of humour, who told Lady Benyon,
who told Mrs. Caldwell.

Mrs. Caldwell came hurrying home from Lady Benyon's a few nights later
with the queerest expression of countenance Beth had ever seen; it was
something between laughing and crying.

"Beth," she began in an agitated manner, "I am told that you went with
two of Mr. Richardson's sons to the menagerie on Tuesday night,
dressed as a boy."

"_One_ of his sons," said Beth, correcting her; "the other boy was his
pupil."

"And you were walking about looking at the animals in that public
place with your arm round the girl from the shoe-shop?"

Beth burst out laughing. "All the boys had their arms round girls,"
she explained. "I couldn't be singular."

Mrs. Caldwell dropped into a chair, and sat gazing at Beth as if she
had never seen anything like her before, as indeed she never had.

"Who is this pupil of Mr. Richardson's?" she asked at last, "and how
did you make his acquaintance?"

"His name is Alfred Cayley Pounce," Beth answered. "We were caught by
the tide and nearly drowned together on the sands, and I've known him
ever since."

"And do you mean to say that you have been meeting this young man in a
clandestine manner--that you hadn't the proper pride to refuse to
associate with him unless he were known to your family and you could
meet him as an equal?"

"He did wish to make your acquaintance, but I wouldn't let him," Beth
said.

"Why?" Mrs. Caldwell asked in amazement.

"Oh, because I was afraid you would be horrid to him," Beth answered.

Mrs. Caldwell was thunderstruck. The whole affair had overwhelmed her
as a calamity which could not be met by any ordinary means. Scolding
was out of the question, for she was not able to utter another word,
but just sat there with such a miserable face, she might have been the
culprit herself, especially as she ended by bursting into tears.

Beth's heart smote her, and she watched her mother for some time,
yearning to say something to comfort her.

"I don't think you need be so distressed, mamma," she ventured at last
"What have I done, after all? I've committed no crime."

"You've done just about as bad a thing as you could do," Mrs. Caldwell
rejoined. "You've made the whole place talk about you. You must have
known you were doing wrong. But I think you can have no conscience at
all."

"I think I have a conscience, only it doesn't always act," Beth
answered disconsolately. "Very often, when I am doing a