thdrawing her hand sharply.

"No, no, no! Don't! I'll do it. I'll go. I'll tell her everything. I don't
care what she does to me. I just can't stand this! Oh, I never thought
there were such people in the world! I'll go to Mrs. Livingston to-night,
and----"

"Not to-night. Go, now, Cora. You can't tell what might happen between
this and to-night."

"Yes, I'll go," was the faint reply. A veil seemed to fall from before the
eyes of Cora Kidder. She saw herself as she had never done before, saw her
own unworthiness, saw how she had been led to commit acts that were
foreign to her real nature. She wondered how she ever could have been so
blind. Cora rose and hurriedly began doing up her hair. Jane gave the girl
an encouraging pat on the shoulder and slipped from the tent without
another word.

"What a mess, oh what a fine mess," muttered Crazy Jane, swinging into a
long stride as she started for the other end of the camp.

CHAPTER XXIV

CONCLUSION

"Miss Burrell, can you come to my tent?" asked Mrs. Livingston as Harriet
was seen slowly returning to camp.

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Livingston, I want to come. I must speak with you." There
was an agony of appeal in her voice. "I deceived you. You must know that I
did," she burst out after they had reached the Chief Guardian's quarters.

"Sit down, my dear. I know something is wrong. I felt sure you would come
to me and tell me all about it. Now calm yourself, and tell me why you are
so unhappy."

Harriet did so, explaining as clearly as she could that she had deceived
the Chief Guardian that morning in leading her to believe that Cora was in
her tent when she was not there at all. Little by little Mrs. Livingston
drew from the penitent Harriet her reasons for having led them to believe
that Cora was in her tent taking a morning rest after the indisposition of
the previous evening. But when the Guardian asked where Cora had been,
Harriet begged so piteously to be excused from answering that Mrs.
Livingston did not press the question further.

"I will speak with Miss Kidder," she said. "But, my dear, what do you
think I should do in your case? You have done very wrong."

"Do with me, Mrs. Livingston. Why--why, there is only one thing to
do--send me away! I am not worthy of your consideration. Oh, to think that
I could do such a thing."

"My poor, dear girl!" said the Guardian tenderly. "You have done wrong,
very wrong, but that wrong is tempered with a nobility of