s seated in the parlor, ready for her
guest. She was ready for him in all the senses a Madigan knew how to
infuse into that frame of mind. She intended to make him as miserable as
she herself had been ever since that disgraceful episode in which she
had so innocently played the victim's part. She would show the betrayer
of trust no mercy--none. She would accept no apology. She would trample
upon his excuses and tear them limb from limb. She would show him her
scorn and detestation and make him feel how everlastingly unforgivable
his offense was; then she would send him forth forever from the house,
and dare him to so much as speak to her at school.

She pictured him going down the stairs for the last time, utterly
wretched, broken, despised, condemned. And in order to make the picture
more real, she glanced out of the window. Suddenly her hands flew in
terror to her breast, and all her plans for vengeance were left hanging
in mid-air; for it was not Crosby's trim little figure that was climbing
the steps, but the stately solidity of Mrs. Pemberton herself.

In her extremity, Sissy did not even stop to look at the back legs of
the piano; she sped across the room and made a flying leap through the
low west window. Mrs. Pemberton, glancing in through the open door as
she rang the bell, got a glimpse of two plump disappearing legs, but
when she and Miss Madigan entered, there was no trace of Sissy except
her jackstones. They stumbled over these, lying scattered on the floor,
where she had been sitting waiting for Crosby and concocting schemes of
punishment.

"I come to explain--" said Mrs. Pemberton, stiffly and a bit out of
breath, seating herself with a rigidity of backbone that would have
justified Sissy's bestowal upon her of the nickname Mrs. Ramrod, if she
could have seen it. But Sissy, lying attentive beneath the open window,
could not see; she could only hear. "I am here to tell you, Miss
Madigan, why Crosby did not come to-day to play duets."

"Dear me! didn't he come?" asked Miss Madigan, absently. "He isn't sick,
is he? Irene complains of headache and backache, and she's so languid
she let Sissy get the wish-bone--I call it the bone of contention--at
dinner yesterday without a struggle. I'm half afraid she'll not be able
to sing to-night at Professor Trask's concert; but perhaps it's only
that she danced too much at Crosby's party. She al--"

"It's about that--about the party that I wanted to speak to you,"