When Carrie left her, Kitty Malone was buoyed up with a certain degree of hope. Carrie had spoken with confidence; she had assured her that her clothes were worth money. Never before, much as she prized pretty things, had they seemed so valuable in poor Kitty's eyes. If Carrie would really keep her word it would be possible for Kitty to send Laurie the money which he wanted that evening. Could she do this her worst anxieties would be laid to rest, and she felt that it would be even possible for her to try to be good once more. As things were at present, she cared nothing at all about being either good or bad. Every thought of her mind was fixed upon Laurie; if he were saved she would be good; if not—if he indeed, the darling of her heart, went to the dogs—nothing mattered.

Kitty was too restless and miserable to go down to the rest of the family. She walked up and down, up and down her bedroom, watching and longing for Carrie. Now and then she would rush to the window, putting out her head and shoulders and half her body, to watch if by any chance Carrie might be coming up the street. That red-faced, fat, uninteresting-looking young woman now represented all Kitty's hopes.

When darkness set in, however, when the hours first struck nine and then ten, poor Kitty gradually saw the last star in her firmament expire. "Without doubt Carrie had failed to pawn the things.

"And I thought them so good," whispered Kitty to herself. "Aunt Bridget would be sure to choose nice and expensive things. Perhaps they were too good for the people who come to the pawnbroker for their clothes. That must be the reason; but I wonder Carrie did not come back to tell me."

Presently Alice bustled into the room, and, opening the door of the large wardrobe which the girls shared between them, began to make active search for a neat little jacket which she wanted to put on. She was going out for the evening, and wished to wear it when she was returning home. Search as she would, however, she could not find it, and presently turned to ask Kitty if she had seen it.

"Dear me, no," answered Kitty, starting and blushing. "Is it not in the wardrobe?"

"No," replied Alice. "And I remember I hung it on this peg. Where can it possibly have disappeared to? Don't you know anything about it, Kitty? By the way, how wonderfully empty the wardrobe looks! Have you been putting your clothes back into your boxes?"

Kitty, who had been standing in the middle of the room looking the very picture of despair, now burst into a hearty peal of laughter.

"What are you laughing about?" asked Alice.

"I am awfully afraid it has happened," she cried.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, that your jacket has gone to the pawn."

"Kitty!" cried Alice, looking at the Irish girl in some alarm, "have you gone mad?"

"No, Alice; but I am dreadfully afraid all the same that it has happened; indeed, there can be no doubt of it."

Kitty laughed again. She often cried when she laughed and now the tears ran down her cheeks.

"Well, this is too funny!" she gasped between her paroxysms of mirth.

"I don't think it funny at all. I think you must have taken leave of your senses. Kitty, please, explain yourself."

"I will try to, Alice. Oh, don't frown at me so horribly, or I shall go off into fits of laughter again. This is the simple truth. I wanted money very, very badly. I could not get it, and Carrie Lewis—"

"Carrie Lewis? Who is she?" asked Alice.

"Oh, don't be so ridiculous, Alice. Of course you know who Carrie Lewis is. She is Elma's sister. She came here to-day."

"How very interesting! What a nice set of people you seem to be getting to know! I wasn't aware that you were acquainted with any of the Lewises except Elma."

"Well, I am acquainted with Carrie now, and I rather like her. She is great fun, much more fun than you are. She is vulgar, of course; but really that does not matter. She called to see me, and as I happened to want money she suggested pawning some of my things for me. I conclude she took your jacket by mistake with the rest."

Alice was so stunned absolutely by this news that no words would come to her. She stared at Kitty, her face growing whiter and more wooden-looking each moment. Then, without vouchsafing a syllable of reply, she left the room, banging the door behind her.

"There, I have given her a good settler," thought Kitty; and for a moment the feeling that Alice was as uncomfortable as she was herself gave her a certain sense of satisfaction.

The last post brought a letter from Laurie. It was brief, and was written in frantic hurry and despair.

"My dear Kitty," wrote the boy, "what has come to you? I am looking for a letter by every post, but none arrives. I shall not be able to give Wheel-about the money I promised him on Saturday, and I know he will not keep my secret any longer. When father hears it, all is up. If I don't receive that money by Saturday morning I shall run away to sea.—LAURIE."

