“Rose.”

“Where did she get it?”

“I—­I don’t know—­Miss Hill.  Really and tru—­truly I don’t,” faltered Helen, beginning to cry again.

Gail and Ruth also disclaimed any knowledge of the verse, except that it had been put into their hands by Rose.  They had read it, copied it, written notes about it and discussed it.

“You three girls may go home now,” said Miss Hill, sadly.

The girls hastily filed out and passed the scornful Bessy Bell with averted heads.

“Rose, can you explain the notes found in your possession?” asked the teacher.

“Yes, Miss Hill.  They were written to me by different boys and girls,” replied Rose.

“Why do you seem to have all these writings addressed to you?”

“I didn’t get any more than any other girl.  But I wasn’t afraid to keep mine.”

“Do you know where these verses came from, before Helen had them?”

“Yes, Miss Hill.”

“Then you know who wrote them?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I won’t tell,” replied Rose, deliberately.  She looked straight into her teacher’s eyes.

“You refuse when I’ve assured you I’ll be lenient?” demanded Miss Hill.

“I’m no tattletale.”  Rose’s answer was sullen.

“Rose, I ask you again.  A great deal depends on your answer.  Will you tell me?”

The girl’s lip curled.  Then she laughed in a way that made Miss Hill think of her as older.  But she kept silent.

“Rose, you’re expelled until further notice.”  Miss Hill’s voice trembled with disappointment and anger.  “You may go now.”

Rose gathered up her books and went into the cloakroom.  The door in the outer hall opened and closed.

“Miss Hill, it wasn’t fair!” exclaimed Bessy Bell, hotly.  “It wasn’t fair.  Rose is no worse than the other girls.  She’s not as bad, for she isn’t sly and deceitful.  There were a dozen girls who lied when they went out.  Helen lied.  Ruth lied.  Gail lied.  But Rose told the truth so far as she went.  And she wouldn’t tell all because she wanted to shield me.”

“Why did she want to shield you?”

“Because I wrote the verses.”

“You mean you copied them?”

“I composed them,” Bessy replied coolly.  Her blue eyes fearlessly met Miss Hill’s gaze.

“Bessy Bell!” ejaculated the teacher.

The girl stood before her desk and from the tip of her dainty boot to the crown of her golden hair breathed forth a strange, wilful and rebellious fire.

Miss Hill’s lips framed to ask a certain question of Bessy, but she refrained and substituted another.

“Bessy, how old are you?”

“Fifteen last April.”

“Have you any intelligent idea of—­do you know—­Bessy, how did you write those verses?” asked Miss Hill, in bewilderment.

“I know a good deal and I’ve imagination,” replied Bessy, candidly.