old, sharp despair--buried deep in her heart like a
wicked knife, Miss Meadows, in cap and gown and carrying a little baton,
trod the cold corridors that led to the music hall. Girls of all ages,
rosy from the air, and bubbling over with that gleeful excitement that
comes from running to school on a fine autumn morning, hurried, skipped,
fluttered by; from the hollow class-rooms came a quick drumming of
voices; a bell rang; a voice like a bird cried, "Muriel." And then there
came from the staircase a tremendous knock-knock-knocking. Some one had
dropped her dumbbells.

The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows.

"Good mor-ning," she cried, in her sweet, affected drawl. "Isn't it
cold? It might be win-ter."

Miss Meadows, hugging the knife, stared in hatred at the Science
Mistress. Everything about her was sweet, pale, like honey. You wold not
have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellow
hair.

"It is rather sharp," said Miss Meadows, grimly.

The other smiled her sugary smile.

"You look fro-zen," said she. Her blue eyes opened wide; there came a
mocking light in them. (Had she noticed anything?)

"Oh, not quite as bad as that," said Miss Meadows, and she gave the
Science Mistress, in exchange for her smile, a quick grimace and passed
on...

Forms Four, Five, and Six were assembled in the music hall. The noise
was deafening. On the platform, by the piano, stood Mary Beazley, Miss
Meadows' favourite, who played accompaniments. She was turning the
music stool. When she saw Miss Meadows she gave a loud, warning "Sh-sh!
girls!" and Miss Meadows, her hands thrust in her sleeves, the baton
under her arm, strode down the centre aisle, mounted the steps, turned
sharply, seized the brass music stand, planted it in front of her, and
gave two sharp taps with her baton for silence.

"Silence, please! Immediately!" and, looking at nobody, her glance swept
over that sea of coloured flannel blouses, with bobbing pink faces and
hands, quivering butterfly hair-bows, and music-books outspread. She
knew perfectly well what they were thinking. "Meady is in a wax." Well,
let them think it! Her eyelids quivered; she tossed her head, defying
them. What could the thoughts of those creatures matter to some one who
stood there bleeding to death, pierced to the heart, to the heart, by
such a letter--

... "I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake.
Not that I do not love you. I love y