Title: The Third Class at Miss Kaye's - A School Story
Author: Brazil, Angela, 1868-1947
Language: English
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The Third Class at Miss Kaye's



    BY ANGELA BRAZIL

    "Angela Brazil has proved her undoubted talent for writing a
    story of schoolgirls for other schoolgirls to read."--=Bookman.=


    =The Jolliest Term on Record.= _3s. 6d._ "A capital story for
    girls."--Record.

    =The Girls of St. Cyprian's=: A Tale of School Life. _3s. 6d._
    "St. Cyprian's is a remarkably real school, and Mildred
    Lancaster is a delightful girl."--Saturday Review.

    =The Youngest Girl in the Fifth=: A School Story. 3s. 6d. "A very
    brightly-written story of schoolgirl character."--Daily Mail.

    =The New Girl at St. Chad's=: A Story of School Life. _3s. 6d._
    "The story is one to attract every lassie of good
    taste."--Globe.

    =For the Sake of the School.= _2s. 6d._ "Schoolgirls will do well
    to try to secure a copy of this delightful story, with which
    they will be charmed."--Schoolmaster.

    =The School by the Sea.= 2s. 6d. "One always looks for works of
    merit from the pen of Miss Angela Brazil. This book is no
    exception."--School Guardian.

    =The Leader of the Lower School=: A Tale of School Life. _2s. 6d._
    "Juniors will sympathize with the Lower School at Briarcroft,
    and rejoice when the new-comer wages her successful
    battle."--Times.

    =A Pair of Schoolgirls=: A Story of School-days. _2s. 6d._ "The
    story is so realistic that it should appeal to all
    girls."--Outlook.

    A Fourth Form Friendship: A School Story. 2s. 6d. "No girl could
    fail to be interested in this book."--Educational News.

    =The Manor House School.= _2s. 6d._ "One of the best stories for
    girls we have seen for a long time."--Literary World.

    =The Nicest Girl in the School=: A Story of School Life. _2s. 6d._

    =The Third Class at Miss Kaye's=: A School Story. _2s. 6d._

    =The Fortunes of Philippa=: A School Story. _2s._


    LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LTD., 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.



[Illustration: "THE WHEELBARROW SUDDENLY SEEMED TO PLUNGE INTO THE
GROUND"]



    The Third Class at Miss Kaye's
    A School Story

    BY
    ANGELA BRAZIL
    Author of "The Fortunes of Philippa"

    _ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR A. DIXON_

    BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
    LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY



Contents


    Chap.                                     Page

        I. A WET-DAY PARTY                       9

       II. AN IMPORTANT DECISION                23

      III. THE THIRD CLASS                      36

       IV. A FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL                49

        V. RIVALS                               62

       VI. SQUABBLES                            75

      VII. THE STORY OF MERCY INGLEDEW          88

     VIII. ALL-HALLOWS EVE AND GUY FAWKES      104

       IX. WHAT MISS KAYE THOUGHT OF IT        117

        X. SYLVIA'S BIRTHDAY                   129

       XI. THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS              142

      XII. THE SECRET SOCIETY                  153

     XIII. A SPRING PICNIC                     167

      XIV. WHITWEEK WITH LINDA                 181

       XV. AN EXCURSION WITH A DONKEY          194

      XVI. THE CHINESE CHARM                   206

     XVII. THE SKETCHING CLASS                 220

    XVIII. DR. SEVERN EXPLAINS                 231

      XIX. THE PRIZE GIVING                    244



Illustrations


                                                                  Page

    "THE WHEELBARROW SUDDENLY SEEMED TO PLUNGE INTO THE GROUND"
                                                 _Frontispiece_     54

    "SYLVIA WROTE HER FIRST LETTER HOME THAT EVENING"               60

    "IN A FEW MINUTES A GRAND BLAZE WAS FLARING UP"                126

    "HE ENTANGLED BOTH HER HAT AND HAIR IN A WILD-ROSE BUSH"       196



CHAPTER I

A Wet-day Party


Drip, drip, drip! The rain came pouring down on a certain September
afternoon, turning the tennis lawn to a swamp, dashing the bloom off
the roses, spoiling the geraniums, and driving even the blackbirds and
thrushes to seek shelter inside the summer house. It was that steady,
settled, hopeless rain that does not hold out the slightest promise of
ever stopping; there was not a patch of blue to be seen in the sky
sufficient to make the traditional seaman's jacket; several large
black snails were crawling along the garden walk as if enjoying the
bath; and the barometer in the hall, which started the day at "Set
Fair", had now sunk below "Change", and showed no signs of intending
to rise again.

Curled up in a large armchair placed in the bow window of a
well-furnished morning-room, a little girl of about eleven years old
sat peering out anxiously at the weather.

"It's far too wet!" she remarked cheerfully. "It never means to clear
to-day, and it's four o'clock now. They can't possibly come, so I
shall just settle down and enjoy myself thoroughly."

She spoke aloud to herself, a habit often indulged in by solitary
children, and, opening a copy of _Ivanhoe_, screwed herself round into
an attitude of still greater comfort, and set to work to read with
that utter disregard of outer happenings which marks the true lover of
books.

She was rather a pretty child; her features were good though the small
face was pale and thin; her hair was fair and fluffy, and she had
large hazel-grey eyes which looked so very dreamy sometimes that you
could imagine their owner was apt to forget the commonplace
surroundings of everyday life and live in a make-believe world that
was all her own. Equally oblivious of the driving rain outside and the
cosy scene within, Sylvia read on, so lost in her story that she did
not even notice when the door opened and her mother entered the room.

"Why, here you are, darling! I thought I should find you in Father's
study. I'm so sorry it's such a dreadful day for your party."

Sylvia put down her book with a slam, and dragging her mother into the
big armchair, installed herself on her knee and administered a
somewhat choking hug.

"Oh, Mother dear, I'm so glad!" she declared. "I didn't want a party,
and I've been watching the rain all the time and hoping it would go on
pouring."

"Sylvia! I thought you would be terribly disappointed. Don't you want
to see your little friends?"

"Not very much."

"But why, sweetheart?"

Sylvia squeezed her mother's hand in her own and sighed, as if she
found it rather difficult to explain herself.

"Lots of reasons," she said briefly.

"Tell me what they are."

"Why, for one thing, I've just got to the middle of _Ivanhoe_, where
Rowena is shut up in Front de Boeuf's castle, and I want to see how
she escapes. I'd much rather stay and read than go racing round the
garden playing at 'I spy!'"

"But I thought you liked Effie and May and the Fergusson boys."

"I hate boys!" declared Sylvia dramatically. "At least, not Cousin
Cuthbert and Ronald Hampson, but boys like the Fergusson boys. They do
nothing but tear about and play tricks on one. They're perfectly
hateful! I didn't enjoy my last party there one scrap. They tease me
most dreadfully every time I meet them."

"What about?"

"They call me 'The Tragic Muse', because they got hold of one of my
pieces of poetry. They made the most dreadful fun of it. And it wasn't
tragic at all. It was about the Waltons' baby, and its blue eyes and
curls and dimples. I did put dimples, though they read it out pimples!
I don't believe they know what tragic means, or a muse either, and I
do, because I learnt them in Greek history last month. Mrs. Walton
liked the poetry though. She said I must copy it into her album and
sign my name to it, and she thought I might be a poetess when I grew
up, and she expected it was that which kept me so thin, and had you
tried giving me cod-liver oil, because she was sure it would do me
good. You're not going to, are you? I took some once at Aunt Louisa's,
and it was the most disgusting stuff."

"I don't think you need any more medicine just at present, so we will
spare you the cod-liver oil," said Mrs. Lindsay, smiling. "Perhaps Roy
and Donald would have forgotten about the poem by this afternoon."

"No, they wouldn't. They never forgot anything if it's possible to
tease. I'd far rather they didn't come. I don't want the Waltons
either, or the Carsons. It's so nice and quiet in here, and Miss
Holt's out, and it's such a wet day that there won't be any callers,
and I can have tea with you in the drawing-room, and Father said
perhaps he would be back from the office by half-past five, and he
promised the next time he was home early that he'd go through my
museum and help me to label all the shells, and that would be far
nicer than a party."

"I thought you enjoyed playing with other children, dear," said Mrs.
Lindsay rather gravely.

"I don't think I do," replied Sylvia. "It's so hard to make them play
properly. They never can imagine things. When I tell the Waltons
there's a witch in the cupboard, they look inside and say there isn't
anybody there. They can't understand that you can pretend things until
they seem quite real, and yet it's only pretending. When I told
Beatrice and Nora Jackson that I knew a dragon lived in their coal
house, they went and told their governess, and she said she was afraid
I was not a truthful child!"

"That was too bad!"

"Yes, wasn't it? I'd rather not go to tea at the Jacksons'. Mrs.
Jackson always says I don't eat half enough. Beatrice and Nora have
four thick slices of plain bread and butter before they begin with
jam or honey, and great basins of bread-and-milk or soup plates full
of porridge for breakfast. I think it's rather rude of people to make
remarks on what you eat when you go out to tea. Don't you?"

"It just depends," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"Well, they don't like it themselves," continued Sylvia. "The last
time the Jacksons were here, when their nurse came to fetch them I
told her I was sure they had enjoyed themselves, for Nora had eaten
four buns and three sponge cakes, and Alfie had ten jam sandwiches and
a piece of Madeira cake. I thought it would please her to hear they
had had so much, when they scold me for eating so little, but she went
quite red in the face and said they were not greedy children anyway."

"It was hardly a happy remark, I am afraid," said Mrs. Lindsay. "You
will be wiser next time."

"People in books are so much nicer than real people," said Sylvia
plaintively. "If I could have a party and invite Little Lord
Fauntleroy, and Alice in Wonderland, and Rose out of _Eight Cousins_
and Rowena and Rebecca, and perhaps Queen Guinevere, and Hereward the
Wake, then I should really enjoy myself."

"Can't you pretend that your friends are heroes and heroines of
romance?" said Mrs. Lindsay, pinching Sylvia's pale cheeks. "You're so
fond of make-believe that it ought to be quite easy to imagine them
princes and princesses."

"It's not so easy as you'd think," replied Sylvia, shaking her head.
"I make up lovely stories about them sometimes, and they just go and
spoil it all. I played one afternoon that Effie was an enchanted
princess, shut up in a magic garden; but she kept on eating green
apples instead of simply looking lovely among the flowers, and when I
put a wreath of roses round her hair she said it had earwigs and
spiders in it, and she pulled it off. I didn't dare to tell her what I
was playing, because she laughs so, but I began a piece of poetry
about her, only it's never got beyond the first verse. Then there's
that boy who lives in the house with the green railings down the road.
I don't know his name, but he has blue eyes and very light curly hair.
Once I played for a whole week that he was Sir Galahad--he's exactly
like the picture Father showed me in that big book on the drawing-room
table; but just when I'd made up my mind that he was starting off to
find the Holy Grail, he threw a snowball at me, and trod hard on
Lassie's tail on purpose. Somehow I never could manage to think of him
as Sir Galahad after that. Now, Mother, don't laugh!"

"It would be rather difficult, I own," said Mrs. Lindsay, trying to
straighten her face. "I'm afraid you made an unfortunate choice in
your knight."

"It's just as bad," continued Sylvia, "if you pretend you're somebody
out of a book yourself. So much depends upon other people. I was
Rowena in _Ivanhoe_ yesterday. I had to be rather haughty; because,
you see, I was a Saxon princess, and everybody was accustomed to obey
my slightest wish. But Miss Holt didn't understand it in the least;
she said if I spoke to her again like that she should send me out of
the room. So I had to be Peter Pan instead, and Miss Holt asked me if
I had taken leave of my senses. She was really quite angry with me."

"I don't wonder. It doesn't do to mix up pretending with your lessons.
Do you know, it isn't raining nearly so fast now, and I certainly hear
a cab coming up the drive. I believe some of your friends are arriving
after all to have tea with you."

"Why, so they are!" exclaimed Sylvia, jumping up and running to the
window which commanded a view of the front door and steps. "What a
nuisance! It's Effie and May, and they've brought the little Carsons
with them. They'll have to play in the schoolroom, and they always
want my old dolls' house. I've put it away in the cupboard, and now I
suppose I shall have to rummage it out again. It's too bad! I thought
they wouldn't ask for it if we played in the garden. Don't you think I
might say I can't get it?"

"Oh, no, dear! If it will give them pleasure you must certainly let
them have it. Run along quickly, and open the hall door to welcome
them. It is very kind of Mrs. Walton to send them in spite of the
rain."

Sylvia went, but not too fast or too willingly. She was not at all
pleased to see her guests, and would much have preferred the afternoon
to herself.

"I never thought you'd come," she began, as the children sprang
quickly from the cab and ran up the steps into the porch.

"We were so dreadfully disappointed," said Effie. "We'd been watching
the weather all day. May nearly cried when it didn't clear up, and
Mother said it would be quite as disappointing for you, and she
thought we could play indoors; so she telephoned for a cab, and we
called for Bab and Daisy on our way, and brought them with us." So
saying she led in the two little mites in question, who were beaming
with smiles at their unexpected drive.

"Oh! our shoes!" cried May; "I've left them in the cab and the man's
driving away. Stop! Stop!" And she rushed out wildly into the rain.

The coachman drew up, and, dismounting from his box, gave her the
parcel, and she hurried in before Mrs. Lindsay had finished saying
good afternoon to the other children.

"We're goin' to play wiv the dolly house," announced Daisy as Sylvia
took her hand to lead her upstairs.

"And all the lickle chairs and tables," added Bab, as her fat legs
toiled after.

Sylvia said nothing. She was annoyed, for the dolls' house had been a
favourite toy. Though she was now too old to care to play with it, she
liked to keep its treasures intact, and feared Bab's and Daisy's small
fingers might work havoc among the miniature furniture and dainty
glass tea services. She had no brothers and sisters of her own to
spoil her things, or interfere with any of her plans or games, no one,
in fact, to consider except her all-important little self, and she was
so accustomed to keep the schoolroom as her special kingdom that it
put her out to be obliged to share it even for one afternoon. She
helped, however, to take off the Carsons' hats and coats, to unbutton
their boots, to tie Bab's hair ribbon, which had come off, and to
fasten May's pinafore, then escorted her unwelcome visitors
downstairs again with the best grace she could. It was not half so
interesting to have tea in the dining-room with four children, she
thought, as alone in the drawing-room with her mother, a privilege
which, owing to Mrs. Lindsay's many social duties, she did not often
get the chance to enjoy, and she wished with all her heart that either
Mrs. Walton or the cabstand had not been on the telephone.

If Sylvia were an ungracious hostess, however, her small friends at
any rate seemed thoroughly determined to enjoy themselves. They much
appreciated the honey, the raisin buns, and the iced sponge cake, and
were especially delighted with the crackers which Mrs. Lindsay brought
out at the conclusion of the meal.

"Crackers, though it's not Christmas!" cried Effie in astonishment.

"Why not?" said Mrs. Lindsay. "They are as much fun now as in
December, I think. Here are two for each of you, and you may take them
upstairs to the schoolroom and pull them when you get there."

There was a general stampede for the stairs, the four guests racing up
with great enthusiasm, while Sylvia followed leisurely behind,
debating in her mind whether it would be possible to lose the key of
the cupboard, and thus preserve her dolls' house from meddlesome
hands.

"The crackers will keep them busy for a short time," she reflected,
"and then I can just turn the key in the lock and hide it away behind
the bookcase. I'll give them the picture puzzles and a box of bricks
instead."

It is all very well, however, to make plans, but it is quite a
different thing to carry them out. The young Carsons knew perfectly
where the dolls' house was kept; they ran in front of Sylvia into the
schoolroom, and, flinging their crackers on to a chair, had opened the
cupboard and were begging her to lift down the coveted toy long before
she had any opportunity of locking the door, so there was nothing for
her to do but yield to their request, though she certainly felt
decidedly cross. She placed the dolls' house on the floor in a corner
of the room, and, having rescued one or two of the most fragile
ornaments, left Bab and Daisy to amuse themselves and turned her
attention to Effie and May. They were jolly, rollicking little girls
of eight and nine, who liked to run about playing boisterous games
much better than sitting quietly reading books. They had soon pulled
their crackers and taken out the whistles and lockets which they
contained, and now began to ask eagerly what they should do next.

"Can't we play 'Tig' on the landing?" said Effie.

"Or Tom Tiddler's Ground?" suggested May.

"There aren't enough of us," said Sylvia. "Besides, I don't expect
Mother would like it. The last time we played there we broke the big
Japanese jar, and Father was so angry about it. You haven't seen these
puzzle maps. Wouldn't it be fun to try and fit them together?"

"No, thanks; too like lessons," said May, pulling a face.

"We hate geography," added Effie.

"Would you care for Halma?"

"Don't know how to play," replied Effie.

"I could soon show you."

"Oh, we don't like learning new games!" said May. "I wish the
Fergussons had come."

"I'm thankful they didn't," thought Sylvia, who was not at all in a
nice temper to entertain her friends. "What a bother Effie and May
are! I wish they'd do something by themselves and not trouble me. I
don't mean to show them my museum, even if they ask. Shall I get out
the bagatelle?" she added aloud. "You know how to play that at any
rate."

"Oh, yes!" cried the little girls, helping her to lift the large board
and unfold it on the table. "That's ever such fun! Don't you remember
last time we made bigger scores than you did?"

"I forget," answered Sylvia. "But I think it's a better game for two
than three; you get more turns."

"Aren't you going to play then?" exclaimed Effie.

"No, I shall only spoil it for you. Besides, I have to look after Bab
and Daisy. You start and I'll come and score for you presently."

The small Carsons were so happily employed with the dolls' house that
there was not the slightest need for Sylvia to neglect her other
visitors on their behalf. Making them the excuse, however, she allowed
Effie and May to grow interested in their game, then, creeping quietly
out of the room, she fled downstairs to the study, where she had left
_Ivanhoe_ in the big armchair, and, returning with it to the
schoolroom, she settled herself in the window seat, and was soon so
absorbed in the storming of Torquilstone Castle that she forgot the
very existence of her companions.

Now, as fate would have it, the rain cleared up sufficiently for Aunt
Louisa to come about five o'clock and pay a call upon Mrs. Lindsay. If
she had not arrived on that particular day, and at that particular
hour, it is quite probable that the events recorded in this story
might never have happened at all. Sylvia was not sure whether she
altogether liked Aunt Louisa, who, though kind on the whole, and
liberal in the matter of birthday and Christmas presents, had a very
keen pair of eyes that seemed to notice directly when people were
selfish, or conceited, or trying to show off, and saw through excuses
and humbug in a moment. She considered Sylvia spoilt, and did not
hesitate to say so; but, on the other hand, she proved so good-natured
when her niece spent a day at Laurel Bank, and treated her as such a
sensible, almost grown-up person, that Sylvia invariably enjoyed
herself, and looked forward to going again.

It was about half-past five when Mrs. Lindsay and Aunt Louisa, having
finished their chat in the drawing-room, walked upstairs to take a
peep into the schoolroom and see how the children were getting on.
They found Bab and Daisy seated on the floor, much occupied in giving
the dolls' house babies their evening baths, while Effie and May were
playing bagatelle by themselves with a good deal of noise and shouting.

"And where is Sylvia?" asked Aunt Louisa, looking round in some
astonishment for the absent hostess.

"She's there," said Effie, pointing to the window seat. "She doesn't
care about playing. Go on, May, it's your turn."

Mrs. Lindsay walked across to the window, and, drawing aside the
curtains, disclosed Sylvia, squatting on her heels like a Turk, in the
corner of the seat, entirely taken up with the adventures of the black
knight and his outlawed companions. Her mother pulled the book from
her hand.

"Sylvia!" she exclaimed. "Don't you know it is extremely rude of you
to sit reading and leave your guests to amuse themselves? Get up this
minute!"

Sylvia obeyed with a very red face. She had never expected to be
caught like this.

"They were quite happy without----" she began, but meeting Aunt
Louisa's eye she wisely left the sentence unfinished.

"I'm sure they would enjoy some game you could all play together,"
said Mrs. Lindsay. "If we push the table aside there will be plenty of
room for Blind Man's Buff."

"Oh! Yes! Yes!" cried the little Carsons, bundling the dolls back into
the dolls' house, and dancing up and down with excitement, while Effie
and May, equally pleased, helped Sylvia to put away the bagatelle.

"Let Bab be blind man," begged Daisy.

"And turn me round three times," added Bab, beginning to revolve already
in delighted anticipation.

Both Mrs. Lindsay and Aunt Louisa were kind enough to join in the
game, and to institute several others afterwards, so that for an hour
the children had a most enjoyable romp, which continued until the
Carsons' nurse arrived to take Bab and Daisy home. Even Sylvia raced
about when she found her elders doing the same, and grew so rosy in
the effort that her mother looked at her pink cheeks with approval.

"Goodbye!" called the four small visitors, when at last hats, coats,
and boots had been put on, and they all hurried to start before a
threatening cloud brought down the rain again.

"They seem to have had a lovely time, and enjoyed themselves so much,
m'm," said the nurse, gathering up the parcels of shoes and taking
Daisy's hand.

"Did you enjoy it, Sylvia dear?" asked Mrs. Lindsay, as they stood in
the porch watching Bab's plump legs waddling along the drive in an
effort to keep pace with Effie's longer strides.

"No," replied Sylvia, "not nearly so much as having tea with you."

"Why don't you care for your friends, sweetheart?"

"Because I like being with you and Father better. That's the very
whole of the reason. Anybody else is such a bother!"

Mrs. Lindsay smoothed the fluffy hair, which was hanging in some
disorder after an uproarious game of Fox and Goose, and bent down to
kiss the little face that turned up so readily to meet her own.

"My precious pet!" she murmured fondly.

But Aunt Louisa shook her head.



CHAPTER II

An Important Decision


"Gordon," said Mrs. Lindsay to her husband on the following evening,
when he was enjoying his after-dinner cup of coffee in the
drawing-room, and she judged him to be in a suitable mood to discuss
knotty problems, "I am not at all happy about Sylvia."

Mr. Lindsay paused to take an extra lump of sugar, and to help himself
deliberately to some more cream.

"Why, what's wrong with the child?" he asked. "I thought she was
looking much as usual to-day."

"She looks quite well," replied Mrs. Lindsay; "but I don't feel
satisfied, all the same."

"Try a fresh tonic," suggested her husband, stretching himself lazily
in his chair as he spoke.

"A tonic would be of absolutely no use."

"Then you had better send for Dr. Fergusson to-morrow, and let him see
her; it's as well to take things in time."

"It's not a case for Dr. Fergusson, yet it has been distressing me for
some months. Louisa was here yesterday, and she noticed it also, and
spoke to me most seriously about it."

"Really, Blanche, you alarm me! What's the matter with Sylvia? If Dr.
Fergusson can do no good we must take her to a specialist."

"It's not her body, Gordon, it's her mind. She's a dear child, but
she's growing so old-fashioned and sedate, she's more like a little
old woman than a girl of scarcely eleven. Louisa says it's most
unhealthy."

"I wish Louisa would mind her own business," said Mr. Lindsay,
frowning; "I can't see anything amiss with Sylvia. I think her
old-fashioned ways are particularly charming."

"Yet they are not natural at her age. She's living in a world of
dreams and make-believe. Books are all very well, but it's not good
for her to be entirely buried in them."

"She has a strong imagination," replied Mr. Lindsay, "a thing Louisa
can never appreciate. She inherits it from me, and I fully sympathize
with her funny little pretendings."

"Yes, when pretendings don't take the place of real life. Sylvia has
been such a solitary child, so accustomed to play by herself and make
her own amusements, that she has almost lost the desire for young
companions."

"I thought she had plenty of friends. Didn't I meet some of them going
away yesterday as I returned home?"

"Yes, but she doesn't enjoy having them here. I should be sorry,
Gordon, to believe our darling was selfish."

"That she most certainly is not!" declared Mr. Lindsay emphatically.

"Not with us, but I'm afraid she doesn't like her small plans
disturbed by other children. She's not very ready to give up her own
way; indeed I was obliged to scold her yesterday for reading a book
instead of entertaining her visitors."

"She gets absorbed in her books."

"Too much so. She needs to be made to run about more. She's such a
gentle little mouse, she always prefers quiet games to a romp. It's
not healthy for a child to live continually with only grown-up people.
We've thought so earnestly about her education, and she has been
taught so carefully and well, that I really believe we've given her a
kind of mental indigestion!"

Mr. Lindsay laughed.

"She's very bright for her age," he said. "She can talk about botany
and antiquities as well or better than many an older person. I'd
rather have Sylvia for a companion than half the people I know."

"But she mustn't turn out a prig, and I fear she's in sad danger of
doing so if we don't take matters in hand at once. Intellectual
interests are delightful, and we want her to have them, but they
hardly supply the place of tennis and rounders at eleven years of age.
She's far too thin and pale and fragile looking. Louisa says we have
been developing her mind at the expense of her body."

Mr. Lindsay groaned and wrinkled up his forehead into lines and
puckers.

"What does Louisa propose that we should do then?" he enquired. "I've
no doubt she has some plan to suggest."

"She thinks Sylvia ought to be sent away to school."

"Then there is plenty of time to talk it over before Christmas."

"Not at Christmas. At once. The September term has only just begun,
and it's not at all too late."

"Whew! But what about Miss Holt? We couldn't pack her off at a
moment's notice."

"Her brother's wife died during the summer holidays, and she would be
only too delighted to go to keep house for him in Derbyshire and look
after his motherless children. I believe she didn't wish to return
here, only she didn't like to break faith with me. We needn't take her
into consideration."

"Then you actually propose to send Sylvia away immediately?"

"I am sure it would be for the best."

"But where?"

"Louisa knows the very school; Miss Kaye's at Aberglyn, where Bertha
Harding was educated. It seems satisfactory in every way, and the
Welsh mountain air would suit Sylvia; she looked so well after that
fortnight we spent at Llandudno."

"I should like to know a little more about it first. Sylvia is such an
unusual child, and would be miserable if she were popped down amongst
an unsympathetic number of girls and a set of teachers who didn't
understand her."

"Miss Kaye is a clever woman. I think her system seems excellent."

"I don't wish Sylvia to grow up a kind of walking dictionary, with her
mind so crammed full of Greek, Latin, and Euclid that there's no room
for an original idea."

"She won't there. The girls lead a very rational, healthy life, with
plenty of time for games and outdoor exercise."

"Neither do I want her conversation to consist of nothing but golf and
hockey, like some of the young ladies of my acquaintance, whom I'm
afraid I scarcely admire."

"Gordon, how perverse you are! Louisa shall talk to you herself, and
tell you everything about the school that you can possibly wish to
know. She's coming to-morrow, when we can discuss the question
thoroughly, and in the meantime we must take care that Sylvia doesn't
get the least idea of what is in the wind."

