etty's vivid face.

"I was a Speciality for about a fortnight," she continued--"perhaps a
little longer. But at the last meeting I made up my mind that I could
not go on, so I told the girls what I had done. It is unnecessary to
trouble you with those particulars, sir. After I had told them they
asked me to leave the room, and I went. They had a special meeting of
the club last night to consult over my case, and I was invited to be
present. I was then told that, notwithstanding the fact that I had
broken Rule No. I., I might continue to be a member of the club if I
would give up something which I possess and to which I believe I have a
full right, and if I would relate my story in detail to Mrs. Haddo. I
absolutely refused to do either of these things. I was then _expelled_
from the club, sir--that is the only word to use; and the fact was
notified on the blackboard in the great hall to-day."

"Well," said Mr. Fairfax when Betty paused, "I understand that you
repent, and you do not repent, and that you are no longer a Speciality."

"That is the case, sir."

"Can you not take me further into your confidence?"

"There is no use," said Betty, shaking her head.

"I am not surprised, Miss Vivian, that you are unhappy."

"I am accustomed to that," said Betty.

"May I ask what you have come to see me about?"

"I wanted to know this: ought I, or ought I not, being unrepentant of my
sin, to come to the chapel with the other girls, to kneel with them, to
pray with them, and to listen to your words?"

"I must leave that to yourself. If your conscience says, 'Come,' it is
not for me to turn you out. But it is a very dangerous thing to trifle
with conscience. Of course you know that. I can see, too, that you are
peculiarly sensitive. Forgive me, but I have often noticed your face,
and with extreme interest. You have good abilities, and a great future
before you in the upward direction--that is, if you choose. Although you
won't take me into your confidence, I am well aware that the present is
a turning-point in your career. You must at least know that I, as a
clergyman, would not repeat to any one a word of what you say to me. Can
you not trust me?"

"No, no; it is too painful!" said Betty. "I see that, in your heart of
hearts, you think that I--I ought not--I ought _not_ to come to chapel.
I am indeed outcast!"

"No, child, you are not. Kneel down now, and let me pray with you."

"I cannot stand it--no, I cannot!" sa