The letter fluttered from poor Kitty's fingers to the floor. She felt stunned; there was a cold weight now at her heart, which made it almost impossible for her to move or even think. If Laurie did not get the money by Saturday morning he would run away to sea. This was Thursday evening. There was still time, just time, to save him. Oh, if only Carrie would come! How dreadful, how terrible of her to fail Kitty at such a moment as this! Laurie was just the sort of boy to do what he said. The longing to go to sea had been one of the innermost cravings of his heart for many years. If he did so, the squire would never forgive him. His career would be ruined. Bad and awful as an English school in Kitty's opinion would be, the fate which he now had mapped out for himself would be much worse. The cruel, cruel sea might even drown him. Kitty might never behold her Laurie again. He was the joy of her heart and the light of her eyes. She uttered a piercing cry, and fell down half-fainting by her bedside. She lay so for the greater part of an hour, then struggling to her feet got into bed without undressing, and pulled the bedclothes well over her head.

When Alice came in very late that evening she thought that Kitty was asleep, and did not disturb her; but all during the long hours of that miserable night poor Kitty lay awake, her heart beating loud, terrible visions passing before her eyes. Toward morning she fell into a troubled sleep, to awake again quite early. Her head ached badly, her pulses beat too quickly; she could not stand her hot bed any longer. Springing up, she went into the bathroom, turned on the cold water, and refreshed herself with a bath. She felt really desperate and quite impervious to all ideas of discipline. She made up her mind to go to the Lewises, knock up Carrie, and demand an account of the property which she had confided to her on the previous day. Even still there was just—just time to save Laurie, for if she could catch the early post he would receive his money on Saturday morning.

Kitty found herself at Constantino Road between seven and eight o'clock. The blinds of Carrie's bedroom window were still down, for the Lewises were not early risers. Maggie however, was up, and when Kitty rang the bell she opened the door for her.

"Miss Malone!" she cried.

"I want to see Miss Carrie at once," cried Kitty. "Is she up, Maggie?"

"Not she, miss. She's sound asleep and in bed. But I'll run up and tell her that you are here. Please come into the dining-room, Miss Malone."

Maggie threw open the door of this by-no-means luxurious apartment, and then ran upstairs to inform Carrie of Kitty's unexpected arrival.

"Now, what can be up?" thought Carrie. "Surely she is satisfied. I did very well for her."

She dressed herself hastily, and in five minutes was standing by Kitty's side.

"What is it?" she asked. "Are you not pleased? Elma took you the money, did she not? She must have stayed with one of the Middleton School girls for the night, for she never returned home; but she took you the money. I thought I did very well by you. Were you not satisfied?"

"She took me the money?" cried Kitty, turning pale. "No; that she did not. I never had any money. What do you mean, Carrie?"

"What I say," answered Carrie. "Oh, do sit down, Kitty; you look quite ghastly. I gave Elma ten pounds seven shillings and twopence to give you I got eleven guineas for your things, including the watch and chain. After I deducted my ten per cent., the balance for you was ten pounds seven and twopence. I thought you would be delighted. Did she not take you the money early yesterday evening?"

"No. I have never seen her."

"But she left here quite early on purpose. She said she was going straight to your house. I sent you plenty of money, did I not?"

"How much did you say?" asked Kitty, putting her hand up to her forehead in a distracted way.

"Ten pounds seven and twopence. You only really wanted eight pounds, did you not?"

"I had a little money of my own, and eight pounds would have done," said
Kitty in a low voice; "but——"

Here she sprang forward and gripped Carrie by the arm. "What does it mean, Carrie—what does it mean? Elma never came near me; I never, never saw her last night."

"You never saw her? Elma never went to you?"

"No, never. Do you think I would tell an untruth? I never saw her, not since early school yesterday. Oh, Carrie, tell me what it means?"

"I cannot. I must say it looks very queer," said Carrie. She frowned, turned her back partly upon Kitty, and supporting her fat chin on one of her dimpled hands, began to think deeply. The more she thought the less she liked the aspect of affairs.

"Carrie, what does it mean?" cried Kitty, reiterating her words in a kind of frenzy of agitation.

"Oh, stop talking to me for a minute, Kitty! I must think this out."

Carrie walked to the window, pulled up the blinds, threw the sash up, and allowed the fresh morning air to blow upon her hot face. After a time she turned round and faced Kitty.

"You may well look pale," she said. "I confess I am as bewildered as you are yourself. Of course Elma may have been taken ill—she had a dreadful shock yesterday."

"How?"

"You are silly to talk like that. Don't you know?"

"You mean because I told about her?"

"Well, it turned out very badly, as badly as possible. You did tell, and when you did so you ruined her. If you had only kept that precious story to yourself, even for twenty-four hours, little Elma would have been made—made for life; but you ruined her."

"Oh do please tell me what you mean! My head is going round in a whirl;
I can scarcely follow you."

"You can pull yourself toget............