If our little heroine could only have known the consultations which
were taking place about her future she would no doubt have acted very
differently on the following day; but as she was quite unaware that
any change was proposed, she naturally went on in her accustomed way,
with the result that her father, who was regarding her from a new
standpoint, noticed a good many things to which he had previously been
absolutely blind. In the first place she was dainty at breakfast;
refused her egg because it did not happen to be a brown one, left her
toast when she found that the crust was burnt, and helped herself to
an enormous serving of marmalade, which she did not finish. She argued
hotly with Miss Holt about some trifling point, and even took upon
herself to correct her mother. She never passed anything at table
without being asked, jumped up and began to read a book before the
others had finished, pretended not to hear when she was requested to
ring the bell, and had to be told twice that it was nine o'clock
before she would go upstairs to the schoolroom.

"It's certainly high time we sent her away," thought Mr. Lindsay. "I'm
afraid, with the best of intentions, we've completely spoilt her.
Louisa's right. She needs to be among other girls, to have her corners
rubbed off. At school there's no allowance made for fads and fancies,
and she would be obliged to fall in with the general rules. It will do
her good to be of a little less importance than she is at home.
Strange that I never noticed all this before!"

When Aunt Louisa arrived, therefore, in the evening, prepared to
encounter a great many objections to her suggestion, she was surprised
to find that her brother agreed with her so easily, and, after
listening to her detailed accounts of Miss Kaye's excellent
arrangements, consented quite readily that Sylvia should be sent there
as soon as the necessary preliminaries had been settled and her
clothing should be considered in due order.

"A week will be ample time for that," said Aunt Louisa. "Miss Saunders
will soon run her up a school frock, and you could send anything else
she requires afterwards, Blanche. It would be a pity for her to lose
more of the term than we can help. She won't like to find herself
behind-hand in the classes, and now you have made up your minds it
will be better not to let her have too long to think it over."

"I don't know what Sylvia will say!" sighed Mrs. Lindsay, who half
repented of parting with her darling. "I'm afraid she will never
forgive us."

"I shouldn't ask her," replied Aunt Louisa firmly. "She will like it
very much when once she gets there, and the improvement which it will
make in her is well worth a few tears at the start. I beg, Blanche,
that you will not be foolish now, and stand in the way of the child's
real good."

"I'll try not," said poor Mrs. Lindsay, wiping her eyes; "but when
you've only the one, and she's never been away from you before, it
seems so hard to let her go."

"Oh, you'll get over that! I felt just the same when Cuthbert first
went to school, and I'm quite accustomed to it now. We can't expect to
keep our children always tied to our apron strings."

"I suppose not, but boys are different from girls, and Sylvia has been
such a pet. If she's not happy at Heathercliffe House she'll simply
make herself ill with fretting, and the cure will be worse than the
disease."

"I'm sure she will not do so. She will be so interested in her work
and her new companions that, after the first few days of homesickness
are over, she will settle down and like her fresh life immensely."

"You really think so?" said Mrs. Lindsay. "Well, the decision is made
and I suppose we must keep to it now; but I'm dreading the moment when
I shall have to break the news to her."

To Sylvia the announcement came as a great shock. She was totally
unprepared for it, and the idea of such a sudden change was anything
but a welcome one. When she fully understood that in one short week
she was to be banished to a strange place, among people whom she had
never seen, she clung to her mother in such a passion of tears that
if it had not been for the thought of what Aunt Louisa would say, Mrs.
Lindsay would have yielded and have begged her husband to keep the
child at home after all. As it was, she did her best to soothe her,
and to paint the future in as bright colours as her fancy could
depict.

"I'll never be happy again, never!" sobbed Sylvia. "I shall be as
miserable as Evelyn in _The Little Heiress_ or Rosalie in _The Orphan
Cousin_. They both broke their hearts until the last chapter, and so
shall I."

"Nonsense, darling, you must try to be brave! Heathercliffe House is a
most charming school, and I'm sure you will be happy. You'll find ever
so many nice little girls of about your own age who will be ready to
make friends with you, and there will be plenty of fun going on as
well as lessons. I want you to make some more friends."

"I have Effie and May."

"They're too young for you. You would get on better with girls rather
older than yourself, I believe. It will be quite a new thing for you
to be one of a class. I'm sure you will like Miss Kaye."

"If she's like the mistress in _Sara Crewe_ I shall hate her,"
declared Sylvia.

"But she's not. She's very kind and not at all prim. She takes the
girls the most delightful country walks, and sometimes they go down to
the beach. You're so fond of the seaside, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Sylvia doubtfully, "when it's holidays, and you and
Father are there. I shall have to pretend I'm an outlaw or a hostage,
like Richard in _The Little Duke_, and that my subjects are busy
fighting to keep my kingdom while I'm away."

"Imagine anything you wish, dear; but I don't suppose you will need to
amuse yourself with pretendings at Aberglyn. You will find some fresh
books there, at any rate; there is a large school library."

"I'd like that. But oh, Mother, I shall have my birthday at school!"

"I'm sorry for that; but we can send you your presents, and you shall
have your party when you come home. Now, won't you be my brave girl,
and cheer up? I want to begin to decide what things you're to take
with you, and what must be left behind."

So much had to happen during Sylvia's last brief week at home that
from morning till night the days seemed completely full. Her usual
lessons with her governess were given up, and the schoolroom turned
for a time into a kind of outfitting establishment. Miss Saunders, the
dressmaker, was installed at the table with her sewing machine,
working at a school frock and a new autumn coat, while her mother and
Miss Holt between them hastily finished winter underclothes.

"We don't know how soon the weather may turn cold," said Mrs. Lindsay,
"and it's as well to send everything at once if we can, though I
expect the thick nightdresses will have to follow."

Sylvia found it really rather exciting, and if it had not been for the
thought of parting from her father and mother she would have quite
enjoyed being a person of such great importance. It was decidedly
gratifying to have Aunt Louisa coming in every day to consult about
her clothes and assist in choosing her new hat; she had never taken so
much notice of her little niece before, except occasionally to express
disapproval, and Sylvia felt that at last her aunt was giving her the
consideration which was only her due. Then the shopping expeditions
were great fun; it seemed nice to buy yards of hair ribbon at a time,
and several pairs of boots and gloves, as well as a dozen pocket
handkerchiefs, a mackintosh, and a pair of goloshes. Miss Holt was
kept busy marking her new possessions, stitching tapes on stockings,
and lengthening her winter petticoats.

She had quite a number of presents given her to take to school. Aunt
Louisa surprised her one day with a lovely green Russia-leather
writing case, fitted inside with notepaper, envelopes, postcards, and
everything she would be likely to need for her letters home, including
a pen with an ivory handle, and six gilt nibs. There was a key that
would lock and unlock it, and her initials were stamped in gold
letters on the top flap. To say that she was pleased would hardly
express her satisfaction. Uncle George sent her a paintbox--not the
ordinary children's kind which she had always had before, but one with
china pans of good colours and proper sable brushes that had the most
delicate points and would go neatly into corners that her old
camel-hair ones would have certainly smudged. Her mother gave her a
beautiful new Bible, bound in dark-purple morocco, with many
illustrations of Eastern scenes, and maps and a concordance at the
end.

"You must read a little piece every day, darling, as you do at home,
though I shall not be there to explain it to you. Miss Holt has made
you this pretty marker to keep your place, and I have put a sprig of
lavender at our favourite chapter."

Father had bought her a Prayer Book and hymnbook in a case to take
to church on Sundays, and added a tiny purse in which to keep her
collection money. Cousin Cuthbert sent a cedarwood pencil box
containing a blue-handled penknife, several new lead pencils, an
indiarubber, and an ink eraser; the cook made her a box of toffee, and
the housemaid crocheted a toilet tidy to hang on her dressing table. A
large new trunk had arrived, and stood in the spare bedroom all ready
to be packed, and so many parcels were being delivered from various
shops that it was quite an excitement to carry each fresh one upstairs
to the schoolroom and open it.

"I hope Miss Kaye will find you as well on as other girls of your
age," said Miss Holt anxiously, as she sorted out a few lesson books
and some pieces of music for Sylvia to take with her. "Do remember
that _aller_ is an irregular verb! I should be so ashamed if you began
'_j'alle_, _tu alles_, _il alle_,' as you did last week! I wish you
would look up the dates of the kings and queens of England before you
go, and your weights and measures. I'm afraid you are not very certain
of some of them, especially square and cubic. I think you are pretty
good at spelling, but I'm sure they will consider you write badly for
nearly eleven years old; you don't hold your pen properly, and you
make so many blots. I hope they won't ask you for the geography of
Europe, for you've only learnt England and physical outlines; and when
you play Clementi's second sonatina, don't forget that you always
count the time wrong in the fourth bar. I have told you about it so
often."

"All right, Miss Holt!" replied Sylvia, "I'll do my best, but I wish
we could lose old Clementi; I do so hate the sonatinas. I hope my new
teacher will give me some fresh pieces, and won't bother with the
metronome. I think it's that which makes me count wrong. I'll tell her
it's not your fault, anyway. Are you going to teach your nephews and
nieces in Derbyshire?"

"No, they all attend a day school except the baby, who is too young
for lessons. I shall have plenty to do in looking after them and the
house. I hope you will be happy, Sylvia, in your new life. I have
tried to ground you thoroughly, and any future teachers ought to find
you fairly well-informed upon most subjects."

There was very little time left even for the final instructions which
Miss Holt considered necessary; the days seemed literally to fly, and
the last one came only too soon for all concerned. Effie and May
called to say good-bye, much distressed at parting with their
playfellow, and immensely impressed by the preparations, which Sylvia
was secretly extremely proud of being able to show to them.

"You'll be too big to play with us when you come back," said Effie
wistfully.

"No, I shan't," replied Sylvia, kissing them in a rather superior and
patronizing manner. "I shall like to have you just as much at my
Christmas party; but perhaps I shan't care to romp about quite in the
same way, because, you see, when I come back I shall be eleven years
old, and one of Miss Kaye's girls at Heathercliffe House."



CHAPTER III

The Third Class


Heathercliffe House was a large modern building which stood in its own
grounds about a mile from the sea, and an equal distance from the
railway station at Aberglyn. It looked bright and cheerful on the
October afternoon when a cab containing Mrs. Lindsay and Sylvia turned
in at the gate and drove slowly up the drive to the front door.
Sylvia, gazing with eager eyes from the window, noticed the trim
garden, the shrubbery of laurels and rhododendrons, the beds still gay
with geraniums, and the smooth lawns where in the distance she could
just catch a glimpse of girls playing tennis. As the cab passed under
a big chestnut tree she saw a little girl of about her own age run
rapidly to the top of a bank, and, hiding behind a broom bush, peep
down with evident curiosity at the newcomers below. She was a bonny
child with a creamy complexion, blue eyes, and thick, straight, brown
hair, tied with a ribbon that at present hung over her left ear; she
stared hard at Sylvia as the latter leaned out of the window, then,
seeing Mrs. Lindsay in the background, she took fright and dashed away
among the shrubs even more quickly than she had come.

"I wonder what her name is, and if I shall like her!" thought Sylvia.
"She looks nice. Oh! There are some more of them!" as about half a
dozen older girls paused in a game of croquet to glance at the cab,
and several little ones, playing under a tree, pointed eagerly, for
which they were evidently reproved by a teacher who was with them.
There was no time, however, to see further; the cab had drawn up at
the front steps, the cabman was ringing the bell, and Mrs. Lindsay was
collecting small parcels and telling Sylvia to jump out first.

Sylvia felt very serious indeed when they were ushered into the
drawing-room, and Miss Kaye came forward to meet them. She was a tall,
pleasant-looking lady, still fairly young, with a fresh colour, brown
eyes, and thick coils of smooth auburn hair. She had a brisk, cheerful
manner, and was not in the least like the old-fashioned severe sort of
mistress about whom Sylvia had read in _What Katy did at School_ and
_Sara Crewe_, and whom she had been expecting to see. She welcomed her
new pupil kindly, and ordered tea to be brought in at once.

"Our usual schoolroom tea is at five o'clock," she said, "but to-day
you shall have yours here, as I know you will wish to be with your
mother as long as possible. Then, when you have seen your bedroom, and
taken off your things, you will be ready to make friends with some of
your companions."

Sylvia sat very solemnly during tea, listening to the talk between
Miss Kaye and her mother, and though the mistress sometimes addressed
a question to her she was much too shy to answer anything except
"Yes" or "No". She was glad when the ordeal was over and Miss Kaye
suggested that, as Mrs. Lindsay had only a short time left before she
must return to the station, they would like to look through the
school, and see both classrooms and dormitories.

When she tried afterwards to recall her first impressions of
Heathercliffe House she had only a confused remembrance of clinging
very tightly, almost desperately, to her mother's hand, as they were
shown the neat bedrooms, the large empty playroom, the schoolrooms
with their desks and blackboards, and took a peep into the dining-room
where rows of girls of all ages were sitting round two long tables
having tea. Then came the moment which she had been dreading from the
beginning, that hurried last goodbye, that final hug as Mrs. Lindsay
kissed her again and again and hastened down the steps into the cab,
the rumble of the departing wheels, and the sudden sense that she was
left alone in a school of more than thirty girls, and that she did not
yet know one of them even by name. An overwhelming rush of
homesickness swept over her, so bitter in its force that she almost
cried out with the intensity of the pain; she stood still in the hall
with the dazed expression of one newly awakened from a dream, turning
a deaf ear to Miss Kaye's well-meant efforts at consolation, and
longing only for some safe retreat where she might escape to have a
little private weep, out of reach of watching eyes. Seeing the
mistress pause to speak to a teacher who came at that instant from the
dining-room, she seized the opportunity, and dived into the
drawing-room, where she ran to the window to catch the last glimpse of
the coachman's hat as he drove through the gate, and disappeared
behind the trees and bushes which bordered the road. Miss Kaye did not
follow her; perhaps long experience had taught her that it was
sometimes best to leave new girls judiciously alone, and for a few
minutes she stood playing absently with the tassel of the blind, and
struggling hard to keep back her rising tears. Why had she been
brought to school? Why had she not begged her mother to take her home
with her? It was cruel to send her away. It was all Aunt Louisa's
doing, she was sure. She could never make herself happy, and she
should write to-night to her father and tell him so. Perhaps he might
relent and come to fetch her.

"I shall be the most miserable girl in the school," she said to
herself. "Far worse than Florence in _The New Pupil_; she only 'shed a
few tears', and I'm going to cry quarts, I know I am."

She took out her handkerchief ready for the expected deluge, but life
is often very different from what we propose, and before she had time
to do more than wipe away the first scalding drop she was startled by
a voice at her elbow. Turning round hastily she found herself face to
face with the little girl who had run to the top of the bank to peep
at her as she came up the drive, and who now stood smiling in a
particularly friendly fashion.

"Miss Kaye has sent me to take you to the playroom," she said. "We've
just finished tea. You've had yours, haven't you? So come along."

"What's your name?" asked Sylvia, stuffing her handkerchief back into
her pocket in a hurry, and blinking the remains of a drop off her
eyelashes. She was too proud to care to be caught crying like a baby,
and hoped her companion had not noticed.

"Linda Marshall. I know yours. Miss Kaye told us this morning. You're
going to be in our class, and you're to sleep in my bedroom, because
I'm the only one who hasn't got a room mate. Do come! Miss Kaye'll be
cross if we're not quick. We're not allowed in the drawing-room at
all, only she sent me in to fetch you."

"Do you like being here?" asked Sylvia, following her new friend with
some deliberation.

"Sh! we mayn't speak in the hall! There, I can talk to you now we're
down the passage. Yes, of course, I like it. Everyone does; we have
such jolly times. Now come here," pausing with her hand on the door
handle, "I want to go in quite suddenly and surprise them."

She flung the door open, and, with a giggle, announced "Miss Sylvia
Lindsay", giving our heroine such a vigorous push forward that she
nearly fell into the midst of a group of girls who were standing close
by. There were six of them, and they had evidently been waiting to see
the new arrival, though they pretended they were only finding some
books and putting away their paintboxes. They looked steadily at
Sylvia, but no one volunteered a remark, and the silence would have
grown oppressive had not Linda come to the rescue. "Now then," she
cried, "have you all gone dumb? Sylvia, this is our class. I'll tell
you their names. Connie Camden, Hazel Prestbury, Marian and Gwennie
Woodhouse, Nina Forster, and Jessie Ellis. There were only seven of us
before, and you'll make eight. It's a much nicer number, because we
can just get up a set of lancers by ourselves now, without one of the
second class joining. I hope you know the lancers?"

"A little," said Sylvia, who felt rather overwhelmed by the six pairs
of eyes fixed upon her.

"We'll soon teach you if you don't. The dancing lessons begin next
week, and they are such fun. Miss Delaney is a perfect dear. We all
adore her. I'm sure you'll think she's sweet; won't she, girls?"

"Of course she will," said Marian Woodhouse. "I ought to know, because
I learnt from Miss Delaney before I came here. We're to have the
tarantella this term."

"And a skirt dance," added Hazel Prestbury. "Have you brought an
accordion-pleated dress with you for dancing?"

"I don't think so," replied Sylvia. "But Mother was going to send some
of my clothes afterwards. I came away in rather a hurry."

"You're late though," said Connie Camden. "It's nearly three weeks
since we started the term. We came back on the 14th of September."

"Why didn't you come then?" asked Nina Forster.

"I don't know. Father only decided to send me a week ago."

"Well, you can try to catch us up, but we've done twenty pages of the
new history," said Marian Woodhouse, "and read the first canto of
_Marmion_. We shall have to tell you the story."

"I know it, thank you," replied Sylvia. "I had it with my governess at
home."

"Oh!" said Marian, looking rather disgusted. "But I don't suppose you
took any of the notes, and Miss Arkwright explains it quite
differently from anyone else. What sums are you at?"

"Weights and measures," said Sylvia.

"Why, we did those in the baby class! We're doing fractions now."

"We've only just begun them," said Linda. "Don't bother about lessons,
Marian. We've barely ten minutes before prep, and I want to show
Sylvia her locker."

The six children who, with Linda and Sylvia, made up Class III at Miss
Kaye's, were all very much of an age. Hazel Prestbury was the eldest;
a tall fair girl of twelve, with regular features and a quantity of
pretty light hair which fell below her waist, and of which she was
exceedingly proud. She could be rather clever when she troubled to
work, but as that did not often happen she rarely stood high in her
form, though she was well advanced in music, and played better than
many girls of thirteen and fourteen. Marian Woodhouse, only an inch
shorter, had a good complexion, and curly ruddy hair plaited in a
thick pigtail. So far she had easily kept head of the class, for she
was bright, and such a good guesser that she often contrived to make
Miss Arkwright think she knew more than was really the case. She liked
to manage other people, to take the lead, and keep everybody up to the
mark, and was more of a favourite with the teachers than she was with
her companions. There could have been no greater contrast to her than
her sister Gwennie, a round, rosy dumpling of a girl, so gentle and
quiet and unassuming that she scarcely ever seemed to have an opinion
of her own, being content to follow Marian blindly, whom she
considered the cleverest person in the whole world. The girls often
called the pair "Voice and Echo", because poor Gwennie so faithfully
upheld everything which her elder sister said, no matter whether it
proved right or wrong. Connie Camden was the jolliest little romp
imaginable. She was not at all pretty, and wore her lank, colourless
brown hair cut short like a boy's, but she had frank grey eyes, and
though she was continually getting into scrapes, her honest,
straightforward ways atoned for much that was lacking in other
respects. She was one of a large family, and had three sisters in the
school, all with the same reputation for endless jokes and high
spirits. Nina Forster, a graceful, delicate-looking child of ten,
spoilt by her weak mouth and indecisive chin, was generally lost in
adoration of some favourite among the bigger girls. Her friendships
were of the briefest, but very hot while they lasted, and she seemed
able to change her affections so easily from one object to another
that she had a different idol nearly every week. Jessie Ellis, whose
plain, freckled little face could look almost pretty when she smiled,
had been placed in the third class solely because she was too big to
remain any longer in the Kindergarten. She was dull at lessons, having
a poor memory and a lack of any power of grasping a subject; she was
the despair of Miss Arkwright, and took her seat placidly at the
bottom of the form as regularly as Marian Woodhouse occupied the top.

Sylvia was excused from preparation on this first evening, and was
taken instead by Miss Coleman to unpack her box and arrange her
drawers.

Heathercliffe House had been specially built for a school, and was so
designed that, instead of long dormitories or curtained cubicles,
there were rows of small bedrooms, each intended to accommodate two
girls. The one which Sylvia was to share with Linda Marshall stood at
the end of the upper corridor. It was a pretty little room with a pink
paper, and a white-enamelled mantelpiece. The furniture was also in
white enamel, and consisted of a washstand, two chests of drawers, and
a large wardrobe fixed into the wall, containing two separate
compartments with a drawer for best hats at the bottom of each. The
beds had pink quilts to match the paper, the jugs and basins were
white with pink rims, while even the mats on the dressing table were
made of white muslin over pink calico.

Sylvia looked round with approval. She had expected school to be a
bare, cheerless place, but this was as dainty as her own room at home.
The walls were hung with pictures in oak frames, there was a small
bookshelf beside each bed where Bibles and favourite volumes could be
kept, and the mantelpiece was covered with tiny china cats, dogs, and
other animals, which Miss Coleman said belonged to Linda.

It took some time to arrange Sylvia's possessions, for the mistress
was very particular as to where they were put, and informed Sylvia
that she would be expected to keep them exactly in that order, and her
drawers would be examined once a week.

"Your dressing gown is to hang behind the door; there is a hook here
for your bath towel, which, by the by, you are never to leave in the
bathroom; your sponge must go in the lefthand sponge basket, and your
bedroom slippers under this chair. Your coats must, of course, always
be kept in the wardrobe, but your boots are to go downstairs. You may
lay your writing case and paintbox on the chest of drawers, or keep
them in your locker in the playroom."

"I'm glad I brought a white nightdress case," thought Sylvia; "it
looks much nicer on the pink bed than the blue one Mother nearly
packed instead. When I've put out my photos it will feel more homey.
I'll write to Mother to-morrow and tell her all about it."

When at last everything had been tidily set in its right place, and a
servant had carried the empty box to the boxroom, Miss Coleman took
Sylvia to the playroom, and, giving her a book, told her she might
read until her companions came to join her. The girls of the third
class did preparation and practising until seven, after which they
were allowed half an hour's recreation until supper. They had the
playroom to themselves, as the little ones had gone to bed by that
time, and the elder girls had a separate sitting-room of their own.
Precisely as the clock struck seven Linda Marshall, Hazel Prestbury,
Connie Camden, and Nina Forster came tearing in.

"I thought we'd find you here," cried Linda. "We're just through
prep., but I don't know my history in the least. Do you, Hazel?"

"Not a morsel. Miss Arkwright will scold to-morrow. It's dreadfully
hard, though; I don't suppose anybody will know it properly."

"Except Marian," said Nina.

"Oh, yes, Marian! She'll scrape through somehow. She always does. Look
here, Sylvia! If you're clever, I wish you'd take down Marian
Woodhouse. We're quite tired of seeing her always top."

"She's so conceited about it," said Connie Camden.

"She thinks no one else can do anything but herself," said Nina
Forster.

"Yes, do try, Sylvia," said Linda; "it would be lovely if you got
above her. It would do her ever so much good."

"Oh, do!" pleaded the others.

"Why don't you try yourselves?" asked Sylvia.

"Oh, we can't; it's no use!" said Connie; "but you look clever, and
I'm sure you'll be able to learn things. She needn't think she's going
to have it all her own way this term, because----"

"Hush, she's here!" said Hazel quickly, as the door opened, and Marian
came in, carrying her music case, followed shortly afterwards by
Gwennie and Jessie Ellis.

"What shall we play to-night?" asked Connie, who had gone rather red.
"I don't think she heard," she whispered to Hazel.

"Word-making," said Marian decisively. "Here's the box."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Nina and Hazel, "that's a stupid game. We don't
like it at all."

"Yes, you do. Don't be silly. Come along."

"I vote for telegrams," suggested Linda.

"No!" cried Marian.

"Yes!" cried the others in such overwhelming majority that Marian had
to give way, though she looked anything but pleased.

Pencils and pieces of paper were collected, the eight girls seated
themselves round the table, and each set to work to concoct a telegram
the words of which must commence with twelve letters read out at
random, in the order in which they were given. The letters were: T, C,
M, I, C, D, C, I, W, E, A, B. They proved a little puzzling to fit
together, but after much nibbling of pencils, and knitting of brows,
everybody managed to get something written, and Marian volunteered to
read them out.

The first happened to be Sylvia's. She had put: "Tell Charley Mother
ill. Cook dead. Come immediately. Will explain all. Bertha."

"It's not bad," said Marian condescendingly, "but you don't know how
to spell. You've written C-h-a-r-l-e-y."

"Well, and that's the right way too!" said Sylvia.

"Indeed it's not, it's C-h-a-r-l-i-e. Why, even Jessie Ellis knows
that."

"I've seen it C-h-a-r-l-e-y in a book," objected Sylvia, who meant to
fight her own battles.

"Then it must have been a misprint."

"I believe you can spell it both ways," said Hazel, "just like Lily or
Lillie."

"Then it's old-fashioned, and my way's the best," declared Marian, who
loved to argue.

"Oh, get on and never mind!" cried Linda. "We want to hear the other
telegrams. What does it matter how we spell them?"

At half-past seven a tray with glasses of milk and plates of
bread-and-butter and biscuits was brought into the room, and, when
supper was finished, Mercy Ingledew, the monitress, came to see that
all went off to their bedrooms, going upstairs with them to help to
plait their hair and superintend the due brushing of teeth and the
tidy disposal of clothes. From the beginning it had seemed so new and
strange and exciting that Sylvia had not yet found time for the tears
which she had fully intended to shed, and it was only when she was in
bed and the light turned out that she suddenly remembered how homesick
she was. Even then the fresh events kept mixing themselves up with her
regrets, and as she mopped her cheeks with her damp pocket handkerchief
she thought: "It's much more interesting than I expected. I shall like
Linda. But Marian Woodhouse needn't think she's going to teach me
everything. I dare say I can learn lessons as well as she does. It
would be lovely if I could be head of the class. I'm going to try
and try just as hard as I possibly can, and then I could write to
Mother and tell her I was top."

And with this meritorious resolution she fell asleep.



CHAPTER IV

A First Day at School


There were thirty-three girls at Heathercliffe House, and they were
divided into four forms. Miss Kaye herself taught the first class,
Miss Barrett the second, Miss Arkwright the third, and Miss Coleman
the Kindergarten, while Mademoiselle took French and Needlework, and
Miss Denby the music, a few elder girls, however, learning from a
master, who came twice a week to give lessons.

