ver them. But Maggie had her own
friends, among whom were Rosamond Dacre, Kathleen O'Donnell, Matty and
Clara Roache, and Janet Burns. All these girls were fairly nice, but
not so high-bred and not so noble in tone as the girls who devoted
themselves to Aneta. Kathleen was, indeed, altogether charming; she
was the romp of the school and the darting of every one. But Rosamond
Dacre was decidedly morose and sulky. She was clever, and on this
account her mistresses liked her; but she was a truly difficult girl
to deal with, being more or less shut up within herself, and
disinclined to true friendship with any one. She liked Kathleen
O'Donnell, however, and Kathleen adored Maggie. Rosamond was,
therefore, considered to be on Maggie's side of the school. Matty and
Clara Roache were quite ordinary, everyday sort of girls, neither very
good-looking nor the reverse, neither specially clever nor specially
stupid. Their greatest friend was Janet Burns, a handsome little girl
with a very lofty brow, calm, clear gray eyes, and a passionate
adoration for Maggie Howland. Matty and Clara would follow Janet to
the world's end, and, as Janet adhered to Maggie, they were also on
Maggie's side.

Maggie naturally expected to add to the numbers of her special
adherents her own two friends, the Tristrams. She felt she could
easily have won Merry also to join, the ranks of adorers; but then it
suddenly occurred to her that her friendship for Merry should be even
more subtle than the ordinary friendship that an ordinary girl who is
queen at school gives to her fellows. She did not dare to defy Aneta.
Merry must outwardly belong to Aneta, but if her heart was Maggie's
what else mattered?

When tea was over several of the girls drifted into the garden, where
they walked in twos, discussing their holidays, their old friends, and
the time which was just coming. There was not a trace of unhappiness
in any face. The whole atmosphere of the place seemed to breathe peace
and goodwill.

Aneta and Cicely, with some of Aneta's own friends, two girls of the
name of Armitage--Anne and Jessie--and a very graceful girl called
Sylvia St. John, walked up and down talking quietly together for some
little time.

Then Cicely looked eagerly round her. "I can't see Merry anywhere,"
she remarked.

"She is all right, dear, I am sure," said Aneta. But Aneta in her
inmost heart did not think so. She was, however, far too prudent to
say a word to make her cousin