There was a general horrified gasp, the nun’s own voice when she spoke again was angry and quick.

“Beatrice, did you say that to Marg’ret?”

“I said—­I said—­” Beatrice was frightened, but aggrieved too.  “I said I thought it was wrong to wear a surplice, that was made to wear on the altar, as an exhibition dress, and Marg’ret said, ‘Why?’ and I said because I thought it was—­something I wouldn’t say, and Marg’ret said, did I mean stealing, and I said, well, yes, I did, and then Marg’ret said right out, ’Well, if you think I’m a thief, why don’t you say so?’”

Nobody stirred.  The case had reached the open court, and no little girl present could have given a verdict to save her little soul.

“But—­but—­” the nun was bewildered, “but whoever did wear a surplice for an exhibition dress?  I never heard of such a thing!” Something in the silence was suddenly significant.  She turned her gaze from the room, where it had been seeking intelligence from the other nuns and the older girls, and looked back at the stage.

Marg’ret Hammond had dropped her proud little head, and her eyes were hidden by the tangle of soft dark hair.  Had Sister Rose needed further evidence, the shocked faces all about would have supplied it.

“Marg’ret,” she said, “were you going to wear Joe’s surplice?”

Marg’ret did not answer.

“I’m sure, Sister, I didn’t mean—­” stammered Beatrice.  Her voice died out uncomfortably.

“Why were you going to do that, Marg’ret?” pursued the nun, quite at a loss.

Again Marg’ret did not answer.

But Alanna Costello, who had worked her way from a scandalized crowd of little girls to Marg’ret’s side, and who stood now with her small face one blaze of indignation, and her small person fairly vibrating with the violence of her breathing, spoke out suddenly.  Her brave little voice rang through the room.

“Well—­well—­” stammered Alanna, eagerly, “that’s not a bad thing to do!  Me and Marg’ret were both going to do it, weren’t we, Marg’ret?  We didn’t think it would be bad to wear our own brothers’ surplices, did we, Marg’ret?  I was going to ask my mother if we couldn’t.  Joe’s is too little for him, and Leo’s would be just right for me, and they’re white and pretty—­” She hesitated a second, her loyal little hand clasping Marg’ret’s tight, her eyes ranging the room bravely.  She met her mother’s look, and gained fresh impetus from what she saw there.  “And mother wouldn’t have minded, would you, mother?” she finished triumphantly.

Every one wheeled to face Mrs. Costello, whose look, as she rose, was all indulgent.