Sylvia found that she very soon settled down into the ordinary routine
of her new life. Miss Kaye was kind, and tried to make school seem as
much like home as possible. There were a certain number of clearly
defined rules, but on the whole the pupils were allowed a good deal of
liberty, which she trusted to their sense of honour not to abuse. Four
of the eldest girls were monitresses, responsible for the behaviour of
the third and fourth forms, and the younger ones were encouraged to
come to them with their troubles or difficulties.

"You see, telling a monitress isn't like telling a teacher," said
Linda, "and Mercy Ingledew's so nice she never makes mischief. I'm
glad she's on our landing instead of Kathleen Gilchrist."

To Linda Sylvia had been attracted at once, and when she found that
her room-mate liked the same occupations and the same books as
herself, had read _Eight Cousins_ and _The Little Duke_ and was just
beginning _Ivanhoe_, she felt the friendship was sealed. Linda was
certainly a very different companion from Effie and May or any of the
other children whom Sylvia had known at home. She seemed so much older
and more sensible, and was interested in many things which she was
only too pleased to explain to her new friend.

"You must come and see our gardens," she said on the first morning,
when lessons were over and the girls were amusing themselves in the
grounds. "They're over here at the other side of the lawn. We may each
have a small one of our own or share a double one. They don't look
very nice now, because of course we couldn't take care of them in the
holidays and the weeds grew so dreadfully, but it's getting time to
dig them up and plant bulbs. This is mine. There isn't much in it now
the annuals are over. If you like I'll give it up and join at a larger
one with you."

"That would be jolly," said Sylvia, "if there's one to spare."

"Oh yes! Nobody has that big double one by the cucumber frame. Shall
we begin now to weed, and on Saturday we can move out any plants we
want and decide what we'll put in it. Come along for the gardening
tools. I shall have to lend you mine."

The tools were kept in a shed at the back of the house. Linda had a
dear little set of spade, rake, hoe, trowel, and basket, so the pair
set to work at once upon the new patch of ground.

"Please dig carefully," said Linda, "in case we come across any
treasures. This piece belonged to Ellie Turner and Sophy Hardman, and
they may have left something in it. Yes, I believe that's a clump of
daffodils. I remember they had some, and there was a root of
forget-me-not in the corner if no one else has taken it away."

"Couldn't we do anything special with our garden?" asked Sylvia.

"What do you mean by special?" said Linda.

"Something that would be different from anybody else's. Couldn't we
put our names in flowers?"

"We might sow them in mustard and cress in the spring."

"Yes, but now. Suppose we put Linda at one end and Sylvia at the other
in white stones."

"Oh, that would be lovely! What a glorious idea! We'll borrow Sadie
Thompson's wheelbarrow and do it at once. How did you think of such a
jolly thing? I wonder where Sadie is. We'll go and look for her."

It was a vain search, however, for Sadie could not be found, and
nobody appeared to know where she was; so after hunting for some time
Linda gave it up.

"What a nuisance!" she cried. "I shall take it out without asking her;
we really can't wait. I don't suppose she'll mind. We shan't do it any
harm." And she trundled the little barrow out of the shed and wheeled
it to the farther end of the back carriage drive, where she thought
they might find some stones.

Heathercliffe House had the most delightful garden. In front were two
large lawns, an upper one used for croquet and a lower one for
tennis. Between the two was a rosery where a great many beautiful
roses were still blooming, although it was now October.

"On Miss Kaye's birthday," said Linda, "we always make her a garland
and put it on her head. She laughs, but she wears it for a little
while and it looks so nice."

The front carriage drive was well rolled and kept very neatly, but the
back one was just like a country lane; there were thick trees on each
side with grass and wild flowers growing between, and in a corner near
the gate was a small disused quarry, with high, rocky sides covered
with gorse bushes and long brambles. Linda could not have chosen a
better place to find stones; there were any number lying about, and
though they were not white ones, they were a very light grey colour.
There were a few blackberries still remaining on the brambles, but the
ripest hung far out of reach and were quite impossible to pick, though
Sylvia scratched herself in a vain attempt.

"It's no use. I'd best give them up and stick to the stones," she
said. "If we ever go down to the beach we might bring back some shells
too. Do you find any here?"

"Yes, lots, at one particular place, pink and white and yellow ones.
They'd look pretty as an edging, but it would take a fearful long time
to fetch enough to go far. I expect we shall need a great many barrows
of stones before we can make both our names. I wouldn't pick up too
small ones if I were you. There, I can't possibly wheel any more, so
we'd better start."

The barrow was heavy and they took it in turns. It seemed a long way
all round the back drive, through the rosery, and along the apple-tree
avenue till they reached their own garden and tipped the stones down
in a heap. A very small pile it looked, too, only sufficient for about
three letters, and they sighed to think of the number of journeys that
would be needed before their great scheme was complete. Off they went
again, however, to the quarry and refilled the barrow as fast as they
could.

"There can't be very much time before dinner," said Linda, "though I
haven't heard the first bell yet. We must get on as quickly as we can,
because I don't know what I should do if there wasn't time to put
Sadie's barrow away. We have to run in the very second we hear the
bell, and wash our hands."

"It's full enough now," said Sylvia. "I'll start with it first. Don't
jog me or I shall upset it."

"I think we might make a short cut," suggested Linda. "Instead of
walking all round the drive and the avenue we'll go straight through
the shrubbery, it will take off an enormous corner and save us the
hill by the rosery. We're not supposed to go there, but no one will
notice."

They plunged therefore under the trees, wheeling the little barrow
with some difficulty over the grass and among the rhododendrons, and
were just getting in sight of the lawn when Linda suddenly stopped and
clutched Sylvia by the arm.

"Look!" she cried. "There's Sadie Thompson coming with Gertie
Warburton. What will she say when she finds we've taken French leave
with her barrow? She'll be ever so cross. Give it me quick and we'll
rush over here amongst the bushes. Perhaps they won't see us."

She seized the handles from Sylvia's grasp and they scuttled as fast
as they could under the over-hanging boughs of a particularly big
rhododendron, which appeared to offer a safe retreat.

"Quick, quick, they're looking!" cried Linda, bending low to avoid the
branches and scrambling farther under the bush. "Hullo! Why! Oh! I
say! What's happened?" She might well exclaim, for to her extreme
astonishment the wheelbarrow suddenly seemed to plunge into the
ground, and she saw before her nothing but the tips of the handles
standing out from among a quantity of dead and withered leaves.

"How very peculiar!" she said. "There must be a hole here. Why, it's a
sort of pool, I believe. Look, it's all horrid black mud and water
under the dead leaves. What a disgusting mess the barrow is in! How
are we to get it out?"

"We've lost all our stones," said Sylvia, kneeling at the edge and
breaking off a stick to poke into the muddy depths below. "What a
queer place it is!"

"I don't mind the stones, because we can find some more, but I do mind
the barrow. Even if we fish it out, how are we ever to wash it? Sadie
will be most dreadfully angry, and we shall get into such a scrape. We
aren't really allowed to borrow each other's things without asking,
and if Sadie turns nasty, and tells, and Miss Kaye hears about it, I
don't know what may happen."

"Can't we pull it out and take it to the back drive again, and bring
a watering can to wash it with?" said Sylvia.

"We might, but it's so hard to get it. When I tug it only seems to
flop in deeper."

"Let me try."

"You can if you like, but I think the stones are weighing it down."

"You go a little farther on then, and let me come to where you are, so
that I can reach properly."

Linda crawled cautiously along, feeling her way as she went.

"It seems to be a kind of sunk tub," she said. "Look, the edges are
made of wood, and it's filled up with water. Oh, do be careful,
Sylvia!" she exclaimed as the latter leaned over to grasp the handles.

"I'm all right. I've got them quite firmly. Now I'm going to give one
good tug and a shake to get rid of the stones and then I expect it
will come."

"Shall I hold your dress?" asked Linda, looking on with a shiver of
apprehension.

"No, don't touch me! There, I can feel the stones go. It's coming!
It's coming!"

And so it was, but far more suddenly than Sylvia had calculated; the
unexpected jerk completely overbalanced her, and before she had time
even to clutch at one of the rhododendron boughs she had fallen
together with the barrow into the pool. Luckily it was not deep, and
she was in no danger of drowning, but the mud was thick and black at
the bottom, and as she scrambled hastily out she looked as if she had
been dipped into an inkpot.

"Oh! Sylvia!" cried Linda, "What are we to do? We can't possibly help
everyone finding out now. What a frightful mess you're in!"

"So I am," said Sylvia, looking ruefully at her spoilt clothes, and
trying to wipe off some of the mud with her hands. "I didn't get the
barrow up either."

"Oh, never mind the barrow; we can't stop for it now! There's the
dressing bell. We shall have to go and tell somebody. You're simply
streaming with mud, and we shall both be late for dinner."

Feeling very guilty, the pair crept out from under the bush and tried
to dash across towards the side door, on the chance that Sylvia might
be able to reach the bathroom and remove at least some of the traces
of her dipping before anyone caught her. It was a vain hope, for in
turning the corner they ran almost into the arms of Miss Coleman, who
had come out to look for a missing member of her small flock.

"Sylvia Lindsay," she cried in horror, "you naughty child! Where have
you been? And what have you done to yourself?"

"I don't know," replied Sylvia, dissolving into tears, which made
white trickles down her dirty cheeks like little rivers on a map; "I
fell in somewhere, and it was all mud, and it's cold, and please may I
go in and change my things?"

"Come with me to the bathroom this minute," said Miss Coleman,
abandoning her search for Dolly Camden, and hustling Sylvia before her
with much indignation. "Linda, go and tidy yourself! Miss Kaye will
have to hear of this. It is a very bad beginning, Sylvia, for your
first day."

Sylvia was soaked to the skin, and was obliged to take a hot bath and
put on a whole fresh set of clothes, while Miss Coleman stood grimly
by and asked questions till she had drawn all the facts of the story.
They were so late for dinner that they only arrived in the dining-room
at the pudding course, and Miss Coleman, after a few quiet words of
explanation to Miss Kaye, made Sylvia sit with her at a small side
table instead of going to their proper places. Miss Kaye glanced at
Sylvia but made no remark, and one of the servants brought their
plates of meat and vegetables. They were half-cold, and Sylvia could
not enjoy anything when she thought of the scolding that was to
follow. She caught Linda's eye from the other side of the room, but
did not dare to turn again in that direction, because Miss Coleman was
looking at her. She knew so little of school life that she had no idea
what punishment would be inflicted for such crimes as borrowing a
barrow without leave and tumbling into a tub full of muddy water. In
none of the books she had read did the girls do any such things.

"They generally cheat at lessons, or read the examination questions
beforehand, or copy each other's essays," thought Sylvia. "And this is
quite different. Even Sara Crewe never fell into a tub, nor any of the
girls in _Gertrude's Schooldays_. I wonder what Miss Kaye will say!"

Miss Kaye lingered over pudding, evidently with the intention of
allowing the latecomers a few extra minutes, then, rising and saying
grace, she announced:

"Linda Marshall and Sylvia Lindsay will come to my study at a quarter
to two," and left the room.

"We're in for it now," said Linda, clasping Sylvia by the hand as they
met in the passage. "Oh, why did we ever get those wretched stones?
And we've left the barrow at the bottom of the pool! We shall have to
tell about that. Was Miss Coleman very cross?"

"She was rather. She kept hurrying me on, and saying 'Be quick!' all
the time. You can't think how terribly the mud stuck. I had even to
wash part of my hair. It's not dry yet."

"Let us go into the classroom. I don't want to meet Sadie; I'm afraid
she'll ask about it. It's nearly a quarter to two now. I'm beginning
to shake in my shoes."

It took a good deal of screwing up of courage before the two culprits
ventured to give a faltering tap at the door of the study.

"Come in!" said Miss Kaye's brisk voice.

The children looked at each other and entered with much the same
feeling as they would have experienced at a visit to the dentist's.
Miss Kaye was seated at her desk, which was covered with papers, and
merely glancing up for an instant said: "I am busy, so sit down till I
have leisure to attend to you," and, taking no further notice of them,
went on with her writing. Linda stole quietly to the sofa, and Sylvia
sank on to the nearest chair, where she sat very still, looking with
eager eyes round the prettily furnished room. She had a warm
appreciation for artistic things and she gazed with delight at the
beautiful Burne Jones engravings, the old oak cupboard with its blue
china, the silver bowl of roses on the side table, and the bookcase
full of richly bound volumes. Miss Kaye herself, she thought, made
part of the picture. She liked her brown eyes, her clear, fresh
complexion, and her abundant auburn hair.

"She's good-looking," reflected Sylvia. "Not at all horrid and old and
sour. I dare say she could be rather stern, yet she looks as if she
could laugh too. I like her eyes, they are so dark and quick and
shining. They seem to take one all in at once. I wonder if she's going
to be very angry."

Miss Kaye looked up just at that moment and met Sylvia's gaze with an
expression which seemed to say: "Well, what do you think of me?" But,
seeing the child flush scarlet, she folded her letter, placed it in
the envelope, and stamped it; then, ringing the bell, handed it to a
servant and told her to take it at once to the pillar box in time for
the afternoon post.

"Now I am ready," she said, turning at last to her little pupils.
"Linda and Sylvia, you have been in trouble, and I wish you to tell me
yourselves what has occurred."

It was hard to begin, since everyone had a natural awe of the
headmistress; but once the plunge was made they found themselves
relating their tale fairly connectedly, with the help of a few
questions. Miss Kaye listened gravely.

"This is what comes of borrowing without leave and going where you are
forbidden," she said. "The tub is used by the gardener for storing
water, and no doubt with the rainy days we had in September it has
accumulated a good deal of mud as well. I will take care that the
wheelbarrow is recovered and washed, and I shall expect you both to
apologize to Sadie. It is one of the rules of the school that the
girls should respect each other's property. You may go now, but do not
let this happen again."

Rejoiced to escape so easily, the children fled, eager to describe
their adventure to the rest of the class, who were brimming over with
curiosity after the hurried account which had been whispered by Linda
at dinner and passed on by the next girl with so many variations that
the general version was that Sylvia had taken a ride in the gardener's
barrow and fallen down a well. There was scarcely any time before
afternoon school, but they managed to give a proper explanation and
thoroughly enjoyed the telling and the effect it produced. Marian
Woodhouse might turn up her nose and call them babies, but she
listened all the same, and, Sylvia could not help thinking, was just a
little jealous to find them the centre of so much interest.

[Illustration: "SYLVIA WROTE HER FIRST LETTER HOME THAT EVENING"]

Sylvia wrote her first letter home that evening after tea, and found
she had such an amount to put in it she hardly knew how to begin. It
ran thus:

    "HEATHERCLIFFE HOUSE,
        "_October 5th_.

    "MY DARLING MOTHER AND FATHER,

    "I am much happier than I expected. This morning I fell into a
    tub full of mud and spoilt all my clothes. Miss Coleman is going
    to have my new dress washed, but she does not think it will ever
    look nice again. I am wearing my green merino. I like Linda
    immensely. She has read the sequel to _Eight Cousins_ although
    it is a love story and she is only eleven. I wish I might. We
    are going to have a garden together. Will you please send me
    some bulbs to plant in it. Marian Woodhouse said I did not know
    how to spell last night, but I only had three mistakes in
    dictation this morning and she had four. Miss Arkwright says my
    writing is bad. She has given me a new copybook. Miss Coleman
    took my box of toffee away and locked it up in a cupboard. She
    says I may have some on Saturday. I hope Dicky is well. Please
    do not forget to give him his groundsel. There is a black kitten
    here with white paws and a white tip to its tail. I send kisses
    to everybody.

        "Your loving daughter,
            "SYLVIA."



CHAPTER V

Rivals


Sylvia quickly discovered that life at school was a totally different
affair from what it had been at home. She had now very little
opportunity of ever being alone. The solitary readings and pretendings
with which she had been wont to amuse herself were impossible, for
every hour of the day seemed so well filled with work, walks, and
games, and even in recreation time the other girls constantly claimed
her attention. By the end of a week she had already learnt several
very necessary facts; that orders had to be promptly obeyed without
either dawdling or arguing, that strict punctuality was the rule, and
it was a terrible thing to be even a minute late for classes or meals;
that she was by no means the only important person in the school,
because everybody else thought herself of quite as much consequence,
and some rather more so; that schoolgirls had scant sympathy for
bumps, bruises, tears, headaches, or any other minor woes, and only
said "You baby!" if she complained; and lastly, that, though it seemed
most peculiar to have no one to make a special fuss over her, on the
whole there was so much fun going on that it was a great deal more
interesting than doing lessons by herself with Miss Holt.

The girls of the third class, all of whom could write their ages with
two figures, felt themselves very superior and grown-up in comparison
with the little ones in the Kindergarten. There were seven of these
children, whose ages ranged from six to nine, and as they shared the
playroom with the third form it was the fashion to pet them and take
notice of them. Dolly Camden, Connie's younger sister, was a merry
little soul with the family failing for continually getting into
mischief, and was the chief anxiety of Miss Coleman's life, having a
capacity for spilling water, inking her fingers, tearing her clothes,
and losing her books unequalled by anyone else in her division.

The Camdens were all handfuls, even Rosie, who was sixteen, and might
have been chosen a monitress if she had been more sedate, and
thirteen-year-old Stella, who enlivened the second class with
practical jokes. There was a story in the school that Miss Kaye had
once written to Mrs. Camden to say that Rosie was unmanageable, and
that Mrs. Camden had written back to say that she was very sorry, but
she had never been able to manage any of her daughters herself and
would Miss Kaye please try again. Whether this were true or false,
Miss Kaye proved capable of keeping the unruly four in order, and was
about the only person, except their father, of whom they really stood
in awe.

Sadie and Elsie Thompson were two puny, motherless little girls of
nine and six. They had been brought up by an aunt who was not at all
kind to them, and they found Heathercliffe House such a happy exchange
that they almost dreaded the holidays, when they must go back to the
home that was so unhomelike. Their father was a sea-captain, who came
to visit them about twice a year, when he returned from his voyages,
and brought them presents from foreign places. He did not forget them
either when he was away, and often sent them postcards of strange
countries, which had to travel many thousand miles before they reached
England. Margie Wilson was a fat sturdy child with an original mind
and a stubborn temper. She had a habit of speaking her thoughts which
was apt to be rather disconcerting.

On the first morning after her arrival, May Spencer, who was monitress
on her landing, went into her bedroom, and told her it was time to get
up. Margie raised herself slowly in bed with the clothes drawn round
her neck, and fixed her black eyes on the intruder. "What's your
name?" she enquired briefly.

"May Spencer."

"Oh! I don't like you, May Spencer. You've got a snub nose. I shan't
get up." And with that she retired under the bedclothes, and
absolutely refused to stir until poor May had to fetch Miss Coleman to
enforce discipline and uphold her authority.

Edna Lowe was a rather silly little thing, who had been much spoilt at
home, and was still surreptitiously petted by her sister Lily in the
second class, who occasionally had a battle on her behalf with Miss
Coleman, who saw no reason why Edna should be treated differently from
the others, and rewarded good behaviour or inflicted punishments with
an impartial hand. Nessie Hirst, a nervous child, who had been sent
to Aberglyn for the benefit of the sea air, was a favourite with the
third class, her pathetic, wistful, grey eyes, long rich-brown hair,
and the beautiful and elaborately embroidered frocks which her mother
worked for her, gave her a somewhat distinguished appearance, and
among the girls she often went by the nickname of "Little Vere de
Vere". The prettiest of all, however, was Greta Collins, a small,
golden-haired, blue-eyed rascal, who attached herself promptly to
Sylvia like a limpet, sitting on her knee, clinging round her neck
with kittenish fondness, and making herself very charming with her
coaxing manner.

"It's only because you're somebody fresh," said Marian Woodhouse. "She
does this to every new girl. You should have seen the fuss she made of
me when first I came. She'll have quite got over it in a fortnight,
and will hardly look at you."

"You won't; will you, darling?" said Sylvia indignantly, hugging the
child closer, for she was much flattered at being the object of so
much adoration.

"No, I'll love you always. Better than any of these horrid girls. Tell
them to go away! I don't want anybody but you." And she clasped her
arms round Sylvia's neck, and kissed her again and again.

"I know you will," declared Sylvia. "So we'll just take no notice of
them. You're my special baby, and I mean to keep you."

"All right, you'll soon find out, and then don't say I didn't warn
you!" returned Marian, laughing.

In spite of both Sylvia's and Greta's protestations to the contrary,
Marian's words proved to be exactly true. For almost a week the little
girl's affection kept at red heat; on the seventh day it began to show
signs of flagging. It was in vain that Sylvia tempted her with
stories, cajoled her with sweets, or even presented her with one of
her lovely new paintbrushes; Greta was tired of her fancy, and though
she accepted anything that was offered her, she only gave a
half-hearted peck of a kiss in return, and ran back promptly to play
with Nessie Hirst. Poor Sylvia was terribly distressed. She had been
fascinated with Greta's pretty pink-and-white face, and big blue eyes;
she liked to curl the long, golden ringlets round her fingers, to
fasten the clean pinafores, or do any other small services for her,
and especially to feel that the child clung to her in preference to
anybody else. To be thus suddenly deserted was a blow, and it was
particularly galling to have Marian Woodhouse say "I told you so." All
her efforts at winning back her fickle admirer were absolutely
useless. Greta refused to be coaxed, and at the end of a fortnight
fulfilled Marian's prophecy by pushing away her former friend and even
smacking her, which brought matters to such a crisis that Sylvia,
after a storm of tears in private, gave up the attempt and resigned
herself to the inevitable.

Luckily there were plenty of fresh interests to help to put Greta out
of her thoughts. Though she had studied fairly hard with her governess
at home she had never before entered into competition with other
girls, and it was a new experience to work in class. As Miss Holt had
expected, she was forward in some subjects and backward in others;
but she was gifted with an excellent memory and found she could learn
with little trouble what many of the others found impossible tasks.
Except for French with Mademoiselle and nature study with Miss Kaye,
all the lessons were taken by Miss Arkwright. Sylvia could never quite
make up her mind whether she liked her or not. She was tall and slim,
with large teeth, and a nose that moved about like a rabbit's when she
spoke, and she wore her hair brushed very plainly back from her high
forehead. She was a conscientious teacher but not a very interesting
one, and she somehow lacked the charm which attracted the girls so
much to their headmistress.

"Miss Kaye seems to like to know each one of us separately, and all
about our friends and our homes," said Marian one day, "and I don't
believe Miss Arkwright cares in the least about us out of school, so
long as we know our lessons in class."

Children are very quick to feel sympathy, and, though Miss Arkwright
did her duty thoroughly, most of her pupils respected her more than
they loved her, and while she was not disliked she was never popular.

It was a revelation to Sylvia, who in her work with Miss Holt had
never troubled whether she did exceedingly or only moderately well, to
find that at Heathercliffe House a little extra effort made all the
difference. At the end of every week the marks of each girl were
balanced up, and on Monday morning at nine o'clock Miss Kaye would
march into the classroom to read out the list and add a few comments
of praise or blame. The girls sat in school for the week according to
the order in which their names occurred on the balancing list, and it
had been a point of great pride with Marian Woodhouse to come out top,
a position which hitherto no one had troubled to dispute with her.

Sylvia had arrived on a Wednesday, so that the first week she was only
able to obtain part marks, though in two days she had gained enough to
place her half-way up the class, above Gwennie Woodhouse and Jessie
Ellis and even Nina Forster. The second week was a duel between
herself and Marian. Both worked hard and steadily and seemed fairly
equal, for what Sylvia lost by her bad writing she gained through her
more accurate memory, and some of Marian's most venturesome guesses
happened to turn out wrong, though she could beat Sylvia at
arithmetic. The books in which they wrote their exercises were always
looked over on Saturday by Miss Kaye, who marked them both for matter,
style, writing, and general neatness; so the girls could not tell
until these were returned what was their total for the week. It was
very exciting on Sylvia's second Monday morning when Miss Kaye entered
bearing the pile of exercises and prepared to read out the list of
marks. It was her custom always to begin with the bottom girl, and
to-day she proceeded as usual.

"_Jessie Ellis._ 29. Your history is especially weak, and I noticed
there were sixteen mistakes in your dictation. If you cannot keep up
with the class I shall be obliged to send you down again.

_Gwennie Woodhouse._ 34. I believe you have tried, Gwennie, as it is
more than last week, but there is still much room for improvement.

_Connie Camden._ 38. I expect better things from you, Connie. You can
learn quite well when you apply yourself properly, and I consider it a
disgrace that you should have a bad mark for arithmetic. If I find it
again you will have to stay in on Saturday afternoon and learn your
tables.

_Nina Forster._ 39. You have had a bad cold, so I will excuse you this
week. Your writing is beautifully neat, though I should like to see
higher marks.

_Linda Marshall._ 45. You have done well in grammar, but failed
utterly in geography. Your map is very inaccurate.

_Hazel Prestbury._ 50. Excellent in spelling and composition, but
rather weak in arithmetic.

_Marian Woodhouse._ 60. Very good and conscientious work. Your
exercises show great care and neatness.

_Sylvia Lindsay._ 63. I am pleased, Sylvia, to find you have done so
well, and hope you will continue with such a good record. I should
like to see improvement in your writing, and you must make that your
chief care. In every other respect your work is highly satisfactory.
Girls, take your places!"

It was a proud moment for Sylvia when she stepped above Marian
Woodhouse to claim her seat at the top of the class. Marian held her
head down and looked as black as thunder; Linda could scarcely conceal
her delight; Connie Camden was nudging Nina Forster; and Gwennie's
eyes filled with tears at the sight of her sister's humiliation. She
had no ambition for herself, but she had always gloried in Marian's
success.

"It's a shame!" she whispered to Jessie Ellis. "That new girl has no
right to get top. I'm sure Miss Arkwright must have favoured her."

Miss Arkwright looked as surprised as anybody, but her conscience was
clear of all favouritism, she was strictly impartial, and Miss Kaye
herself had marked the exercises. She made no comment, however, and
lessons began as usual.

The eight girls were seated in a row on a form opposite their
teacher's desk, and were expected to sit with shoulders erect, hands
folded, and feet neatly placed together. Sylvia, who had rather
fidgety ways, and was apt to wriggle when answering a question, found
it hard to keep this prim position, and, in the agony of recalling the
principal tributaries of the Yorkshire Ouse, she almost unconsciously
seized a handful of pens from the box which lay on a chair by her side
and began to finger them nervously.

"The Swale, the Yore, the Nidd, the Wharfe, the Aire," she said,
counting each with a pen.

Marian put out her hand and drew the pens firmly away.

"Two more," suggested Miss Arkwright.

