ir longer skirts were more
dignified, but when they caught sight of a favourite sister, they too
ran forward, and then retreated timidly, as if afraid of committing an
indiscretion.

It was prize-day in the Convent of the Holy Child, and since early
morning all had been busy preparing for the arrival of the Bishop. His
throne had been set at one end of the school-hall, and at the other the
carpenters had erected a stage for the performance of _King Cophetua_, a
musical sketch written by Miss Alice Barton for the occasion.

Alice Barton was what is commonly known as a plain girl. At home, during
the holidays, she often heard that the dressmaker could not fit her; but
though her shoulders were narrow and prim, her arms long and almost
awkward, there was a character about the figure that commanded
attention. Alice was now turned twenty; she was the eldest, the
best-beloved, and the cleverest girl in the school. It was not,
therefore, on account of any backwardness in her education that she had
been kept so long out of society, but because Mrs. Barton thought that,
as her two girls were so different in appearance, it would be well for
them to come out together. Against this decision Alice said nothing,
and, like a tall arum lily, she had grown in the convent from girl to
womanhood. To her the little children ran to be comforted; and to walk
with her in the garden was considered an honour and a pleasure that even
the Reverend Mother was glad to participate in.

Lady Cecilia Cullen sat next to Alice, and her high shoulders and long
face and pathetic eyes drew attention to her shoulders--they were a
little wry, the right seemingly higher than the left. Her eyes were on
Alice, and it was plain that she wished the other girls away, and that
her nature was delicate, sensitive, obscure, if not a little queer. At
home her elder sisters complained that an ordinary look or gesture often
shocked her, and so deeply that she would remain for hours sitting apart
refusing all consolation; and it was true that a spot on the tablecloth
or presence of one repellent to her was sufficient to extinguish a
delight or an appetite.

Violet Scully occupied the other end of the garden bench. She was very
thin, but withal elegantly made. Her face was neat and delicate, and it
was set with light blue eyes; and when she was not changing her place
restlessly, or looking round as if she fancied someone was approaching,
when she was still (which was s