprised.

At supper that evening there were eager inquiries with regard to Maggie Howland.  All the girls came up to ask Aneta where the other queen was.

“She is not quite well, and has gone to bed,” said Aneta.  “She does not wish to be disturbed until the morning.”

Aneta’s words had a curious effect upon every one who heard her speak.  It was as though she had, for the first time in her life, absolutely taken Maggie’s part.  Her eyes, when she spoke of Maggie, were full of affection.  The girls were puzzled; but Merry, as they turned away, suddenly ran back to Aneta, swept her arm round the girl’s neck, and said, “Oh Neta, I do love you!”

Aneta pressed Merry’s hand.  For the first time these two understood each other.

Meanwhile poor Maggie was living through one of the most dreadful periods of her life.  Her mother’s intimation that she and her stepfather were coming without fail to Aylmer House on Saturday ­the day, the glorious day when Maggie and her friends were to entertain Mrs. Ward and the rest of the school ­drove the girl nearly wild.  Aneta had discovered her secret, and Aneta had urged, as the one way out, the painful but salutary road of confession.  Maggie writhed at the thought, but she writhed far more terribly at the news which her mother’s letter contained.

The girl said to herself, “I cannot stand it!  I will run away!  He has destroyed my last chance.  I will run away and hide.  I will go to-night.  There is no use in waiting.  Aneta is kind; she is far kinder than I could ever have given her credit for.  She would, I believe, help me; and dear Mrs. Ward would help me ­I am sure of that.  And I don’t really mind now that it comes to the point of losing my position in the school as queen; but for all the school ­for the Tristrams, for Merry Cardew, for Kathleen ­to see that man is beyond my power of endurance.  He will call here, and he will bring poor mother, but as I won’t be here I won’t feel anything.  I will go to-night.  I’ll slip downstairs and let myself out.  I have some money ­thank goodness for that! ­and I have my father’s treasures.  I can take them out of the tin box and wear them on my person, and I can sell them one by one.  Yes, I will run away.  There’s no help for it.”

Maggie, at Aneta’s suggestion, had got into bed, but even to think of sleep was beyond her power.  She got up again presently, dressed, and sat by the foggy window.  The fog was worse; it was so thick now that you could not see your way even as far as the trees in the middle of the square.  There were fog-signals sounding from time to time, and cabs going very slowly, and boys carrying torches to light belated and lost passengers.

Maggie was safe enough in her room, which had, like all the other bedrooms at Aylmer House, a small fire burning in the grate.  By-and-by some one tapped at the door.  Maggie said, “Don’t come in”; but her words were unheeded.  The door was opened an inch or two, and Merry Cardew entered.

“Oh Merry, you ­of all people!” said Maggie.

“And why not?” said Merry.  “I am your friend ­your own very, very great friend.  What is the matter, Mags?  You were so jolly at tea; what can have happened since?”

“Something most dreadful,” said Maggie; “but you will know on Saturday.”

“Oh!” said Merry, coming up to Maggie and dropping on her knees and fondling one of the girl’s cold hands, “why should I wait till Saturday?  Why should I not know now?”

“I can’t talk of it, Merry.  I am glad you ­you ­loved me.  You won’t love me in the future.  But kiss me just this once.”

“I am not going to leave you like this,” said Merry.

“You must, dear; yes, you must.  Please, please go!  And ­please, be quick.  Some one will see us together.  Lucy Johnson will come in.  Oh! don’t make matters worse for me.  Good-night, Merry, good-night.”

Maggie seemed so anxious that Merry should go that the girl felt hurt and rose to her feet.

“Good-night, Merry dear,” said Maggie as Merry was walking towards the door.  Then she added, in a semi-whisper which Merry did not catch, “And good-bye, Merry dear; we shall never meet again.”

Merry left the room, feeling full of apprehension.  She thought for a minute as she stood outside.  Then she went and knocked at Aneta’s door.

“Aneta, may I come in?”