"The Swale, the Yore, the Nidd, the Wharfe, the Aire----" repeated
Sylvia desperately, missing the pens and feeling as if she could not
go on without them.

"Next!" said Miss Arkwright, who never waited long for anybody.

"Calder and Don," finished Marian promptly, replacing the pens in the
box, which she popped on to the desk behind, whispering to Sylvia as
she did so: "You're not fit to be top!"

"Marian Woodhouse and Sylvia Lindsay each lose an order mark," said
Miss Arkwright, at which they both looked sober, though neither minded
very much since the other had the same.

"You needn't have pulled the pens from me just when I was answering,"
said Sylvia to Marian afterwards. "You put everything straight out of
my head."

"If you can't answer without something to play with," retorted Marian,
"you'd better go to the baby class and learn kindergarten drawing on a
slate. No one would think you were nearly eleven."

It was certainly trying for poor Marian to find a younger girl
occupying the position which she had come to regard as her own special
property, and she could not yield with a good grace. Fate seemed
determined to call her failure into notice. In the afternoon, when
singing was over, Miss Denby turned to dismiss the various forms back
to their schoolrooms.

"Class Three will go out first," she said. "Balancing order. Now girls
be quick! Come, Marian, where are you?" For Marian, with a very red
face, had not stepped forward as usual to take her place at the head
of the line.

"I'm top!" said Sylvia, who found it impossible to conceal her
triumph, and she led the way with the feeling of a rival claimant who
has suddenly and unexpectedly been raised to the throne, enjoying
Miss Denby's astonishment as much as Marian's confusion.

After that it was a continual struggle between the two children for
the coveted seat. Sometimes one gained it and sometimes the other, and
one week they were exactly equal, a difficulty which Miss Kaye solved
by deciding that Marian was to be head in the mornings and Sylvia in
the afternoons. No one else in the class seemed able to dispute it
with them, though Hazel Prestbury occasionally won high marks. Linda,
a bright enough child to talk to, and fond of reading, had not a very
good memory, Connie Camden was incorrigibly lazy, Nina only worked by
fits and starts, and both Gwennie Woodhouse and Jessie Ellis were of
course out of the question.

Sylvia certainly did not find school life all plain sailing. Among
other things Miss Arkwright was a totally different person from her
former governess. Miss Holt, anxious to develop her pupil's powers of
general intelligence, had allowed her to ask continual questions, and
would even argue a point with her in order to encourage her to think
clearly upon a subject. Miss Arkwright, on the contrary, did not allow
any girl to have opinions in opposition to her own, and Sylvia got
into sad trouble if she ventured on original ideas. Once in the
geography class she was asked to give the capital of Tuscany.

"Firenze," she replied promptly.

"Next," said Miss Arkwright.

"Florence," answered Marian with a toss of her head.

"Firenze is the proper Italian name for Florence," corrected Sylvia.
"Father and Mother were staying there last Easter, and they said
everybody called it that, and didn't understand what you meant if you
said Florence."

"We are having our geography lesson in English, not Italian, so we
will call the places by the English names which are given in the
book," said Miss Arkwright, glaring at her; and Sylvia lost a mark,
much to her indignation.

Another time the class was reading _Marmion_, and repeating the notes
which were given at the end of the cantos. Now Sylvia had revelled in
so many historical stories that she understood thoroughly all about a
portcullis and a drawbridge and a donjon keep, and instead of simply
saying the note she volunteered an explanation of her own. It was what
Miss Holt would have encouraged, but Miss Arkwright kept strictly to
the lesson.

"I did not ask for your opinion, Sylvia," she said. "The notes given
in the book are quite sufficient, and you may confine yourself to
them."

On the whole Miss Arkwright was fair, but on one occasion Sylvia felt
herself really to be the object of a great injustice. A very difficult
grammar lesson was in progress, which most of the girls found
extremely hard to understand. Miss Arkwright had asked many questions
round the class, and now addressed one to Sylvia, who was top. She
missed, and the teacher turned to Marian, who sat next. Just at that
moment the bell rang, and, without waiting for Marian's reply, Miss
Arkwright closed her book and opened the register. Now that last wrong
answer had given Sylvia a bad mark, and she felt it was not just that
she should have had one more question than any of the other girls.

"I don't believe one of them knew it," she said to herself, "and if
the question had gone on they would all have missed too."

"Oh, Miss Arkwright, it's not fair!" she added aloud, getting up with
flaming cheeks at the sting of the thought that half a minute had
saved Marian's mark and lost her own. "I oughtn't to count that last
miss."

"Sylvia, if you speak to me like that again I shall order you to leave
the room," said the mistress, who prided herself on her good
discipline. "I think you must have forgotten yourself."

"It was mean of her," said Linda, trying to console her friend
afterwards. "When we were in Miss Coleman's form, and the bell rang
when a question was only halfway down the class, she always said:
"Don't count the last turn," because it wasn't fair unless we all had
the same chance of missing. But you did say it in such a cheeky way, I
think that was why she was so angry. It's no use trying to get her to
take it off now; when she's once said a thing she sticks to it and
nobody but Miss Kaye could make her alter it; and we shouldn't dare to
ask her; and if we did it wouldn't be worth it, because Miss Arkwright
would be twice as cross afterwards. You'll just have to grin and bear
it."



CHAPTER VI

Squabbles


By the time Sylvia was thoroughly settled in the Third Class another
trouble began to distress her. She had formed a great affection for
Linda Marshall, and as the two shared a bedroom it seemed only natural
that they should be bosom friends. Linda was very willing to consider
Sylvia as her special comrade; they were almost the same age, and had
so many likes and dislikes in common that there was not the least
occasion to quarrel over anything, and they were never so happy as
when they were alone together. That, however, Hazel Prestbury was by
no means ready to allow. Although she slept with Connie Camden she had
hitherto considered Linda her friend, and was very indignant that
Sylvia should have stepped between them.

Hazel was a girl about whom Miss Kaye often felt some uneasiness. The
eldest in her class, she was also old for her age, and she had brought
a good many notions to school with her that were not at all in
accordance with the simple ideas which were encouraged at
Heathercliffe House. She thought far more of dress and position than
she had any business to do, criticized the other girls' clothing,
compared the value of her birthday presents with those of her
schoolmates, and was apt to boast of her abundant pocket money. She
was also not always as open and truthful as might have been wished,
and though it could never be exactly defined, she somehow kept up a
slight spirit of hostility against the mistresses, and would never
respond heartily to any kindness from headquarters. Miss Kaye thought
she was not altogether a wise friend for Linda, who, being a whole
year younger, was likely to be easily influenced, and it was on this
account that she had not allowed the two to share a bedroom.

Linda was an affectionate little girl; she did not notice the faults
in Hazel's character, and would have been delighted to include both
her companions in a triple friendship. But that did not content
either, and though Sylvia had the advantage at morning and evening,
Hazel generally triumphed during the day.

Sylvia would watch with jealous eyes as the pair walked arm in arm
down the avenue or played draughts together in the recreation hour.
She tried to console herself with reading, but somehow the books did
not seem nearly so absorbing as they had done at home, and she sat
with one ear open to hear what Linda was saying. She did not care to
make friends with any of the other girls, though Nina Forster
proffered a few advances, and Connie Camden was always "hail fellow
well met" with everybody.

One wet afternoon the Third Class and some of the members of the
Fourth were sitting round the playroom fire indulging in oranges,
which Miss Kaye had given as a special treat.

"I like to suck mine with a lump of sugar," said Gwennie. "If you do
it carefully you can get every scrap of orange out without breaking
the peel."

"I can't eat orangeth," sighed Sadie Thompson pensively. "They alwayth
make me thick."

"Make you thin, I should think," laughed Marian. "You're the skinniest
little creature I ever saw."

"I don't mean fat, I mean thick--ill."

"Oh, sick! Then why don't you say so?"

"Becauthe I can't help lithping," replied Sadie, who was rather proud
of her accomplishment, and did not make any great effort to overcome
it.

"I wish I lisped," said Connie Camden enviously. "I'd have such fun
with Miss Arkwright in the reading lesson. She'd stop for five minutes
worrying over one word. Don't you remember when I pretended I couldn't
say 'meritorious'? I'm going to cut my orange in half if anybody will
lend me a penknife."

"Where's your own?"

"Lost it long ago. I never can keep them. I got one in my Christmas
stocking and another on my birthday, and I had a new one at the
beginning of this term, but they're all gone. My pencil wore down to
such a perfect stump yesterday I couldn't finish my sums, and I
daren't borrow, because Miss Arkwright said she'd give a bad-conduct
mark to the first girl who spoke one word. I tried to signal to Nina,
but she wouldn't look. Hazel, lend me yours!"

"No thanks!" replied Hazel. "Not to cut oranges. It's a new one and
you'd spoil it."

"Oh, you mean thing! Who'll be generous?"

"You may have this if you like," said Sylvia. "I don't much mind if
you keep it; it's only an old one, and I have another in my pencil
box."

"You dear, I'd love it! I shall have to give you something in
exchange, though, or else it will be unlucky. What will you have?" And
Connie turned out the very miscellaneous contents of her pockets,
displaying various stumps of lead pencil, a much worn indiarubber, a
buttonhook, two or three dominoes, a walnut shell, some acorn cups, a
stone with a hole in it, a whistle, a sticky piece of toffee, and a
calendar.

"I don't want any of them," said Sylvia, shaking her head.

"But you must. Knives cut love, and we shall quarrel if you don't. The
calendar's not much good; it's last year's, and I only kept it for the
picture of the dog on the back. But have this," pressing one of the
pencils into her hand. "It's the longest piece I have, and rather a
nice soft one."

"Let us try putting our pips in the fire," said Nina. "You name one
after yourself, and another after someone you like, and then say:

    'If you hate me, pop and fly;
     If you love me, burn and die,'

and see whether you and the person you have chosen will stick to each
other or not. I'm going to try Evelyn Hastings."

"Is she your latest?" enquired Marian.

"I think she's perfectly beautiful. She let me carry her umbrella for
her this morning, and said I might do it to-morrow if I wanted. May
Spencer never speaks to me now."

"I should think she's tired of you. You must have been such a nuisance
always clinging on to her arm. Why can't you let the first class
alone? They don't want us."

"They mayn't want you, but they want me," said Nina, whose adoration
of the big girls was a perpetual joke in her class. "I held Evelyn's
wool yesterday, and pulled off her goloshes, and she never even asked
you."

"I shouldn't have done it if she had," declared Marian. "I'd let her
wait on herself. I think you're the silliest girl I know. Put your
wretched pips in the fire if you're going to."

The result was unfortunate. The one christened 'Nina' popped away
promptly, much to its owner's indignation.

"You won't stick to her, you see," laughed Marian, "You'll get tired
of her, and throw her over, as you do everybody else."

The amusement proved popular, and all the girls insisted upon trying
the fortunes of themselves and their friends.

Connie Camden was faithless to everybody; Jessie Ellis had a solitary
failure, but would not divulge the name she had chosen or make another
attempt; and Gwennie, to her great disgust, turned traitor to her
beloved Marian.

"We must go in together of course," said Hazel, throwing two pips, for
herself and Linda, into the flames. They were fat, juicy ones, and it
was a little while before they caught fire. Pop, pop, they both went,
each shooting to different sides of the grate with such violence that
they fell out into the fender.

"They haven't finished. We must try them again," cried Hazel, stooping
over the guard to pick them up.

"No! No!" exclaimed the others. "They've flown as hard as any could
fly. You've both done with each other entirely. Now someone else.
Linda, see if you have better luck with Sylvia!"

It was very foolish, but Sylvia looked on with quite a feeling of
anxiety as Linda dropped two carefully chosen pips into a ruddy hollow
among the coals. Would they both fly apart, she wondered, or would
only one leave the other, and if so which? Or would they linger
together until they were burnt to ashes? It seemed to her as though it
were an omen of their friendship.

"They're burning," said Nina. "One's just going to pop! No, it isn't.
It's changed its mind. They've both rolled down into that hot piece.
There they go! They're burnt as black as cinders. You two are friends.
You're the only ones who have kept together of all we've tried."

Sylvia squeezed Linda's hand hard with pleasure. To be her friend and
stick to her through thick and thin was the height of her ambition,
and she was glad that their trial had proved so favourable.

"It's a silly game and doesn't mean anything at all," said Hazel,
flushing angrily. "I wonder you're such babies as to believe in it.
You'll be counting your fortunes by the holes in your biscuits next.
Nina, you were a goose to begin it."

"Well, really! You were ready enough to try," said Nina. "You've no
need to be such a crab-stick that I can see."

"You've about as much sense as a sparrow," declared Hazel, "and you'll
never have any more if you live to be a hundred. I shan't trouble to
play your rubbishy games again!" And she turned away to get out her
writing case, and begin a home letter, with such a cross expression on
her countenance that the others wisely left her alone.

It was only a few days after this that an incident occurred which
unfortunately caused the first shadow of a quarrel between Sylvia and
her friend. The dancing classes had commenced and were held weekly in
the large schoolroom at half-past two o'clock. Everyone was expected
to appear in a light frock and thin shoes, so the afternoon seemed
almost more like a party than a lesson. Miss Delaney, the teacher, was
immensely popular with the girls, and they looked forward to Friday
throughout the whole week.

Linda, who was particularly graceful and light of foot, was considered
one of the best dancers in the school, and always included in a
tarantella or gavotte, or any figure which required a little more
skill than was possessed by most of the beginners. Linda's music
lesson happened to be on Friday afternoon at two o'clock and she went
straight from Miss Denby and the piano to the dancing class. Now on
this particular day she had put on her white dress as usual, but just
as she was opening the door of the practising-room she suddenly
noticed that she had completely forgotten to change her shoes. What
was she to do? There was not time to run back for them now, as Miss
Denby had caught sight of her and she dare not beat a retreat; neither
could she go after her lesson, because the girls were strictly
forbidden upstairs when once the school bell had rung. Hazel, however,
happened to be passing down the corridor exactly at that moment, and
Linda managed to find time to gasp out: "Ask Sylvia to bring my
dancing shoes to the dressing-room," before Miss Denby said: "Come
along, Linda! What are you waiting for?" and she was obliged to enter
and shut the door.

Hazel was in no hurry to deliver her message. She waited until about
twenty-five minutes past two, then, going into the playroom, where
most of the others were collected, she strolled leisurely across to
Sylvia.

"Here, you," she said insolently, "you've got to go and fetch Linda's
dancing shoes. She's forgotten them."

"Who says I've got to go?" asked Sylvia angrily, for Hazel's tone had
roused all her worst feelings.

"I do for one!"

"Then I just shan't."

"All right! Shall I tell Linda you said you wouldn't?"

"You can if you like. I'm sure I don't care. I haven't time to race
about the school finding other people's things. It's almost half-past
now." And Sylvia marched away to the dancing class with her nose in
the air, as much out of temper as she had ever felt in her life.

It was not possible for Hazel or anyone else to fetch the shoes, as
the rules of the school inflicted dire penalties on any girl who
entered another's bedroom; so when Linda hurried into the
dressing-room a few minutes afterwards, expecting to be able to put
them on, she was much disappointed not to find them there. She hunted
about, but they were nowhere to be seen, and, afraid of being late she
was forced to go to the lesson in her ordinary, common ankle-band
slippers. She was furious, since the whole point of the tarantella lay
in the elegant way in which she must point her toes and turn a
graceful pirouette, and how was she to do so in these thick, awkward
shoes that were only meant for the hard wear and tear of everyday use!
Linda was rather proud of her dancing, and it was very annoying to
have her best steps spoilt for lack of proper slippers. She could not
venture to ask to be allowed to go and change them, because Miss Kaye
was sitting in the room, and would be sure to give her a severe
scolding for her carelessness; so she would be obliged to manage as
best she could and hope that no one in authority would notice her
feet.

"Didn't you give Sylvia my message?" she said to Hazel at the first
opportunity, when the three girls were able to speak together during a
rest.

"Of course I did, but she just flatly said she wouldn't go," replied
Hazel, delighted to have this opportunity of making mischief between
the friends.

"Did you really, Sylvia?" asked Linda, her eyes full of reproachful
enquiry, and leaning upon Hazel's arm.

Now Sylvia was still not at all in an amiable frame of mind, and the
sight of Linda's head pressed against Hazel's shoulder heaped coals on
to her wrath.

"I hadn't time," she snapped, and, turning away, began to talk to Nina
Forster.

At this point the mistress called for the tarantella, and Linda stood
up with several elder girls, holding her tambourine and long ribbons
gracefully above her head. How she longed for the dainty bronze shoes
that were left in the bedroom upstairs! Her steps felt so awkward that
she could neither glide nor spring properly, and she was not surprised
when at the end of the dance Miss Delaney said: "Hardly so good as
usual, my dear." Linda considered she had very good cause to feel
offended with Sylvia, and she would not look at her for the rest of
the afternoon. She scarcely touched the tips of her fingers when they
met in the "grand chain", and kept as far away from her as she
possibly could, choosing Hazel for her partner in the waltz and Connie
Camden in the Highland schottische.

Sylvia tried to show by her manner that she did not care, but in
reality she felt on the verge of tears. She danced with little Sadie
Thompson, casting a wistful look every now and then at Linda's back,
though she took no notice if they happened to meet face to face. She
managed to change places at tea and sit between Gwennie Woodhouse and
Jessie Ellis, and at evening recreation she retired to a corner of the
playroom with a book.

The great ordeal was when the two children found themselves alone in
their bedroom at night. Each considered the other so entirely in the
wrong that neither would give way, and they both undressed in stony
silence, very different indeed from the confidences which they were
accustomed to exchange.

Sylvia peeped at Linda's bed in the morning, wondering whether she
would show any signs of relenting. But no, Linda got up without
noticing her in the least, and the breach seemed as wide as ever.

It was Saturday, and except for mending and stocking darning the girls
might amuse themselves as they wished. The two friends had planned to
finish their garden and to plant the delightful collection of
snowdrops, crocuses, and tulips which Mrs. Lindsay had sent them.
Sylvia carried the box down, and a trowel, and set to work in a
half-hearted manner, putting in little groups and rows, though she
certainly was not enjoying herself. Linda, who was equally unhappy,
waited ten minutes, then, arriving with her spade, began solemnly to
dig up her root of hepatica and her clump of primroses.

"Do you want to put them here?" enquired Sylvia anxiously, moving some
of her bulbs out of the way.

"No, thank you," replied Linda with cold politeness. "I'm going back
to my old garden." And, carrying her treasures in her arms, she
stalked away.

Poor Sylvia felt this was the last straw. To be thus deserted was a
cruel blow; she would never enjoy her flowers alone, however lovely
they might prove. She had written for the bulbs chiefly on Linda's
account, and if they were not to share them she did not care to plant
them at all. She flung down her trowel, and, walking away to a retired
part of the grounds, sat down on a seat under a hawthorn tree and
began to cry as if her heart would break.

She had not been there very long before chance, or something better
than chance, brought Mercy Ingledew to the same spot with her Latin
grammar. As monitress of the upper landing she had the whole of the
third class under her care, and, seeing one of her charges in such
distress, she came at once to enquire the cause.

"You needn't be at all afraid to tell me, dear," she said. "If you've
got yourself into a scrape it's my business to help you. Just tell me
everything as you would to your elder sister."

"I haven't got any sister," sobbed Sylvia.

"No more have I, I only wish I had, so I'm going to pretend now that
you're mine. What's the trouble? I don't like to see my third class
girls crying."

Sylvia never forgot how kind Mercy was. She listened patiently to the
whole matter, and then sat thinking for a while, and stroking Sylvia's
fluffy hair.

"There seem to have been faults on both sides," she said at last.
"Doesn't it strike you, dear, that it's just a little selfish of you
to want to keep Linda entirely to yourself?"

"But she's my friend!" said Sylvia in astonishment.

"She was Hazel's first. Why can't you all be jolly together without
this continual jealousy? You'd be a great deal happier."

"Ye-es," said Sylvia doubtfully. "What I feel, though, is that I mind
so dreadfully, and I'm sure Linda doesn't care half as much, because
she has Hazel."

"Perhaps she cares more than you think. If I were you I should go and
tell her exactly what happened about the shoes, and say you're sorry.
You'll have done your part at any rate, and if she likes to make it up
she can."

Sylvia took Mercy's advice, and, finding Linda mooning aimlessly up
and down the avenue, she went straight to the point without any
further delay, and explained the whole affair.

"I'm afraid it was I who was cross," said Linda. "I've been feeling
perfectly horrid all the morning. I hate being out of friends with
anyone, and especially with you. I wish my wretched dancing shoes had
been at the bottom of the sea. Have you planted all the bulbs yet? We
meant to put the snowdrops in the middle, you know. I don't like my
old garden at all. It's no fun doing it alone. Shall I bring back the
primroses and the hepatica?"



CHAPTER VII

The Story of Mercy Ingledew


One result of the coolness and subsequent reconciliation between Linda
and Sylvia was the establishment of a firm friendship between the
latter and Mercy Ingledew. Sylvia, who had been more accustomed at
home to grown-up people than children, was attracted to Mercy at once,
and the elder girl saw so much that was unusual and lovable in the
younger one's character that she took a strong interest in getting to
know her better. Mercy was a tall, fair girl of sixteen, with a sweet,
thoughtful face, and a particularly pleasant open expression. She was
a great favourite, both with teachers and pupils, a plodding,
conscientious worker, and always ready to give help or sympathy to
anyone who stood in need of either. Miss Kaye had made a wise choice
in appointing her monitress of the upper landing, as no one could have
more fully appreciated the responsibilities of the post. She tried as
much as lay in her power to 'mother' all the eight little girls of the
third class, looking after them in their bedrooms, reviewing their
clothing, helping to brush their hair, settling their disputes,
advising them in any question of right and wrong, and keeping them up
to the mark in matters of school discipline, and she managed to do it
in such a jolly, hearty, affectionate, tactful manner that not one of
them resented her interference. Mercy had very soon discovered that
Sylvia had far more in her than most girls of her age, the expressive
hazel-grey eyes, lost sometimes in a brown study, or shining with
excitement over some new pleasure, told a tale of the eager mind
behind them; and the child's many quaint remarks, decided opinions,
the flashes of humour or flights of fancy in which she occasionally
indulged, singled her out as possessing powers far beyond the average.

"She has just twice the brains of Connie Camden or Nina Forster," said
Mercy to a fellow monitress; "I shouldn't be at all surprised if she
were to be a great credit to the school some day. You should hear the
clever games she invents for the babies, and the marvellous stories
she makes up for them. She really has a wonderful imagination. She has
got through nearly half the Waverley novels already, and I found her
reading Tennyson one day. She's rather too fond of airing her ideas,
and is a little conceited, but Hazel and Marian sit upon her so hard
that she'll soon get over it. She's a most affectionate child, far
more so than any of the others. She's the only one who ever seems
really grateful for what one does for them. I think she's a dear
little thing, and I'm glad she has come here."

If Mercy were disposed to make much of Sylvia, the latter was only too
ready to return her kindness with that devotion which a younger girl
often feels for one considerably older than herself. With Sylvia it
was not a shifting fancy, such as Nina Forster formed nearly every
week, and changed as rapidly, but a genuine love, founded on a firm
basis of all-round admiration. She thought Mercy the prettiest,
cleverest, and best girl she had ever known in her life, and when she
discovered her to be the heroine of a most romantic history, her
interest in her was increased a thousandfold. She had heard once or
twice that Mercy was an orphan, and had no home of her own to go to
during the holidays, but it was only by degrees she gathered the
various facts of the case, though when they were fitted together they
formed a narrative as thrilling as any to be found in the gaily bound
volumes over which it had been her delight to pore. As Sylvia got the
account mostly in disjointed scraps, first from one girl and then from
another, and was obliged to connect them for herself, it will be as
well to tell Mercy's story here as she learnt it more fully
afterwards, since it had some bearing and influence on various
incidents which happened later and led in the end to unforeseen
events.

Fifteen years ago there was great uneasiness among the white residents
of the city of Tsien-Lou, in a certain inland province of China. There
had been rumours of serious riots and outrages against foreigners
farther up the country; terrible tales were whispered of houses burnt
and families murdered, and both the British Consul and the
Commissioner of Trade had warned the little colony of Europeans to
keep strictly within its own quarter, and not to trust to any fair
promises made by their yellow-skinned, almond-eyed neighbours, who
resented their presence in the land with such fierce intolerance.
Business for a while was suspended; it was not considered safe for a
white face to be seen in the streets, and even the Chinese servants
who did their daily duties in the houses were regarded with suspicion.
Only the Ingledew Medical Missionary Station, at the outskirts of the
town near the old Kia-yu gate, went on with its work as usual, nursing
the sick in the hospital, attending to the numerous outpatients who
came every day for medicine and treatment, teaching the children in
the school, and holding the daily Bible readings which all were still
invited to attend. It was an anxious time for both doctors and nurses;
they knew that they carried their lives in their hands, and that at
some given signal the flame of fanaticism might burst out, and hordes
of shrieking, murderous, pigtailed natives might sweep over the
mission, leaving nothing but smoking ruins and desolation behind them.

It was with a troubled mind, therefore, that Sister Grace, the head of
the nursing staff, went out one evening into the patch of enclosed
garden which surrounded the hospital buildings, and, shading her eyes
with her hand, looked far along the road that led to the hill country.
There was a fierce, fiery sunset; it seemed as if the very sky were
stained with blood, and the cross on the top of the little chapel
stood out dark and startling against the lurid background. She passed
slowly down the walk to shut the great gate, which, though open by day
to every comer, was always safely barred at night, and she was in the
act of sliding the bolt and securing the chain, when she paused
suddenly and listened. She had heard a moan outside, a distinct,
long-drawn, suffering sigh, that quivered a moment and then died away
into silence. Someone on the other side of the gate was in distress or
pain, and it was clearly her duty to enquire into the cause. With a
beating heart she undid the fastening and peeped out. Crouched down on
the step, as if she could drag herself no farther, was a Chinese woman
bearing a baby fastened on to her back. She was desperately wounded,
the blood still flowed from a gash on her head, and stains on the
roadside marked the track along which she must have crawled in her
agony to reach the friendly shelter of the wooden archway. Life was
almost spent, but with an effort of desperation she managed to raise
herself into a kneeling posture, and, clasping her hands together,
cried out in Chinese: "Mercy! Mercy! The child!" and, with a last
glance of supplicating appeal, fell across the threshold at the feet
of the trembling nurse. Help was summoned at once, and she was carried
into the hospital; but she was already past all human aid. She had
accomplished her errand with the last spark of her dying strength, and
had gone out into the light beyond the sunset.

