“You hate Miss Oliphant?” Annie Day stood still, turned round, and stared at her companion. “When did this revolution take place, my dear? What about Rose and Maggie sitting side by side at dinner? And Rose creeping away all by herself to Maggie’s room, and angling for an invitation to cocoa, and trying hard, very hard, to become a member of the Dramatic Society, just because Maggie acts so splendidly. Has it not been Maggie—Maggie—ever since the term began, until we girls, who were not in love with this quite too charming piece of perfection, absolutely hated the sound of her name? Oh, Rose, what a fickle baby you are. I am ashamed of you!”
“Don’t!” said Rose, again. She linked her hand half timidly in Miss Day’s arm. Miss Day was almost a head and shoulders above the little, delicate, fairy-like creature. “I suppose I can’t help changing my mind,” she said. “I did love Maggie, of course I loved her—she fascinated me; but I don’t care for her—no, I hate her now!”
“How vehemently you pronounce that naughty word, my fair Rosalind. You must give me some reasons for this grievous change in your feelings.”
“She snubbed me,” said Rosalind; “she made little of me. I offered to do her a kindness, and she repulsed me. Who cares to be made little of, and repulsed?”
“Who, truly, Rosie?—not even an innocent baby. Now then, my love, let me whisper a little secret to you. I have never loved Miss Oliphant. I have never been a victim to her charms. Time was when she and Miss Lee—poor Annabel!—ruled the whole of our Hall. Those two girls carried everything before them. That was before your day, Rose. Then Miss Lee died. She caught a chill, and had a fever, and was dead in a couple of days. Yes, of course, it was shocking. They moved her to the hospital, and she died there. Oh, there was such excitement, and such grief—even I was sorry; for Annabel had a way about her, I can’t describe it, but she could fascinate you. It was awfully interesting to talk to her, and even to look at her was a real pleasure. We used not to think much about Maggie when Annabel was by; but now, what with Maggie and her mystery, and Maggie and her love affair, and Maggie and her handsome face, and her wealth, and her expectations, why she bids fair to be more popular even than the two were when they were together. Yes, little Rose, I don’t want her to be popular any more than you do. I think it’s a very unhealthy sign of any place to have all the girls sighing and groaning about one or two—dying to possess their autographs, and kissing their photographs, and framing them, and putting them up in their rooms. I hate that mawkish kind of nonsense,” continued Miss Day, looking very virtuous, “and I think Miss Heath ought to know about it, and put a stop to it. I do, really.”
Rosalind was glad that the gathering darkness prevented her sharp companion from seeing the blush on her face; for amongst her own sacred possessions she kept an autograph letter of Maggie’s, and she had passionately kissed Maggie’s beautiful face as it looked at her out of a photograph, and, until the moment when all her feelings had undergone such a change, was secretly saving up her pence to buy a frame for it. Now she inquired eagerly—
“What is the mystery about Miss Oliphant? So many people hint about it, I do wish you would tell me, Annie.”
“If I told you, pet, it would cease to be a mystery.”
“But you might say what you know. Do, Annie!”
“Oh, it isn’t much—it’s really nothing; and yet— and yet—”