escribe the conversation that ensued between Mrs.
Blake and her troublesome step-daughter. The good lady was justified
in her displeasure at Winnie's daring disobedience; but her words were
cold, cruel words, little calculated to inspire the love and confidence
of a warm, tender-hearted child. She would listen to no
expostulations, she refused to reason; her commands must be obeyed;
Winnie would never dare to set her laws at defiance again; and at the
close of the session she would be transferred to another school. As
regarded Ada, she must write a humble apology, and in the future show
that sweet, amiable girl every respect.

Winnie stoutly refused (Dick chuckled with delight), and Mrs. Blake's
anger waxed stronger at the little rebel. She meditated for a few
seconds on the best method of punishment, and then said coldly,--"I
shall say nothing further in the meantime, Winnie, concerning your
flagrant act of disobedience in connection with Miss Latimer. When you
feel truly penitent, and confess your sorrow, I shall be pleased to
accept your apology; but I insist on a letter being written to Miss
Irvine now. One hour is at your disposal, and if at the end of that
period I return and find you still obdurate, then to-morrow's pleasure
is cancelled,--you will not be allowed, as promised, to see over Dick's
ship." With that Mrs. Blake left the room, and Winnie was left to
solitude and reflection.

For a long time she sat firmly determined to suffer anything rather
than yield. Her young heart burned with anger and pride--she hated
everybody and everything; but in the end love for Dick conquered, and
the required note was written.

"I don't mean one single word of all that scribble," she cried,
pitching the letter to the other end of the room. "I hate to humble
myself, so I do, and I should like to say all sorts of horrid things to
Ada Irvine; but I can't give up to-morrow's treat, and I wish to see as
much of my dear old Dick as possible. Wait till I get back to school,
however, and there will be fun." Winnie's face brightened at the
thought, and the old mischievous smile came back to her lips. After
all there was a good amount of wicked enjoyment to be derived from
having an enemy.

CHAPTER XIII.

OUR SAILOR BOY.

If one had peeped into the oak parlour on Thursday evening, one would
naturally have imagined the room to be untenanted, save for the
presence of a little white dog curled in peaceful slum