Sister Grace took the baby from her and laid the little creature
gently on the bed, unfolding some of the curious Chinese clothing in
which it was closely wrapped. She had unloosed the wadded coat, and
now pulled off the queer double-peaked crimson cap, disclosing as she
did so, not the expected shaved head, with its fringe of coarse black
hair, but a crop of short, tight, flaxen curls, like rings of floss
silk, falling round a pair of flushed cheeks as pink as appleblossom.

She uttered a cry that drew both doctor and nurses to her side. "Look!
Look!" she exclaimed, "the child is white!"

Where the poor baby had come from or to whom it belonged no one knew.
It was warm and unhurt, though in such a deep sleep that it had
evidently been drugged to prevent it from crying. Beyond a small
woollen vest it was dressed in Chinese clothes, no doubt with the
intention of passing it off as a native, and it wore a carved Chinese
charm tied round its neck. It was a little girl of apparently about a
year old, so round and pretty and dimpled that, when at last, after
many hours, she opened her big blue eyes, she won all hearts in the
hospital at once.

It was impossible to institute any enquiries regarding her during the
troublous time which followed. The Mission, indeed, escaped attack,
but it was many months before communication with the outside world was
safely established, and by then every clue seemed to have been lost.
The consul did his best, and made the case widely known among the
European residents in China, but many families had perished in the
uprising, and no one could tell by which of them the child might have
been claimed.

The little waif stayed on therefore at the Ingledew hospital, where
she grew apace, and was soon the pet and darling of everybody who knew
her. It was decided to call her "Mercy", in memory of the last words
of the woman who had saved her life, and "Ingledew" was added as a
surname for lack of any other.

It was when she was about seven years old that the doctor and his
wife, who were returning to England for a year's leave, determined to
take her with them and to try to make some arrangements for her
education. A philanthropic lady, who happened to join the ship at
Ceylon, heard the strange story, and, taking a fancy to the child,
offered to send her to school; so it was in this way that Mercy had
come to Miss Kaye's, where she had remained ever since.

Last year, however, a great misfortune had occurred. Her kind
guardian, who had always taken the warmest interest in her welfare,
had died suddenly without making a will; her heirs did not feel
themselves bound to continue Mercy's school fees; and again she was
left utterly unprovided for. Here Miss Kaye had come to the rescue,
and had promised to keep her at Heathercliffe House until she should
be old enough to earn her own living as a teacher, and Mercy repaid
the kindness bestowed upon her by working her very best and trying to
fit herself for the career which she was to follow by and by. Nine
years at Aberglyn had blurred her memories of her early life in China,
but she still wrote to her friends at the Mission, and said she never
forgot that one spot, though other scenes might have faded from her
remembrance.

Though Sylvia only heard this account of Mercy's childhood at
secondhand, told mostly in whispers by Linda when they were in bed, it
appealed immensely to the poetical side of her nature, and invested
her schoolfellow with a halo of romance that added greatly to her
other charms.

"Suppose she really has a father or a mother," said Sylvia, who loved
to let her imagination run riot; "or if they are both dead, perhaps a
grandfather, or a grandmother, or an uncle who is searching for her
everywhere. She might be the heiress to a big property, and own
castles and halls and all kinds of things. Hasn't anybody tried to
find out?"

"Oh yes, lots of people!" replied Linda. "But it's no use. There isn't
anything to trace her by. Mercy can't bear to hear it spoken of unless
she mentions it first, and she scarcely ever does. Miss Kaye said it
was much wiser for her not to think about it, because it was such a
forlorn hope, and it was better to be content with the friends she has
and make the most of them. I think she feels it though, sometimes,
when we're all going back for the holidays and talking about our
homes."

"I'm sure she must. Oh, Linda, wouldn't it be lovely if we could find
out her relations? Do let us set to work at once."

"How can we?" said Linda, who had a practical mind.

"I don't know quite how at first, but I have a kind of feeling it may
be done if we only try. I'm going to leave no stone unturned. It's as
interesting as _Hetty Gray_, or _Marjorie's Quest_. Just think that
almost every lady whom Mercy meets may be her mother!"

"They couldn't all be," objected Linda.

"Of course not, but she might be talking to some of her own relations,
and never know it!"

"I don't see how we can help that. People aren't labelled in families
like pots of different kinds of jam, so how could we find out?"

"Oh, don't be stupid! I only mean that we must keep our eyes and our
ears open and listen for every opportunity. I'm going to begin
to-morrow, and if you like to help you can, and if you don't you
needn't."

Greatly fired by her resolution, Sylvia was anxious to solve the
secret of her friend's parentage without further delay. Unfortunately
she did not know exactly how to start. It was impossible to question
Mercy herself, and none of the other girls knew more than Linda had
told her. She decided, therefore, that the only chance was to notice
if anyone looked as if they were seeking somebody, when perhaps she
might be the happy means of bringing about the fortunate meeting, and
have the proud satisfaction of saying: "Here is your long-lost
daughter!"

"It would be the happiest moment of my life," thought Sylvia, "nicer
even than writing a book, though I mean to do that some day. Indeed I
think, when it's all turned out properly, I might make it into a
story, if Mercy wouldn't mind. I could call it _A Waif from China_, or
perhaps _The Little Foundling_, only she's quite big now. _Nobody's
Darling_, would sound beautiful, but she's everybody's darling, so
that wouldn't do. I believe _The Flower of Heathercliffe House_, would
be best, and at any rate I could put 'a true tale' after it. I'd have
it bound in red or green, with gilt edges, and a picture of Mercy on
the back."

The first step to such a flight of literary ambition was evidently to
discover the missing friends; until that was settled the whole point
of the volume would be lacking and it was useless to attempt even a
beginning. She came home one day after the usual morning walk in a
state of great excitement, overflowing with news to tell Linda, who,
having a bad cold, had been obliged to stay in the house.

"What do you think?" she cried, as they stood washing their hands
together in the bathroom, "I really believe I have found a clue at
last!"

"A clue to what?" asked Linda, who had forgotten all about the matter
by that time.

"Why, to Mercy Ingledew! Miss Coleman took us to Aberglyn this morning
and along the promenade, and we sat down for a rest on one of the
benches. Connie Camden and I were quite at the end, next to two
ladies, and I could hear everything they were talking about. One of
them, the tall, fair one, was most dreadfully sad, and said it had
left a blank, and the other, the short, fat one, seemed so sorry for
her and was trying to comfort her. 'When did you lose her?' she asked.
I couldn't hear the answer, because Connie was whispering to me, but
the short lady said: 'Dear me! as long ago as that? I am afraid you
can have very little hope of ever finding her now.' Then Connie
interrupted again, but I caught something about curly hair and such
winning ways. 'You believe she has been traced to this neighbourhood?'
the fat lady said; 'you are quite sure you would be able to know her
from any other?' 'I couldn't mistake,' the tall lady said; 'her eyes
alone would tell me even if she had utterly forgotten me!' It was just
growing most interesting when Miss Coleman got up and we had to go,
but I'm certain we're on the right track and it's Mercy they're
looking for. Don't you think it must be?"

"I don't know," said Linda doubtfully; "it might be somebody else."

"Oh! How could it be? It all exactly fits in with Mercy's story, and
the tall, fair lady was in deep mourning too."

"She wouldn't still be in mourning," said Linda; "it's fifteen years
since Mercy was lost."

"She might be; perhaps she made up her mind never to wear anything
else until she found her. Shall I tell Mercy?"

"No, I'm sure you had better not. Miss Kaye said we were none of us
ever to mention it to her."

"Then I must find out a little more, and it will come as a surprise to
her in the end. Don't breathe a word to any of the other girls; I want
it to be a dead secret. Nobody knows a hint about it except you and
me."

Sylvia felt almost bursting with the importance of her quest; her
great anxiety now was to meet the lady again and make a few further
discoveries. She wished she knew her name, or where she lived, and
much regretted that she had not taken the opportunity of saying
something about Mercy at the time.

"It would be so dreadful if I didn't get a chance to see her any
more," she thought. "Perhaps she's only a visitor at Aberglyn, and she
may go home without anything happening after all."

Every day, when they went for their walk, she looked out both for the
tall, fair lady and the short, fat one, but she never saw either,
though she managed to persuade Miss Coleman to take them twice again
to the promenade, an unheard-of indulgence in one week.

"I don't know what we're to do!" she lamented to Linda. "I must see
her somehow. I feel as if Mercy's future depends upon it. She looks
nice too. I wonder how Mercy will like her for a mother. Just think of
having to get to know your own mother when you're sixteen! Wouldn't it
seem queer? Perhaps she may be in church on Sunday."

"I don't see how you could speak to her even if she were," said Linda.
"We go out by the side door, and you wouldn't be likely to meet her in
the churchyard."

"I wish Miss Kaye would take me shopping on Saturday," said Sylvia.
"It's Sadie Thompson's turn. I wonder if I could coax her to change
with me."

It was Miss Kaye's custom to allow four of the girls to go with her
each Saturday morning to Aberglyn and assist with her marketing. They
were trusted to make some of the purchases, to teach them the value of
money, and were expected to put down a neat account afterwards of what
they had spent. It was a privilege to which they greatly looked
forward, and it had not yet fallen to Sylvia's share. By dint,
however, of a good deal of persuasion, added to the gift of her
cedarwood pencil box, she induced Sadie Thompson to let her have the
next turn; and, as Miss Kaye made no objection to the exchange, she
found herself included among the favoured few.

Nothing could have been more fortunate. The party consisted of Mercy
Ingledew, Trissie Knowles, from the second class, herself, and Nessie
Hirst, and they started off in brisk spirits.

In every shop and street Sylvia's eyes were busy seeking for the two
ladies; but though in the distance she thought she caught a glimpse of
the short one, she found out on a nearer view that she was mistaken.
They went at last into the markethall, where Miss Kaye was soon busy
at a glass and china stall, replenishing some of the school crockery
which had been broken.

"You little ones," she said, "may go and buy me a pennyworth of
parsley and three lemons. Be sure you choose lemons with nice smooth
rinds, and bring back the right change for a shilling."

Sylvia and Nessie ran off together to the fruiterer's, proud of their
errand, and were just engaged in calculating the cost of three lemons
at three-halfpence each, when Sylvia gave a gasp of astonishment and
delight. Round the corner, and actually coming to their stall,
appeared the tall, fair lady and the short, fat one. They stopped to
enquire the price of pears, and stood so near that the long _crêpe_
mantle of the former was actually brushing against Sylvia's hat. She
trembled all over with excitement. Dare she do it? Could she really
pluck up her courage and speak to this unknown stranger? She tried
half a dozen times, but the words stuck in her throat. Yet she felt
she must make the effort, for perhaps Mercy's happiness might hang
upon this one solitary chance.

"If you please," she began in a very small trembling voice, and
touching the lady's sleeve with her hand. But the lady was too busy
buying pears to notice, and only fumbled in her pocket for her purse.

"If you please," tried Sylvia again, speaking rather louder this time.

"I think this little girl wishes to ask you something," said the
short, fat lady, addressing her friend.

The tall, fair one turned suddenly round towards Sylvia.

"What is it, my dear?" she said, somewhat stiffly; "can I tell you
anything?"

Sylvia flushed scarlet. The critical moment had arrived.

"Oh, please," she said, "I thought you hadn't found her yet, and I
believe I know where she is!"

"Not my Tottie?" exclaimed the lady.

"I don't know her real name, but we call her Mercy," said Sylvia. "I
heard you say on the promenade that you'd lost her."

"So I have. I have done everything in my power to recover her. I even
put it into the hands of the police. Where did you find her?"

"She's been at school for ever so long," said Sylvia, "at
Heathercliffe House," she added, in explanation.

"I never dreamt of asking there," said the lady. "I should have
thought Miss Kaye wouldn't have kept her. But no doubt she has been a
great favourite amongst the girls."

"She is. We all love her," declared Sylvia, delighted with the success
of her boldness.

"But where is she? Have you got her safe at Heathercliffe House?"
enquired the lady.

"She's here now in the market," replied Sylvia triumphantly.

"Where? Oh, where?"

"Just in the next row at the pot stall."

"Let us go at once," said the tall lady, hastily paying for her fruit,
and hurrying away in as much agitation as Sylvia herself.

"I don't see her!" she continued in a disappointed tone, when they had
turned the corner, looking anxiously among the crockery laid on the
ground, and even peeping under the stall.

"She's there with Miss Kaye," said Sylvia.

"Where, my dear?"

"Of course you won't recognize her, because she's grown so, but she's
that tall, fair girl with the long, light hair. Oh! May I tell her, or
would you rather tell her yourself?"

The lady looked first at Sylvia and then at her short friend with a
most puzzled expression.

"What is the child talking about?" she asked; "I don't understand."

"You said you'd lost her," faltered Sylvia.

"So I did."

"And there she is--your own daughter!"

"Daughter!" cried the lady, almost dropping her parcel in her
surprise. "It was my dear little dog I was speaking of. I thought you
said you had found her."

"What is the matter?" said Miss Kaye, coming up at this moment; "I
believe I am addressing Mrs. Rushworth? Can I be of any assistance?
Oh, no, we have found no dog! If we had I should have sent it at once
to the police station. I am sorry there should have been a mistake.
Come, Sylvia."

The disappointment was so horrible and tragic, and so different from
anything she had expected, that Sylvia burst into a flood of tears.
Was this the end of all her plans? Instead of accomplishing anything
useful she had only made herself look extremely silly, and she
wondered what Miss Kaye would have to say about it. At first the
headmistress took no notice; she quietly finished her purchases, then,
bidding Nessie Hirst go on with Trissie and Mercy, she gave Sylvia a
parcel to carry and told her to walk by her side. She made no remark
while they were still in the town, but once they were out on the
country road she began to ask questions, and drew a full explanation
from her sobbing pupil.

"Don't cry, my dear," she said kindly; "you have done your best. You
are not the only one who has tried to find poor Mercy's relations, but
the issue is in higher hands than ours. Do not speak to her of what
has happened this morning; it is a subject which has caused her such
great grief that I always shrink from allowing it to be mentioned. The
truest way to prove your friendship is to help her to forget that she
is alone in the world. Though we cannot supply the place of her own
parents, we can at least show her how much we love her, and make her
feel that she has many friends to compensate her for the loss of
father and mother."



CHAPTER VIII

All-Hallows Eve and Guy Fawkes


October had passed so swiftly that Sylvia could hardly realize that
she had now been almost a month at school. In some respects the time
appeared short, yet in others it seemed as if she had been settled
there for years, and she no longer felt herself to be a new girl. The
days, which had been bright and summerlike when first she arrived,
were now rapidly closing in; there was no recreation in the garden
after four o'clock, as Miss Kaye considered it too damp and cold for
them to be out, and they were obliged to amuse themselves in the
playroom instead.

The great excitement at present was the near approach of All-Hallows
Eve, when it was the custom for the whole school to meet and spend the
evening in 'apple bobbing' and other amusements.

"Miss Kaye gets a whole cask," said Linda, "those lovely big American
ones, and we have such fun! We all sit up till half-past eight, even
the babies, and nobody minds how much noise we make. I don't know
which is nicest, Hallowe'en or Guy Fawkes Day."

"Oh, I like the fifth of November!" said Nina Forster. "We don't do
Hallowe'en properly here. 'Apple bobbing' is nothing."

"What do you do at home then?" asked Sylvia.

"We have a large party, and put bowls of water in front of the fire,
and touch them blindfolded, to see who'll be married first. My big
sister once combed her hair before the looking glass at midnight to
see if the shadow of her future husband would appear peeping over her
shoulder, and my brother Alec crept in and got behind her, and pulled
a horrible face, and she shrieked and shrieked. Sometimes, too, we go
into the garden, and drag up cabbage stalks, to try our luck."

"Miss Kaye won't let us do any of those things," said Linda; "she says
it's silly superstition. She was dreadfully cross one evening with
Trissie Knowles and Marjorie Ward because she caught them both
curtsying to the new moon. But she lets us have fun with the apples,
and that's all I care about."

At seven o'clock, therefore, on October 31st, when evening preparation
was finished, the four classes collected for the promised
entertainment. Sylvia, whose home life had been a very quiet one, had
never been present on such an occasion, and she anticipated it with
much delight. As Linda had said, Miss Kaye had been liberal enough to
provide a whole barrel of apples, which stood on two chairs placed
together near her desk, the ripest, roundest, rosiest ones which could
possibly be. Several long strings had been fastened to a beam which
ran across the roof, and to the end of each of these an apple was
fastened. The girls in turn had their hands tied behind their backs,
and had to try to take a bite from an apple as it swung to and fro at
the end of its string--a very difficult performance, since it
generally bobbed, and wriggled, and slid away just at the critical
moment when they were about to put their teeth into it, causing a
great deal of mirth and merriment, and much triumph to the lucky one
who managed at last to take a successful mouthful, and so secure the
coveted treasure.

Three large footbaths had also been brought into the schoolroom, and
put on forms, where they were filled with water, and apples. Then the
girls were allowed to gather round, and, holding forks in their
mouths, to drop them into the water in the hope of spearing an apple;
not nearly such an easy feat as it looked, and one which seemed to
depend mostly on good fortune. Of course it was great fun, especially
when Miss Kaye tried it herself, and her fork just stuck in the
largest and juiciest, and then rolled out again, or when Connie
Camden, in despair of having any success, dipped her whole head and
shoulders into the bath, getting so dreadfully drenched in the process
that she was promptly sent upstairs to bed, a sadder and wiser girl;
for Miss Kaye had strictly forbidden any wetting of hair under penalty
of instant expulsion from the room, and she invariably kept to her
word. Sylvia won two apples, both with a fork; she did not prove
clever at catching them with her teeth, though Linda carried away
four, and Marian Woodhouse six altogether, which, however, she shared
with Gwennie, who had had bad luck and gained nothing.

The evening ended with some rousing games of hunt the slipper, dumb
crambo, and drop the handkerchief. Even Miss Arkwright ran about and
played, and was so pleasant and jolly that Sylvia hardly knew her; and
Miss Kaye was the life and soul of it all, managing to include
everybody, to see that the little ones got a fair chance, that nobody
cheated or took an undue advantage, suppressing quarrels, arranging
turns, and directing her flock like the wise shepherd that she always
proved herself to be.

It was a quarter to nine before the girls, hot and flushed, and with
most untidy hair, said goodnight, and filed upstairs to their rooms,
where they were obliged to sober down when the monitresses went their
rounds, and go to bed with a due regard for order and decorum, rules
and regulations being strictly enforced even on Hallowe'en.

"I'm dreadfully sorry for Connie," said Linda, as she brushed her
hair; "I can't think what made her dip her head right in like that.
She's always doing silly things. When we went to Llandudno last summer
she sat down in the sea when we were wading, and she tumbled off her
donkey and scraped the skin from her nose. And only this term, when
they were coming to school, Rosie gave her their tickets to hold, and
she dropped them on to the line underneath the train. The guard was so
angry, he threatened to make them pay their fares, because no one
could get the tickets until the train had gone out of the station, and
both they and the guard were going in it; but Dolly cried, so he said
he wouldn't this once, only they must be more careful another time.
Just think of Connie having to stay in bed and hear the noise we were
making downstairs! I should have felt pretty cross if it had happened
to me. I've sent her one of my apples, and Hazel said she'd give her
one of hers; still, it's hard luck all the same."

It was but a few days now to the fifth of November. The school, having
spent its excitement over 'apple-bobbing', began to work it up again
harder than ever to celebrate the anniversary of Guy Fawkes. The
little ones went about singing:

    "Please to remember the fifth of November,
       With Gunpowder Treason and plot;
     For I see no reason why Gunpowder Treason
       Should ever be forgot",

till everybody grew completely tired of the tune and squashed them.
Miss Arkwright improved the opportunity by making the third class read
up the subject in their history book, and write a special essay upon
it, with the date and principal persons concerned. The girls had been
allowed to contribute from their pocket money to buy fireworks and
materials for a bonfire.

"Miss Kaye gets old worn-out hampers and barrels from the
greengrocer," said Linda. "Some paraffin is poured over them and they
make the most glorious blaze, and then when the fire has burnt down a
little we roast potatoes in the red-hot ashes, and they taste most
delicious. Mr. Cameron always comes to let off the fireworks. He's
Miss Kaye's cousin, and he's so jolly. He keeps making jokes the whole
time, though he won't let any of us stand very near for fear of sparks
catching our dresses. Then we have heaps and heaps of toffee; it's put
on great plates and handed round, and there are big slices of parkin
too."

"I heard Emmie Hall say she believed there was going to be a Guy
Fawkes this year," said Sylvia.

"No! Is there? Oh, that would be fun! How did she get to know?"

"Edna Lowe had to go to Miss Kaye's room to take a dose of Gregory's
powder, and she saw a big mask on the table, and an old jacket hanging
over a chair. Miss Kaye whisked them away in a moment, but she had
quite time to notice what they were, and, of course, she told Lily
afterwards, and Lily told Emmie."

"We haven't had a guy since I was here," said Linda; "and we've never
had one at home either. Oh, I do want to see it so much! I hope Miss
Kaye's really going to make one. It will be the most delicious,
glorious fun that ever was! I wish Wednesday would hurry up and come."

The girls had raised a general subscription to provide the fireworks,
which were ordered to be sent from a large shop in the town, but no
one was allowed to buy anything privately, Miss Kaye naturally
thinking that squibs and crackers were dangerous in young and
unpractised hands, and that it was better not to run the risk of
accidents.

"We mayn't even get a box of coloured matches," grumbled a few of the
third class, as they gathered in the playroom on Monday at half-past
four, "and I'm sure there could be no harm in that, for you've only to
strike them and hold them in your fingers."

"Miss Kaye makes as much children of us as if we were all in the
Kindergarten," declared Hazel crossly. "I wish we had some chestnuts
at any rate; it would be so jolly to roast them on the bars."

"You'll have some on Wednesday to roast in the bonfire."

"Yes, but I'd rather have them now. There'll be plenty of things on
Wednesday, and it's so slow to-day, there's nothing to do but hang
about till teatime. I say, I have an idea!" And she stooped down and
whispered something in Linda's ear.

"Oh no, Hazel, we daren't!" cried Linda, her eyes wide with delighted
horror; "you don't really mean it?"

"Of course I do."

"Mean what?" asked Nina, full of curiosity.

"I don't think I'll let you know. It's a secret."

"Yes, do. I'll never tell. Truly and honestly I won't."

"Well, why shouldn't we slip out of the side door, and run down the
road to that little shop at the corner of Valley Lane; we could buy
some chestnuts there, and perhaps some fireworks as well. I have
sixpence here in my pocket."

"Oh, we should be caught!"

"No, we shouldn't. If we manage well, nobody will see us, and it won't
take ten minutes. There's plenty of time before tea. Who'll come?"

No one spoke. The adventure was so serious that each girl felt rather
doubtful about undertaking it, and shook her head.

"Well, you are a set of cowards," said Hazel. "I wish Connie Camden
wasn't having her music lesson; she'd go in a second. Linda, you
might."

"Don't, Linda," pleaded Sylvia. "It really isn't worth it. I shan't."

"Linda isn't bound to ask your leave," said Hazel sharply. "She can do
as she likes, I suppose. Come, Linda. It would be such a joke!"

"I'm sure Marian wouldn't let me go," said Gwennie, "or go herself
either. She's at her practising now."

"All right! I don't want either of you, nor Jessie Ellis. But, Nina,
you like a little fun, I know. Come with Linda and me."

"I didn't say I would," faltered Linda.

"Yes, you will, and Nina too. We three are the only ones in the class
with an ounce of courage."

Nina hesitated a moment and was lost. She was very easily led, and it
flattered her so much to have Hazel Prestbury actually begging for her
company that she had not the strength of character to refuse. Linda
looked first at one of her friends and then at the other; they were
almost equally balanced in her affections, but on this occasion Hazel,
the elder, the more important, and the more persuasive, slightly
turned the scale.

"I don't know whether I'll really go," she said; "but I'll come as far
as the gate, and watch you start. There can't be much harm in that."

"Miss Coleman said we mustn't go into the garden to-day. It's
raining," volunteered Gwennie.

"Oh, bother! We don't mind the rain. By the way, you girls must all
promise faithfully you won't be so mean as to tell," said Hazel.

"You needn't be in the least afraid," replied Sylvia, rising, and
going over to the bookcase; "we're none of us telltales, at any rate,
whatever other names you may call us."

The naughty trio crept quietly from the playroom into the
dressing-room, where their garden hats and jackets were kept; then,
quite forgetting either to change their shoes or put on goloshes, they
ran into the drizzling rain, and, keeping well behind the bushes, soon
reached the front gate and peeped cautiously out. Nobody was in sight,
the road looked perfectly clear, and it would hardly take five minutes
to gain the small shop in Valley Lane and buy what they wanted.

"Come along!" said Hazel, holding out her hand to Linda.

But Linda stopped. The remembrance of a look she had seen in Sylvia's
eyes rose up before her, again her friends seemed to be pulling in two
different ways, and her own better judgment told her which was the
right one.

"I think I won't," she said. "I only came to see you off, you know.
I'm going back to play draughts with Sylvia."

"Very well," replied Hazel, much offended. "Nina and I will go by
ourselves. Don't expect any of the chestnuts or fireworks, for you
shan't have them."

Linda managed to return through the garden unobserved, and finding
Sylvia in the classroom, the two sat chatting quietly until the
teabell rang. Nina and Hazel came in to tea rather out of breath, and
with very red cheeks.

"We've got them," they whispered. "A whole bag of lovely chestnuts,
and two boxes of coloured matches, and a magic snake's egg. We ran all
the way back, and didn't see anybody but a policeman."

"We're going to have such a jubilee to-night! Nina's coming into our
bedroom to let off the snake with Connie and me," said Hazel.

"It's no fun with only Jessie Ellis," said Nina.

When tea was over, and the girls were just leaving the room, Miss Kaye
called to Hazel, Nina, and Linda, saying she wished to speak to them
for a moment. She held Elsie Thompson by the hand, and motioned the
children into her study.

"Now, girls," she said gravely, "I wish to ask you something. Elsie
tells me that she was looking out of the top landing window before
tea, and she saw you all three go through the garden to the gate, and
run down the road towards Aberglyn. Is this true?"

"No, Miss Kaye," replied Hazel promptly. "We didn't go out anywhere;
did we, Nina?"

"No," said Nina, though with less assurance.

It was a bold step of Hazel's to deny what they had done, but Elsie
Thompson's habit of making up stories was well known, and on this
account she hoped they might escape. Linda gave no reply. She was in a
terrible difficulty. To tell the truth would of course implicate the
other two; yet she was not prepared with such a deliberate falsehood.

"Did you go down the Aberglyn road, Linda?" asked the headmistress.

"No, Miss Kaye," said Linda, feeling that her truth was only half a
truth after all, and more ashamed of herself than she liked to think.

