er school-companions, when Mrs. Willis stooped down, and
whispered something in her ear. Her face became instantly suffused with a
dull red; she resumed her seat, and buried her face in both her hands.
One or two of the girls noticed her despondent attitude as they left the
chapel, and Cecil Temple looked back with a glance of such unutterable
sympathy that Annie's proud, suffering little heart would have been
touched could she but have seen the look.

Presently the young steps died away, and Annie, raising her head, saw
that she was alone with Mr. Everard, who seated himself in the place
which Mrs. Willis had occupied by her side.

"Your governess has asked me to speak to you, my dear," he said, in his
kind and fatherly tones; "she wants us to discuss this thing which is
making you so unhappy quite fully together." Here the clergyman paused,
and noticing a sudden wistful and soft look in the girl's brown eyes, he
continued: "Perhaps, however, you have something to say to me which will
throw light on this mystery?"

"No, sir, I have nothing to say," replied Annie, and now again the sullen
expression passed like a wave over her face.

"Poor child," said Mr. Everard. "Perhaps, Annie," he continued, "you do
not quite understand me--you do not quite read my motive in talking to
you to-night. I am not here in any sense to reprove you. You are either
guilty of this sin, or you are not guilty. In either case I pity you; it
is very hard, very bitter, to be falsely accused--I pity you much if this
is the case; but it is still harder, Annie, still more bitter, still more
absolutely crushing to be accused of a sin which we are trying to
conceal. In that terrible case God Himself hides His face. Poor child,
poor child, I pity you most of all if you are guilty."

Annie had again covered her face, and bowed her head over her hands. She
did not speak for a moment, but presently Mr. Everard heard a low sob,
and then another, and another, until at last her whole frame was shaken
with a perfect tempest of weeping.

The old clergyman, who had seen many strange phases of human nature, who
had in his day comforted and guided more than one young school-girl, was
far too wise to do anything to check this flow of grief. He knew Annie
would speak more fully and more frankly when her tears were over. He was
right. She presently raised a very tear-stained face to the clergyman.

"I felt very bitter at your coming to speak to me," she began.