Part 25 (1/2)

”Have it if you like, Heavy,” she said. ”I am not very hungry.”

”Well, there isn't quite so much of you to nourish, my dear,” declared Jennie Stone, more briskly. ”I really _do_ feel the need of an extra piece. Thank you, Ruth! You're a good little thing.”

”Miss Picolet will see you, Ruth,” whispered Helen, on her other side.

”She is disgusted with Heavy's piggishness. But Miss Picolet, after all, won't say anything to you. You are her pet.”

”Don't say that, Helen,” replied Ruth, with some sadness. ”I am sorry for Miss Picolet.”

”I don't see why you need be. She seems to get along very well,”

returned her chum.

But Ruth could not forget how the little French teacher had looked--how frightened she was and how tearful--the afternoon when Ruth had told her of the incident aboard the _Minnetonka_, and of her loss of the mysterious letter sent by the harpist. The little French woman had begged her not to blame herself for the loss of the letter; she had only begged her to say nothing to a soul about either the man or the letter. And Ruth had kept the secret.

Nearly a fortnight had pa.s.sed since the occurrence, and it lacked not many days to the close of the term, when one evening, after a meeting of the S. B.'s in their usual room over the dining hall, Ruth had been delayed a bit and was hurrying out alone so as not to be caught out of the dormitory after warning bell, when old Tony Foyle hailed her.

”I was a-goin' to the West Dormitory to ax Miss Scrimp for to call ye, Miss Ruthie,” said the old Irishman, who--like most of the help about the school--was fond of the girl from the Red Mill. ”Ye're wanted, Miss.”

”Wanted?” asked Ruth, in surprise. ”Who by?”

”The Missus wants ye--Missus Tellingham. Ye're ter go straight to her study, so ye are.”

Much disturbed--for she feared there might be bad news from home--Ruth ran to the main building and knocked on Mrs. Tellingham's door. At her pleasantly spoken ”Come in!” the girl entered and found the Preceptress at her desk, while the old doctor, quite as blind and deaf to everything but his own work as usual, was bent over his papers at the end of the long table. But at this hour, and in the privacy of the place, he had c.o.c.ked the brown wig over one ear in the most comical way, displaying a perfectly bald, s.h.i.+ny patch of pate which made his naturally high forehead look fairly enormous.

”Nothing to be frightened about, Miss Fielding,” said Mrs. Tellingham, instantly reading aright what she saw in Ruth's countenance. ”You need not be disturbed. For I really do not believe you are at fault in this matter which has been brought to my notice.”

”No, Mrs. Tellingham?” asked Ruth, curiously.

”I have only a question to ask you. Have you lost something--something that might have been entrusted to you for another person? Some letter, for instance?”

The color flashed into Ruth's face. She was always thinking about the note the harpist had given to her on the steamboat to take to Miss Picolet. She could not hide her trouble from the sharp eyes of Mrs.

Tellingham.

”You _have_ lost something?”

”I don't know whether I should tell you. I don't know that I have a right to tell you,” Ruth stammered.

Mrs. Tellingham looked at her sharply for a minute or so, and then nodded. Then she said:

”I understand. You have been put on your honor not to tell?”

”Yes, Mrs. Tellingham. It is not my secret.”

”But there is a letter to be recovered?”

”Ye-es.”

”Is this it?” asked Mrs. Tellingham, suddenly thrusting under Ruth's eye a very much soiled and crumpled envelope. And it had been unsealed, Ruth could see. The superscription was to ”Mademoiselle Picolet.”

”It--it looks like it,” Ruth whispered. ”But it was sealed when I had it.”