all.

"I'm sorry, Miss Day. I thought I had. I was a little late."

"That's your own lookout," barked the governess.--"Oh, there you are at
last, Miss Snodgrass. I'd begun to think you weren't going to appear at
all this morning. It's close on a quarter past seven."

"Sorry," said Miss Snodgrass laconically. "My watch must be losing.--
Well, I suppose I can begin by marking Laura Rambotham down late.--What
on earth are you standing there holding the door for?"

"Miss Day knows--I don't," sauced Laura, and made her escape.

She did not let Miss Snodgrass's bad mark disturb her. No sooner had
she begun her practising than she fell to work again on the theme that
occupied all her leisure moments, and was threatening to assume the
bulk of an early Victorian novel. But she now built at her top-heavy
edifice for her own enjoyment; and the usual fate of the robust liar
had overtaken her: she was beginning to believe in her own lies. Still
she never ventured to relax her critical alertness, her careful
surveillance of detail. For, just a day or two before, she had seen a
quick flare-up of incredulity light Tilly's face, and oddly enough this
had happened when she tried her audience with a fact, a simple little
fact, an incident that had really occurred. She had killed the doubt,
instantly, by smothering it with a fiction; but she could not forget
that it had existed. It has very perplexing; for otherwise her hearers
did not shy at a mortal thing; she could drive them where and how she
chose.

At the present moment she was planning a great coup: nothing more or
less than a frustrated attempt on her virtue. It was almost ready to be
submitted to them--for she had read PAMELA with heartfelt interest
during the holidays--and only a few connecting links were missing, with
which to complete her own case.

Then, without the slightest warning, the blow fell.

It was a Sunday afternoon; the half-hour that preceded Sunday school.
Laura, in company with several others, was in the garden, getting her
Bible chapter by heart, when Maria called her.

"Laura! Come here. I want to tell you something."

Laura approached, her lips in busy motion. "What's up?"

"I say, chicken, your nose is going to be put out of joint."

"Mine? What do you mean?" queried Laura, and had a faint sense of
impending disaster.

"What I say. M. Pidwall's asked to the you-know-who's next Saturday."

"No, she's not!" cried Laura vehemently, and clapped he