“Yes.  You must go to her house; you must insist on seeing her, and you must find out and let me know what is wrong.  She has written me a most mysterious letter; she has actually asked me to let her withdraw from our society.  Ruth, of all people!”

“It is very queer of her,” said Susy, “not to be grateful and pleased, for she is no better than the rest of us.”

“No better than the rest of you, Susy?” said Kathleen, raising her brows in surprise.  “But indeed you are mistaken.  The rest of you are not a patch on her.  She is my Prime Minister.  I can’t allow her to resign.”

“Oh, well,” said Susy, “if you think of her in that way—­”

“Of course I think of her in that way, Susy.  I like you very much, and I want to be kind to everybody; but to compare you or Mary Rand or Rosy Myers, or any of the others, with Ruth Craven—­”

“But she is no better.”

“She is a great deal better.  She is refined and beautiful.  She mustn’t go; I can’t allow it.  But she has written me such a queer letter, and implored and besought of me not to come to see her, that I am forced to accede to her wishes.  So you will have to go to her to-night and tell her that she must meet me on my way to school to-morrow.  Tell her that I will go a bit of the way towards her house; tell her that I will be at the White Cross Corner at a quarter to nine.  You needn’t say more.  Oh, Susy, it would break my heart if Ruth did not continue to be a member of our society.”

“I will do what you want, of course,” said Susy.  “I’d do anything in the world for you, Kathleen.  It was so kind of you to come to see us this afternoon.  You will keep your promise and come and have tea with us, won’t you?”

“I am very sorry, but I am afraid I can’t.  I do wish I had a home of my own, and then I’d ask you to have tea with me.  But, Susy, how funnily you were dressed to-day, now that I come to think of it!  You did look odd.  That blouse is too smart for the coarse blue serge skirt you were wearing.”

“I know it is; but I can’t afford a better skirt.  Mother is rather worried about money just now.  I know I oughtn’t to tell you, but she is.  And, do you know, before you came in Aunt Church was so horrid.  She got quite dreadful about the blouse, and she tried to make out that I had stolen the money from mother to buy it.  Wasn’t it awful of her?  I can tell you it was a blessing when you came in.  You changed her altogether.  What did you do to her?”

“Well,” said Kathleen, “I rather like old ladies, and she struck me as something picturesque.”

“She’s a horrid old thing, and not a bit picturesque.  I hate her like poison.”

“That is very wrong of you, Susy.  Some day you will get old yourself, and you won’t like people to hate you.”

“Well, that’s a long way off; I needn’t worry about it yet,” cried Susy.  “I do hate her very much indeed.  And then, you know, when you appeared she began to butter me up like anything.  I hated that the worst of all.”