ret the gloom
into which she had plunged the school. She had been fond of the droll
little Irish girl, and, though convinced of her guilt, feared lest her
own unbridled anger had frightened a sensitive child into a denial
difficult to retract.

It happened one day that governess and pupil were alike suffering from
cold and unable to go out for the usual walk, and the impressionable
French heart went out in a wave of pity, as its owner entered the
deserted schoolroom and found Pixie seated alone by the fire, her hands
folded listlessly on her lap, a very Cinderella of misery and dejection.
When the door opened she looked up with that shrinking expression of
dread which is so pitiful to see on a young face, for to be left _tete-
a-tete_ with Mademoiselle seemed under the circumstances the most
terrible thing that could happen. Her head drooped forward over her
chest, and she stared fixedly at the floor while Mademoiselle seated
herself on a chair close by and stared at her with curious eyes.

Surely the ugly little face was smaller, the figure more absurdly minute
than of yore! The black dress with its folds of rusty crape added to
the pathos of the picture, and awoke remembrances of the dead mother who
would never comfort her baby again, nor point out the right way with
wise, tender words. Mademoiselle's thoughts went back to her own past,
when, if the truth must be told, she had been an exceedingly naughty
child; and she realised that it was not coldness and severity which had
wrought the most good, but the tender patience and affection of the
kindest of parents. What if they had been trying the wrong course with
Pixie O'Shaughnessy? What if suspicion and avoidance were but hardening
the child's heart and hastening her path downwards? Mademoiselle
cleared her throat and said in the softest tone which she could
command--

"_Eh bien_, Pixie! What are you doing sitting here all by yourself?"

"I'm thinking, Mademoiselle."

"And what are you thinking about then? Tell me your thoughts for a
penny, as you girls say to each other!"

"I'm thinking of Foxe's martyrs!" was Pixie's somewhat startling reply.
Her face had lightened with immeasurable relief at the sound of the
friendly voice, and the talkative tongue once loosened could not resist
the temptation to enlarge on the reply. "We have the book at home. Did
ye ever see it, Mademoiselle? It's got lovely pictures! There's one
man lying down and they are pi