Before that day had come to an end, Lucy had discovered how true were Phyllis Flower's words. For Rosamund Cunliffe, without making herself in the least disagreeable, without saying one single rude thing, yet managed to take the lead, and that so effectively that even Lucy herself found that she could not help following in her train.

For instance, after dinner, when the girls—all of them rather tired, and perhaps some of them a little cross, and no one exactly knowing what to do—clustered about the open drawing-room windows, it was Rosamund who proposed that the rugs should be rolled back and that they should have a dance.

Lucy opened her eyes. Nobody before had ever dared to make such a suggestion in the house of Sunnyside. Lucy, it is true, had dancing lessons from a master who came once a week to instruct her and other girls in the winter season, and she had occasionally gone to a children's party. But beyond that she had never danced, looking forward to it, however, as a possible recreation by-and-by.

Rosamund's clear voice was now heard.

"Let us push back the sofas. This is a splendid room. We can roll up the rugs in a twinkling. Where is Mrs. Merriman? She will play the dance music. Oh, there are seven of us—one too many. Perhaps you will play for us, Lucy?"

"But I don't know any dance music," said Lucy; "and then mother would not like the rugs being disturbed. The room is arranged just as father and mother wish it to be. I think perhaps"——

She colored painfully.

"We will do nothing without leave, of course," said Phyllis Flower. "I'll just run and find Mrs. Merriman and ask her."

Before Lucy could prevent her, Phyllis had darted out of the room, returning in a minute or two with the required permission.

"It's all right, girls," she said; "we can trip it on the light fantastic toe as long as ever we please, and the rugs may go to Hong-kong for all Mrs. Merriman cares."

Lucy colored with rage. Rosamund gave a quiet smile—a smile which seemed to denote power. Phyllis's dancing eyes lit for a moment on Lucy's face. Those eyes said in the most provoking manner, "I told you so." And then some one went to the piano, and a minute or two later all the girls, Lucy included, were dancing round and round the room in the merry waltz.

Even Lucy enjoyed it when once it had begun, and the little performer at the piano played well, and kept excellent time. And by-and-by Lucy forgot herself, and could not help laughing when Rosamund seized her round the waist and whirled her round and round, and taught her to reverse, and instructed her in one or two other matters unknown to Lucy up to the present.

The dance lasted for over an hour; and just in the midst of it, when Lucy was really laughing in quite a heart-whole manner, she raised her eyes and saw no less a person than Mr. Merriman himself standing in the doorway. He was smiling, and his eyes were fixed on Rosamund's face.

The moment Rosamund saw him she stopped at once, and said to Lucy, "Is that your father, the great professor?"

"Yes," said Lucy.

"Please introduce him to me."

Lucy longed to say, "It will tire him; I can't do it." She longed to give any sort of excuse, but none would come to her lips. She was forced to take Rosamund up to Mr. Merriman.

"This is Rosamund Cunliffe," she said, "and she wants to know you, father."

"I am very much pleased to see you, Miss Cunliffe," said Mr. Merriman; and then Rosamund stood in the doorway and talked.

Lucy went back and tried to dance with another girl, and the dance music still went on. But she could not help straining her ears and trying to catch the subject of Rosamund's conversation. Why, she was absolutely laughing, and the Professor, who was generally so grave and quiet, was laughing also. What did it all mean?

"Father, aren't you tired?—Miss Cunliffe, you are tiring father," said Lucy at last, running up to the door and trying to speak calmly.

"No, my dear," said her father. "On the contrary, I am intensely interested.—You must tell me that story again, Miss Cunliffe. Would you like to come and see my library?"

The two went off together, and Lucy felt almost as though she must burst into tears. Phyllis's eyes again met her face, and she had to restrain her feelings. The "I told you so" look was too maddening almost for endurance.

Rosamund's love of power showed itself further in the arrangement of her bedroom. She took down the dividing curtain between herself and Jane Denton without asking any one's permission; and she slept in the bed intended for Jane, and rearranged the drawers, putting them into another part of the room; and complained about the wardrobe, saying that she would like it put opposite the door instead of in its present position. And whatever she wished was immediately done, and whatever she said was said so politely that no one took offense. And Lucy had to confess to herself that Phyllis was right, and that Rosamund would be a power—the leading power—in the school.

