to
confide in Beatrice. Beatrice never understood, never even seemed to
want to understand. In her superior, elder-sisterly position she
simply condemned everything without hesitation.

"I wonder if she used to do silly things herself?" thought Gwen.
"She's always been six years older, and preached to me since I can
first remember. Shall I ever catch her up, or will she seem those six
years ahead to the end of the chapter?"

And having performed some very necessary ablutions, she walked home,
looking tired and woebegone.

Beatrice, with a sigh, opened the harmonium and chose her hymns for
to-morrow's Sunday School, wondering on her part why this particular
sister was so difficult to manage, and so utterly different in
disposition from the rest of the family.

"I'm sure I do my best," she thought, "but Gwen has always been a
trial. I can't imagine whom she takes after. If the ugly duckling's
ever going to turn into a swan, it's time she began!"

All Sunday Gwen was haunted by a horrible black shadow. She kept
Parker's letter in her pocket, and the remembrance of it never left
her. Gwen generally enjoyed Sundays, but this particular day was like
a nightmare. How to get out of her scrape she could not imagine. The
debt felt like a heavy millstone tied round her neck. In the
afternoon, when the others sat reading and chatting under the trees in
the garden, she mooned about the orchard by herself, too miserable
even to be interested in a book. How was the affair to end? She did
not dare to go to Parker's and explain that at present it was
impossible to pay the bill. She supposed she would simply have to let
things drift and await further developments. What steps Parker's would
take next, she could not foresee. They would probably wait a week or
even more before further pressing the account, and any respite was
welcome. Trouble was ahead, doubtless, but it was better ten days off
than to-morrow, because there was always the faint hope that some
circumstance might arise at the eleventh hour to smooth over the
difficulty. On Monday morning Gwen seized an opportunity to catch
Netta alone.

"I say," she began, "it was awfully mean of you to send that letter of
Parker's on to me by post. Why couldn't you have brought it to school
instead?"

"Why should I?" retorted Netta. "I'm not going to act postman for you,
I can assure you! And look here, Gwen Gascoyne, you'll please not have
any more letters directed to you at our