“There,” said Rosalind, “that’s for you.  I was at Kingsdene to-day—­ and—­ I—­ I said you should have it, and I—­ I promised that I’d help you, Maggie.  I—­ yes—­ I promised.  I said I would help you, if you’d let me.”

“Thank you,” replied Miss Oliphant in a lofty tone.  The words came out of her lips with the coldness of ice.  “And if I need you—­ I—­ promise—­ to ask your help.  Where did you say you met Mr. Hammond?”

Maggie took up her letter and opened it slowly.

“At Spilman’s.  He was buying something for his room.  He——­” Rosalind blushed all over her face.

Maggie took her letter out of its envelope.  She looked at the first two or three words, then laid it, open as it was, on the table.

“Thank you, Rosalind,” she said in her usual tone.  “It was kind of you to bring this, certainly; but Mr. Hammond would have done better—­ yes, undoubtedly better—­ had he sent his letter by post.  There would have been no mystery about it then, and I should have received it at least two hours ago.  Thank you, Rosalind, all the same—­ good night.”

Rosalind Merton stepped demurely out of the room.  In the corridor, however, a change come over her small childish face.  Her blue eyes became full of angry flame and she clenched her baby hand and shook it in the direction of the closed door.

“Oh, Maggie Oliphant, what a deceiver you are!” she murmured.  “You think that I’m a baby and notice nothing, but I’m on the alert now, and I’ll watch—­ and watch.  I don’t love you any longer, Maggie Oliphant.  Who loves being snubbed?  Oh, of course, you pretend you don’t care about that letter!  But I know you do care; and I’ll get hold of all your secrets before many weeks are over, see if I don’t!”

CHAPTER VIII

 The kindest and most comforting way

Maggie was once more alone.  She stood quite still for nearly half a minute in the center of her room.  Her hands were clasped tightly together.  The expression of her face and her attitude showed such intense feeling as to be almost theatrical.  This was no acting, however; it was Maggie’s nature to throw herself into attitudes before spectators or alone.  She required some vent for all her passionate excitement, and what her girl friends called Miss Oliphant’s poses may have afforded her a certain measure of relief.

After standing still for these few seconds, she ran to the door and drew the bolt; then, sinking down once more in her easy-chair, she took up the letter which Rosalind Merton had brought her and began to read the contents.  Four sides of a sheet of paper were covered with small, close writing, the neat somewhat cramped hand which at that time characterized the men of St. Hilda’s College.

Maggie’s eyes seemed to fly over the writing; they absorbed the sense, they took the full meaning out of each word.  At last all was known to her, burnt in, indeed, upon her brain.