“Of course, dear.  What is the matter?” said her cousin.

Merry entered at once.

“I have been to see Maggie.  She is awfully queer.  Oh, I know I broke the rules.  I must tell Miss Johnson in the morning.”

“I did beg of you, Merry, not to go to her,” said Aneta.

“Yes, I know you did; but I could not help thinking and thinking about her.  She is very queer.  Her eyes look so strange.”

“I hoped she was in bed and asleep,” said Aneta.

“In bed!” said Merry.  “Not a bit of it.  She was up and sitting by the window gazing at the fog.”

“I will go and see her myself,” said Aneta.

“Will you, Neta?  And you will be kind to her?”

“Yes, darling, of course.”

“Somehow, she used to think that ­that you didn’t love her,” said Merry.

“Nor did I,” said Aneta.  “But I will be kind to her; don’t be afraid.  I think I can guess what is the matter.”

“It is all very queer,” said Merry.  “She was in such splendid spirits to-day; all the girls said so when they were out preparing for our party, and now she looks years older and utterly miserable.”

“Go to bed, Merry, and leave your friend in my care.”

“Then you don’t think it wrong of me to be very fond of her?”

“I do not, Merry.  There was a time when I hoped you would not care for her; now I earnestly want you to be her true friend.  There is a very great deal of good in her, and she has had many sorrows.  Pray for her to-night.  Don’t be anxious.  Everything will come as right as possible.”

“Oh Neta,” said Merry, “you are a darling!  And when you talk like that I love you more than I ever did before.  You see, dear, I could not help caring for Maggie from the very first, and nothing nor anybody can alter my love.”

Aneta kissed Merry, who left the room.  Then Aneta herself, taking up her candle, went out.  She was wearing a long white wrapper, and her clouds of golden hair were falling far below her waist.  She looked almost like an angel as she went down the corridor as far as Miss Johnson’s room.

Lucy Johnson was just getting into bed when Aneta knocked.

“What is it, Neta?” said the governess in a tone almost of alarm.

“I want to break a rule, Lucy,” said Aneta; “so put me down for punishment to-morrow.”

“Oh, but why?  What are you going to do?”

“I am going to do something which I shall be punished for.  I am going to spend to-night, if necessary, with Maggie Howland.”

“Is she ill, Neta?  Ought we to send for the doctor?”

“Oh no, she is not a bit ill in that way.  Good-night, Lucy; I felt I ought to tell you.”

Aneta continued her way until she reached Maggie’s room.  It was now past midnight.  The quiet and regular household had all retired to bed, and Maggie had feverishly begun to prepare for departure.  She knew how to let herself out.  Once out of the house, she would be, so she felt, through the worst part of her trouble.  She was not unacquainted with the ways of this cruel world, and thought that she might be taken in at some hotel, not too far away, for the night.  Early in the morning she would go by train to some seaside place.  From there she would embark for the Continent.  Beyond that she had made no plans.

Maggie was in the act of removing her father’s treasures from the tin boxes when, without any warning, the room-door was opened, and Aneta, in her pure white dress, with her golden hair surrounding her very fair face, entered the room.

“Oh!” said Maggie, dropping a curiously made cross in her confusion and turning a dull brick-red.  “Whatever have you come about?”

Aneta closed the door calmly, and placed her lighted candle on the top of Maggie’s chest of drawers.

“I hoped you were in bed and asleep,” she said; “but instead of that you are up.  I have made arrangements to spend the night with you.  It is bitterly cold.  We must build up the fire.”

Maggie felt wild.

Aneta did not take the slightest notice.  She knelt down and put knobs of fresh coal on the fire.  Soon it was blazing up merrily.  “That’s better,” she said.  “Now, don’t you think a cup of cocoa each would be advisable?”

“I don’t want to eat,” said Maggie.

“I should like the cocoa,” said Aneta; “and I have brought it with me.  I thought your supply might be out.  Here’s your glass of milk which you never drank, and here’s a little saucepan, and there are cups and saucers in your cupboard, and a box of biscuits.  Just sit down, won’t you? while I make the cocoa.”

