ugh I have ample
proof against you. _You_, Lorraine! You, whom I chose as head girl, and
leader for the rest of the school! I've never been so bitterly
disappointed in anybody!"

Miss Kingsley's voice trembled as she spoke.

"You might at least have the grace to look ashamed of yourself!" added
Miss Janet.

Lorraine was staggered, but not ashamed. She could not see that the
occasion warranted such sweeping condemnation.

"It was a very harmless letter----" she began in self-justification.

"Harmless!" blazed Miss Kingsley. "If this is your idea of
correspondence, I'm disgusted with you. I call it most _unmaidenly!_"

"I don't know what modern girls are coming to!" echoed Miss Janet. "In
_my_ young days they held very different standards."

"It will be my duty," continued Miss Kingsley grimly, "to inform your
mother of this disgraceful correspondence."

"But Mother knows!" gasped Lorraine.

"She knows?"

"Yes, she saw me write the letter."

"Did she read it?"

"No, she didn't ask to."

"Is she aware what you wrote in it?"

"I expect so."

"Lorraine, I can't believe you! I know Mrs. Forrester too well to
imagine that she would allow you to carry on such a clandestine
correspondence as this."

"But Mother _likes_ Morland," persisted Lorraine, "and I _had_ to write
to him, to send him Rosemary's list of pieces. She asked me to let him
have them soon."

Miss Kingsley looked frankly puzzled.

"Morland?" she said inquiringly. "The letter is addressed to an
individual named 'Jack'."

Then a great light broke across Lorraine. In her relief she almost
laughed. Her suppressed chuckle was fortunately taken for a subdued sob.

"Oh, Miss Kingsley!" she cried. "Did you get the letter out of the
hollow tree?"

The head mistress nodded gravely.

"Then it's all a mistake--it wasn't--written to anybody real. It was
only a little bit of fun we had among ourselves. Pa--I mean one of
us--made up 'Jack' and wrote his letters, and another of us answered
them. It was only nonsense!"

"Did you write this?" asked Miss Janet grimly, handing a sheet of
note-paper across the table.

It was in Vivien's handwriting, which bore a strong resemblance to
Lorraine's own, and it was couched in terms strong enough certainly to
rouse a flutter in the breast of a careful schoolmistress. It mourned
Jack's absence, referred to turtle doves, Cupid's arrows, and other
tender things, thanked him for handsome presents, and looked fo