“Suppose she does catch the measles?” Felicity said aside.

“I don’t believe there’ll be anybody there from Markdale.  The lecturer is going to Markdale next week.  They’ll wait for that,” said the Story Girl airily.

It was a cool, dewy evening, and we walked down the long, red hill in the highest of spirits.  Over a valley filled with beech and spruce was a sunset afterglow—­creamy yellow and a hue that was not so much red as the dream of red, with a young moon swung low in it.  The air was sweet with the breath of mown hayfields where swaths of clover had been steeping in the sun.  Wild roses grew pinkly along the fences, and the roadsides were star-dusted with buttercups.

Those of us who had nothing the matter with our consciences enjoyed our walk to the little whitewashed schoolhouse in the valley.  Felicity and Cecily were void of offence towards all men.  The Story Girl walked uprightly like an incarnate flame in her crimson silk.  Her pretty feet were hidden in the tan-coloured, buttoned Paris boots which were the secret envy of every school girl in Carlisle.

But Sara Ray was not happy.  Her face was so melancholy that the Story Girl lost patience with her.  The Story Girl herself was not altogether at ease.  Probably her own conscience was troubling her.  But admit it she would not.

“Now, Sara,” she said, “you just take my advice and go into this with all your heart if you go at all.  Never mind if it is bad.  There’s no use being naughty if you spoil your fun by wishing all the time you were good.  You can repent afterwards, but there is no use in mixing the two things together.”

“I’m not repenting,” protested Sara.  “I’m only scared of ma finding it out.”

“Oh!” The Story Girl’s voice expressed her scorn.  For remorse she had understanding and sympathy; but fear of her fellow creatures was something unknown to her.  “Didn’t Judy Pineau promise you solemnly she wouldn’t tell?”

“Yes; but maybe some one who sees me there will mention it to ma.”

“Well, if you’re so scared you’d better not go.  It isn’t too late.  Here’s your own gate,” said Cecily.

But Sara could not give up the delights of the show.  So she walked on, a small, miserable testimony that the way of the transgressor is never easy, even when said transgressor is only a damsel of eleven.

The magic lantern show was a splendid one.  The views were good and the lecturer witty.  We repeated his jokes to each other all the way home.  Sara, who had not enjoyed the exhibition at all, seemed to feel more cheerful when it was over and she was going home.  The Story Girl on the contrary was gloomy.

“There were Markdale people there,” she confided to me, “and the Williamsons live next door to the Cowans, who have measles.  I wish I’d never egged Sara on to going—­but don’t tell Felicity I said so.  If Sara Ray had really enjoyed the show I wouldn’t mind.  But she didn’t.  I could see that.  So I’ve done wrong and made her do wrong—­and there’s nothing to show for it.”