"I admit, my dear, that Annie spoke in somewhat of her old impulsive way; she blamed herself, and did not try to screen her misdemeanors behind her companions. In this one particular she reminded me of the old Annie who, notwithstanding all her faults, I used to trust and love. But as to her confession being very brave, my dear Cecil, you must remember that she did not _confess_ until she was obliged; she knew, and so did all the other girls, that I could have got the truth out of old Betty had they chosen to keep their lips sealed. Then, my dear, consider what she did. On the very night that I was away she violated the trust I had in her--she bade me 'good-bye' with smiles and sweet glances, and then she did this in my absence. No, Cecil, I fear poor Annie is not what we thought her. She has done untold mischief during the half-year, and has willfully lied and deceived me. I find, on comparing dates, that it was on the very night of the girls' picnic that Dora's theme was changed. There is no doubt whatever that Annie was the guilty person. I did my best to believe in her, and to depend on Mr. Everard's judgment of her character, but I confess I can do so no longer. Cecil, dear. I am not surprised that you look pale and sad. No, we will not give up this poor Annie: we will try to love her even through her sin. Ah! poor child, poor child! how much I have prayed for her! She was to me as a child of my own. Now, dear Cecil, I must ask you to leave me."