She went to a shelf and took down a heavy quarto, bound in black leather, and inscribed, in red letters, my faults.  This she threw irreverently on a desk, and tossed its pages over until she came to one only partly covered with manuscript confessions.

“For a wonder,” she said, “here are two entries that are not mine.  Sarah Gerram!  What has she been confessing?”

“Don’t read it,” said Miss Lindsay quickly.  “You know that it is the most dishonorable thing any of us can do.”

“Poch!  Our little sins are not worth making such a fuss about.  I always like to have my entries read:  it makes me feel like an author; and so in Christian duty I always read other people’s.  Listen to poor Sarah’s tale of guilt. ’1st October.  I am very sorry that I slapped Miss Chambers in the lavatory this morning, and knocked out one of her teeth.  This was very wicked; but it was coming out by itself; and she has forgiven me because a new one will come in its place; and she was only pretending when she said she swallowed it.  Sarah Gerram."’

“Little fool!” said Miss Lindsay.  “The idea of our having to record in the same book with brats like that!”

“Here is a touching revelation. ’4th October.  Helen Plantagenet is deeply grieved to have to confess that I took the first place in algebra yesterday unfairly.  Miss Lindsay prompted me;’ and—­”

“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Lindsay, reddening.  “That is how she thanks me for prompting her, is it?  How dare she confess my faults in the Recording Angel?”

“Serves you right for prompting her,” said Miss Carpenter.  “She was always a double-faced cat; and you ought to have known better.”

“Oh, I assure you it was not for her sake that I did it,” replied Miss Lindsay.  “It was to prevent that Jackson girl from getting first place.  I don’t like Helen Plantagenet; but at least she is a lady.’

“Stuff, Gertrude,” said Agatha, with a touch of earnestness.  “One would think, to hear you talk, that your grandmother was a cook.  Don’t be such a snob.”

“Miss Wylie,” said Gertrude, becoming scarlet:  “you are very—­oh! oh!  Stop Ag—­oh!  I will tell Miss—­oh!” Agatha had inserted a steely finger between her ribs, and was tickling her unendurably.

“Sh-sh-sh,” whispered Miss Carpenter anxiously.  “The door is open.”

“Am I Miss Wylie?” demanded Agatha, relentlessly continuing the torture.  “Am I very—­whatever you were going to say?  Am I? am I? am I?”

“No, no,” gasped Gertrude, shrinking into a chair, almost in hysterics.  “You are very unkind, Agatha.  You have hurt me.”

“You deserve it.  If you ever get sulky with me again, or call me Miss Wylie, I will kill you.  I will tickle the soles of your feet with a feather,” (Miss Lindsay shuddered, and hid her feet beneath the chair) “until your hair turns white.  And now, if you are truly repentant, come and record.”