"I am very glad to hear it," said Miss Kaye, looking relieved. "Elsie
is such a little girl that I believe she hardly knows yet how naughty
it is to tell such wrong tales. I shall have to be very cross with
you, Elsie, if you do so again." And, shaking her head at the small
six-year-old, she dismissed the four.

Hazel waited till they were safely down the passage, then, seizing
Elsie by the arm, she gave her a hard smack.

"You nasty little thing!" she cried; "what do you mean by telling
tales about us to Miss Kaye?"

"But I really saw you," wailed Elsie.

"You didn't. And if you say a word about this to Sadie, or May
Spencer, or anybody else, a big black bogy will come to your bed
to-night and eat you up. Yes, he will," she said, as poor little Elsie
fled in terror to the playroom; "he told me so himself."

"I never thought Elsie would see us," said Hazel. "It was most
unfortunate. We got out of it better than I expected, though. We shall
have to hide away those chestnuts; it won't be safe to roast them, or
to let off the snake either."

"Oh, Hazel, I wish you hadn't done it!" said Linda. "We've told the
most dreadful stories."

"Well, you haven't, at any rate. Miss Kaye asked if you had been down
the Aberglyn road, and you didn't go, so you only said what was quite
true."

"Yes, but----"

"Oh, what's the use of 'buts'? We can't help it now! There's the prep.
bell, and we shall have to go along. I hope none of the other girls
will say anything. I don't suppose they will."

Linda went into preparation with a very uneasy mind. She was a
truthful child, and could not bear to be mixed up with any deceit; but
on the other hand she did not like to get her classmates into trouble.
She was astonished that Hazel should behave so; it spoilt her faith in
her friend, and recalled to her memory several other incidents which
she had not noticed much at the time, but were nevertheless occasions
on which Hazel had not acted in a strictly honourable manner.

"There was the Punch and Judy on the beach," thought Linda, "when she
asked the man to begin, and promised we would give him some pennies,
and then said she hadn't any money with her. And once she found Winnie
Ingham's penknife, and kept it in her pocket for a week without
telling her. And it was she who told Greta Collins to call 'stingy'
after Nellie Parker, because she only put down threepence for the
fireworks; and it was too bad, for Nellie hardly has any pocket money,
and she had given all she had. Oh, dear! I wish Hazel wouldn't do such
things. She's so nice in every other way. I like her immensely. But
what I think is horrid she only laughs at and calls fun. Sylvia never
does." And with that last comparison between her two friends, Linda
put her elbows on her desk, and her fingers in her ears, and tried to
settle herself to the stern task of learning the subjunctive mood of
the verb _rendre_, having a lively horror of Mademoiselle's wrath on
the morrow if she went to the French class with an ill-prepared
lesson.



CHAPTER IX

What Miss Kaye Thought of It


Tuesday passed just as usual, and no casual observer would have
noticed that anything was amiss with the members of the third class.
Elsie Thompson had evidently been frightened into silence by Hazel's
threat, no one else mentioned the subject, and beyond the fact that
Nina looked pale, and Linda rather distressed, the matter seemed
likely to sink into oblivion. At about a quarter to four, however,
when Miss Arkwright was in the very middle of explaining the
difference between a nominative of address and a nominative in
apposition, the door opened suddenly, and Miss Kaye made her
appearance. She so seldom came into a class during the afternoon that
the hearts of three of her pupils began to thump, their guilty
consciences telling them beforehand that her errand must surely
concern them and no others. Nor were they mistaken. After apologizing
to Miss Arkwright for interrupting the lesson, Miss Kaye turned
towards the girls with that stern look in her eyes which they knew and
dreaded to meet.

"Hazel Prestbury, Linda Marshall, and Nina Forster," she said in a
voice that though quiet was full of emotion, "I am deeply grieved to
find that you have been deceiving me. Elsie Thompson told me
yesterday that she had seen you run through the gate and down the road
towards Aberglyn. I asked you if this were so, and you all three
denied it. Knowing that Elsie is not always very truthful I believed
your word in preference to hers. This afternoon I happened to meet
Miss Newman, a lady who lives near Valley Lane, and she told me that
she noticed some of my girls coming out of Mrs. Price's shop yesterday
at about ten minutes to five, and hurrying back towards Heathercliffe.
I am more pained than I can tell you, not only to think that you
should have broken the rules, but that you should have stooped to
utter such deliberate falsehoods. You allowed me to accuse Elsie of
the very fault you were committing yourselves, and meanly left her to
bear the blame. I am thoroughly ashamed of you, and hope you are
equally ashamed of yourselves. Go at once to your bedrooms. Your tea
will be sent to you later. I feel that, until you have fully realized
what you have done, you are not fit to mingle with the rest of the
class. You will, of course, take no part in our fifth-of-November
party to-morrow."

Poor Linda! She left the room feeling as if her trouble were almost
greater than she could bear. It was impossible now to explain that she
had only gone as far as the gate. Miss Kaye would probably not believe
her, and in any case would think that she was trying to shirk her part
of the blame, and cast it on Hazel and Nina. She was beginning to
experience the truth of the old proverb that you cannot touch pitch
and keep your hands clean; she had never intended to do anything in
the least dishonourable, but having taken a first step it had been
very difficult to act in such a sudden emergency. Friendship had
seemed to demand that she should not betray her companions, though
their conduct certainly did not justify any great consideration on
their behalf.

"If I'd only never left the house," she thought, "or if I had told
Miss Kaye I had gone into the garden! But then she would have known
the others must have been there too. Oh, it's all a horrid puzzle, and
I'm simply miserable! I shan't see Guy Fawkes to-morrow, and I hate
everybody and everything, and I wish I were at home."

She went to bed in tears, which increased when Miss Coleman brought
her her tea, and, after collecting Sylvia's nightclothes, informed her
that her roommate, together with Connie Camden and Jessie Ellis, were
to sleep in a large bedroom generally called "The Hospital", and no
one would be allowed even to come in and speak to her. The prospect of
sleeping alone without Sylvia made her feel wretched, and it was not
till then that she began to realize how much her friend was to her,
and what a terrible loss it would be if they were separated.

"Perhaps Miss Kaye won't let us have a bedroom together again," she
said to herself. "I wonder whom she'll put me with! Suppose she sent
one of the big girls to sleep here, Bessie Cunningham, or Marjorie
Moreton. How hateful it would be! There'd never be any fun or talks
in bed in the mornings. Or perhaps I shall be just alone, as I was
before Sylvia came. I didn't care then, but I mind it dreadfully now
I'm so accustomed to her."

In the meantime Sylvia was feeling as dejected as Linda at the course
which events had taken. She knew her friend was not so much to blame
as the others, and it was terrible to find her mixed up in such an
unpleasant business.

"Hazel often tells stories," she reflected, "and I never thought much
of Nina. But I'm sure Linda wouldn't do such a thing. There must be
some mistake. If I could only see her, and get her to explain it all."

That, however, was impossible. She was strictly forbidden to go into
her bedroom, and neither Miss Coleman nor Miss Arkwright would give
any news of the three banished offenders.

It was a very dismal evening in the playroom for the remaining members
of the third class. It cast quite a gloom over their spirits. Connie
Camden did not tease and play tricks as usual, and Jessie Ellis had to
retire to a corner occasionally and wipe her eyes.

"You shouldn't have let them go," said Marian to Sylvia. "You were
there and heard their plans."

"How could I stop them?" cried Sylvia indignantly. "I said I wouldn't
go myself. Hazel is more than a year older than I am, and she never
listens to anything I say. She was as rude as she could be, and
persuaded the others to go with her. Did you want me to go telling
tales to Miss Arkwright?"

"No, but you might have said more. I don't believe they would have
gone if I had been there. I should have thought of so many reasons to
stop them. It was a great pity I was at my practising," said Marian,
who was always wise after an event.

"Well, why didn't Gwennie say it all?" demanded Sylvia. "She was
there."

"Gwennie is much younger, and isn't expected to tell people what they
ought to do. It's quite enough for her to do as she's told herself."

"I'm only four months older than Gwennie, so I don't see why you
should throw the blame on me as if it were my fault that they went,"
said Sylvia. "You'll be scolding Jessie next."

"No, I shan't. She's so stupid no one takes any notice of her. You're
different and ought to make people care," said Marian, getting her
book and beginning to read, while Sylvia, doubtful whether the last
remark was intended for a compliment or a reproof, took out her
writing case and consoled herself by beginning a long letter home.

It seemed very peculiar and gloomy not to be allowed to go to bed in
her own room; she and Connie and Jessie undressed with many grumbles
in the Hospital, and hoped they would not be compelled to stay there
for the rest of the term.

"They ought to have sent the others here instead of us," said Connie.
"We're being punished for something we haven't done."

"Yes, but the others would have been together, and that's what Miss
Kaye doesn't want," replied Sylvia. "They're each of them quite
alone, and I'm sure they must be having a wretched time. I wonder if
they will be in school to-morrow!"

Evidently Miss Kaye did not consider them yet fit to take their places
among the others, for they did not appear at breakfast, nor afterwards
in the classroom. The headmistress had been greatly distressed by the
whole affair, which showed such a sad lack of the moral courage and
high standard she had tried to impress upon all her girls that she
could not but feel a sense of failure. She decided that it was better
to leave them for some little time to themselves, that they might have
leisure to consider what they had done, and she did not mean to let
them return to their places until after the fireworks were over,
knowing that to prevent them from seeing the bonfire was the greatest
punishment she could inflict.

Nina Forster in any case would not have been able to be present. The
run down the wet garden and road in her house shoes, which she had not
afterwards changed, had brought on a feverish cold and sore throat,
and she was tossing about in bed with a splitting head, too poorly to
think of anything but her aches and pains.

The day dragged slowly along. Lessons seemed very strange in a class
of only five, and even Marian missed the others. The girls went out
into the courtyard at four o'clock to look at the great bonfire which
the gardener had been busy piling up, inspected the tub of newly
washed potatoes which the cook had placed outside the back-kitchen
door, and tried to cajole some pieces of toffee from Cook.

"I gave it all to Miss Kaye," she assured them, "and it's locked up in
the dining-room cupboard. It's not a single piece you'll get till
to-night, so don't come bothering me. Parkin, did you say? It's safe
in the storeroom, and it will stay there till seven o'clock."

In spite of a slight mist it promised to be a fine evening, and the
children looked anxiously up at the sky, hoping it would be clear
enough to show off the rockets to advantage. The fireworks were to
begin after six o'clock, at which hour Mr. Cameron was expected to
arrive, and with the gardener's aid to set a light to the bonfire.

"It's no fun in the least without Linda," thought Sylvia, wandering
round to the front of the house to see if she could catch a glimpse of
her friend at the window. "She'll be so unhappy all alone! I wonder
if----." And she ran back to the side door as quickly as she could,
for a new idea had suddenly struck her.

"Mercy," she cried, meeting the monitress in the passage, "there's
something I want to do if I dare. Do you think Miss Kaye would be very
angry with me?"

"I can't tell you till I know what it is," said Mercy, smiling. "What
do you wish to ask her?"

"Linda will be so miserable by herself this evening. Do you think Miss
Kaye would let me stay with her? You see, it wasn't her fault half as
much as the others', because she didn't really go with them."

"How do you know she didn't?" asked Mercy.

"Because she came back at once and said she had only been to the
gate. She and I sat in the classroom talking till teatime."

"My dear child, if you knew this you ought to have told Miss Kaye
about it before!"

"Ought I? I didn't dare. She looked so angry. I thought perhaps Linda
had told her."

"I don't believe she did. At any rate I think we ought to make sure.
If you like I'll go with you to Miss Kaye now; she's in her study."

"Oh, if you only would!" cried Sylvia, clasping Mercy in one of her
affectionate hugs; "I shouldn't mind a scrap if you were there, but
I'm frightened out of my wits to go alone."

Sylvia clutched Mercy's arm very tightly as they tapped at the door of
the study, and entered in response to Miss Kaye's 'Come in!' She was
thankful the elder girl was there to explain her errand, as she felt
so shy herself, she was sure she would not have known how to begin.

"You are quite certain, Sylvia, that Linda did not accompany the
others to Mrs. Price's shop?" asked Miss Kaye, when Mercy had finished
her account.

"Quite, Miss Kaye," replied Sylvia. "She never said she would. Hazel
tried very hard to persuade her, and she promised to go with them just
as far as the gate. She couldn't have gone farther, because she was
back in a few minutes. I know she came in the moment Marian Woodhouse
stopped practising, and Marian always has the piano till exactly a
quarter to five. Then she was with me all the rest of the time until
tea."

"Miss Newman certainly said she saw two girls, both with light hair,"
said Miss Kaye; "I supposed the third must have escaped her notice. I
am glad to find Linda is not quite so naughty as I thought. I will go
to her at once and see if she is able to explain what happened
afterwards."

"And please, Miss Kaye----" said Sylvia eagerly, as the mistress rose.

"Well, my dear?"

"Would you let me stay with her to-night instead of going to the
bonfire?"

"We'll see," replied Miss Kaye; and without committing herself any
further she went upstairs.

Sylvia looked at Miss Kaye many times during tea, trying to read the
answer in her face, but the latter did not glance in her direction,
and seemed fully occupied in a conversation with Mademoiselle. When
the meal was over, however, she called to her to remain after the
other girls had left the room.

"I have seen Linda," she said, "and find her thoroughly sorry for any
part she has played which has not been perfectly honourable and
straighforward. I am sure she will be more careful in future to avoid
even the shadow of an untruth. As I think she was trying to shield
Nina and Hazel I have decided not to punish her any more, and she is
once again free. Did you say that you would be willing to give up your
share of the fun outside and spend the evening with her?"

"Yes, oh yes!" exclaimed Sylvia.

"And miss the fireworks?"

"I don't mind."

"You are a good little friend, but it is not necessary. Linda may come
to the bonfire, and you shall have the pleasure of running upstairs
at once and telling her so yourself."

You may be sure that Sylvia flew like an arrow to her bedroom to
announce the delightful news, and that it did not take Linda long to
put on her outdoor clothes and join the crowd which was already
assembling in the courtyard.

Mr. Cameron had just arrived. He was a tall, jolly, rather elderly
gentleman, with a grey moustache and an endless stock of jokes, which
he fired off like crackers among the girls. They all knew him well, as
he often came to Heathercliffe House. His daughter Doris had been
educated there, and though she was now nineteen, she was fond of her
old school, and had accompanied her father this evening to watch the
fireworks.

"Out of my way!" shouted Mr. Cameron; "make room for the principal
figure, the leading actor on the stage, we may call him, and if you
don't admire him, it's your own bad taste!"

He was staggering from the house as he spoke, carrying in his arms a
huge guy, stuffed with straw, whose comical red face, dangling arms,
and helpless legs roused shouts of laughter all round.

"There," said Mr. Cameron, seating him on a convenient barrel in the
midst of the bonfire, "anyone can change places with him who likes; he
mayn't look clever, but at any rate I can guarantee he'll get a warm
reception before he even takes the trouble to open his mouth. Now
then, stand back, children; we're going to begin."

[Illustration: "IN A FEW MINUTES A GRAND BLAZE WAS FLARING UP"]

The gardener had brought out a large torch, which he applied to some
loose shavings, and in a few minutes a grand blaze was flaring up,
catching the boxes, hampers, and brushwood of which the pile was
composed. Mr. Cameron fastened a match to the end of a pole, and,
lighting it, approached within a few feet of the guy.

"Now look," he said; "watch very carefully, and you'll see him roll
his eyes."

He applied the match to the mask where two small pin-wheels had been
fitted in front of the empty sockets. They went off immediately, and
gave exactly the appearance of two horrible, flaming eyes whirling
round and round in the big head. The younger children screamed and
clung delightedly to the elder ones, and even Miss Kaye was quite
startled at the effect.

"Now he's going to talk," declared Mr. Cameron; "he's like the girl in
the fairy tale who dropped diamonds and pearls whenever she opened her
lips."

He held his lighted pole to the guy's mouth, where a Roman candle was
hidden inside, and out came balls of red and blue and green, shooting
into the air one after another with great brilliance. By this time the
flames had reached his arms and legs, which, being stuffed with squibs
and crackers, exploded with much noise, and the luckless conspirator
disappeared with a crash into the midst of the burning barrels, to the
accompaniment of a storm of clapping and a lusty cheer. When the blaze
had somewhat subsided, the tub of potatoes was carried out, and each
girl was allowed to place one in the hot ashes, together with several
chestnuts, which could be roasting while they ate the toffee and
parkin.

"You wouldn't think of eating sweet things just before you had
potatoes at any other time," said Linda, "but everything tastes so
delicious when it's from the bonfire."

Mr. Cameron was getting ready to let off the more important fireworks,
which had been kept till the end, and the girls arranged themselves in
a half-circle to look at the golden rain, the Catherine wheels, and
the rockets which were to finish the festivities. He had prepared a
surprise for them by writing "Heathercliffe House" in gunpowder on the
ground, which, when it was set alight, stood out in letters of flame,
and had a fine effect. "I always said Heathercliffe House ought to set
the world on fire," he laughed, "and we've done it to-night."

As Linda stood watching the last rocket tearing across the sky, she
put her arm round Sylvia's shoulder. "I shouldn't have been here at
all this evening except for you," she whispered. "It was lovely of you
to go to Miss Kaye. She was so nice about it when I said I was sorry.
I don't think I shall ever be frightened of her again."

"Three cheers for Miss Kaye!" called Mr. Cameron. "Those who feel they
have had a jolly time may join me, and those who don't had better go
to bed. Hip! Hip! Hooray!"

And among all the laughing, clapping girls there were none who
responded more heartily than Linda and Sylvia.



CHAPTER X

Sylvia's Birthday


Nina Forster was obliged to remain in bed for several days, but Hazel
Prestbury came into school on the following morning, rather red about
the eyes, and a little sulky. She was sorry, not so much for her
fault, as for being found out, and she blamed herself for her own
stupidity.

"I might have known some tiresome person would see us out of a
window," she thought. "Miss Kaye always manages to get to hear
everything."

She felt that the other girls disapproved of her. Marian spoke her
mind freely on the subject, and even gentle Gwennie did not appear too
anxious to sit next to her. Linda avoided her as much as possible,
keeping strictly to Sylvia's company, and, though Connie Camden, who
never thought about anything, was as friendly as ever, it did not
quite make up for the general coldness of the rest. The girls were too
kind to send her to Coventry, but Hazel felt she had lost her former
position in the class. It was a severe wound to her pride, for she had
liked to be considered a leader, and had always been pleased to see
how easily the others had accepted her opinions and suggestions; as
the eldest she had possessed a good deal of influence, and her
greatest punishment was to find it gone.

November crept on fast, and the days seemed to grow rapidly shorter
and shorter. It was chilly now in the mornings, and those whose hard
fate it was to be obliged to practise before breakfast grumbled at
stiff fingers and cold toes.

"I never know whether I like it or not," said Sylvia. "I hate it when
I'm in bed, and feel I'd give all the world not to have to get up so
early; but when it's done it's so nice to think you won't have to do
it at four o'clock. I wish one could learn music without practising."

"And French without verbs," groaned Linda, looking at her exercise,
nearly every line of which showed red-ink corrections in Mademoiselle's
neat foreign handwriting. "I think some people are born bad at
languages, and I'm one of them. I never can understand properly what
Mademoiselle is saying, and then she gets cross and says I don't
attend."

French was a serious trouble to Sylvia also. She had learnt very
little with her governess at home, and found it most difficult to keep
up with Marian, who had rather a pretty accent, and was good at
translation. To encourage her pupils, Mademoiselle had offered a prize
to whichever could write the best letter home in the French language.
Each was to be the unaided work of the competitor, though grammars and
dictionaries might be freely consulted. It was a difficult task to all
the girls, and to some an almost impossible one, but Mademoiselle
insisted upon everybody at least making an attempt, and laughed in
private over the funny efforts which followed.

If the prize had been given for the queerest instead of the best
letter Connie Camden would have gained it. She grew so tired of
looking up words that she wrote anything she thought sounded like
French, and the result would have puzzled a native to decipher. It ran
thus:--

    "Heathercliffe Maison.
        "Novembre la onzième.

    "Mon cher mère

    "Mamzelle a toldé moi que je mustai writer une lettre en
    français. Je le findai très difficile et je ne likai pas du
    tout. Mamzelle a offré une prize mais je suis sûre que je ne
    shallai pas le getter. Je begge que vous excusez moi parce que
    je ne canne pas thinker de rien encore à sayer.

        "Votre aimant fille,
            "CONNIE."

This, however, was the worst of the set, some of the others having
managed to express themselves quite nicely. Rather to everybody's
astonishment Hazel Prestbury won the prize. She was not industrious
enough to gain the highest marks in class, but on this occasion she
had set her best energies to work, and her letter, both as regards
composition and grammar, was far in advance of all competitors. She
felt a thrill of triumph as Mademoiselle presented her with a charming
Parisian basket full of choice chocolates, accompanied by a speech in
French, which nobody understood in the least. She handed it round
amongst the girls with a sense that she had at last somewhat regained
her lost standing, and when the basket was empty had the satisfaction
of overhearing Marian remark that she was generous with her sweets,
and Gwennie wish that she knew French only half as well.

Nina Forster returned to class after a week's absence, looking pale
and thin, and with a white knitted shawl wrapped ostentatiously round
her shoulders. She was a girl who thoroughly enjoyed being delicate,
and liked the importance of having a fuss made over her. There was
always a large bottle of tonic on the sideboard, which Nina gloried in
being obliged to swallow, and she was rather pleased than otherwise if
Miss Kaye decided that it was too damp a day for her to venture out.

"I can't stand much, you know," she would explain complacently to the
others in languid tones. "Every winter I have been laid up, with the
doctor listening at my bronchial tube and taking my temperature night
and morning. It makes Mother most unhappy, and I'm sure Miss Kaye's
quite worried about me too."

As most of the girls did not know the exact meaning of either a
bronchial tube or a temperature, they were a good deal impressed, and
allowed Nina to take the warmest seat and the biggest piece of toffee
"for the sake of her throat", a state of affairs which was just what
she wanted, and of which she did not fail to take advantage to the
uttermost.

With the colder weather eider-down quilts had made their appearance in
the bedrooms, and now supplied the places of the pretty pink coverlets
which were only used in summer. It felt very warm and comfortable to
snuggle down under them at night, when the wind was howling outside
and the rain beating fast against the windows, and very hard to throw
them back and get up in the dark, chilly mornings, when the dressing
bell was ringing in the passage outside.

Sylvia's eider-down quilt once caused her an experience which gave her
a greater fright than she had ever had in her life before. She had
been to sleep for what seemed to her several hours, and woke suddenly
with a curious sense that someone besides herself and Linda was in the
room. It seemed to her as if her quilt were being very gently but
surely pulled from her bed. Wideawake in an instant, she pulled it
back and lay listening with strained ears. There was nothing to be
heard but Linda's placid breathing and the drip of the rain from the
spout outside the window. Again the quilt slowly began to move, and
this time she was certain she caught a slight sound. Could it be
possible that a burglar was concealed under her bed? The idea was too
dreadful, and a cold shiver ran through her. What was she to do? She
did not dare to call to Linda; she felt as if her tongue would refuse
to utter a cry, and perhaps if she did the man would at once crawl
out. The room was not quite dark, as a fitful moon shone in through
the blind between the storm clouds, and to poor Sylvia it made the
horror almost worse to know that she would be able to see somebody
rise up suddenly by her bedside.

"I'd give him anything and everything he wants to steal," she thought,
"if only he wouldn't frighten me so. Oh, I wonder whether he's really
there or not!"

She held the edge of the quilt in her hand. Was it slipping once more?
Yes, it was most undoubtedly being pulled from her grasp, and, as her
hair nearly stood on end with fear, she heard an unmistakable sneeze
from somewhere just underneath her bed. She gave a little agonized
gasp of terror, and at the same moment something sprang up and plumped
on to her chest. Nearly dead with fright, she yet managed to look, and
to her astonishment beheld only the waving tail and round green eyes
of Toby, the school cat, which, settling himself comfortably, began to
claw the quilt with his paws, purring his loudest the while as if
quite proud and pleased with himself. Sylvia sat up in bed and laughed
heartily at her burglar.

"Toby, you wretch," she cried, stroking his soft fur, "how did you
manage to get in here? I suppose it was you that was trying to tug my
quilt from me. No doubt you wanted to make yourself a nice bed on the
floor. And then you sneezed! What shall I do with you? I can't take
you to the kitchen in the middle of the night. You'll have to cuddle
down with me; you're beautifully warm at any rate. Here, come inside,
you'll be as good as a hot bottle." And, clasping the purring cat
close in her arms, she was soon back in the land of dreams.

It was quite a little adventure to relate to Linda next morning, and
the latter wondered how she had been able to sleep so stolidly through
it.

"You always say I shouldn't hear either a burglar or an earthquake,"
she declared, "and Toby was very nearly as bad. You naughty, precious
puss! What do you mean by coming and scaring my Sylvia? There, you
didn't do it on purpose, did you? Come into my bed for a minute before
I get up. You're the sweetest, softest darling that ever was."

Sylvia's birthday was on the nineteenth of November, and to her great
delight it happened this year on a Saturday. Miss Kaye, who tried to
make school seem as much like home as possible, was indulgent
regarding such anniversaries, and permitted many small privileges to
the fortunate owner of a birthday. Sylvia was allowed to choose the
dinner, an important decision, over which she lingered so long that
the mistress nearly lost patience.

"Of course you must not order turkey and ice cream," said Miss Kaye;
"it must be two of our ordinary dishes, only you may have which you
like. Be quick, for Cook is waiting to know."

After some hesitation Sylvia decided on hotpot and fig pudding.

"I like the potatoes on the top of the hotpot," she explained to
Linda, "especially when they're crisp and brown, and the fig pudding
always has delicious sweet sauce, and Miss Kaye lets one take plenty
of sugar with it. Jessie Ellis chose boiled mutton and corn-flour
blancmange with jam on her birthday. I don't think that was nice at
all."

The girls in her class subscribed, and gave Sylvia a birthday book as
their joint present, containing poetical quotations from Shakespeare
for each day, and one or two pretty illustrations of Perdita, Portia,
and other heroines. She was charmed with such a remembrance and asked
them all to write their names in it.

"We chose a fawn cover," said Nina, "because topaz is the birthday
stone for November. Marian wanted a green one, but I said that
wouldn't do. It's a funny thing, but people always say your month
stone matches your eyes. I never can quite decide whether yours are
brown or dark grey, but I'm sure a necklace of topaz would suit you
beautifully, and you'll have to wear one when you're grown up. By the
by, on which day of the week were you born?"

"On a Friday," said Sylvia; "but why do you want to know?"

"Then you're loving and giving."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, don't you know the old rhyme?

