es, and you shouldn't listen to them, Betty; it is horrid."

"I am sure Violet wouldn't make up stories," said Betty; "and if Lettice
does such things, Anna ought not to help her. You should stop her,
Kitty. Tell her we won't have it."

"O Betty, don't talk so. Don't tell me any more that I ought to do.
It seems to me I ought to do everything that is horrid! And why should
I look after Anna? She never takes any notice of what I say; and after
all it is nothing very bad--nothing to make a fuss about, I mean.
I haven't seen anything myself."

"Well, _I_ think it is a good deal more than nothing," said Betty
gravely; "and I wish you would see, Kitty, I wish you would notice
things more."

"But what good could I do? What can I say?" cried Kitty distractedly,
growing really distressed.

"Say? Oh, say that we won't stand it, and let her see that we won't,"
said Betty. "We ought to be able to do that."

CHAPTER XI.

POOR KITTY!

Only a few days later Kitty's eyes were opened for her, and opened
violently. Autumn had come on apace. The days were short now, and the
evenings long and dark. Already the girls were counting that there were
only five or six weeks before Dan came home; and at school there was
much talk of the break-up party, and the tableaux which were to be the
chief feature of the festivity this year. Kitty was to take part in one
tableau at least. She was to be Enid in one of her dearly loved
Arthurian legends--Enid, where, clad in her faded gown, she met Queen
Guinevere for the first time, who,

"descending, met them at the gates,
Embraced her with all welcome as a friend,
And did her honour as the prince's bride."

And Kitty was to wear a wig such as she had always longed for, with
golden plaits reaching to her knees, and she was almost beside herself
with joy.

On the evening that the storm broke, she, little dreaming of what was
coming, was doing her home work and taking occasional dips into her
volume of Tennyson. Betty had finished her home lessons and was curled
up in a chair reading. Anna was not in the room; in fact, she had left
it almost as soon as they had settled down to their work after tea as
usual. It was now nearly supper-time.

Mrs. Pike was absent at a Shakespeare reading. Dr. Trenire had been out
all day, a long round over bleak country, and had not been home more
than an hour. Kitty had heard him come, and had longed--as she had
never longed in