Early the next day the two teachers arrived. Mademoiselle Omont was very French in appearance, very dark, with sparkling black eyes and neatly arranged soft dark hair. She had a truly Parisian accent, and a pretty, graceful way about her. Miss Archer was a stolid-looking woman of about five-and-thirty years of age. She had a long talk, on her arrival, with Mrs. Merriman, and then she went to her room and stayed there for some little time, so that it was not until tea-time that the girls and the two resident governesses met.

Lucy looked with great approbation at Miss Archer when she took her seat opposite the tea-tray.

"She will bring order into this chaos," thought the girl. "She will force all these girls to behave properly. She will insist on order. I see it in her face."

But as the thought passed through Lucy's mind, Rosamund jumped suddenly up from her own place, requested Phyllis Flower to change with her, and sat down close to Miss Archer. During tea she talked to the English governess in a low tone, asking her a great many questions, and evidently impressing her very much in her favor.

"Oh, dear!" thought Lucy, "if this sort of thing goes on I shall lose my senses. If there is to be any order, if the whole scheme which mother has thought out so carefully, and father has approved of, means to establish a girl like Rosamund Cunliffe here as our leader, so that we are forced to do every single thing she wishes, I shall beg and implore of father and mother to let me go and live with Aunt Susan in the old Rectory at Dartford."

Lucy's cheeks were flushed, and she could scarcely keep the tears back from her eyes. After tea, however, as she was walking about in front of the house, wondering if she should ever know a happy moment again, Miss Archer made her appearance. When she saw Lucy she called her at once to her side.

"What a nice girl Rosamund Cunliffe seems!" was her first remark.

"Oh! don't begin by praising her," said Lucy. "I don't think I can quite stand it."

"What is the matter, my dear? You are little Lucy Merriman, are you not—the daughter of Mrs. Merriman and the Professor?"

"I am."

"And this house has always been your home?"

"I was born here," said Lucy almost tearfully.

"Then, of course, you feel rather strange at first with all these girls scattered about the place. But when lessons really begin, and you get into working order, you will be different. You will have to take your place with the others in class, and everything is to be conducted as though it were a real school."

"I will do anything you wish," said Lucy, and she turned a white face, almost of despair, towards Miss Archer. "I will do anything in all the world you wish if you will promise me one thing."

Miss Archer felt inclined to say, "What possible reason have you to expect that I should promise you anything?" but she knew human nature, and guessed that Lucy was troubled.

"Tell me what you wish," she said.

"I want you not to make a favorite of Rosamund Cunliffe. Already she has begun to upset everything—last night all the drawing-room arrangements, her own bedroom afterwards; then, to-day, the other girls have done nothing but obey her. If this goes on, how is order to be maintained?"

Miss Archer looked thoughtful.

"From the little I have seen of Rosamund, she seems to be a very amiable and clever girl," she said. "She evidently has a great deal of strength of character, and cannot help coming to the front. We must be patient with her, Lucy."

Lucy felt a greater ache than ever at her heart. She was certain that Miss Archer was already captivated by Rosamund's charms. What was she to do? To whom was she to appeal? It would be quite useless to speak to her mother, for her mother had already fallen in love with Rosamund; and indeed she had with all the young girls who had arrived such a short time ago. Mrs. Merriman was one of the most affectionate people on earth. She had the power of taking an unlimited number of girls, and boys, too, into her capacious heart. She could be spent for them, and live for them, and never once give a thought to herself. Now, in addition to the pleasure of having so many young people in the house, she knew she was helping her husband and relieving his mind from weighty cares. The Professor could, therefore, go on with the writing of his great work on Greek anthology; even if the money for this unique treatise came in slowly, there would be enough to keep the little family from the products of the school. Yes, he should be uninterrupted, and should proceed at his leisure, and give up the articles which were simply wearing him into an early grave.

Lucy knew, therefore, that no sympathy could be expected from her mother. It is true that her father might possibly understand; but then, dared she worry him? He had been looking very pale of late. His health was seriously undermined, and the doctors had spoken gravely of his case. He must be relieved. He must have less tension, otherwise the results would be attended with danger. And Lucy loved him, as she also loved her mother, with all her heart and soul.

