"My dear Phil,—I sent you one letter from Suez, and I now write this from school which I hate, and every moment I wish I was back in your verandah playing with the dogs, and mending your soks. This is a half-holiday and instead of going to the hokky I am scribbling to you. I have so much to tell you. First of all about Mrs. Dawson, she was middling kind to me on borde ship but I ran all messages and sowed buttons on her boots, and brought her brandy when she was very sick. All the time I was making up my mind to tell her about the dresses, I hated to have to do it, but I felt that she ought to know and not have to wonder all her life. So one day when she was awfully ill and week, lying back with her eyes shut, some voice inside my head said Do it now, now is the time, she cannot beet you. And I said, Mrs. Dawson I am going to make your mind easy, it was I who cut up all your dresses. I am very sorry, they were beautiful, and if I could give them back now I would. I've nothing to give you to make up with, but my gold bangell, the only nice thing that I have cousin Phil, and that you gave me; so I took it off, and offered it to her. She had opened her eyes ever so wide, and at first looked quite stupid and queer; then she got very red and fierce and wriggled up and panted for breath. At last she said only you are a little orfan I don't know what I would do with you, land you at Malta I believe. There's your bangell and she flung it out of the port hole, and said now tell me you little feend what you did it for. And I told her the truth that it was to punish her for her unkindness to my mummy, and this made her quite crazy. She jumped up, and took me by the shoulders and turned me out of the cabbin. She never speekes to me now, but she has told everyone, and no one ever talks to me, and one child said go away you little cat my mama says I am not to allow you to come near me you ought to be in Jale. So I did not gain much by telling the truth that time you see. I lost all my friends and my dear dear bangell. This school is a big red house with long passages and great bair rooms and a bell rings for everything, getting up prayers lessons play. Oh I do hate that bell. There are forty girls and I am not the youngest only the smallest in the lowest class. Miss Morton thinks me dreadfully bakward, and so I am, except in sowing, but she was surprised to hear that I had read Vanity Fair and Byron's pomes and could say Shelly's skylark by hart. The other girls are very prim, some tell lies as bad as Anima any day, some are greedy, as greedy as Pinky, some are very nice, but they all think me odd and wild. I like to make them stair, so I jabber Hindustani and crack my finger-joints. I have no friends here except the second housemaid the cat and the drill serjant. He says I am made of yres, and he has been in India but only in Madras. I have been in lots of skrapes already dear Phil I don't believe I am suitable for skool, I'de much rather have lived with you, and had a pretty young governess like Miss Dove who teeches embroidrey. There are some pretty girls too, they all think me so ugly, but I don't mind. Give each of the dogs a kiss from me and three to Sally just in the middle of her nose, and tell the bearers little girl I have not forgotten her, and tell Toady Dodd I am learning french and german and dancing and am going to be akom—clever, I cant spell the big word, it will vex him awfully. Be sure you write me long long long letters, you cannot think how I watch the clock on male days. If you forget me, I pray that I may take small pox and dye,—I am every yours truly,
"Angel."
But Angel was not forgotten. Some description of letter found its way into her eager hands, two out of four mail days. Her quivering white face, as the letters were distributed, caused a pang of pity in the hearts of the womenkind who witnessed it. Angel's feelings were ten years in advance of her age and her associates. As weeks and months went on, she began to spread her short wings, and to evince her personality, and was presently notorious as the most idle, clever, mischievous, and unruly girl in the whole school. She could learn, she had unusual capabilities, but she much preferred playing tricks, scribbling poetry, and affording unlimited fun to her class, among whom, thanks to the freshness and audacity of her ideas, she assumed the position of ring-leader and queen. She received punishment with the most staggering sang-froid. What was to be done with a child who did not mind being sent to bed, rather liked dry bread than otherwise, and heartily enjoyed her own society? Her example was spreading like an epidemic among the juniors; idleness, daring feats, and flat disobedience were the fashion since the Indian child had introduced them. At last Miss Morton sent for the culprit, and interviewed her in her own sanctum, a room that had witnessed not a few tears and scenes. Miss Morton was a clever, handsome woman of forty, admirably fitted for her position. All her girls looked up to her, not a few loved her; her influence bore fruit in many and many a future home.
When the slight fair child in deep mourning was ushered in, and surveyed the room and its occupants with critical blue eyes, she said:
"Little Angela Gascoigne, you may sit down," Angela took a seat, and sedately folded her arms. This action, did Miss Morton but know, portended mortal defiance.
"Angela, you are old and intelligent beyond your years," continued her teacher; "you are not yet ten, but you have seen as much of life as many girls of eighteen."
Angela's eyes complacently admitted the fact.
"I therefore talk to you, as if you were almost grown up," resumed Miss Morton. Angela inclined her head gravely in acknowledgment of the compliment. "I must confess, that although you have read the most advanced literature, your mind is pure and child-like. On the other hand, in your small way, you are an anarchist, you rebel against every law. What do you propose to do with your life? You have influence, you have brains, have you decided to grow up an ill weed, and to do as much harm as you can?"
No reply. Angela gazed at the flowers, the water-colours, the clock, finally into Miss Morton's eyes.
"Angela Gascoigne," she continued, "answer me."