you must write an apology to Mr. Poulter this afternoon. No, don't go
in now. Go up at once, Gillian shall bring your books. Does Miss
Hacket come?'

'Yes, mamma,' said Mysie humbly, looking at Dolores all the time. She
was too generous to say that part of the delay had been caused by
looking for her cousin, and having to adapt her pace to the slower one,
but she decidedly expected the avowal from Dolores, and thought it mean
not to make it. 'And, oh, the jam!' she mourned as she went upstairs.
While, on the other hand, Dolores considered what she called 'being
sent to bed' an unmerited and unjust sentence given without a hearing;
when their tardiness had been all Mysie's fault, not hers. She had no
notion that her aunt only sent them to lie down, because they looked
heated, tired, and spent, and was really letting them off their
morning's lessons. It was a pity that she felt too forlorn and sullen
even to complain when Gillian brought up Macaulay's 'Armada' for her to
learn the first twelve lines, or she might have come to an
understanding, but all that was elicited from her was a glum 'No,'
when asked if she knew it already. Gillian told her not to keep her
dusty boots on the bed, and she vouchsafed no answer, for she did not
consider Gillian her mistress, though, after she was left to herself,
she found them so tight and hot that she took them off. Then she
looked over the verses rather contemptuously--she who always learnt
German poetry; and she had a great mind to assert her independence by
getting off the bed, and writing a letter to Maude Sefton, describing
the narrow stupidity of the whole family, and how her aunt, without
hearing her, had send her to be for Mysie's fault. However she felt so
shaky and tired that she thought she had better rest a little first,
and somehow she fell fast asleep, and was only awakened by the gong.
She jumped up in haste, recollecting that the delightful sympathizing