Mildred, don’t take it like that! I have had to bring other girls into this room, dear, and tell them of troubles compared to which this disappointment of yours is as nothing—nothing! Poor little Effie Browning, looking forward to her parents’ return from abroad, and counting the hours to their arrival—I had to show her the telegram announcing her mother’s death. And Mabel, and Fanny—But your mother is well, quite well and safe. Doesn’t that make you feel thankful to bear any lesser trouble?”

“No!” said Mildred again, more obstinately than before; “No!” She stared at Miss Margaret with unflinching eyes. “If Mother is well, there is only one other trouble which I could feel just now. If—if it is anything to prevent me going home, I can’t bear it—it will kill me! I shall break my heart!”

“Nonsense! You are far too strong, and brave, and sensible to break your heart over a disappointment of a few weeks, however hard it may be to face. Come, Mildred, you know I rely upon you to be my helper in difficulties; you must not quarrel with me, for we shall have to keep each other company. Your little brother Robbie has taken scarlet fever, and you will not be able—”

She did not finish the sentence, for her pupil interrupted with a cry of bitter grief, and buried her face in her hands. It was one thing to imagine a thing, and another to know that it was true in solemn earnest. Mildred had spoken of the possibility of not being able to go home as of some appalling imaginary calamity, but she had never, never thought it could be true. Not go home! Stay at school all through the holidays!—the prospect was so terrible that it was impossible to realise all that it meant. Nevertheless some of the first miserable consequences were clear enough to poor Mildred’s mind:—to unpack all her boxes, to put her clothes back in drawers and cupboards; to sleep by herself in the deserted dormitory; to spend the days lounging about empty school-rooms, feeling doubly lonely because of the remembrance of the friends who had been by her side but a few days before, and who had now dispersed to their own happy homes. Effie Browning had spent the holidays at school once or twice, and Mildred had pitied her so much that she had sent weekly letters and boxes of country flowers and mosses, to cheer her solitude. And now she herself was to undergo this awful experience! To-morrow morning the other girls would fasten their boxes and drive off to the station, but for her there would be no excitement of farewell, no railway journey, with the delightful sense of importance in travelling by herself all the way from the junction, no dear little mother waiting to greet her in sailor hat and blue serge suit! Her heart swelled with passionate longing, but she could not cry; the blow was too sudden, too severe. Miss Margaret’s eyes were wet, however, as she looked down at the curly, golden head. She did not speak for a few minutes, then she laid her hand on the girl’s arm and pressed it to attract attention.

“I am so sorry for you—so sorry, my poor girl. See, dear, here is a letter which came inclosed in one to my sister. Your mother wished us to break the news—”

Mildred seized the letter in an almost savage grasp. It was in her mother’s handwriting, and ran as follows:—

My darling Mildred,

When you get this letter, Miss Chilton will have told you of the trouble at home. Poor little Robbie has been very poorly for two days, and this morning the doctor pronounces it to be scarlet fever. I could not help crying when he told me, for so many things came rushing into my head, and it all seemed so dark and difficult. I was anxious about Robbie, and couldn’t think what to do with the rest of the children; and you, my darling, with your holidays just beginning! It broke my heart to think of you. I seem to have lived a month in the last few hours, but everyone has been so kind, and help has come from all directions. Mrs Bewley and Mrs Ross are to take the children to stay with them, as they have no little ones of their own, and are not afraid of infection. I will nurse Robbie, and if any of the others fall ill, they will be sent home at once, and we will make a hospital of the top floor. I suppose, even if all goes well, and Robbie is the only patient, it will be six weeks before we are out of quarantine. Oh, my dearest child, I am so grieved for your disappointment, coming upon you in the midst of your preparations; but there is no help for it, you must stay on at school, for there is no other place to which I can send you. I can’t ask either Mrs Bewley or Mrs Ross to take you in addition to the other children, and even if you were here we could not see or speak to each other, and it would be dreadful to know that you were so near, and not be able to be together.

I am as disappointed as you, can be, dear, for I can’t tell you how I was looking forward to having my dear, big girl back again, but this is a trouble which has come to us, and which we cannot help, and we must try to be as brave as possible. Robbie is very hot and feverish to-day. He asked when you would be at home, and I was obliged to tell him that you could not come now. A little time afterwards I went back and found him crying, “’Cause Millie will be angry wif me!” Poor wee man! if he only gets on well we must not mind any disappointment which his illness has caused.

I shall not be allowed to send you letters, dear, but please write to me as often and as cheerfully as you can. We shall be shut off from all our friends, and letters will be eagerly welcomed. I send you a postal order for a sovereign for pocket-money during the holidays. It is all I can afford, darling, or you should have ten times as much. You know that.

I have not another minute to spare, so goodbye, dearie. I shall think of you every hour of the day. Help me by being brave!

Mother.

Mildred read the letter through, folded it away, and looked up at Miss Margaret with bright, dry eyes.

“Can I go to my own room, Miss Margaret, please?”

“You can if you like, Mildred, but the other girls will be there in a moment, getting ready for tea. Wouldn’t you prefer to stay here? I will give you my writing-case, and you can write to your mother; she will be longing to hear. You shall have tea up here, a nice little tray, and Bertha shall have it with you, unless you prefer to be alone.”

“I don’t want to see anyone. They are all going home. It would make me feel worse than ever. They are all happy but me—”

“They will feel your disappointment almost as much as you do yourself. We are all so grieved; but I will do my best to make the holidays pleasant for you, dear.”

“Don’t be kind to me, Mardie, please. I can’t bear it—I feel as if I hated everyone! Why need Robbie take ill just now of all times in the year? He is a tiresome little thing. It is always the same way,—there is more trouble with him than with all the five girls. Why can’t Mother stay with us and send him away to be nursed? There are five of us, and only one of him. I wasn’t home at Easter, though almost all the girls went. I can’t live six whole months longer without seeing Mother. It makes me wild even to think of it!”

“Don’t think of it, Mildred. Six months is a long way ahead; a hundred things may happen before then. Don’t worry yourself about months, think only of to-day, and try to be bright, and brave, and patient.”

“It would be horrid of me to be bright when Mother is in trouble. I can’t be brave when everything goes wrong; I can’t be patient when my heart is breaking.”