e
knots of girls whispering happily and confidentially together, for
whenever two or three girls sat down to have a chat they found that one
or another of the teachers was within hearing. The acting for the coming
play progressed so languidly that no one expected it would really take
place, and the one relief and relaxation to the unhappy girls lay in the
fact that the holidays were not far off, and that in the meantime they
might work hard for the prizes.

The days passed in a truly melancholy fashion, and, perhaps, for the
first time the girls fully appreciated the old privileges of freedom and
trust which were now forfeited. There was a feeble little attempt at a
joke and a laugh in the school at Dora's expense. The most frivolous of
the girls whispered of her as she passed as "the muddy stream;" but no
one took up the fun with avidity--the shadow of somebody's sin had fallen
too heavily upon all the bright young lives.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

BETTY FALLS ILL AT AN AWKWARD TIME.

The eight girls who had gone out on their midnight picnic were much
startled one day by an unpleasant discovery. Betty had never come for her
basket. Susan Drummond, who had a good deal of curiosity, and always
poked her nose into unexpected corners, had been walking with a Miss
Allison in that part of the grounds where the laurel-bush stood. She had
caught a peep of the white handle of the basket, and had instantly turned
her companion's attention to something else. Miss Allison had not
observed Susan's start of dismay; but Susan had taken the first
opportunity of getting rid of her, and had run off in search of one of
the girls who had shared in the picnic. She came across Annie Forest, who
was walking, as usual, by herself, with her head slightly bent, and her
curling hair in sad confusion. Susan whispered the direful intelligence
that old Betty had forsaken them, and that the basket, with its
ginger-beer bottles and its stained table-cloth, might be discovered at
any moment.

Annie's pale face flushed slightly at Susan's words.

"Why should we try to conceal the thing?" she said, speaking with sudden
energy, and a look of hope and animation coming back to her face. "Susy,
let's go, all of us, and tell the miserable truth to Mrs. Willis; it will
be much the best way. We did not do the other thing, and when we have
confessed about this, our hearts will be at rest."

"No, we did not do the other thing," said Susan, a queer, gray co