Daisy scampered away all too willingly; and Hollyhock, advised by her sister, took no notice of Leucha, although her heart ached very badly for her. But she felt that the reconciliation must, at any cost, now come from Leucha's side; otherwise there would be no hope of peace or rest in the school. The fact was this, that Hollyhock was feeling very wild and restless just now. She had quite got over her fit of repentance, and was full to the brim of fresh pranks.
'There's no saying what sin I 'll commit,' she said to herself, 'for the de'il 's at work in me. With my rebellious nature, I cannot help myself. I did wrong, and I owned it. I helped her and loved her; but I could not bear her kisses. It may be that Providence has parted us, so that I really need not be tried too far. Oh, but she is an ugly, uninteresting lass, poor Leuchy! And yet once I loved her; and I 'd love her again, and make her happy, if she 'd do with only two kisses a day--_not_ otherwise; no, not otherwise. They're altogether too _cloying_ for my taste!'
Mrs Macintyre was more vexed, more hurt, more annoyed than she could possibly express. She had been willing--indeed, under the circumstances, only too glad--to send sulky Leucha to The Garden; but Leucha's unexpected return on the evening when the animal charade was to be acted put her out considerably. She saw at a glance that Leucha was unrepentant; that whereas Hollyhock was more than ready to forgive, Leucha belonged to the unforgiving of the earth. Being herself a fine, brave woman, Mrs Macintyre had little or no sympathy for so small and mean a nature.
Of course, she regretted Hollyhock's practical joke; but then Hollyhock had so abundantly made up for it by her subsequent conduct, and was even now the soul of love and pity for the desolate, deserted, obstinate girl.
Mrs Macintyre felt that she could not altogether side with Hollyhock, but she had no intention of interfering with the charade because Leucha, in her weak obstinacy, chose to return to the school on that special day. She determined, however, to speak to the girl, and to tell her very plainly what she thought about her and her conduct.
Leucha was in her pretty bedroom, where a bright fire was blazing, for the weather was now intensely cold. She was alone, quite alone, all the other girls in the school, both the actors and those who were to look on, being far to busy to attend to her. She took up a book languidly and pretended to read. She had already read the said book. It was one of Sir Walter Scott's great novels. But Leucha hated Sir Walter Scott; she hated his dialect, his long descriptions; she was not interested even in this marvellous work of his, _Ivanhoe_, and lay back in her easy-chair with her eyes half shut and her mind halt asleep. There came a sharp, short knock at her door. It roused Leucha to say, 'Who's there?'