    'Monday's child is fair of face,
     Tuesday's child is full of grace,
     Wednesday's child is a child of woe,
     Thursday's child has far to go,
     Friday's child is loving and giving,
     Saturday's child must work for its living,
     But the child that is born on the Sabbath day
     Is good and truthful and happy and gay.'"

"Where do you learn all these things?" asked Sylvia.

"From our old cook. She's a daleswoman, and she can tell what it means
when the candle gutters or the clock stops, or a swarm of bees comes,
or you see magpies, or your ear burns, or you sneeze, and what's lucky
to do and what's unlucky."

"You are the greatest goose!" said Marian scornfully. "You don't mean
to say you believe that silly rubbish? We shouldn't be allowed to talk
to our cook at home if she told us such nonsense. You'd better not let
Miss Kaye see you throwing salt over your shoulder, or crossing the
water when you wash with anybody."

"You always make fun of everything I do," exclaimed Nina plaintively.

"Then you should have more sense," snapped Marian, who prided herself
upon being strong-minded.

"Sylvia has a pretty name at any rate," continued Nina, "and so have
I. I shouldn't like to be called Marian; it's just like Mary Ann."

But as Marian wisely took no notice, and walked away, the shot fell
rather flat.

The parcel post came in at half-past ten, and brought several
bulky-looking packages addressed to "Miss S. Lindsay". Sylvia bore
them off to the playroom and untied the strings before an audience of
sympathetic girls, each of whom was almost as interested as if the
birthday had been her own.

"Which shall I open first?" she said. "This one feels nice, and it's
in Mother's writing, too. Lend me your scissors, Marian, that's a
dear. I can't unfasten this knot. Oh, look! Exactly what I wanted."

And she drew from a cardboard box a charming little Brownie camera
with several rolls of films quite ready to use.

"How delightful!" she cried. "Now I can take snapshots of you all, and
the house, and Miss Kaye, and everything. I'll send them home to
Father to develop; he's very clever at photos."

"You won't be able to take snaps in this dark weather," said Hazel. "I
don't expect you can do much with it until spring. I took some last
autumn, and they were so faint you couldn't tell what they were meant
for."

"Well, she can try, at any rate," said Linda. "Perhaps she can manage
a time exposure if she puts the camera on something steady, and get a
group of the whole class in the garden. What's in the next parcel?"

It proved to be a copy of the _Talisman_, with "Sylvia Lindsay, from
her loving Father", written inside--a welcome present, as Sylvia was
collecting Scott, and was glad to have an addition to her number of
volumes.

"This is a child's writing," said Marian, taking up a small packet,
addressed in a round, rather shaky-looking hand. "Shall I cut the
string for you?"

"Really, Marian! Let her open her own parcels. They're her presents,"
said Linda.

"And my scissors," returned Marian. "I only wanted to help her. Oh!
That's pretty!" she exclaimed as Sylvia unwrapped a purse made of
mother-of-pearl with a gilt clasp and lined with crimson silk. On a
half-sheet of notepaper was written: "With best wishes for your
birthday from Effie and May".

"How kind of them to send me anything!" said Sylvia. "They never have
done before. I suppose it's because I'm at school. I really am in luck
this time."

The next parcel was from Aunt Louisa and Cousin Cuthbert. It was an
upright wooden box, containing a set of table croquet, eight little
mallets and balls, with hoops and sticks, arranged on a polished wood
stand, and sandbags to place round the table to prevent the balls from
rolling off on to the floor.

"I think this is the nicest of all," cried Linda. "There are just
eight mallets, so that the whole class can play, and it will be such
fun on wet days when we can't go out."

"I never expected another present from Aunt Louisa," said Sylvia. "She
gave me that writing case when I came, and Cuthbert the pencil box,
the one I gave to Sadie Thompson, you know."

"I wish she were my aunt," said Marian; "I should think she's nice."

"She is generally, but it was she who made Father and Mother send me
here, and I didn't want to come in the least."

"Why, but you're glad now, aren't you? Everybody likes being at Miss
Kaye's."

"Yes, I'm very glad, though I'm looking forward immensely to Christmas
and going home. I wonder what's inside this smallest parcel. Oh, a
brooch from Aunt Mabel and Uncle Herbert! Such a pretty one, like
little silver daisies. It will go beautifully with my best dress."

Miss Holt had sent a writing album, Granny a bottle of scent, and
Uncle Wallace a box of chocolates, so there was quite a show of gifts
arranged upon the table.

"You haven't opened this one yet," said Linda, pointing to the
largest parcel, which had been left till the last.

"No, because I knew what it was," said Sylvia. "It's my birthday cake,
and mother said it was to be a present for the whole school."

It was so carefully packed in a wooden box that the children were not
able to open it themselves, and were obliged to fetch Miss Coleman,
who prised up the lid with a screwdriver and lifted out such a
wonderful cake that, as she laid it on a plate, everybody gave a
gasping "Oh!" of admiration. It was beautifully iced, with ornaments
of pink and white sugar, and Sylvia's name in sugary letters on the
top, and it was of such a large and substantial size that it looked as
if even thirty-four girls would be able to cut and come again.

"Mother says there's a sixpence inside," said Sylvia, "so it will be
very exciting to see who gets it at tea. I hope it will be right in
the middle of a slice, and not tumble out just when it's being cut."

"You're a very fortunate girl," said Miss Coleman. "You'll have to be
quite busy the rest of the day writing letters to thank all these kind
friends. I'm going to take the cake to the storeroom, but you may keep
the box of chocolates."

Tea was a festive meal. The cake looked most imposing, placed on one
of Miss Kaye's largest dessert dishes in the centre of the table.
Sylvia was allowed to cut it herself, and handed generous slices round
to everybody, and she was particularly glad when little Elsie Thompson
got the coveted sixpence.

"They never have a cake of their own," whispered Linda; "their aunt
doesn't think of making one for them, and their father is too far
away. Sadie had only one present on her birthday besides what we gave
her."

Before bedtime came, Sylvia took her handsome bottle of scent, and,
wrapping it in a parcel, wrote on a piece of paper: "Will you please
accept this from me. I shall feel very hurt if you don't". Then in
defiance of rules she ran into Mercy's room, and laid it on her
pillow, where she would find it when she went to bed.

"I'm sure Granny wouldn't mind," she said to herself. "No one knows
exactly which day is Mercy's birthday, and, though they keep it on the
one when she was found, it might perhaps be to-day, and I couldn't
bear to think that I've had all these lovely presents and she should
have got nothing at all."



CHAPTER XI

The Christmas Holidays


"Stir-up Sunday" seemed to come almost directly after Sylvia's
birthday, and the girls began to count the weeks eagerly until the
holidays. There were many ingenious devices for marking the passage of
time. Hazel Prestbury cut notches on her ruler, Connie Camden put
twenty-two stones on her mantelpiece and threw one out of the window
every morning, and Nina Forster scored the calendar hanging in her
bedroom each evening with a very black lead pencil.

"I live only ten miles away," said Linda, "so I haven't a long
journey, have I? The first term I used to go home for weekends, but
Miss Kaye said it unsettled me, and she asked Mother to let me stay at
school like the other girls. I don't mind it now; it's rather nice
here on Saturdays and Sundays."

There still seemed a good deal to be done before the end of the term
arrived. All the girls had been working in the evenings at dressing
dolls and making other presents for a Christmas tree that was to be
given to the poor children attending a ragged school at Aberglyn. They
liked the employment, especially as Miss Kaye would come sometimes and
read aloud to them while they sewed.

"And there isn't anybody in the world who can read so beautifully as
Miss Kaye," said Linda.

"When I was at Mrs. Harper's school," said Hazel, "we were helped to
make Christmas presents to take home, instead of doing things for
ragged schools. I worked a most lovely afternoon-tea cloth; Mother's
quite proud of it still. I wish we did that here."

"I don't," said Marian. "I suppose you only like doing things for
yourself."

"It wasn't for myself. It was for my mother. How nasty you always are,
Marian!"

"It was for home, at any rate," retorted Marian. "Miss Kaye says we
can be quite as selfish for our families as for ourselves, and we
ought to remember outside people at Christmas, who don't get any
presents, and who won't give us nice things back."

"Well, really!" said Hazel; "do you mean to tell me I'm not to make
presents for my mother and my aunts?"

"I didn't say anything of the sort. You can give those too, but Miss
Kaye said they oughtn't to be the only ones. Even heathens are fond of
their own families, and it's not particularly generous just for all to
give things round in a circle."

"Well, we've done plenty for the ragged schools this year," said Nina,
reviewing the row of dolls in their pretty bright frocks, the wool
balls, the knitted reins, and the scrapbooks which formed the
contribution of the class. "They'll look splendid hanging on the
tree."

"I wish we could go and see the treat," said Sylvia.

"Miss Kaye won't let us do that," replied Linda. "She's afraid we
might catch measles or chicken-pox."

"I always go to our treats at home," said Jessie Ellis.

"Your father's a clergyman, so you're sure to," said Marian. "We do
sometimes, to the Scholars' Tea or the Congregational Teaparty.
Gwennie and I help to pass cups and hand the cake, while Mother pours
out."

"Let us tell what we're each going to do in the holidays," said Hazel.
"You go on, Marian, as you've begun. Don't you have anything but
school treats?"

"Of course we do," answered Marian. "We go on New Year's Eve to our
grandfather's, and have a big family party with all our cousins.
Everybody has to play a piece, or recite poetry, or do something, and
it's ever so jolly. We sit up till midnight, and bring in the New
Year. And we go skating with our brothers, and slide on the pond, and
if there's any snow we toboggan down the hill on teatrays and have
snowball fights with some boys who live near. It's great fun."

"Yes, lovely fun!" echoed Gwennie.

"I go to so many parties!" said Hazel. "I always have three or four a
week, and we give a dance ourselves too. Last year I went to the
Mayor's Children's Fancy Ball. I was dressed as a Dresden china
shepherdess, with a flowered skirt and a laced bodice and paniers, and
a big hat, and a crook in my hand. It's only to be a plain ball this
Christmas. Then there are the pantomimes; we generally go to two and
sometimes to the circus as well, and any concerts or entertainments
that may happen to be on. Now, Connie, it's your turn to say."

"There are so many of us," began Connie, "Mother says it's like a
party to see us all sitting round the table. We play games amongst
ourselves, and get up acts and charades. We have a huge room at the
top of the house, where we may make as much noise and mess as we like.
Sometimes the boys give a magic-lantern show up there, or make shadow
pictures. And Bertie has a lathe, and turns all kinds of jolly things
in it out of pieces of wood; and he helps us to build boats; and we
sail them across the reservoir; and we go long walks on the moors; and
we've a little hut at the end of the garden, with a stove in it where
we cook things. We make the most glorious toffee! I wouldn't change my
holidays for anybody else's!"

"They do sound nice," said Nina. "I go about with my sisters. They're
quite grown up, and they take me to pay calls. Then my brother's at
home as well, and he and I have fun together. I'm asked to plenty of
parties, but Mother is so terribly afraid of my catching cold that I
miss quite half of them. I don't always go to the pantomime, because
of draughts. I like the summer holidays best, when we stay at the
seaside. Jessie, you haven't said yet."

"I don't know what to tell," said Jessie, who was not gifted with
great powers of description.

"Oh, but you must say something! I don't suppose you spend the
holidays in bed."

"Well, no!" said Jessie, laughing. "Though I did once, when I had
scarlet fever. I go walks with my brother, and we help to decorate the
church, and people ask us to tea. I think that's all."

"I still think mine are the nicest," said Hazel. "Linda, we want
yours."

"We live quite in the country," said Linda. "The carol singers come on
Christmas Eve, and we ask them in and give them hot coffee. There's a
big pond, where we skate if it freezes hard enough, and once, when
there was very deep snow, we had out our sledge. Sometimes we stay
with Granny in London, and then we go to the pantomime and the circus,
and have a lovely time. We've got a new puppy, and I want to teach him
some tricks these holidays. Now, Sylvia, you're the last."

"I've nobody to do anything with," said Sylvia rather wistfully,
almost forgetting, in listening to the glowing accounts of the others,
how she had once said she did not wish for young companions. "Not at
home at any rate; but of course there are parties, and we have people
to tea. I just read and paint, and do things by myself."

The girls appeared to consider this must be very slow, and pitied
Sylvia to such an extent that she was quite surprised.

"I'm perfectly happy," she remonstrated.

"But it can't be so nice as having brothers and sisters," said Marian
in her decisive manner. "I should miss our little ones most
dreadfully, and Fred and Larry too. Holidays wouldn't be holidays
without seeing them. I think it must be wretched to be an only child."

Talking of the holidays did not make them come any the faster, and
there was plenty of hard work to be gone through before the end of the
term arrived. For the first time in her life Sylvia had real
examinations. She rather enjoyed the solemnity of the occasion, the
typed questions, the large sheets of lined paper with margins ruled in
red ink, the clean blotting paper, the new pens, and even the awesome
silence of the room, with Miss Arkwright sitting at her desk reading
instead of teaching as usual. She came out top in history, grammar,
and geography, but Marian beat her easily in French, writing, and
arithmetic, and in the end their marks were so exactly even that they
were bracketed together.

Then there was an agitating afternoon when everybody had to recite
poetry to Miss Kaye, each being expected to choose a different piece.
Sylvia selected "John Gilpin", which she had learnt with Miss Holt,
but unfortunately grew nervous and got so mixed that she was obliged
to sit down in confusion, and hear Marian sail glibly through "The
Little Quaker Maiden", a poem which she rendered with great effect.
Connie Camden and Jessie Ellis had a furious quarrel as to which
should say "Hohenlinden", that being the shortest on the list of both;
but in the end Jessie gave way and took "The May Queen" instead.

Miss Denby did not allow the music to be neglected, and made each
pupil learn a grand Christmas piece which seemed to need much more
practising than any other, and had the added ordeal that it must be
played on the last day before an audience of the whole school.

The party which was always held on the Saturday before breaking-up was
also a new experience to Sylvia. The first class acted a short French
play, under the excited direction of Mademoiselle, who had spent much
time in coaching them for their parts. The second class took a scene
from _The Midsummer-Night's Dream_. Trissie Knowles made a pretty
Titania, and Stella Camden such a mischievous Puck that everybody
clapped heartily, though Miss Barrett said she was only acting her
natural character, and of course it came easily to her. Connie Camden
climbed up and sat on the window sill in order to see better, and fell
down with a terrible crash, grazing her knee on a form and making a
big bump on her forehead, and Dolly managed to upset a bottle of ink
which Miss Coleman thought she had put most securely away.

When the plays were over, the girls had dancing and games in the large
classroom, and finished with a dainty supper of fruit, cake, and
jellies, which fully justified Linda's remark that "Heathercliffe
House seemed almost as much parties as school".

Then came the exciting afternoon when the boxes were carried down from
the boxroom and everybody set to work to pack, with the help of the
monitresses and Miss Coleman. It was a most delightful, noisy,
blissful time, when there were no forfeits if one ran into anybody
else's room, or even jumped on the bed, when nobody had to practise or
learn lessons, and one could shout and sing in the schoolroom. Connie
Camden flung her history up to the ceiling, and did not mind in the
least when it lost its back in its descent.

"Miss Arkwright will be dreadfully cross about it when we begin
history again," said Marian.

"I don't care! That's a whole month off, and we've all the holidays
first. No school for four weeks, and going home to-morrow! Hooray!"
shouted Connie at the pitch of her lungs, waltzing among the desks
with such vigour that she knocked over the blackboard, and got a
scolding after all from Miss Arkwright, who happened at that moment to
enter the room.

"You must control yourself, Connie. I can't have such wild behaviour
even if it is the last day," she said firmly.

"Oh, Miss Arkwright," cried Connie, "you can't want to go home half as
badly as I do!"

"Indeed I do," said the mistress. "I shall enjoy my holidays quite as
much as anybody, though I have learnt not to dance round the desks to
show my pleasure."

The girls laughed. The idea of Miss Arkwright executing a Highland
fling or a jig between the forms tickled their fancy.

"I could imagine Miss Kaye doing it easier than Miss Arkwright,"
whispered Linda. "She did dance a reel, you know, at the party."

Everybody got into bed that night with the happy feeling that boxes
were packed and ready, and that to-morrow morning, when the last
necessaries were popped in, they would only need to be strapped and
labelled, and then the joyful opening would be at home. Most of the
girls were too excited to eat much breakfast, but Miss Kaye, knowing a
reaction would probably take place in the train, had provided packets
of sandwiches and biscuits, and did not scold for once at the
half-finished plates of porridge.

At ten o'clock cabs began to drive up to the door, and parties of
chattering, laughing girls departed to the railway station under the
care of Miss Barrett.

Sylvia had enquired anxiously some time ago if Mercy were to stay at
school, having a secret hope that she might persuade her mother to ask
her friend home with her, but May Spencer had already given an
invitation which Miss Kaye had allowed Mercy to accept.

Linda's parents drove over to fetch her, so Sylvia had the pleasure of
making their acquaintance. There was not time to do much more than
shake hands, still it was nice to see the father and mother of whom
Linda had spoken so often, and hear them express a wish that she
should some day pay a visit to Craigwen.

Sylvia was to travel with Miss Coleman, who would pass through Crewe,
where Mrs. Lindsay had arranged to meet her, and she had the four
Camdens and Sadie and Elsie Thompson as companions for part of the
way. The Camdens were welcomed at a wayside station by a jolly crew of
brothers, who appeared to have reached home first, and the Thompsons
were handed over at Chester to a gloomy-faced aunt, who did not look
particularly pleased to receive them, and remarked at once how fast
they had worn out their clothes.

"I wish I could have taken them home with me, poor little dears," said
Miss Coleman afterwards in the train, "but my sister is ill, and
could not do with any noise. Perhaps their aunt may brighten up more
at Christmas, and remember that she too was once a child, and then we
must see what can be managed for them at Easter."

At last came the longed-for arrival at Crewe, the anxious search among
the crowd in the station, and the joyful sight of not only Sylvia's
mother but her father also, hurrying along the platform. She hugged
them both as if she had not seen them for years instead of eleven
weeks.

"My precious child," exclaimed Mrs. Lindsay, "I declare you have
grown, and are ever so much fatter, and you've quite a colour too!"

"School evidently agrees with you, Sylvia," said her father. "It's a
good thing you went, isn't it?"

"It was quite different from what I thought it would be," Sylvia
confided to her mother when they sat in the drawing-room together for
a long talk after tea. "Miss Kaye isn't cross, she's lovely and kind;
and even Miss Arkwright isn't bad, and I like Marian better than I
did, and I just love Linda and Mercy. I tried to explain about Mercy
in my letters, but I'm afraid you didn't exactly understand, so I'll
have to tell it you over again. And Marian and I were both bracketed
together top, and Miss Arkwright said we must be friends and not
rivals, and I quite forgot the middle of "John Gilpin", and made a
horrible mistake in my Christmas piece; but Miss Kaye said I might
tell you that she thought I had done very well, but my report will
come in a day or two, so then you can see everything for yourself."

Sylvia had a particularly happy holiday, and thought she enjoyed home
twice as much with having been away from it for a whole term. Her
father found time to label the specimens in her museum, and to show
her how to develop her photographs and print them afterwards, and her
mother gave up the afternoons specially to be with her. All her
friends came to her New Year's party, and to her astonishment she
found she got on perfectly well with the once-detested Fergusson boys,
who now seemed hardly more lively than Connie or Stella Camden, and
who did not tease her, since, as they described it, "she had left off
putting on airs". Her experiences with the little ones at school made
her quite motherly with Bab and Daisy Carson, and she enjoyed the
games with Effie and May as much as they did.

"You said you wouldn't care to run about when you came back," they
reminded her, "but you play more with us now than you did before."

"I believe Sylvia has learnt it as part of her lessons," said Aunt
Louisa, who looked on with much approval, adding quietly to Mrs.
Lindsay: "The child is immensely improved. She is brighter and
stronger and better in every way. I was sure Miss Kaye would soon work
a change, and I think we may feel that so far our experiment has been
a complete success."



CHAPTER XII

The Secret Society


School re-opened on January 18, and Sylvia found herself driving up to
the well-known door with very different feelings from those she had
experienced on her first arrival there. On the whole she was quite
pleased to be back again, to meet all her friends, and compare notes
about the holidays. There was one change in the third class which,
however it might affect others, seemed to Sylvia a decided
improvement. Hazel Prestbury had left. An aunt residing in Paris had
offered to take her for a time to give her the opportunity of special
study in French and music, and her parents had arranged for her to go
at once, sending Brenda, a younger sister, to Heathercliffe House in
her place. Brenda was a very different child from Hazel, and had soon
sworn eternal friendship with Connie Camden, so that at last Sylvia
felt she had her dear Linda absolutely and entirely to herself.

"I don't know how it is," said Nina one chilly February evening when
the members of the third class were gathered round the high fireguard
in the playroom, "there never seems half so much fun going on in the
spring term. In the autumn we have Hallowe'en and the fifth of
November and the Christmas party, and in the summer there are picnics
and the shore, and the sports, and the prize-giving; but unless Miss
Kaye takes us a long walk there isn't anything to look forward to now
until Easter."

"And that's eleven whole weeks off," groaned Connie. "I wish it had
come early this year."

"It wouldn't make any difference if it did," said Marian; "Miss Kaye
keeps to the term. We should only have to spend Easter at school, and
go home as usual in the middle of April."

"That would be horrid. Why should she?"

"Because it would make too long a summer term, and because she likes
our holidays to be the same as those of the boys' schools."

"I hadn't thought of that. Of course it would be no fun to go home if
Percy and Frank and Bertie and Godfrey weren't there. Still, I wish
terms were a little shorter, or that something nice would happen." And
Connie ruffled up her hair with both hands as an expression of her
discontent.

"Couldn't we do something just amongst ourselves?" said Sylvia. "Not
the whole school, but our class."

"There isn't anything new," said Brenda, "unless someone can invent a
fresh game. We're getting tired of table croquet."

"I don't mean exactly a game. Suppose we were each to write a story,
and then have a meeting to read them all out."

"Start a kind of magazine?" said Marian. "That's a good idea. We could
put our tales together into an old exercise book, and perhaps paste
pictures in for illustrations, and make up puzzles and competitions
for the end."

"Oh yes, that would be lovely!" cried the others. "Like _Little Folks
or The Girl's Realm_."

"But look here," said Linda. "The second class mustn't hear a word
about it. They'd only make dreadful fun of us, and it will be ever so
much nicer if we keep it a secret."

"Let us form a secret society, then," suggested Sylvia. "We'll pinch
each others' little fingers, and vow we won't tell a soul in the
school."

"How horridly inquisitive they'll be!" said Nina.

"All the more fun. We'll let them know that we're doing something,
enough to make them wildly curious, but they shan't have a hint of
what it is, and they'll imagine the most ridiculous things, and then
we can just laugh at them and say they're quite wrong."

The girls agreed cordially with Sylvia's scheme, and the society was
formed on the spot. There was a good deal of discussion as to a
suitable name. Linda thought of "The Heathercliffe Magaziners", but
Nina said that was tame, and that, moreover, "Magaziners" was not to
be found in the dictionary of the English language. Connie considered
"The 'Wouldn't you like to know?' Club" might be appropriate, but
nobody approved of her title. At last Marian, who was fond of long,
grand-sounding names, suggested "The Secret Society of Literary
Undertakings", which was carried unanimously by the others. Marian was
elected President and Sylvia Secretary, and the latter at once devoted
a new notebook to writing the names of the members and the rules of
the association.

"We must have rules," said Marian, "even if we don't always quite keep
them. You'll have to hide the book away most carefully, Sylvia, for
fear any of the second class get hold of it."

It took a long time to think of sufficiently strict and binding
regulations, but at length they decided upon the following:--

    1. This Society is to be called "The Secret Society of Literary
    Undertakings", and it can be known for short as the S.S.L.U.

    2. Each member pledges herself that she will never tell a word
    of what goes on in it.

    3. Any member who tells anything will never be spoken to again
    by the rest of the class.

    4. There is to be a weekly magazine.

    5. Every member must write something for it.

    6. Even if a member says she cannot write anything, she will
    have to try.

    7. If she does not try, she will be expelled from the society.

    8. The meetings are to be held in the playroom after the fourth
    class has gone to bed.

    9. Any member who is expelled will have to stay outside in the
    passage during the meetings.

    10. All members are requested to write as clearly as they can.

    11. The Secretary is to arrange the magazine.

    12. The President is to read it out at the weekly meeting.

As Nina had prophesied, the S.S.L.U. aroused a good deal of curiosity
among the second class, which, while it affected to look down upon the
third, was nevertheless rather interested in what was going on there.
Being permitted to know the initials, though not the full name, the
elder girls promptly added a G, and christened the members "The
Slugs", a title which stuck to them long after the society was
abandoned. It was most difficult to preserve the secret from the
little ones, who shared the playroom, but by instituting a series of
private signs and signals they managed to keep up the mystery and
obtain a great amount of enjoyment out of the matter. Brenda Prestbury
covered herself with glory by recalling the deaf-and-dumb alphabet,
the various letters of which she had learnt at home, and now taught to
the others, who were soon able to talk on their fingers, a rather slow
method of conversation, but delightful when they felt that nobody but
a member could understand. Unfortunately they carried their
accomplishment somewhat too far one day. Connie, seated at her drawing
board in the studio, began signalling an interesting remark to Linda,
who was at the opposite side of the table, and Linda was in the middle
of her reply when Mr. Dawson, the visiting master, suddenly cleared
his throat.

"I think I ought to tell you, young ladies," he said nervously, "that
I am very well acquainted with the deaf-and-dumb alphabet, having
taught the subject for several years at an institution for
deaf-mutes."

Connie went extremely red, as well she might, for she had asked Linda
where Mr. Dawson got the flower in his buttonhole, and if Miss Coleman
had given it to him? The girls never ventured after that to try
talking in the drawing class, though they did a little surreptitiously
during dancing.

The first grand meeting of the society was felt to be an occasion of
great importance. The playroom door was carefully shut, after
ascertaining that no one was in the passage, and Brenda even peeped
under the table and behind the window curtains to make quite sure that
none of the second class were concealed there. At last, considering
themselves secure, the magazine was produced by the Secretary, and
handed to the President, who, according to the rules, was to read it
aloud from beginning to end. It was written on sheets of paper torn
from exercise books, stitched together inside an old arithmetic cover,
the back of which had been adorned with scraps and transfers and
S.S.L.U. printed on a school label and gummed in the middle. The idea
of illustrations had to be abandoned, because nobody had any magazines
which they would spare to be cut up, neither did anybody's talent rise
to the pitch of original drawings; but on the whole that did not much
matter.

"It's stories we want, not pictures," said Marian, settling herself on
the seat of honour with a piece of toffee handy, in case her throat
grew troublesome through her arduous duties.

