She entered the parlors with her usual genial smile a few minutes later, and the flow of conversation that never failed her.

“Mary, you’d ought always to wear that Greek-lookin’ dress,” said Mrs. Costello, en passant.  “Sister, if you don’t want me in any of the dances, I’ll take meself out of your way!  No, indeed, the Mayor won’t be annoyed by anything, girls, so go ahead with your duets, for he’s taken the boys off to the Orpheum an hour ago, the way they couldn’t be at their tricks upsettin’ everything!” And presently she laid her hand on Marg’ret Hammond’s shoulder.  “Are they workin’ you too hard, Marg’ret?”

Marg’ret’s answer was smiling and ready, but Mrs. Costello read more truthfully the color on the little face, and the distress in the bright eyes raised to hers, and sighed as she found a big chair and settled herself contentedly to watch and listen.

Marg’ret was wearing Joe’s surplice, there was no doubt of that.  But, Mrs. Costello wondered, how many of the nuns and girls had noticed it?  She looked shrewdly from one group to another, studying the different faces, and worried herself with the fancy that certain undertones and quick glances were commenting upon the dress.  It was a relief when Marg’ret slipped out of it, and, with the other girls, assumed the Greek costume she was to wear in the play.  The Mayor’s wife, automatically replacing the drawing string in a cream-colored toga lavishly trimmed with gold paper-braid, welcomed the little respite from her close watching.

“By Nero’s Command” was presently in full swing, and the room echoed to stately phrases and glorious sentiments, in the high-pitched clear voices of the small performers.  Several minutes of these made all the more startling a normal tone, Marg’ret Hammond’s everyday voice, saying sharply in a silence: 

“Well, then, why don’t you say it?”

There was an instant hush.  And then another voice, that of a girl named Beatrice Garvey, answered sullenly and loudly: 

“I will say it, if you want me to!”

The words were followed by a shocked silence.  Every one turned to see the two small girls in the centre of the improvised stage, the other performers drawing back instinctively.  Mrs. Costello caught her breath, and half rose from her chair.  She had heard, as all the girls knew, that Beatrice did not like Marg’ret, and resented the prominence that Marg’ret had been given in the play.  She guessed, with a quickening pulse, what Beatrice had said.

“What is the trouble, girls?” said Sister Rose’s clear voice severely.

Marg’ret, crimson-cheeked, breathing hard, faced the room defiantly.  She was a gallant and pathetic little figure in her blue draperies.  The other child was plainly frightened at the result of the quarrel.

“Beatrice—?” said the nun, unyieldingly.

“She said I was a thief!” said Marg’ret, chokingly, as Beatrice did not answer.