Ten days later, Aunt Olivia and Uncle Roger went to town one evening, to remain over night, and the next day. Peter and the Story Girl were to stay at Uncle Alec's during their absence.  
We were in the at sunset, listening to the story of King Cophetua and the beggar maid—all of us, except Peter, who was hoeing , and Felicity, who had gone down the hill on an errand to Mrs. Ray.
 
The Story Girl impersonated the beggar maid so , and with such an illusion of beauty, that we did not wonder in the least at the king's love for her. I had read the story before, and it had been my opinion that it was "rot." No king, I felt certain, would ever marry a beggar maid when he had princesses galore from whom to choose. But now I understood it all.
 
When Felicity returned we concluded from her expression that she had news. And she had.
 
"Sara is real sick," she said, with regret, and something that was not regret in her voice. "She has a cold and sore throat, and she is . Mrs. Ray says if she isn't better by the morning she's going to send for the doctor. AND SHE IS AFRAID IT'S THE ."
 
Felicity flung the last sentence at the Story Girl, who turned very pale.
 
"Oh, do you suppose she caught them at the magic lantern show?" she said .
 
"Where else could she have caught them?" said Felicity mercilessly. "I didn't see her, of course—Mrs. Ray met me at the door and told me not to come in. But Mrs. Ray says the measles always go awful hard with the Rays—if they don't die completely of them it leaves them deaf or half blind, or something like that. Of course," added Felicity, her heart melting at sight of the in the Story Girl's piteous eyes, "Mrs. Ray always looks on the dark side, and it may not be the measles Sara has after all."
 
But Felicity had done her work too . The Story Girl was not to be comforted.
 
"I'd give anything if I'd never put Sara up to going to that show," she said. "It's all my fault—but the punishment falls on Sara, and that isn't fair. I'd go this minute and confess the whole thing to Mrs. Ray; but if I did it might get Sara into more trouble, and I mustn't do that. I sha'n't sleep a to-night."
 
I don't think she did. She looked very pale and woebegone when she came down to breakfast. But, for all that, there was a certain exhilaration about her.
 
"I'm going to do all day for Sara to disobey her mother," she announced with chastened triumph.
 
"Penance?" we murmured in bewilderment.
 
"Yes. I'm going to deny myself everything I like, and do everything I can think of that I don't like, just to punish myself for being so wicked. And if any of you think of anything I don't, just mention it to me. I thought it out last night. Maybe Sara won't be so very sick if God sees I'm truly sorry."
 
"He can see it anyhow, without your doing anything," said
Cecily.
"Well, my conscience will feel better."
 
"I don't believe Presbyterians ever do penance," said Felicity . "I never heard of one doing it."
 
But the rest of us rather looked with favour on the Story Girl's idea. We felt sure that she would do penance as and thoroughly as she did everything else.
 
"You might put peas in your shoes, you know," suggested Peter.
 
"The very thing! I never thought of that. I'll get some after breakfast. I'm not going to eat a single thing all day, except bread and water—and not much of that!"
 
This, we felt, was a heroic measure indeed. To sit down to one of Aunt Janet's meals, in ordinary health and appetite, and eat nothing but bread and water—that would be penance with a ! We felt WE could never do it. But the Story Girl did it. We admired and pitied her. But now I do not think that she either needed our pity or deserved our . Her fare was really sweeter to her than honey of Hymettus. She was, though quite unconsciously, a part, and tasting all the subtle joy of the artist, which is so much more than any material pleasure.
 
Aunt Janet, of course, noticed the Story Girl's abstinence and asked if she was sick.
 
"No. I am just doing penance, Aunt Janet, for a sin I committed. I can't confess it, because that would bring trouble on another person. So I'm going to do penance all day. You don't mind, do you?"
 
Aunt Janet was in a very good humour that morning, so she merely laughed.
 
"Not if you don't go too far with your nonsense," she said tolerantly.
 
"Thank you. And will you give me a handful of hard peas after breakfast, Aunt Janet? I want to put them in my shoes."
 
"There isn't any; I used the last in the soup yesterday."
 
"Oh!" The Story Girl was much disappointed. "Then I suppose
I'll have to do without. The new peas wouldn't hurt enough.
They're so soft they'd just squash flat."
"I'll tell you," said Peter, "I'll pick up a lot of those little round on Mr. King's front walk. They'll be just as good as peas."
 
"You'll do nothing of the sort," said Aunt Janet. "Sara must not do penance in that way. She would wear holes in her stockings, and might seriously her feet."
 
"What would you say if I took a whip and whipped my bare shoulders till the blood came?" demanded the Story Girl .
 
"I wouldn't SAY anything," retorted Aunt Janet. "I'd simply turn you over my knee and give you a sound, solid , Miss Sara. You'd find that penance enough."
 
The Story Girl was with indignation. To have such a remark made to you—when you were fourteen and a half—and before the boys, too! Really, Aunt Janet could be very dreadful.
 
It was vacation, and there was not much to do that day; we were soon free to seek the orchard. But the Story Girl would not come. She had seated herself in the darkest, hottest corner of the kitchen, with a piece of old cotton in her hand.
 
"I am not going to play to-day," she said, "and I'm not going to tell a single story. Aunt Janet won't let me put pebbles in my shoes, but I've put a thistle next my skin on my back and it sticks into me if I lean back the least bit. And I'm going to work buttonholes all over this cotton. I hate working buttonholes worse than anything in the world, so I'm going to work them all day."
 
"What's the good of working buttonholes on an old rag?" asked
Felicity.
"It isn't any good. The beauty of penance is that it makes you feel uncomfortable. So it doesn't matter what you do, whether it's useful or not, so long as it's nasty. Oh, I won............