to her bed. She felt,
more than she cared to own, the acute pang at her heart with regard to
little Agnes when she brought back the toys. Now, these were placed
tidily away on a shelf just beside little Agnes's bed, but the bed
itself was empty. The little night-dress had been removed; the brush and
comb that always stood on the small dressing-table were also conspicuous
by their absence. The little blue felt slippers which looked so sweet on
her tiny feet were gone, as was also the blue dressing-gown. But none of
these things mattered. It was the absence of little Agnes herself that
Irene noticed. Agnes was not in the room. She stood quite still,
clasping her hands, while a sensation of rage such as she had never
before experienced--such as, with all her tempestuous nature, she had
never believed could sweep over her--now visited her.

"Agnes!" she said once, and she went up to the empty bed and turned down
the clothes as though she might even find Agnes beneath.

But the bed was quite empty; the child was gone.

Scarcely knowing what she was doing, Irene burst into Rosamund's room.

"There's something up, and you might find it out. I won't go to bed
until I know. They have taken Agnes away from me. She is not in my room.
What is the matter? You must find out."

"I will," said Rosamund very gently. "Just sit down and keep as quiet as
you can. I will go at once and see Miss Frost. She can't have gone to
bed yet."

"Let me come with you."

"No, no; stay where you are, dear; and try to be calm, I beseech you. By
your love for me, and by your love for Agnes, try now to control
yourself."

Irene made a mighty effort. She sank into a chair. Tears came close to
her eyes, but they did not fall, though she was trembling from head to
foot.

Rosamund went quickly down the corridor. At the farther end she met
Lucy, who was returning to her own room. Rosamund stopped her.

"What have you been doing to little Agnes Frost while we were away?" she
said.

"I?" said Lucy, starting and turning very pale. "Nothing. What should I
have done?"

"You know you have done something. You have frightened her, telling her
dreadful stories about Irene. You know it. You are mean and cowardly.
You ought not to have anything to do with any respectable school. I
cannot tell you how I despise you. Think how much I have given up to
save Irene, who never had a chance until she knew me, and yet you now
destroy every effort that I have made f