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For the next fortnight, Ann saw neither Rodney Marsh nor Gerald Waring, except in the presence of others. She had determined that she would do her best never to speak to either of them alone again. She devoted herself to the little girls; did all the odd jobs she could find to de for Mrs. Holmes; and in her spare moments—which were very few—tried to read solid improving literature. Romantic fiction and poems concerning love she resolutely barred. She was determined to occupy her mind with thoughts which had very little connection with sentiment. But alas, she was young, and ardent, and all nature, all the glamor of the warm bright days, and the freshness and novelty of this new life, seemed to tempt her to dream of some indefinite but blissful future. What was the sense of indulging in these dreams, she asked herself disgustedly.

She would not dignify by the name of love the feeling she knew now that she entertained for Rodney Marsh. She told herself that it was a stupid infatuation, born of his good looks, and his attractive personality. The attachment of a sentimental schoolgirl for a romantic-looking music master!

As for the disturbing influence of Gerald Waring,