nose. “You girls wouldn’t know a mystery if you fell over it.”

   “Maybe not,” admitted Billie good-naturedly, her face brightening as she added, contentedly: “But I do know one thing, and that is that Miss Arbuckle is going to be very glad when she sees this old album again!”

   And she was right. When they reached Three Towers Hall Laura and Vi went upstairs to the dormitory to wash up and get ready for supper while Billie stopped at Miss Arbuckle’s door, eager to tell her the good news at once.

   She rapped gently, and, receiving no reply, softly pushed the door open. Miss Arbuckle was standing by the window looking out, and somehow Billie knew, even before the teacher turned around, that she had been crying again.

   The tired droop of the shoulders, the air of discouragement—suddenly there flashed across Billie’s mind a different picture, the picture of a tall lank man with stooped shoulders and dark, deep-set eyes, looking at her strangely.

   A puzzled little line formed itself across her forehead. Why, she thought, had Miss Arbuckle made her think of the man who called himself Hugo Billings and who lived in a hut in the woods?

   Perhaps because they both seemed so very sad. Yes, that must be it. Then her face brightened as she felt the bulky album under her arm. Here was something that would make Miss Arbuckle smile, at least.

   Billie spoke softly and was taken aback at the suddenness with which Miss Arbuckle turned upon her, regarding her with startled eyes.

   For a moment teacher and pupil regarded each other. Then slowly a pitiful, crooked smile twitched Miss Arbuckle’s lips and her hand reached out gropingly for the back of a chair.

   “Oh, it’s—it’s you,” she stammered, adding with an apologetic smile that made her look more natural: “I’m a little nervous to-day—a little upset. What is it, Billie? Why didn’t you knock?” The last words were said in Miss Arbuckle’s calm, slightly dry voice, and Billie began to feel more natural herself. She had been frightened when Miss Arbuckle swung around upon her.

   “I did,” she answered. “Knock, I mean. But you didn’t hear me. I found something of yours, Miss Arbuckle.” Her eyes fell to the volume she still carried under her arm, and Miss Arbuckle, following the direction of her gaze, recognized her album.

   She 

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