"Your loving sister,
"ERICA."
There was a short silence. Then Duane said slowly:
"I'm glad she tried to own up at last. You know, I think she would have done so long ago if it hadn't been for Bertha. She's got heaps of physical courage."
There was a very kind look in the Principal's eyes as she turned towards Duane, and laying her hand on the girl's shoulder, said gently:
"So am I. But I don't think it was altogether by herself that she decided to own up. I think someone helped her, if unconsciously."
Duane looked puzzled.
"How do you mean, Miss St. Leger?"
"Why, I think in the end it was your influence and not Bertha's, that proved the stronger."
"I should jolly well think so," added Kitty emphatically.
Duane flushed and looked uncomfortable. She had told her story with brief simplicity, plainly and unvarnishedly—not as it has been related here. But her two listeners, knowing the dramatis personæ so well, had imagined clearly and vividly all the details and side issues that Duane had mentioned so baldly. The girl had, to a great extent, dropped her flippant, blasé manner to tell the story. Now, for a moment she succeeded in throwing off the reserve in which she had been trained to hide her emotions, as she had done before Kitty in the hut last night.