Kitty, making her way slowly up the stairs to Betty’s room and her own, was again impressed with that curious sensation of being some one else, of seeing everything for the first time.  How strangely things came about, she thought.  Here she was, back in her home again, as she had so often longed to be, but oh how different it was from what she had pictured—­no joy in coming, no one to meet her, a stranger to welcome her, the house silent and strange.  Could it be really she, Kitty Trenire, walking alone up the old, wide, familiar staircase as though she had never gone away or known that brief spell of school life?  Could she really be come back to her own again, as mistress of her father’s house?  It seemed so—­for a time, at any rate.  Kitty felt very serious, and full of awe at the thought, and as she slowly mounted the dear old stairs a little very eager, if unspoken, prayer went up from her heavy heart.

Then she reached the door of her room and Betty’s, and knocked.

“Who is there?” demanded Betty’s voice.  “Me.  Kitty.”

“Kitty What, Kitty!  Oh—­h—­h!” There was a rush across the room, then a pause.  “I—­I don’t think you had better come in,” gasped Betty.  “You’ll never want to see me again if you do.”

“Don’t be silly.  Why, Betty, whatever has happened?” cried Kitty, as she opened the door and stepped into an almost perfectly dark room.  “Are you ill?”

“No,” miserably, “I wish I was, then p’r’aps you’d be sorry; and if I was to die you might forgive me, but you can’t unless I do die.”

“O Betty, what have you done?” cried Kitty, growing quite alarmed.

“Is she—­is she dead?” asked Betty in an awful whisper.

“Who?  Poor Aunt Pike?  No; Dr. Yearsley told me she is just ever so slightly better.”

“Oh!” gasped Betty, a world of relief in her sigh, “I am so glad.  Then I ain’t a—­a murderess—­at least not yet.  I’ve been afraid to ask, and nobody came to tell me, and I—­O Kitty, it was I made her tumble down like that in a fit or something, and I was so frightened.  I will never tell any one anything any more.”

“You will tell me what it was that you told Aunt Pike that upset her so?”

“I don’t think I can,” said Betty.  “You will hate me so, and so will father—­that is why I wanted to hide for ever from all of you; but,” with sudden indignation, “that silly old ‘Rover’ brought me back.  Oh, it was dreadful!”

“What was?” asked Kitty patiently.  She knew Betty’s roundabout way of telling a story, and waited.  “What did you tell Aunt Pike?  Do tell me, Betty dear.  I ought to know before I see her.”