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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.

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.