At that moment she was laboring under a perplexing question that was not by any means a new one.  Only this time it had presented itself in a less insidious manner than usual, leaving no loophole for charitable imagination.  Presently she looked up and rapped on her desk.

“These young ladies will remain after school is dismissed,” she said, in her authoritative voice:  “Bessy Bell—­Rose Clymer—­Gail Matthews—­Helen Tremaine—­Ruth Winthrop....  Also any other girls who are honest enough to admit knowledge of the notes found in Rose Clymer’s desk.”

The hush that fell over the schoolroom was broken by the gong in the main hall, sounding throughout the building.  Then followed the noise of shutting books and closing desks, and the bustle and shuffling of anticipated dismissal.

In a front seat sat a girl who did not arise with the others, and as one by one several girls passed her desk with hurried step and embarrassed snicker she looked at them with purple, blazing eyes.

Miss Hill attended to her usual task with the papers of the day’s lessons and the marking of the morrow’s work before she glanced up at the five girls she had detained.  They sat in widely separated sections of the room.  Rose Clymer, pretty, fragile, curly-haired, occupied the front seat of the end row.  Her face had no color and her small mouth was set in painful lines.  Four seats across from her Bessy Bell leaned on her desk, with defiant calmness, and traces of scorn still in her expressive eyes.  Gail Matthews looked frightened and Helen Tremaine was crying.  Ruth Winthrop bent forward with her face buried in her arms.

“Girls,” began Miss Hill, presently.  “I know you regard me as a cross old schoolteacher.”

She had spoken impulsively, a rare thing with her, and occasioned in this instance by the painful consciousness of how she was judged, when she was really so kindly disposed toward the wayward girls.

“Girls, I’ve tried to get into close touch with you, to sympathize, to be lenient; but somehow, I’ve failed,” she went on.  “Certainly I have failed to stop this note-writing.  And lately it has become—­beyond me to understand.  Now won’t you help me to get at the bottom of the matter?  Helen, it was you who told me these notes were in Rose’s desk.  Have you any knowledge of more?”

“Ye—­s—­m,” said Helen, raising her red face.  “I’ve—­I’ve one—­I—­was afraid to g—­give up.”

“Bring it to me.”

Helen rose and came forward with an expressive little fist and opening it laid a crumpled paper upon Miss Hill’s desk.  As Helen returned to her seat she met Bessy Bell’s fiery glance and it seemed to wither her.

The teacher smoothed out the paper and began to read.  “Good Heavens!” she breathed, in amaze and pain.  Then she turned to Helen.  “This verse is in your handwriting.”

“Yes’m—­but I—­I only copied it,” responded the culprit.

“Who gave you the original?”