When Miss Archer left her, having nothing particular to do herself and being most anxious to avoid the strange girls, she went up the avenue, and passing through a wicket-gate near the entrance, walked along by the side of a narrow stream where all sorts of wild flowers were always growing. Here might be seen the blue forget-me-not, the meadow-sweet, great branches of wild honeysuckle, dog-roses, and many other flowers too numerous to mention. As a rule, Lucy loved flowers, as most country girls do; but she had neither eyes nor ears for them to-day. She was thinking of her companions, and how she was to tolerate them. And as she walked she saw in a bend in the road, coming to meet her, a stout, elderly, very plainly dressed woman.

Lucy stood still for an instant, and then uttered a perfect shout of welcome, and ran into the arms of her aunt Susan.

Mrs. Susan Brett was the wife of a hard-working clergyman in a town about ten miles away. She had no children of her own, and devoted her whole time to helping her husband in his huge parish. She spent little or no money on dress, and was certainly a very plain woman. She had a large, pale face, somewhat flat, with wide nostrils, a long upper lip, small pale-blue eyes, and a somewhat bulgy forehead. Plain she undoubtedly was, but no one who knew her well ever gave her looks a thought, so genial was her smile, so hearty her hand-clasp, so sympathetic her words. She was beloved by her husband's parishioners, and in especial she was loved by Lucy Merriman, who had a sort of fascination in watching her and in wondering at her.

From time to time Lucy had visited the Bretts in their small Rectory in the town of Dartford. Nobody in all the world could be more welcome to the child in her present mood than her aunt Susan, and she ran forward with outstretched arms.

"Oh, Aunt Susy, I am glad to see you! But what has brought you to-day?"

"Why, this, my dear," said Mrs. Brett. "I just had three hours to spare while William was busy over his sermon for next Sunday. He is writing a new sermon—he hasn't done that for quite six months—and he said he wanted the house to himself, and no excuse for any one to come in. And he just asked me if I'd like to have a peep into the country; that always means a visit to Sunnyside. So I said I'd look up the trains, and of course there was one just convenient, so I clapped on my hat—you don't mind it being my oldest one—and here I am."

"Oh, I am so glad!" said Lucy. "I think I wanted you, Aunt Susan, more than any one else in all the world."

She tucked her hand through her aunt's arm as she spoke, and they turned and walked slowly along by the riverside.

Mrs. Brett, if she had a plain face, had by no means a correspondingly plain soul. On the contrary, it was attuned to the best, the richest, the highest in God's world. She could see the loveliness of trees, of river, of flowers. She could listen to the song of the wild birds, and thank her Maker that she was born into so good a world. Nothing rested her, as she expressed it, like a visit into the country. Nothing made the dreadful things she had often to encounter in town seem more endurable than the sweet-peas, the roses, the green trees, the green grass, the fragrance and perfume of the country; and when she saw her little niece—for she was very fond of Lucy—looking discontented and unhappy, Mrs. Brett at once perceived a reason for her unexpected visit to Sunnyside.

"We needn't go too fast, need we?" she said. "If we go down this path, and note the flowers—aren't the flowers lovely, Lucy?"——

"Yes," replied Lucy.

"We shall be in time for tea, shall we not? But tell me, how is your father, dear? I see you are in trouble of some sort. Is he worse?"

"No, Aunt Susy; I think he is better. He has had better nights of late, and mother is not so anxious about him."

"Then what is the worry, my love, for worry of some sort there doubtless is?"

"It is the girls, Aunt Susy."

"What girls, my love?"

"Those girls that mother has invited to finish their education at Sunnyside. They came yesterday, and the teachers, Mademoiselle Omont and Miss Archer, arrived to-day. And the girls don't suit me—I suppose I am so accustomed to being an only child. I cannot tell you exactly why, but I haven't been a bit myself since they came."

"A little bit jealous, perhaps," said Aunt Susan, giving a quick glance at Lucy's pouting face, then turning away with a sigh.

"You will be surprised, Lucy," she continued after a pause, "when I tell you that I used to be fearfully jealous when I was young. It was my besetting sin."

"Oh, Aunt Susy, I simply don't believe it!"

"You don't? Then I will show you some day, when you and I are having a snug evening at the old Rectory at Dartford, a letter I once received from my dear father. He took great pains to point out to me my special fault, as he called it; and his words had a wonderful effect, and I went straight to the only source of deliverance, and by slow degrees I lost that terrible feeling which took all the sunshine out of my life."

