so somewhere."

"I--I thought it was Herodotus who was called that," Lobelia ventured,
timidly.

"Perhaps it was; it's all the same."

"No, I am wrong. Herodotus was called the father of history, and then
some other people said he was the father of lies; but now it has all
come true, so he isn't any more!"

Lobelia, who was stupid and painstaking, proffered this lucid
explanation painfully, and then gasped; it seemed a liberty for her to
explain anything to anybody.

"Who cares?" said Peggy. "He's dead, anyhow. Oh, how it used to provoke
my dearest Margaret when I said that. I only mean, I never see how it
can matter so much as people think. But you are not dead, Lobelia; and
the idea of your being killed, here in this school, in the nineteenth
century! Why, it is absurd, don't you see? It is funny! You must laugh
about it, my dear!"

Lobelia, with an effort, produced a watery smile; seeing which, Peggy's
mood changed, and she laid her hand instantly on the skinny, shrinking
arm.

"My dear, don't think I was laughing at _you_," she cried, warmly. "No;
I am going to be furious in a minute, when I get round to that part
again. Well, but Lobelia, Blanche Haight is gone now, and a good
riddance, and yet you say you are still afraid. What are you afraid of?"

"I--I don't know who it is now!" said Lobelia. "But some one comes
through, just the same."

"How do you mean, just the same? some one pinches you?"

"No! oh, no! this person never speaks to me or looks at me.
It--she--only wants to go through the window. It has something light
gray over its head and shoulders. It goes down the fire-escape and
stays about half an hour, and then comes back. I--I don't mind it so
very much, now. I dare say it's all right, only--I can't sleep very
well, you know."

"I see!" said Peggy. "Well, I think we can settle that matter, Lobelia.
Hush! here come the others. We won't say anything more about it now.
Well, girls, how did it go? Isn't it a lovely little scramble?"

Rose Barclay and Viola appeared, with the other two just behind. Viola
was panting, and her delicate colour was deepened by exertion till she
was almost as rosy as her companion.

"My dear!" she cried. "You are responsible for my life! I am killed;
simply killed, Peggy Montfort. I shall never recover from this awful
fatigue, I know I shall not."

"Nonsense!" said Peggy, briefly. "Here! sit down here, V., and get your
breath; you'll be all right in a minute.