rumpled and dishevelled, Laura lay outside the sheet that should have
covered her; and her pillow had slipped to the floor.

"What on earth's the matter? Dreaming? Then depend on it you've eaten
something that's disagreed with you."

How she dragged her legs back to school that morning, Laura never knew.
At the sight of the great stone building her inner disturbance was such
that she was nearly sick. Even the unobservant Marina was forced to a
remark.

"You do look a bit peaky. I'm sure your stomach's out of order. Your
should take a dose of castor-oil to-night, before you go to bed."

Though it was a blazing November day, her fingers were cold as she took
off her hat and changed her white frock. "For the last time," she
murmured; by which she meant the last time in untarnished honour. And
she folded and hung up her clothes, with a neatness that was foreign to
her.

Classes were in full swing when she went downstairs; nothing could
happen now till the close of morning school. But Laura signalised the
beginning of her downfall, the end of her comet-like flight, by losing
her place in one form after another, the lessons she had prepared on
Friday evening having gone clean out of her head.

Directly half-past twelve struck, she ran to the top of the garden and
hid herself under a tree. There she crouched, her fingers in her ears,
her heart thumping as if it would break. Till the dinner-bell rang.
Then she was forced to emerge--and no tottering criminal, about to face
the scaffold, has ever had more need of Dutch courage than Laura in
this moment. Peeping round the corner of the path she saw the fateful
group: M. P. the centre of four gesticulating figures. She loitered
till they had scattered and disappeared; then with shaking legs crept
to the house. At the long tables the girls still stood, waiting for Mr.
Strachey; and the instant Laura set foot in the hall, five pairs of
eyes caught her, held her, pinned her down, as one pins a butterfly to
a board. She was much too far gone to think of tossing her head and
braving things out, now that the crisis had come. Pale, guilty,
wretched, she sidled to her seat. This was near Maria's, and, as she
passed, Maria leant back.

"You VILE little liar!"

"How's that shy little mouse of a girl we had here a month or two ago?"
Mr. Shepherd had inquired. "Let me see--what was her name again?"

To which Miss Isabella had replied: "Well, you know, Robby dear, you
really hardly s