"Tell me more, please, Aunt Susan," said Lucy.

"Well, you see, dear, I was not like yourself an only child. I was one of several, and I was quite the plain one of the family. I am very plain now, as you perceive; but I had two beautiful little sisters. They were younger than I, and Florence had quite a beautiful little face, and so had Janet. Wherever they went they were admired and talked about, and I was thought nothing of. Then I had three brothers, and they were good-looking, too, and strong, and had excellent abilities, and people thought a great deal about them; but no one thought anything about me. I was the eldest, but I was never counted one way or the other as of the slightest consequence. My people were quite rich, and Florence and Janet were beautifully dressed, and taken down to the drawing-room to see visitors; but I was never noticed at all. I could go if I liked, but it did not gratify anybody, so by degrees I stayed away. You do not know what bitter feelings I had in my heart, for they really were undeniably some of the most attractive children you could possibly find; and Florence was so witty, and Janet so delicate and refined and sweet in all her ways! I could not be angry with them, but I did think it fearfully unfair that so many blessings should be poured on their heads and so few given to me, for I was not even specially clever.

"Then I thought I would make a friend of my brother Roger. He was a very fine fellow, and for a time I did get into his confidence, and I was fairly happy. But he went to Rugby, and at Christmas he brought some of his school-fellows back with him, and they paid the most absurd attentions to Florence and Janet, and they snubbed me; and I suppose Roger, poor dear! was weak enough to be influenced by them, for he took no notice of me either, so you can just imagine what a bad time I had.

"Well, my dear, one day there came a letter from an old cousin asking either of the two girls, Florence or Janet, or myself, to go to stay with her in the country. She had a very nice house, and a pony and trap, and she could take us about and give us a good time. My mother was exceedingly anxious that the twins—I forgot to tell you that they were twins—should go, and she said so to me. She said they wanted change of air, as they were looking quite cooped up in our poky town. But I said, 'I am the eldest, and I don't see why I shouldn't have the pleasure of going, as I also have been invited. I mean it is only fair to give me the first chance.'

"Then she said, 'I think that is quite fair, and you shall have the first chance, Susan;' and so I went.

"Florence and Janet were not a bit angry, poor dears! They kissed me and helped me to pack my things, and Florence offered me one of her prettiest necklaces, and Janet some wonderful embroidered gloves which had been given to her by Roger at Christmas. But I was too jealous to accept any of their trinkets, and I went away with a sore feeling in my heart. Ah, Lucy! that was a long time ago."

Aunt Susan paused. A spasm of pain crossed her face. After a time she said slowly, "I enjoyed myself for a week or two. Then came news from home. The fever which had been lurking in the town for some time reached our house, and the two beautiful little twins were smitten with it. And before I could hear again they were both dead. Had I given up my own way, and let them go to see my old cousin, they might have been alive now."

"But you—you might have taken the fever. Oh! I think it is fearfully sad; but how could you know? And you could not be blamed—you could not really be blamed," said Lucy with great earnestness.

"Perhaps not," said Aunt Susan, recovering herself on the spot. "And I do not mean to be morbid about it; only, at the time, my conscience troubled me, and your poor aunty had a very bad time. It was soon afterwards that my dear father wrote to me, and I shall always keep his letter. Since then I have never been jealous of any one, and I would advise you to lay my story to heart, Lucy, and to do your utmost to keep down the seeds of jealousy, for they make a man or woman miserable, and they do no good in the world."

Lucy did not know why Aunt Susan's talk affected her so much. She still kept her hand on the old lady's arm, and they walked slowly up to the house. As they were approaching it she said suddenly, "Now that I have seen you, I mean to do my very best. I know it is remarkably brave of mother to have started the school and to have the girls here, and I know I ought to help her, and not to be cross because her ideas are not my ideas. And I will try, and I will remember your story and what you have said, for you always suit me, and you always understand me, Aunt Susan. But may I ask you one thing, one great favor?"

"What is that, my dear?" asked her aunt.

"If I find matters quite intolerable, may I come to you for a week to the Rectory at Dartford—just for one week? Will you invite me?"

"You have a hearty welcome, child. You know what it is like: soup-kitchens, mothers' meeting, coal-tickets, reading aloud to the children, rushing about from this place to the other trying to help those who cannot help themselves. It will do you good, Lucy, and of course you shall come."