Cynthia’s heart was very heavy during the next few days, heavier by far than her friends in Mount Vernon Street imagined.  They had grown to love her almost as one of themselves, and because of the sympathy which comes of such love they guessed that her thoughts would be turning homeward at Christmastide.  At school she had listened, perforce, to the festival plans of thirty girls of her own age; to accounts of the probable presents they were to receive, the cost of some of which would support a family in Coniston for several months; to arrangements for visits, during which there were to be theatre-parties and dances and other gaieties.  Cynthia could not help wondering, as she listened in silence to this talk, whether Uncle Jethro had done wisely in sending her to Miss Sadler’s; whether she would not have been far happier if she had never known about such things.

Then came the last day of school, which began with leave-takings and embraces.  There were not many who embraced Cynthia, though, had she known it, this was largely her own fault.  Poor Cynthia! how was she to know it?  Many more of them than she imagined would have liked to embrace her had they believed that the embrace would be returned.  Secretly they had grown to admire this strange, dark girl, who was too proud to bend for the good opinion of any one—­even of Miss Sally Broke.  Once during the term Cynthia had held some of them—­in the hollow of her hand, and had incurred the severe displeasure of Miss Sadler by refusing to tell what she knew of certain mischief-makers.

Now, Miss Sadler was going about among them in the school parlor saying good-by, sending particular remembrance to such of the fathers and mothers as she thought worthy of that honor; kissing some, shaking, hands with all.  It was then that a dramatic incident occurred—­dramatic for a girls’ school, at least.  Cynthia deliberately turned her back on Miss Sadler and looked out of the window.  The chatter in the room was hushed, and for a moment a dangerous wrath flamed in Miss Sadler’s eyes.  Then she passed on with a smile, to send most particular messages to the mother of Miss Isabel Burrage.

Some few moments afterward Cynthia felt a touch on her arm, and turned to find herself confronted by Miss Sally Broke.  Unfortunately there is not much room for Miss Broke in this story, although she may appear in another one yet to be written.  She was extremely good-looking, with real golden hair and mischievous blue eyes.  She was, in brief, the leader of Miss Sadler’s school.

“Cynthia,” she said, “I was rude to you when you first came here, and I’m sorry for it.  I want to beg your pardon.”  And she held out her hand.

There was a moment’s suspense for those watching to see if Cynthia would take it.  She did take it.

“I’m sorry, too,” said Cynthia, simply, “I couldn’t see what I’d done to offend you.  Perhaps you’ll explain now.”

Miss Broke blushed violently, and for an instant looked decidedly uncomfortable.  Then she burst into laughter,—­merry, irresistible laughter that carried all before it.