“How old are you, dear?”
“I have told you. I was sixteen and a half when I came. I am rather more now.”
“You are only a child, dear Betty.”
“Not in mind, nor in life, nor in circumstances,” replied Betty.
“We will suppose that all that is true,” answered Mrs. Haddo. “We will suppose, also, that you are cast upon the world friendless and alone. Were such a thing to happen, what would you do?”
Betty shivered. “I don’t know,” she replied.
“Now, Betty, I cannot take your answer as final. I will give you a few days longer; at the end of that time I will again beg for your confidence. In the meanwhile I must say something very plainly. You came to this school with your sisters under special conditions which you, my poor child, had nothing to do with. But I must say frankly that I was unwilling to admit you three into the school after term had begun, and it was contrary to my rules to take girls straight into the upper school who had never been in the lower school. Nevertheless, for the sake of my old friend Sir John Crawford, I did this.”
“Not for Fanny’s sake, I hope?” said Betty, her eyes flashing for a minute, and a queer change coming over her face.
“I have done what I did, Betty, for the sake of my dear friend Sir John Crawford, who is your guardian and your sisters’ guardian, and who is now in India. I was unwilling to have you, my dears; but when you arrived and I saw you, Betty, I thanked God, for I thought that I perceived in you one whom I could love, whom I could train, whom I could help. I was interested in you, very deeply interested, from the first. I perceived with pleasure that my feelings towards you were shared by your schoolfellows. You became a favorite, and you became so just because of that beautiful birthright of yours—your keen wit, your unselfishness, and your pleasant and bright ways. I did an extraordinary thing when I admitted you into the school, and your schoolfellows did a thing quite as extraordinary when they allowed you, a newcomer, to join that special club which, more than anything else, has laid the foundation of sound and noble morals in the school. You were made a Speciality. I have nothing to do with the club, my dear; but I was pleased—nay, I was proud—when I saw that my girls had such discernment as to select you as one of their, I might really say august, number. You took your honors in precisely the spirit I should have expected of you—sweetly, modestly, without any undue sense of pride or hateful self-righteousness. Then, a few days ago, there came a thunderclap; and teachers and girls were alike amazed to find that you were no longer a member. By the rules of the club we were not permitted to ask any questions——”