r from Major Sharston
this morning, and he told me that not only was he obliged to go to
India, but that he had lost so large a sum of money that he could not
afford to keep Kitty here after this term. She is to go to Scotland to
live with an old cousin; she must give up all chance of being properly
educated. Poor little Kitty! I wonder if he mentioned that in the
telegram, and she is so proud, too, and has so much character; it is a
sad, sad pity."

Meanwhile Kitty once more returned through the orchard. She began to
sing a gay song to herself. She had a very sweet voice, and was
carolling wild notes now high up in the air--"Begone, dull care; you
and I shall never agree."

The girls sitting under the finest of the cherry trees heard her as she
sang.

"There can't be much wrong with her," said Mary Bateman, with a sigh of
relief. "Hullo, Kitty, no bad news, I hope?"

"There is bad news, but I can't talk of it now," said Kitty. "Come,
what shall we do? We need not stay under the trees any longer surely,
need we? Let's have a right good game--blind man's buff, or shall we
play hare and hounds."

"Oh, it's much too hot for hare and hounds," said Edith King.

"Well, let's do something," said Kitty; "we all ought to be very happy
on a half-holiday, and I don't mean to be miserable. Now, then, start
something. I'll go and hide. Now, who will begin?"

Kitty laughed merrily; she glanced from one to the other of the girls,
saw that their eyes were shining with a queer mixture of curiosity and
sympathy, and felt that she would do anything in the world rather than
gratify them.

"After all," she said to herself, as she ran wildly across the cheery
orchard, "poor old Tommy and I will have our holidays together, for at
the very best, even if father has not lost that money, I will have to
stay here during the holidays. Oh, father! oh, father! how am I to
live without you? Oh, father, dear, this is too cruel! I know, I am
certain you have lost the money, or you would not be going to India
away from your own, own Kitty."

She crushed down a sob, reached a little summer-house, into which she
turned, pulled down some tarpaulin to cover her, and, crouching in the
corner, lay still, her heart beating wildly.

"Begone, dull care," she whispered stoutly under her breath; and then
she added, with a sob in her voice, "whatever happens, I won't give in."

That evening was a time of great excitement in the school, f