ssor, and Grace had refused to voice her
suspicions. It had all come right in the end, although Miss Thompson's
displeasure had been hard to bear.

Perhaps this affair would end happily, too. Suppose the other girl had
chosen the same subject? Grace gave vent to a soft exclamation of
impatience at her own supposition. She wished she dared believe that it
were so, but common sense told her that she could not hope to deceive
herself by any such delusion.

"Who could the girl be?" Grace asked herself over and over. Surely, no
one of her intimate friends. Nor any girl at Wayne Hall, either. Whoever
was guilty would be severely punished, perhaps sent home. Overton prided
itself on its honor. Its children must be above reproach at all times.
Mabel's evidence would clear her. But what of the other girl?

"Whoever she is," speculated Grace, "by this time she is probably sorry
for what she did. I suppose she is frightened, too. I'm going to make
Miss Duncan let her off this once, and if I can find out who she is, I'm
going to stand by her so faithfully that she'll never again care to do a
dishonest thing as long as she lives."

It was a long time before Grace fell asleep that night. Her perturbed
state of mind over the stolen theme had served to make her wakeful, and
her thoughts flitted from one subject to another, as she lay waiting for
the sleep that refused to come, always returning, however, to that of
the unlucky theme.

When, at last, it came, it brought disturbing dreams, in which she
figured as the transgressor. The theme did not belong to her, but to J.
Elfreda Briggs. She had stolen it from the pocket of Elfreda's brown
serge coat, and Miss Duncan had seen her take it. During the morning
exercises in the chapel, Miss Duncan had mounted the steps of the
platform, and, standing beside Dr. Morton, had shouted forth her guilt
to the whole college, while she had endeavored to creep out of the
chapel unnoticed.

CHAPTER XV

THE QUALITY OF MERCY

The next morning Grace felt singularly dispirited as she went down to
breakfast. It had been raining, and the dreary outlook caused the gloomy
lines, "The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year," to run
through her head with maddening persistency.

"What's the matter, Grace?" inquired Emma Dean. "That chief-mourner
expression of yours is doubly depressing on a day like this. Did you eat
too much fudge last night, or have you been conditioned in math?"