wly across the floor came the mouselike figure of Susan in
her dun brown dress, her plain little face fretted with embarrassment
and distress, a victor with the air of a martyr, a conqueror who shrank
from her spoils.

Despite himself, Mr Rawdon's voice took a colder tone as, for the
second time, he presented the pile of books; despite herself, Miss
Drake's smile was mechanical and forced; while the visitors made only a
show of applause. "Hard luck for that fine, bright girl!" whispered the
fathers one to another; the mothers almost without exception had tears
in their eyes. "And she looks so sweet and pretty! It's a _shame_!"
cried the sisters rebelliously. Even the girls on the benches at the
back of the room--Susan's companions who loved her and appreciated her
worth--even they looked oppressed and discomfited. The romance of
Dreda's triumph had appealed to their young imaginations; they
understood even more keenly than their elders the suffering involved in
that humiliating confession. "Poor Dreda!" they whispered to each
other. "Oh! poor old Dreda!"

At tea in the drawing-room the tone of the teachers was distinctly
apologetic--the high spirits characteristic of the early hours had ebbed
away, and the visitors were glad to beat an early retreat. Mr and Mrs
Saxon received Miss Drake's apologies in the kindest and most
sympathetic manner, and would not allow her to take any blame to
herself.

"It was an accident--no one can be blamed. We are so sorry for you,
too!" Mrs Saxon said sweetly. "It is a disappointment, of course; it
was a very happy moment when we believed our dear girl had gained such a
prize. We were so proud of her!"

"We are proud of her now," interrupted Dreda's father quickly, and at
that both his hearers smiled and nodded their heads in sympathetic
understanding. "Yes, yes; we are proud of her _now_."

To Dreda herself her parents made no allusion to the tragic mistake.
The girl only made her appearance when the motor drove up to the door,
and her cool, somewhat haughty manner showed that sympathy was the last
thing which she desired at the moment.

"Good-bye, darling, till Thursday. Only two days more before we have
you back among us."

"Good-bye, my girl. I'll drive over for you on Thursday morning."

"Dreda, darling, I'm _so_ glad you are coming. I've such lots to tell
you!"

"You've got your belt fastened on the wrong hook. The point's crooked."

For once Maud's lit