er. Or again she might speak severely to Ermengarde,
and her severe words might be followed by severe discipline. She could
promise not to reveal her pupil's guilt to Mr. Wilton, but the
punishment she would herself inflict would be a grave one.

Miss Nelson thought far into the night, Before she went to bed, she
decided to pursue the last idea which came to her, for it seemed quite
plain to her own mind that Ermengarde's sin could not be expiated
except through punishment.

CHAPTER IV.

THE DAY OF THE PICNIC.

Early the next morning Marjorie stirred in her white bed, Then she
opened her eyes, raised her head from her comfortable pillow, and
gazed around her.

Ermie was fast asleep. The sun was pouring into the room; the clock on
the mantelpiece pointed to six.

Softly, very softly, Marjorie poked her pink toes from under the
bedclothes. Then the whole of her feet appeared, then she stood
upright on the floor. No one should help her over her toilet this
morning; she would dress, and go out into the garden. The boys were at
home; it was going to be a brilliant day. Marjorie's contented heart
danced within her. She washed and dressed herself with expedition. It
was not necessary to be particularly quiet, for nothing ever disturbed
Ermengarde's slumbers.

Having dressed and plaited her thick hair as well as she could without
aid, she knelt down by her bedside, clasped her hands over her plump
face, and repeated her prayers. Once, long ago now, Mrs. Wilton had
given the children, Marjorie among them, a little model prayer to
repeat. One of the phrases in it was this: "Please make me a faithful
servant of Jesus Christ."

Marjorie remembered quite well the first time she had used this
prayer. She recalled the expression on her mother's face, and could
have told anyone who asked her her mother's explanation of the word
servant.

The other children had forgotten the model prayer, but Marjorie used
it always. Every morning she asked God to make her a faithful servant.
It was not at all difficult for this humble little girl really to
pray. No one in the house guessed at Marjorie's prayer, or troubled
their heads about her comforting, comfortable, unselfish ways. She was
there, a plain child, useful enough, and obliging enough, but no one
thanked her, or wondered if they should miss her if she were not in
the house.

She was leaving the room this morning, when Ermengarde stirred and
opened her eyes.

"Is t