"My dear Kitty," said Miss Sherrard, "I am very sorry for you. I am certainly glad at last to know the truth. You, poor child, have been more sinned against than sinning. I cannot tell you what I think about Elma. Such a girl does more mischief in a school than twenty like you. Stay, my dear; stop crying. Kitty, Kitty, what is it?"
"I feel nearly mad—Laurie is in such trouble. May I not at least answer his telegram?"
"Yes, here is a telegraph form. Fill in what you like; I will send it at once to the post office."
"Miss Sherrard, would it be possible for you to lend me the money?"
Miss Sherrard shook her head.
"I could not do it, Kitty; nor would it be right. Your brother has done distinctly wrong; and if you telegraph to him now I hope you will counsel him to go straight to your father and confess everything. There is never the least use in concealment where wrong-doing is concerned, my dear."
But Kitty's eyes had now blazed again with renewed passion.
"You are not a Malone nor an Irishwoman," she cried. "You do not know Ireland, or you would not speak in that tone. I counsel Laurie to tell father what he did to poor Paddy Wheel-about! I counsel him to say that he took the old man's coat—stole it from him! Miss Sherrard, you don't know father. Laurie did it, it is true, in a fit of bravado; but father would never understand. He would be furious, wild; Le would punish him severely. Oh, I must get that money somehow, in some fashion!"
"Kitty, you are speaking disrespectfully," said Miss Sherrard, "and I cannot allow it. I am sorry for you, my dear; you are dreadfully overcome at present. Go home now; I will see you again in the afternoon."
Poor Kitty left the room without even bidding her teacher good-by.