“Oh, but I have indeed!  I can not bear the pain any longer.  I must tell someone—­you.  You will know how to help me.”

A very sad face looked up into Dorothy’s.  The brown eyes that had always been thought so proud and haughty were now “begging” for help, for pity, and for counsel.

“Tell me about it,” said Dorothy, taking a trembling white hand in her own, which was scarcely more steady.

“Did—­they—­arrest Tavia?” asked Sarah, the words seeming to choke her in their utterance.

“Why, no.  Of course they did not,” Dorothy replied.  “I just left Tavia a half hour ago, and she was as light hearted and happy as ever I have seen her.  That little trouble at school did not last long.”

“Oh, I am so glad!” exclaimed Sarah.  “The thought of it has just—­ haunted me!”

“About the accident?” asked Dorothy, trying to help Sarah unburden her mind.

“Yes.  I really did not mean to do so wrong.  But when I found you were all gone, and I tried to jump—­”

“Yes, of course it was very wrong of Tavia to send you up so high just as the bell was going to ring,” and Dorothy pressed the other’s hand encouragingly.

“Then when I saw my white dress, all black from the ashes, I ran away!”

“Now do not excite yourself, dear,” cautioned Dorothy, for she saw how Sarah’s face had flushed, and did not like to hear her raise her voice so.

“No, it will not hurt me.  The pain of it has been killing me ever since, but now it will go—­with my confession!”

“Hush!” whispered Dorothy, “your mother is in the hall.”

“Poor mother!” answered Sarah.  “She has tried every way to help me, but I could not tell her.  It seemed so terrible!”

“But how did you hurt your ankle?” asked Dorothy bluntly.

“I fell out—­of—­the—­tree!  I did not mean to do it.  I was up there hiding from those who passed in the lane, and all at once the awful thought came to me that I could slip and blame it on Tavia.  But I did not mean to do it that way.  Oh, Dorothy, how dreadfully I have been punished!” and the sick girl fell to weeping again.

“Never mind dear.  We all do wrong sometimes—­”

“No, Dorothy Dale, you never do.  I have been jealous of your love for Tavia.  I have loved you from the first moment I saw you—­that day helping a poor drunken man to his feet.  I said then I would make you love me, but see how I have failed.  You will hate me now.”

“No, Sarah dear.  You are better and nobler this minute than any other girl in Dalton, for no other likely, has had to make the heroic effort to do right that you have been obliged to go through with.  You know the joy there is over one lost lamb when it is returned to the fold?”

Sarah leaned back, and looked up full into Dorothy’s face.

“I knew you would know just what to say to me;” she whispered.  “Dorothy Dale you are—­an—­angel,” and the big, brown eyes sent out such a look of love, admiration and, at last—­happiness.