w herself on her little bed, and hid her face on her
pillow. How unhappy she was! No one could help her, and yet she had
many kind friends near, who would be so sorry for her if they knew. But
they must not know, that was the worst part of it, she must bear this
dreadful thing all alone. She had been fond once of having "a secret,"
a mystery she could share with Jackie only, and talk about in corners.
What a different matter it was to have a real one to keep!

Presently she heard Mrs Vallance's step on the stairs; Mary felt that
she could not answer any questions about her headache, so she shut her
eyes and pretended to be asleep. When her kind mother bent over her and
kissed her, how hard it was not to put her arms round her neck and tell
her how miserable she was; but she must not, she must lie quite still,
and soon she knew that Mrs Vallance was going softly out of the room.
It grew gradually dusk; Mary got up and began to undress herself, she
would not go down-stairs again that night, she would go to bed at once,
she thought. As she put her hand into her pocket, she felt something
there beside her handkerchief, and drew it quickly out. There was the
dirty scrap of paper Bennie had thrown from the tree, and which she had
quite forgotten. What did it mean? Was there anything inside it? With
a thrill of fear she darted to the window, untwisted the paper, and by
the dim light could just make out the following scrawl: "Leeve the en
roost oppen nex Munday nite." Mary gazed at it with horror, unable for
the first few minutes to take in the sense, but when she did so she sank
down on the ground and burst into tears. What wicked, wicked people
they were! Not content with taking all her money, they wanted to rob
the hen-roost, to steal her pretty bantams and Mrs Vallance's splendid
white cochin-chinas. It was too cruel. She clenched her fist
passionately. "They sha'n't do it," she said to herself starting to her
feet. "I will tell the squire; I will have them punished. They shall
be put in prison."

Then another thought came, and she drooped her head mournfully. "If I
do that they will claim me for their child. `Not all the parsons and
all the squires as ever was could prevent it,' Seraminta had said. What
would happen then? I should have to go away from Wensdale, from father
and mother, from Jackie, and all of them at the White House. They would
all know that I belonged to thieves--not only to common,