Part 16 (1/2)

”If Anna isn't sorry some day for being so chummy with Lettice,” said Betty seriously, ”Lettice will be for being so chummy with Anna.”

But Kitty could not see that. She did not care for Lettice, but it never occurred to her that her behaviour was worse than foolish, or that she should warn Anna against the friends.h.i.+p. Not that it would have done any good, probably, if she had.

It might have been better for them all, though, if Kitty had been more suspicious and alert, for she might then have seen what was happening, and perhaps have avoided the catastrophe to which they were all hastening. But, of course, if you have no suspicions of people, you cannot be on your guard against something that you do not know exists; and Kitty suspected nothing, not even when Betty came home one day with an unpleasant tale of foolishness to tell.

”I won't walk home with Anna any more,” she cried hotly. ”She asks me to go with her, and then tries to get rid of me. I know why she wanted to, though: she had a letter to post and didn't want me to see it.

I suppose,” indignantly, ”she thought I would try to read the address, or would sneak about it!”

”You must have made a mistake,” said Kitty. ”It is too silly to think she should want to get rid of you while she posted a letter.

Why shouldn't she post one? I don't see anything in it.”

”Well, _I_ do,” said Betty solemnly. ”To tell you isn't really sneaking, is it? Anna posts letters for Lettice Kitson--letters to people she isn't allowed to write to--and she takes letters to her.

She does really, Kitty, and I think Anna ought to be spoken to.

Lettice was nearly expelled from her last school for the same thing.

Violet told me so.”

”Nonsense,” cried Kitty scornfully. ”I believe the girls make up stories, and you shouldn't listen to them, Betty; it is horrid.”

”I am sure Violet wouldn't make up stories,” said Betty; ”and if Lettice does such things, Anna ought not to help her. You should stop her, Kitty. Tell her we won't have it.”

”O Betty, don't talk so. Don't tell me any more that I ought to do.

It seems to me I ought to do everything that is horrid! And why should I look after Anna? She never takes any notice of what I say; and after all it is nothing very bad--nothing to make a fuss about, I mean.

I haven't seen anything myself.”

”Well, _I_ think it is a good deal more than nothing,” said Betty gravely; ”and I wish you would see, Kitty, I wish you would notice things more.”

”But what good could I do? What can I say?” cried Kitty distractedly, growing really distressed.

”Say? Oh, say that we won't stand it, and let her see that we won't,”

said Betty. ”We ought to be able to do that.”

CHAPTER XI.

POOR KITTY!

Only a few days later Kitty's eyes were opened for her, and opened violently. Autumn had come on apace. The days were short now, and the evenings long and dark. Already the girls were counting that there were only five or six weeks before Dan came home; and at school there was much talk of the break-up party, and the tableaux which were to be the chief feature of the festivity this year. Kitty was to take part in one tableau at least. She was to be Enid in one of her dearly loved Arthurian legends--Enid, where, clad in her faded gown, she met Queen Guinevere for the first time, who,

”descending, met them at the gates, Embraced her with all welcome as a friend, And did her honour as the prince's bride.”

And Kitty was to wear a wig such as she had always longed for, with golden plaits reaching to her knees, and she was almost beside herself with joy.

On the evening that the storm broke, she, little dreaming of what was coming, was doing her home work and taking occasional dips into her volume of Tennyson. Betty had finished her home lessons and was curled up in a chair reading. Anna was not in the room; in fact, she had left it almost as soon as they had settled down to their work after tea as usual. It was now nearly supper-time.

Mrs. Pike was absent at a Shakespeare reading. Dr. Trenire had been out all day, a long round over bleak country, and had not been home more than an hour. Kitty had heard him come, and had longed--as she had never longed in the days when she was free to do as she liked--to go and superintend his meal, and hear all about his day. But she knew what a to-do there would be if she did not stay where she was and do her lessons, and she had just lost herself again in the story of ”Enid,”

when, to her surprise, she heard her father's footsteps coming along the pa.s.sage and stopping at the door of the school-room. She was even more surprised when, on opening the door, he said very quietly and gravely, ”Kitty, will you come to me in my study at once? I wish to speak to you.”

She had looked up with a smile, but the expression on her father's face caused her smile to die away, and left her perplexed and troubled.

”What was it? Was Dan in trouble--or ill--or--or what had happened?”