Winnie stoutly refused (Dick chuckled with delight), and Mrs. Blake's anger waxed stronger at the little rebel. She meditated for a few seconds on the best method of punishment, and then said coldly,—"I shall say nothing further in the meantime, Winnie, concerning your flagrant act of disobedience in connection with Miss Latimer. When you feel truly penitent, and confess your sorrow, I shall be pleased to accept your apology; but I insist on a letter being written to Miss Irvine now. One hour is at your disposal, and if at the end of that period I return and find you still obdurate, then to-morrow's pleasure is cancelled,—you will not be allowed, as promised, to see over Dick's ship." With that Mrs. Blake left the room, and Winnie was left to solitude and reflection.
For a long time she sat firmly determined to suffer anything rather than yield. Her young heart burned with anger and pride—she hated everybody and everything; but in the end love for Dick conquered, and the required note was written.
"I don't mean one single word of all that scribble," she cried, pitching the letter to the other end of the room. "I hate to humble myself, so I do, and I should like to say all sorts of horrid things to Ada Irvine; but I can't give up to-morrow's treat, and I wish to see as much of my dear old Dick as possible. Wait till I get back to school, however, and there will be fun." Winnie's face brightened at the thought, and the old mischievous smile came back to her lips. After all there was a good amount of wicked enjoyment to be derived from having an enemy.
CHAPTER XIII.
OUR SAILOR BOY.
If one had peeped into the oak parlour on Thursday evening, one would naturally have imagined the room to be untenanted, save for the presence of a little white dog curled in peaceful slumber on the rug; but had the heavy folds of curtain been withdrawn, they would have disclosed to view the form of a young lady nestling back in the window embrasure, with two soft white hands folded wearily on her lap. The night was cold, but bright with moonlight; and the stars peeping in at the window, the blind of which was drawn up to the top, whispered together of the fairy picture she made with the moonbeams straying over her quiet, thoughtful face, and playing hide-and-seek amongst the meshes of her dark glossy hair.
"How pretty she looks!" they murmured softly, sparkling down their twinkling lights on the frost-gemmed city below. But the little stars failed to notice the weary look of discontent and dissatisfaction on that fair face, which marred all the beauty of the fairy picture.
She had left the gay drawing-room and fashionable company under plea of a headache, and finding the oak parlour untenanted, had hidden herself snugly behind the curtains. But Edith Blake's headache had evidently merged into a heartache; for it was a weary, weary face that turned from the window as approaching footsteps warned her of some one's intrusion. Drawing aside the ruby folds and peering out cautiously, the girl saw Winnie enter and go straight towards the fire, where she proceeded to ensconce herself snugly on the rug, and lift the little white dog into her lap.
"Poor little doggie!" she said, stroking the affectionate animal, which was licking its mistress's gentle hand; "poor Puck! you'll have to love me very much after Dick goes away. I like to be loved, doggie; but no one in this house believes in love except my dear boy, and it is lonely when not a single creature cares, for you. I should like to enjoy a good cry, Puck; but I must not make Dick sad, and it is a baby-fashion to cry when things go wrong and you can't get what you wish. But, oh dear! whatever shall I do after my dear good boy is gone away?"