l over the house, the story of Miss Irene giving her them
horrors instead of her pills. It's the most dreadful thing I ever heard
tell of."

"I don't believe she is really seriously hurt at all. But I will see
what can be done," said Lady Jane.

She sat for a time lost in thought. Irene must be sent away--school must
be resorted to. She must not any longer be allowed to render The Follies
a home of terror to every individual who lived there. But what school
would take such a naughty girl? For an instant Lady Jane thought of the
Merrimans. But no, that was worse than useless. Was there any school in
any part of the world that would receive such a hopeless character as
poor Irene seemed to be turning into? Lady Jane could not tell.

CHAPTER XII.

ROSAMUND TO THE RESCUE.

Lady Jane was in the midst of her meditations, and a more confused,
distracted poor woman it would be difficult to find in the length and
breadth of the land, when suddenly she heard a step in the hall, a frank
young voice--not Irene's, but bright and young and full of courage--and
the next instant Rosamund Cunliffe entered the room.

"May I speak to you, Lady Jane?"

James was mournfully removing the remainder of the breakfast. His face
was not improved by the blue-bag, and his expression was that of a
hunted animal. The butler, in high dudgeon, had retired to his own
apartment, where he had locked and barred the door in order to prevent
any pranks of that imp, as he privately styled Irene. The other servants
were tremblingly attending to their duties; but all smelled mischief in
the air.

Two such awful things did not often occur on the same day as the
possible poisoning of Miss Frost and the terrible usage to which
innocent James had been subjected.

"We're none of us safe!" quoth the cook. "It's best to give notice."

"But then wages is so high," said the kitchen-maid. "There ain't a place
like it in the country round--plenty of us, and half our time our own.
What my mother says to me is, 'You must put up with something, Sukey;
and if you hadn't Miss Irene you'd have low wages and 'ard work.' So I
said I'd grin and bear it."

"Well, that's my notion, too," said the cook. "I say over and over,
'I'll grin and bear it;' and when the child comes to me and asks me so
pretty for the most unwholesome food--though nothing, for that matter,
seems to disagree with her--why, I haven't the 'eart to refuse."

"You haven't the courage, you me