ng the landing turned into the schoolroom
passage--a long, lamp-lit vista, hung with old Chinese wall-paper, the
running pattern of buds and flowers, large out of all proportion to the
bridges, palms, pagodas and groups of little purple and blue-clad men and
women disposed, in dwindling perspective, upon its once white surface.
Half-way along the passage, their backs towards her, Mary and Mrs.
Cooper, the cook--a fair, mild middle-aged, and cow-like person, of ample
proportions--stood conversing in smothered tones.

"And it's my belief he's been and told her, or anyhow that she guesses,
pore dear young lady," the latter, with upraised hands, lamented.

Theresa just caught these strange words. Caught too, Mary's hurried
rejoinder--"For mercy's sake, Mrs. Cooper, not a hint of that to any
living soul"--before the two women, sensible of the swish and patter of
her self-important entry, turned and moved forward to meet, or--could it
be?--to intercept her. Their faces bore a singular expression, in Mrs.
Cooper's case of sloppy, in Mary's of stern yet vivid alarm. Deeply
engaged though she was with her private grievance, Miss Bilson could not
but observe this. It made her nervous.

"What is the meaning," she began, her voice shrill with agitation, "of
the extraordinary story about Miss Damaris which Laura reports to me?
Someone is evidently very much in fault."

"Please don't speak quite so loud, Miss," Mary firmly admonished her.
"I've just got Miss Damaris quieted off to sleep, and if she's roused up
again, I won't answer for what mayn't happen."

"But what has happened? I insist upon knowing," Theresa declared, in
growing offence and agitation.

"Ah! that's just what we should be thankful enough to have you tell us,
Miss," Mrs. Cooper chimed in with heavy and reproachful emphasis upon
the pronouns.

To even the mild and cow-like revenge is sweet. Though honestly
distressed and scared, the speaker entertained a most consoling
conviction she was at this moment getting even with Theresa Bilson and
cleverly paying off old scores.

"The pore dear young lady's caught her death as likely as not, out
there across the river in the wet, let alone some sneaking rascal
making off with her stockings and shoes. When I saw her little naked
feet, all blue with the cold, it made my heart bleed, regularly bleed,
it did. I could only give thanks her Nanna, pore Mrs. Watson, who
worshipped the very ground Miss Damaris trod on, was sp