Maggie felt very strange.  Her dislike of Aneta was growing less and less moment by moment.  Nevertheless, she by no means gave up her primary idea of running away.  She felt that she must hoodwink Aneta.  Surely she was clever enough for that.  The best plan would be to acquiesce in the cocoa scheme, afterwards to pretend that she was sleepy, and go to bed.  Then Aneta would, of course, leave her, and there would still be plenty of time to get out of the house and disappear into the foggy world of London.  The glowing fire, the beautiful young girl kneeling by it, the preparation for the little meal which she made with such swiftness and dexterity, caused Maggie to gaze at her in speechless amazement.

Maggie drank her delicious cocoa and munched her biscuits with appetite, and afterwards she felt better.  The world was not quite so black and desolate, and Aneta looked lovely with her soft eyes glowing and the rose-color in her cheeks.

“Why are you doing all this for me?” said Maggie then.

“Why?” said Aneta.  “I think the reason is very simple.”  Then she paused for a minute and her eyes filled with sudden tears.  “I think it is, Maggie, because quite unexpectedly I have learned to love you.”

“You ­to love me ­me?” said Maggie.

“Yes.”

Maggie felt herself trembling.  She could not reply.  She did not understand that she returned the love so suddenly given to her ­given to her, too, in her moment of deepest degradation, of her most utter misery.  Once again the feeling that she must go, that she could not face confession and the scorn of the school, and the awful words of Bo-peep, and her poor mother as Bo-peep’s wife, overpowered her.

“You are ­very kind,” she said in a broken voice; “and the cocoa was good; and, if you don’t mind ­I will ­go to bed now, and perhaps ­sleep a little.”

“What have you been doing with all those lovely curios?” said Aneta.

“I?” said Maggie.  “I ­oh, I like to look at them.”

“Do pick up that cross which is lying on the floor, and let me examine it.”

Maggie did so rather unwillingly.

“Please bring over all the other things, and let me look at them,” said Aneta then.

Maggie obeyed, but grudgingly, as though she did not care that Aneta should handle them.

“Why have you taken them out of their boxes and put them all in a muddle like this?” said Aneta.

“I ­I wanted something to do,” said Maggie.  “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Was that the only reason ­honor bright?” said Aneta.

Maggie dropped her eyes.

Aneta did not question her any further, but she drew her down to a low chair by the fire, and put a hand on her lap, and kept on looking at the treasures:  the bracelets, the crosses, the brooches, the quaint designs belonging to a bygone period.  After a time she said, “I am not at all sure ­I am not a real judge of treasures; but I have an uncle, Sir Charles Lysle, who knows more about these things than any one else in London; and if he thinks what I am inclined to think with regard to the contents of these two boxes, you will be” ­She stopped abruptly.

Maggie’s eyes were shining.  “Aneta,” she said, “don’t talk of these any more; and don’t talk either of wealth or poverty any more.  There is something I want to say.  When you came into my room just now I was packing up to run away.”

“Oh yes, I know that,” said Aneta.  “I saw that you had that intention the moment I entered the room.”

“And you said nothing!”

“Why should I?  I didn’t want to force your confidence.  But you’re not going to run away now, Mags?” She bent towards her and kissed her on the forehead.

“Yes,” said Maggie, trembling.  “I want you to let me go.”

“I cannot possibly do that, dear.  If you go, I go too.”

“I must go,” said Maggie.  “You don’t understand.  You found things out about me to-day, and you have behaved ­well, splendidly.  I didn’t give you credit for it.  I didn’t know you.  Now I do know you, and I see that no girl in the school can be compared to you for nobleness and courage, and just for being downright splendid.  But, Aneta, I cannot bear that which is before me.”

“The fact is,” said Aneta, “you are in the midst of a terrible battle, and you mean to give in and turn tail, and let the enemy walk over the field.  That is not a bit what I should have expected at one time from Maggie Howland.”

