keenly for some flicker of emotion. But it
was just as expressionless as a face of stone.

"It's fine weather, we're having, Neale," said Mr. Buckham, finally.

At that the boy lost his temper. "I tell you it's a mean shame!" he
cried. "Poor Aggie can't act in that old play, and she wants to. And
Trix Severn is spoiling the whole show, and she oughtn't to be allowed
to. And if she was the cause of making all these other girls get
punished, she ought to be shown up."

"Let's see that letter agin, son," said the old man, quietly. He peered
at the handwriting intently for a minute. Then he said, with perfectly
sober lips but a twinkle in his eye:

"Ye sure marm didn't write it?"

"Just as sure as I can be! I know her handwriting," cried Neale. "You're
fooling."

"So all handwriting don't look alike, heh?" was the farmer's final
comment, and he returned the letter to the boy's care.

Neale looked startled for a moment. Then he folded the letter carefully
and put it away in his pocket. On the way home he said to Agnes:

"Say, Aggie!"

"What is it?"

"Can you get me a sample of Trix Severn's handwriting?"

"_What?_" gasped Agnes.

"Just something she's written--a note, or an exercise, or something."

Agnes stared at him in growing horror. "Neale O'Neil!" she cried.

"Well?" he demanded gruffly.

"You're going to try to put that letter upon her--you are going to try
to prove that she made all this trouble."

"Well! what if?" he asked, still without looking at her.

"Never! Never in this world will I let you do it," said Agnes, firmly.

"Huh! And I was only trying to see if there wasn't some way out of the
mess for you," said Neale, as though offended.

"I wouldn't want to get out of it--even if you could help me--at such a
price. Because _she_ may have been a tale-bearer, do you think _I'd_ be
one?"

"Not even to get a chance to act in _The Carnation Countess_?" asked
Neale, with a sudden smile.

"No! And--and _that_ wouldn't help me, anyway!" she added, quite
despairingly.

CHAPTER XVIII

MISS PEPPERILL AND THE GRAY LADY

Tess and Dot Kenway set off for the hospital in good season that
Saturday morning, their arms laden with great bunches of flowers, all
wrapped about with layers of tissue paper, for the November air was
keen.

On the corner of High Street, the wind being somewhat blusterous, Dot
managed to run into somebody; but she clung to the flowers nevertheless.

"Hoity-toity!"