LITMIR.BIZ

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have no home like the rest of you," she said; "my mother is very poor and cannot afford to have me at home."

      "Then where are you going to spend the holidays?" said Kitty; "do say, dear old Tommy, where – where?"

      "Here probably, or wherever Mrs. Clavering likes to take me," replied Florence; "but there, don't talk of it any more – I hate to think of it. We have three weeks still to be happy in, and we'll make the best of that."

      "Do you know, Mabel," asked Mary Bateman, now bending forward, "if Mrs. Clavering has yet decided what the programme is to be for the 25th?"

      "I think she will tell us to-night," replied Mabel; "she said something about it this morning, didn't she, Alice?"

      "Yes, I heard her talking to Mademoiselle Le Brun. I expect we shall hear at tea-time. If so we will meet in the oak parlor, and Mrs. Clavering will have her annual talk. She is always very nice on those occasions."

      "She is nice on every occasion – she is an old dear," said Kitty.

      "Why, Kitty, you don't know her very well yet."

      "She is an old dear," reported Kitty; "I love her with all my heart, but I should like beyond words to give her a right good shock. I cannot tell you girls, how I positively tremble to do it. At prayers, for instance, or still more at meals, when we are all so painfully demure, I want to jump up and utter a shout, or do something of that sort. I have suppressed myself hitherto, but I really do not know if I can go on suppressing myself much longer. Oh, what is the matter, Edith – what are you frowning at?"

      "Nothing," replied Edith King; "I did not even know that I was frowning. I was just thinking how nice it was to be trained to be ladylike and to have good manners and all that. Mrs. Clavering is such a perfect lady herself that we shall know all the rules of polite society when we leave the school."

      "And I hate those rules," said Kitty; "but there, somebody is coming to meet us. Oh, it is little Dolly Fairfax; she is sure to be bringing a message."

      CHAPTER III.

      THE TELEGRAM

      Dolly came up in her brisk way. She was holding something concealed in her little pinafore. She looked very mysterious. She had a round cherub face and two great big blue eyes, and short hair, which she wore in a curly mop all over her head. Dolly was the youngest girl in the school and a great pet with everyone. When Bertha saw her now she sprang to her feet and went forward in her somewhat clumsy way.

      "Come, little Dolly," she said; "what's the mystery?"

      "It's not for you, Bertha," said Dolly, "and don't you interrupt. It's for – it's for Kitty Sharston."

      "For me?" cried Kitty. "Oh, what a love you are, Dolly; come and sit on my lap. Is it a box of bon-bons or is it a letter?"

      "Guess again," said Dolly, clapping her hand to her little mouth, and looking intensely mysterious. Her blue eyes rolled roguishly round until they fixed themselves on Edith King's face, then she looked again at Kitty as solemn as possible.

      "You guess again," she said; "I'll give you five guesses. Now, then, begin right away."

      "It's the book that Annie Wallace said she would lend me – that's it, now, isn't it, Dolly? See, I'll feel in your pinafore."

      "No, it's not – wrong again," said Dolly; "that's three guesses – two more."

      Kitty made another guess – wrong again. Finally Dolly was induced to unfold her pinafore, and inside lay an unopened telegram.

      Now, in those days telegrams were not quite as common as they are now. In the first place, they cost a shilling instead of sixpence, which made a vast difference in their number. Kitty's face turned slightly pale, she gripped the telegram, shook little Dolly off her lap, stood up, and, turning her back to the girls, proceeded to open it. Her slim, long fingers shook a little as she did so. She soon had the envelope torn asunder and had taken out the pink sheet within. She unfolded it and read the words. As she did so her face turned very white. "Is the messenger waiting for an answer?" she said, turning to Dolly.

      "Yes," replied Dolly; "he is waiting up at the Court."

      "Then I must run away at once and answer this," said Kitty. "Oh, I wonder if I have got money enough!"

      "I'll lend you a shilling if you like," said Edith King.

      "Thanks, awfully," replied Kitty. "I'll pay you back when I get my pocket-money on Saturday."

      There was a queer, troubled, dazed sort of look in her eyes. Edith handed her the shilling and she disappeared under the cherry trees.

      Dolly proceeded to skim after her.

      "No, do stay, Dolly," cried Florence Aylmer; "stay and sit on my lap and I'll tell you a story."

      Dolly looked undecided for a moment, but presently she elected to go with Kitty.

      "There is something bothering her," she said; "I wonder what it can be. I'll run and see; I'll bring word afterwards."

      She disappeared with little shouts under the trees. Nothing could ever make Dolly sad long. The other girls turned and looked at one another.

      "What in the world can it be?" said Florence. "Poor Kitty! how very white she turned as she read it."

      Meanwhile Kitty had reached the house; the messenger was waiting in the hall. Mrs. Clavering came out just as the girl appeared.

      "Well, my dear Kitty," she said, "I hope it is not very bad news?"

      "I will tell you presently; I must answer it now," said Kitty.

      "You can go into the study, dear, and write your telegram there."

      Kitty went in; she spent a little time, about ten minutes or so, filling in the form; then she folded it up, gave it to the boy with a shilling, and went and stood in the hall.

      "What is the matter, Kitty?" said her governess, coming out and looking her in the face.

      "My telegram was from father. He – he is going to India," said Kitty, "that is all. I won't be with him in the holidays – that's all."

      She tried to keep the tremble out of her voice; her eyes, brave, bright, and fearless, were fixed on Mrs. Clavering's face.

      "Come in here and let us talk, dear," said Mrs. Clavering.

      "I can't," said Kitty; "it is too bad."

      "What is too bad, dear?"

      "The pain here." She pressed her hand against her heart.

      "Poor child! you love him very much."

      "Very much," answered Kitty, "and the pain is too bad, and – and I can't talk now. I'll just go back to the other girls in the cherry orchard."

      "But, Kitty, can you bear to be with them just now?"

      "I can't be alone," said Kitty, with a little piteous smile. She ran out again into the summer sunshine. Mrs. Clavering stood and watched her.

      "Poor little girl," she said to herself, "and she does not know the worst, nor half the worst, for I had a long letter from Major Sharston this morning, and he told me that not only was he obliged to go to India, but that he had lost so large a sum of money that he could not afford to keep Kitty here after this term. She is to go to Scotland to live with an old cousin; she must give up all chance of being properly educated. Poor little Kitty! I wonder if he mentioned that in the telegram, and she is so proud, too, and has so much character; it is a sad, sad pity."

      Meanwhile Kitty once more returned through the orchard. She began to sing a gay song to herself. She had a very sweet voice, and was carolling wild notes now high up in the air – "Begone, dull care; you and I shall never agree."

      The girls sitting under the finest of the cherry trees heard her as she sang.

      "There can't be much wrong with her," said Mary Bateman, with a sigh of relief. "Hullo, Kitty, no bad news, I hope?"

      "There is bad news, but I can't talk of it now," said Kitty. "Come, what shall we do? We need not stay under the trees any longer surely, need we? Let's have a right

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