“I will tell you,” said Maggie.  “I am not really a bit brave; there is nothing good in me.”

“We won’t talk about that,” said Aneta.  “What we have to think about now is what lies straight ahead of you; not of your past any more, but your immediate future.  You have a tough time before you; in fact, you have a very great battle to fight, but I do not think you will turn tail.”

“You want me,” said Maggie, “to go to Mrs. Ward and tell her everything?”

“You must do that, Maggie.  There is no second course to pursue.  There is no way out.  But I have been thinking since I saw you that perhaps you might have your day on Saturday.  I think it would be best for you to tell Mrs. Ward to-morrow; and I think she would not prevent you having your day on Saturday.  Perhaps it will be necessary ­but she is the one to decide ­that some of your schoolfellows should be told; and of course your little brooch which you sold to Pearce must be got back.  Even Pearce is far too honest to keep it for the price he paid you.”

“He gave me five pounds, and I have spent one.  There are still four pounds left,” said Maggie.  “I meant to run away with the help of these.”

“I will lend you a pound,” said Aneta, “and we’ll get the brooch back to-morrow.”

“But, Aneta, I have not yet told you ­it is too fearful ­you cannot conceive what my stepfather is like.  It isn’t only his being a grocer ­for I have no doubt there are lots of grocers who are quite, quite tolerable; but you cannot imagine what he is.  I had a letter from him a little time ago ­that time, you remember, when he sent me those perfectly awful dresses ­and he said then that he and my mother were coming to see me, as he wanted to interview Mrs. Ward and to look at the school for himself.  Well, that poor Tildy brought me a letter to-day from mother.  I had written to mother to beg of her not to let him come; but he got hold of the letter, and he was nearly mad about it.  The end of it is that he and she are coming on Saturday, and, somehow, I can’t bear it.  I must run away; I cannot endure it!”

“I don’t wonder,” said Aneta.  “Let me think.  Lay your head on my shoulder, Maggie.  Oh, how tired you are!”

“Aneta, you seem to me quite new ­just as though I had never seen you before.”

“I think you and your story have opened my eyes and done me good,” said Aneta.  “Then what you said about the sufferings of the poor ­I mean your sort of poor ­gave me great pain.  Will you take off your things and lie down, and let me lie by your side?  Do, Maggie darling!”

Maggie darling!  Such words to come from Aneta Lysle’s lips!  Maggie felt subjugated.  She allowed her rival queen to undress her, and presently the two girls were lying side by side in the little bed.  Maggie dropped off into heavy slumber.  Aneta lay awake.

It was early morning when Aneta touched her companion.

“Maggie, I have been thinking hard all night, and I am going to do something.”

“You!  What can you do?  Oh, I remember everything now.  Oh, the horror!  Oh, how can I endure it?  Why didn’t I run away?”

“Maggie, you must promise me faithfully that you will never run away.  Say it now, this minute.  I believe in your word; I believe in your fine nature.  I will help you with all my might and main through school-life, and afterwards.  Give me your word now.  You will stay at Aylmer House?”

“I will stay,” said poor Maggie.

“I don’t ask any more.  Thank you, dear.  Maggie, do nothing to-day, but leave matters in my hands.  You are not well; your head aches, your forehead is so hot.”

“Yes, I have a headache,” owned Maggie.

“I shall be away for the greater part of the day, but I will ask Miss Johnson to look after you.  Don’t say anything until I return.”

“But what are you going to do?”

“I am going to see your mother and your stepfather.”

“Aneta!”

“Yes.”

“Oh Aneta, you must not see him!”

“It is probable that I shall seem him, dear; I am not easily alarmed. 
I will take Aunt Lucia with me.  I am going downstairs now to ask Mrs.
Ward’s permission.”

“And you will say nothing about me?”

“Something, but nothing of your story.  When you feel well enough you can get up and go on with the preparations for to-morrow.  I believe we shall have our happy day.”