The kettle was singing by the time she got back, and a few moments later she made her way proudly down to Miss Pidsley’s room with a fragrant scent of tea marking her path.  This time, when she knocked, Miss Pidsley really did think she had come for her music lesson, and a little sigh again escaped her, a sigh which turned to an exclamation of real pleasure when she saw what Kitty was bringing her.  Cornish Kitty had forgotten all about sugar or a teaspoon, but Miss Pidsley needed her tea so badly she did not heed the omission, but sat down at once to enjoy to the full her little picnic meal.

When Kitty returned to her own room again she was surprised at herself for feeling so happy.  “School isn’t all bad,” she said thoughtfully.  “I dare say I should get quite to like it in time.”

Then her eye fell on Betty’s newly-arrived letter, and tearing it open, she read of all her woes and triumphs connected with the detested woollen stockings.  There was a long letter from Dan too, full of a sort of laughing sympathy as well as jokes and fun, but with here and there the strain of seriousness which so often astonished Dan’s friends, and made him the dear, lovable old boy he was.

“It was rough on you,” he wrote, “to pack you off to school like that, and jolly unfair too; and I expect you felt you would never smile again.  But you will, and before many weeks are gone by, too; and I do believe it is the best thing for both of us.  We didn’t make any friends at home; there was no one we cared for, and we are such a funny, reserved crew—­at least that’s what they say here about me, and I believe I was the best of us—­in that way, I mean.  It won’t be so very long before we shall be going home, and, my word, it is worth while going away just to have the going home again.  So cheer up, old girl; it isn’t every one that can boast of a brother like me.  Hurry up and write, just to show you appreciate your blessings.”

“There are some things to make up for being away,” thought Kitty, and she wrote Dan a long, bright, hopeful letter, and another to Betty.

A week or so later she wrote to her father to broach her desire to bring home Pamela with her.  She thought it wise to mention it early, as it would take some time to reconcile Aunt Pike to the thought.  For more than a week she had no reply and no letter from any one, and she was just beginning to worry very much about it when a letter came from her father.

“I shall be delighted to welcome your young friend,” he wrote, “and I am very glad you have one you want to bring home with you.  But I can only consent conditionally, for poor unfortunate Anna is down with measles, and is very unwell, poor child.  I have not spoken to your aunt yet about your plan, for she is too worried about Anna, and some other matters, to bear any more agitation.  If Betty and Tony do not develop measles, and I am taking every precaution to prevent its spreading, the house