"The first on the list," she began, "is--

    THE KNIGHT'S VENGEANCE
    A Story in Two Parts

    By Nina Millicent Forster
    Author of 'The Baron's Secret'; 'The Mystery of the Castle'; &c.
    &c.

    PART I

    The forest was dark and gloomy as Sir Brian de Fotheringay rode
    along on his superb white charger, carrying his shield in one
    hand and his sword in the other."

"How did he manage to hold the reins?" enquired Connie Camden.

"You musn't interrupt," said Marian. "Perhaps he held them bunched up
with the sword. No, that would be the wrong hand, wouldn't it?"

"The horse knew its own way," explained Nina. "But if Connie's going
to find fault with everything one puts----"

"She shan't!" said Marian hastily. "Nobody's to make any remarks till
the end of the story. Now I'm going on.

    His undaunted spirit heeded little the perils of his path, and
    as the moonlight flashed on his steel helmet he bade defiance to
    all his foes. In front of him stood the Castle, its tall towers
    strongly guarded by a force of armed men. The drawbridge was up,
    and the portcullis was down. But dangers were welcome to Sir
    Brian de Fotheringay, for they did but prove how much he could
    accomplish for the sake of his lady love. She stood at the
    turret window, the beautiful Lady Guinevere de Montmorency, the
    greatest heiress in the land. Leaving his charger on the bank,
    he swam the moat, and, flinging a rope ladder up to her window,
    he begged her to fly with him.

    'Knight, for thee would I dare all!' she replied, but before she
    could say more, a stern figure in armour appeared in the turret
    behind her and seized her by her flowing golden locks. It was
    her angry father.

    'Hence!' he cried. 'Hence, Sir Brian, ere I kill thee. You,
    lady, will be immured in the dungeon until you have promised to
    wed Lord Vivian de Fitz Bracy, the suitor of my choice.'

    With a shriek she disappeared from the view of her despairing
    knight.

    PART II

    Determined to save his lady love from so terrible a fate, Sir
    Brian de Fotheringay collected all his retainers, together with
    a band of outlaws to whom he had rendered some services, and who
    had promised to assist him in time of need. Uttering his
    warcry, they rushed at the Castle, the portcullis gave way
    before their furious attack, and the archers were slain at their
    posts.

    'Yield thee, Sir Guy de Montmorency!' cried Sir Brian, waving
    his invincible sword.

    'Never!' shouted the Baron, but it was his last word, for Sir
    Brian stabbed him to the heart.

    He had soon forced open the dungeon and released the beautiful
    Lady Guinevere. The Castle was now hers, so they were married
    without delay, and the King and Queen themselves came to the
    wedding."

"It's perfectly splendid!" cried the girls, when Marian had finished
reading. "Nina, how did you manage to think of it?"

"Oh, I don't know; it just came!" said Nina, modestly. "I'm rather
fond of making up tales."

"There's only one thing," said Connie. "Wasn't the lady rather sorry
when her father was stabbed to the heart, even if he had shut her up
in a dungeon? I should be."

"I don't think people minded in the Middle Ages," said Nina. "You see,
somebody had to get killed, and she liked the knight best."

"But her own father!" objected Connie.

"I'm going to read the next one now," said Marian, who, as President,
felt bound to keep the peace. "I think Nina's story's very good, and
makes a capital beginning. This one seems much shorter. It's called:

    MOST HASTE, LEAST SPEED

    By GWENDOLEN WOODHOUSE

    Matilda Jane was a girl who was always in a hurry. One day her
    grandmother told her to take the bucket and fetch some water
    from the well, but to be sure to tie her boot lace first. Now
    Matilda Jane wanted to be very quick, so that she might go and
    play, and she did not stop to tie her boot lace. As she ran out
    of the door, she tripped over it and fell. The bucket rolled
    from her hand and hit the dog; the dog howled and made the geese
    cackle; the geese cackling made the pigs grunt; the pigs
    grunting frightened the hens into the field; the hens frightened
    the cow, which began to run; when the horse saw the cow running,
    it ran too, and they both jumped over the hedge into the road;
    then the hens flew after the horse and the cow, and the pigs
    went after the hens, and the geese followed the pigs, and the
    dog chased the geese, and it took Matilda Jane and her
    grandmother the whole afternoon to drive them back, and all
    because she had been in too great a hurry to tie her boot lace.
    The moral of this tale is 'Most haste, least speed!'"

The girls laughed.

"I don't generally like stories with a moral," said Brenda, "but I
don't mind this one at any rate. Go on, Marian!"

"The next is a piece of poetry," said Marian.

    THE KITTENS' CHORUS

    By SYLVIA LINDSAY

    Miew! Miew! Miew! Miew!
    We want to catch mice, we do, we do!
    But our mother, the old white cat,
    Says we are rather too young for that.

    Miew! Miew! Miew! Miew!
    We want to catch flies, we do, we do!
    But our mother says that if we do it
    We'll grow so thin that we soon shall rue it!

    Miew! Miew! Miew! Miew!
    We want to catch mother's tail we do!
    But she says she is not such a common cat
    As to let her kits be so pert as that.

    Miew! Miew! Miew! Miew!
    We want to be good, we do, we do!
    But that's much harder to do than to say,
    So we'll think about that another day.

The poem proved so popular that Marian had to read it over again. It
was the first time that the class had heard any of Sylvia's effusions,
and they were quite impressed.

"I'm afraid mine will seem very stupid after it," said Brenda. "I
couldn't think of anything to write, but I was obliged to put
something."

"The title sounds interesting," said Marian.

    MY VISIT TO FRANCE

    By BRENDA G. PRESTBURY

    Last summer Mother took Hazel and me with her to France, to
    visit Aunt Cecily, who was staying near Rouen. The first thing
    we saw was a funny old woman in a big white cap, like a large
    poke bonnet, and wooden shoes on her feet. The porters all wore
    baggy blue blouses something like pinafores. We were obliged to
    go through the Customs. A man in a uniform was looking to see if
    anybody had brought any tea. He took a little girl's doll away
    from her, and felt it to see if it had any tea inside it; then
    he took a lady's cushion, and because she got angry, he stuck
    his sword through it, and all the feathers came out over his
    grand coat. We were so glad! There were no carpets in the house
    where Aunt Cecily was living; the floors were of polished wood,
    and so slippery. Jean, the servant, used to rub them with
    beeswax every morning, but he was very cross in French when
    Hazel and I made slides on them. We used to have coffee and
    lovely little rolls at seven in the morning, and then proper
    breakfast at eleven, and we had quite different things to eat
    from what you get in England. One day Hazel and I went such a
    long walk that we got lost, and we couldn't remember enough
    French to ask our way home. A woman came along with a donkey
    and two big baskets on it, and when she saw us crying she gave
    us each an apple, and took us to the curé of the village, who
    could speak English. He was very kind; he showed us round his
    garden, and then he borrowed a cart from the farmer, and drove
    us home to Aunt Cecily's. This is all I can tell you about my
    visit to France.

"I know it's horrid!" said Brenda. "But I really can't write well, and
make up tales like Nina. I don't know how she does it!"

"It's jolly!" said Marian. "We've none of us been to France, so we
like to hear about it. I wish you had written more. The next one's
very short indeed.

    THE LADY AND THE SNAKE

    By JESSIE ELLIS

    A lady who lived in Australia one day put a great log of wood on
    to the fire. In a little while she was going to poke it, and she
    stooped to pick up what she thought was the poker, but it was
    really a horrible black snake, which coiled at once round her
    arm. She had the presence of mind not to move, but remained very
    still, and in a few moments it slid down on to the ground. A
    gentleman who was in the room killed it, and taking the log from
    the fire he carried it into the yard, where seven more snakes
    dropped out of it. The wood was hollow, and they had made a nest
    inside it, and gone to sleep, and the warmth of the fire had
    wakened them up."

"It's quite true," said Jessie. "The lady was my aunt. She told us
about it in a letter."

"What a horrid thing to happen!" cried the girls.

"A nice tale, but too short," commented the President. "I'm afraid
Linda hasn't written a long one either.

    THE STORY OF A DOG

    By LINDA ACTON MARSHALL

    I have a little dog called Scamp, that follows me wherever I go.
    He can sit up and beg, and catch biscuits on his nose, and do
    all kinds of tricks. One day I was in bed with a bad cold, and
    Scamp came upstairs to my room. I told him I was ill, and he
    gave a sharp bark, and ran out. I could hear him trot up to the
    attic, and soon he returned with a biscuit in his mouth, and
    laid it on my pillow, wagging his tail, and looking very sorry
    for me, and very pleased at himself. He must have kept a store
    of biscuits in the attic. I think he is just the cleverest
    little dog in the world."

"My tale's true, too," said Linda. "No, I didn't make it up, Nina; he
really did. There are only two stories left now, Connie's and
Marian's. I wonder which comes next."

"Connie's," said Marian. "And it's in poetry, too. It's called:

    THE S.S.L.U.

    By CONSTANCE MARY CAMDEN

    Said the girls of the third class 'All we
    A Secret Society will be.
      Though the second may hover
      Our words to discover,
    It's nothing they'll hear or they'll see.

    They may listen at doors in the hall,
    Or round by the keyhole may crawl,
      They may search through the schools,
      But they won't find our rules,
    And they'll never know nothing at all'."

The girls clapped, both at the sentiments expressed, and at the
poetical setting.

"I know they'd listen if they could," said Connie. "They're mean
enough for anything. What's that noise?"

"Why, nothing."

"I thought I heard a kind of snorting."

"I expect it was only my cold," said Nina. "Do go on, Marian; we want
your story."

"But I did hear something," persisted Connie. "I believe it was
outside the door, too, and I'm going to look."

She rose hastily, and, creeping softly to the door, opened it
suddenly, disclosing the laughing faces of half a dozen of the second
class, who had been taking it in turns to listen at the keyhole, and
who jumped up in a hurry and fled from the outburst of wrath which
greeted them.

"Oh! Oh!" shouted Sybil Lake. "Won't they hear or see anything? Don't
make too sure!"

"I have a little dog that swallows me wherever I go!" called Eileen
Butler. "I think he's just the cleverest little dog in the world!"

"The slugs are crawling fast!" cried Lucy Martin. The injured third
had risen in a body and pursued the intruders along the passage even
to the door of their own sitting-room; but, seeing Miss Barrett coming
downstairs, they did not dare to carry the fight into the enemy's
camp, and were obliged to return to the playroom, and hold an
indignation meeting over the glasses of milk and biscuits which
arrived at that moment for supper.

"We must read Marian's story to-morrow," said Sylvia. "Wasn't it
horrid of them? I wonder how much they really heard? Next time we
shall have to stuff up the keyhole, and keep opening the door every
few minutes to see that the coast is clear. There's one good thing:
they didn't discover our signs, or the password, and they'll have hard
work to find the rules, because the book's hidden under the oilcloth
in the corner by the piano; only be sure and don't let the little ones
know, because I don't believe there's one of them that can keep a
secret!"



CHAPTER XIII

A Spring Picnic


The beginning of March brought such delightful, mild, balmy weather
that winter seemed to have gathered her chilly garments together and
said good-bye. The month came in like a lamb, and, though it would
probably justify the old proverb by going out like a lion, in the
meantime the sunshine was pleasant, and everyone enjoyed the foretaste
of spring. Miss Kaye, never slow to take advantage of the bright days,
announced one Saturday at breakfast-time that the girls might put on
their thickest boots, and prepare for a ramble up the hills.

"We will start at once," she said, "to get the best of the morning,
and carry sandwiches in our pockets. Then we can return here for tea
at four o'clock."

The expedition was considered too far for the little ones, but the
third class was of course included, and all its eight members set off
in wild spirits. Though Sylvia was in her second term at Heathercliffe
House, she had not seen much of the beautiful country in the
neighbourhood; the weather in the autumn had been too damp for
picnics, and they had only gone walks on the outskirts of the town, or
occasionally on to the beach or along the promenade.

Miss Kaye had made a wise choice when she decided to establish her
school at Aberglyn. It had the advantage of both mountain and sea air,
and was within easy reach of a number of interesting places. The goal
of to-day's walk was a Druids' circle which lay high up on a steep
mountainside overlooking the sea, and to reach it would require a
climb of several hours. Their way, after leading at first along a
suburban road, lined with pretty houses and gardens, began to grow
more countrified, and at last they climbed over a stile into a
romantic-looking wood. It was the foot of a gorge through which flowed
a splendid torrent, dashing its way over great boulders, and the glen
was so sheltered that ferns were growing even on the trunks and
branches of the trees, and the moss was like a green carpet under
foot.

The girls of course rushed down to the edge of the stream, scrambling
over the rocks, flinging stones into the water, and trying to make
pebbles skim on the smooth pools. Luckily nobody fell in, though both
Connie and Brenda had such a narrow escape that Miss Kaye called her
flock to order, and bade them march on once more up the proper path.

The trees gradually began to give way to grassy banks which were
already spangled with celandine, coltsfoot, and actually a few early
primroses; the hazel bushes were covered with catkins that sent
showers of golden pollen over the children when they gathered them,
and in a cosy sheltered spot in the hedge they found a thrush's nest
with three blue eggs in it.

"How sweet of her to build just here!" said Sylvia, looking with deep
interest at the clay-lined structure so cunningly hidden behind a
long spray of ivy, "I can't think how she did it all with her beak.
Isn't she clever? Oh, Connie, please don't lift out the eggs! I'm sure
you'll break them. She won't come back while we're here, so let us go
away, or else they'll get quite cold, and won't hatch out."

"Look what I've found!" cried Marian, climbing up the bank with a
small white starlike flower in her hand. "Isn't it early? It's a piece
of saxifrage."

"No, that's stitchwort," said Sylvia, who had learnt a little botany
at home, and liked to air her knowledge.

"It's saxifrage," said Marian decidedly. "My mother told me so once
herself."

"And my mother told me it was stitchwort."

"My mother's always right. She knows everything!"

"And so does mine! She couldn't make a mistake!"

"You'd better ask Miss Kaye," laughed Linda, "and then she can decide
between you. I've heard it called Star of Bethlehem, so that makes a
third name."

Miss Kaye agreed at once with Sylvia, much to Marian's chagrin; she
did not like to be put in the wrong, and indeed kept obstinately to
her own opinion, and still insisted upon calling the flower saxifrage,
though Miss Kaye told her she would show her a picture of it with the
name underneath in her botany book when they returned.

"You must notice all the things you see or find to-day," said Miss
Kaye. "I shall expect everybody to write a composition next week on
the excursion."

There were certainly plenty of items for the girls to put down on
their lists. A squirrel with a splendid bushy tail ran across the
path, and scrambled hastily up a fir tree, peeping at them from the
safety of the top branches before he made a mighty spring into an
adjoining ash. A heron sailed majestically overhead, its long legs
hanging like those of a stork, and its grey plumage dark against the
sky. A whole flight of lapwings rose, screaming "peewit", from a field
where they were feeding in company with a flock of seagulls, following
the plough that a labourer was driving through the rich red earth. On
a sheltered wall a lizard lay basking in the sunshine; and Linda very
nearly caught him, but he whisked away in a moment, and was gone down
a hole among the stones before half the class had seen him. There were
lambs frisking about in the meadows, and as the girls passed through a
farmyard they found a woman sitting on a doorstep feeding one from a
bottle, like a baby. It had lost its mother, so she told them, and had
readily accepted her as its nurse, becoming so tame that it followed
her everywhere about the house, and slept in a corner of the kitchen.

"We had to feed one of our puppies at home like that," said Linda. "We
used a tiny doll's bottle, and it was such fun to mix the milk and
warm water, and taste it first to see if it was sweet enough. I always
loved Jill much the best, but we couldn't rear her. Oswald was silly
enough to give her a bath when she was too young; I don't think he
dried her properly, and she took cold and died. That's generally the
way with one's pets," she added with a sigh.

"So it is," said Marian. "A most dreadful thing happened to Gwennie
and me. We had a lovely black rabbit, and Mother said we had better
not keep it when we went to school, because the little ones couldn't
look after it properly, and she wouldn't have time herself. A man in
the village asked if he might buy it from us, and we thought he wanted
it as a pet for his children, so we sold it to him. Then one day I met
him on the road, and he said: 'Oh, Missie, that rabbit of yours was a
good one! It made us two whole dinners, and a basin of broth as well.'
We had never dreamt he meant to kill it, and we were so horribly
sorry."

"Canaries are the worst," said Connie. "I've had three. I hung the
first outside the nursery window, and the nail gave way, and the poor
little fellow tumbled right to the ground and was killed. He was such
a good singer, too. The cat got the second. Then I had a third, called
'Tweetie'. I let him out of his cage one day when Bertie was filing
the keel of his boat, and we suppose he must have picked up some of
the bits of lead, because he grew quite ill and died. I buried him
under the rosebush in my garden, and Granny offered a prize to whoever
could write the best piece of poetry about him, an epitaph, she called
it."

"Who won the prize?"

"Bertie himself. I can't quite remember it, but it began:

    'Under this rose tree's fragrant shade
     Our little favourite is laid'.

It was quite the best of all. Frank was very indignant because he
didn't win, but we none of us liked his poetry. He'd put:

      'Poor Tweetie is dead.
      He ate up some lead
    Which was lying about on the floor:
      It stuck in his gizzard,
      And as I'm no wizard,
    He'll never eat lead any more'.

He said it was true, at any rate, but Granny decided that gizzard
wasn't as romantic as a rose tree, even if it did rhyme with wizard."

"We have a cat that stole a kitten," said Jessie Ellis. "She had two
kittens of her own, and our cook drowned them both. Poor Puss was so
miserable; she went about all day looking for them, mewing and wailing
till we felt quite wretched to hear her. Then she disappeared for
nearly a week, and came back one afternoon carrying a tiny kitten in
her mouth. She was so pleased with it, and kept licking it, and
purring all the time. Mother said she must have adopted it, and she
would let her keep it, and it's grown such a beautiful cat, a real
Persian with a ruff and a bushy tail. We often wonder where she took
it from."

While the children were talking they had been climbing steadily
uphill, and now left the glen by a path which led them directly on to
the open moor. It was glorious up there. In one direction rose the
mountains, peak beyond peak, till in the distance they could just
catch a glimpse of the rugged outline of Snowdon, half-hidden by a
wreath of cloud. Below them lay a vast expanse of sea, with Anglesey
stretched out like a map, and little Puffin Island close by.

"We ought almost to see Ireland to-day," said Mercy, straining her
eyes to discover whether any faint speck of blue outline were visible
on the distant horizon. "People say they've seen the Isle of Man, too,
but it has never been clear enough when I've been up here. Look at the
steamers out on the water; I wonder if one of them's going to China. I
can just remember coming home in a big vessel, and passing the Stack
Lighthouse at Holyhead, and then landing at Liverpool."

"It's splendid to be able to look miles whichever way you turn," said
Sylvia.

She liked the solitude of the moors, which were covered only with
short grass and low whinberry bushes; there was no sound except the
occasional bleat of a sheep or the cry of a curlew, and no human being
in sight but themselves, though one or two small whitewashed farms, at
long distances apart, gave evidence of life by their smoking chimneys.
Not very far away they came upon the Druids' circle, a ring of tall
upright stones, so ancient that all tradition of them had long been
lost, though Miss Kaye explained to the girls that they had probably
been used as a kind of temple for sun worship by the early tribes who
lived there, long before the Romans discovered Britain.

"I wish they could speak and tell us their story," she said. "They
would have strange tales about the rough skinclad men who reared
them, and the priests who stood watching amongst them for the first
glimpse of the sun on Midsummer morning. Who knows but that they may
have witnessed human sacrifices, and at any rate there must have been
wolves, and cave bears, and hyenas, and many wild animals prowling
about which are extinct in Wales now. We can tell that, because the
bones and teeth of these creatures have been found in a cave at
Llandudno. Some day I may perhaps take you to see it. The skeletons of
a man and a woman were found there embedded in the rock, and round
their throats were necklaces made of bears' teeth. We can hardly
imagine what life was like in those early times."

The girls always found Miss Kaye's talks interesting, but the healthy
mountain air had so sharpened their appetites that they turned readily
from ancient stones to modern lunch, and, sitting down inside the
famous circle, drew out the packets of sandwiches and oranges which
they had brought with them. Everything seemed to taste particularly
good, and everybody could have eaten a little more, but the very last
crumb of biscuit had been consumed, and they were obliged to remain
content until teatime. Miss Kaye made the girls gather up their pieces
of orange peel, wrap them in their sandwich papers, and poke them away
under a boulder.

"Nothing is so horrible," she declared, "as to leave traces of one's
picnic about to spoil the place for the next people who come. If
everyone would do the same, there would be few complaints that
tourists ruin the scenery."

After lunch the girls were allowed to ramble on the moors as they
liked, with an injunction not to go too far, and to return to the
Druids' circle when Miss Kaye blew a whistle. It was hardly possible
to get lost, because, as Linda said, they could see all round for
miles, and unless you hid yourself under a bush, someone would be sure
to find you. The members of the third class went off together, racing
over the springy grass with as much agility as the small Welsh sheep
that seemed capable of climbing the stones like goats, to judge by the
achievement of an old ewe, which ran up a loose-built wall as easily
as a kitten, and led its lamb after it.

In a hollow at the farther side of the circle the children found a
sheet of shallow water evidently formed by the February rains and
melting snow. At one end was a rough raft and a long pole, with which
some boy had no doubt been amusing himself. The temptation was too
great to be resisted. In three seconds Connie, Brenda, and Sylvia were
making a trial trip, the last two squatting close together in the
middle to balance the raft, while Connie pushed off with the pole, and
punted them out into the middle of the pond. It was a most delightful
sensation. The water was clear, and they could see down several feet
where there were green weeds growing at the bottom, and great floating
masses of some jellylike substance, that Connie declared was frog
spawn.

"I'm going to get a lump of it," she cried, "and take it back to
school and put it in a basin; then we can watch the tadpoles hatch out
and grow into little frogs. I'll run the raft against this island.
There seems to be a heap of it here."

Though the trio nearly upset their craft in their efforts, they found
it very difficult to get hold of any of the spawn; it was as
transparent and slimy as the white of an egg, and kept slipping
through their fingers as fast as they touched it. Connie managed at
last to secure a small piece by holding her handkerchief under it in
the water; then she tied the four corners tightly together, and put
the wet messy bundle into her pocket.

"Ugh! How can you!" exclaimed Sylvia. "Suppose they hatch on the way?"

"That's not very likely," replied Connie; "but I don't mind if they
do. I'm fond of tadpoles."

The other girls, who had been clamouring for some time from the bank,
demanding a turn at the raft, now grew so indignant at the delay that
Connie punted back and tried to pacify their wrath.

"It's not fair to keep it all the time!" said Marian. "Some of us want
to try it just as much as you. And you don't know how to work that
pole properly. If you give it to me I'll soon show you!"

"All right, Miss Clever!" said Brenda. "You always do things better
than everybody else, don't you? Go on!"

Marian jumped on to the raft, and seized the pole with an exceedingly
high and mighty air; she gave a push off as an example of the graceful
manner in which it ought to be done, but alas! she had not taken into
account the fact that the raft was not balanced with the weight of
the other children, and, stepping too much to one side, she found it
suddenly tilted over, and deposited her in the pond. The water was
only a foot deep so close to the edge, but by the time she had
scrambled out her boots and stockings were wet through, and covered
with mud. The rest of the girls subsided on to the bank in peals of
laughter.

"If that's your way, I'd rather not try it, thank you!" said Nina.

"And you've broken the pole, too!" said Connie.

"Oh, catch the raft, somebody!" exclaimed Linda. "Look! It's drifting
right away, and we shan't be able to go on it."

Unluckily the raft was by this time well out of reach, and nobody was
able to fetch it back, much to the disappointment of those who had not
yet had a chance to try it. Marian was very offended at what she
considered the ill-timed mirth of her companions.

"You're most unkind!" she said angrily, walking away by herself and
trying to wipe her boots clean on the grass.

Feeling that they had had the best of the joke, the girls bore no
malice, and, after leaving her for a few minutes to get over her
sulks, they made overtures of friendship.

"I'll tell you what," said Linda; "I found a box of wax matches in the
road on the way up, and put them in my pocket. Suppose we set a light
to this little gorse bush; it's all withered, and will make quite a
bonfire. Then Marian can dry her boots."

The bush caught fire with the greatest ease, and blazed away at once.
Marian pulled off her boots and stockings, and, standing barefoot on
the grass, held them up to the flame, while the others collected
round, wishing they had some chestnuts or potatoes with them, or a
kettle which could be boiled for tea.

"I believe the grass is beginning to burn too!" said Nina. "Stand
back, Connie! Why, it's caught the next bush as well!"

The children looked at each other with horrified faces. The fire was
spreading rapidly along the ground, and two large bushes were soon in
a blaze. Their modest beginning was evidently leading to more than
they had ever imagined. Fortunately the white column of smoke suddenly
rising up through the clear air attracted Miss Kaye's attention, and
brought her hurrying over the crest of the hill to discover the cause.
She was much surprised to find the members of the third class, one of
them with bare feet, apparently dancing like wild Indians round a
fire, and lost no time in running to the spot.

"You naughty girls!" she exclaimed. "What have you been doing? Marian,
where are your boots? I am astonished at you! Who lighted this fire?"

"We're trying to stamp it out," said Brenda. "It was catching all the
grass."

"But who lighted it?"

"We did, Miss Kaye," replied Linda, rather shamefacedly, "to dry
Marian's boots."

"People often set fire to the moors," added Connie. "I've seen whole
hillsides burning sometimes, so I don't suppose it matters. We're
helping the farmer."

"The farmer may like to set his own furze alight, but he wouldn't
thank any chance strangers for doing so for him. If we don't mind
he'll be claiming damages from us," said Miss Kaye. "We must not leave
here until these bushes have burnt themselves safely out, and we must
stamp on any sparks which fall from them on to the grass. This is the
way that a great prairie fire is often started in America; the flames
will grow in strength, and sweep over miles of country, destroying
farms and villages, and carrying desolation and destruction before
them. I didn't think you would have been in such mischief directly my
back was turned."

Miss Kaye looked so grave and annoyed that the girls felt their grand
idea had fallen rather flat; and the moment the fire was out she told
Marian to put on her stockings and boots at once, and gave the signal
to return home. It was a very unpleasant walk to Marian, as her boots
had dried stiff, and felt much too tight for her, while the stockings
were still rather moist and muddy. Everyone was tired, and the second
class made teasing remarks about the Slugs being fond of slimy ponds,
and announced that they were looking forward to hearing a sentimental
account of the adventure through the keyhole on the occasion of the
next meeting of the S.S.L.U.

"You won't do anything of the sort. You know nothing, really, about
the society, and it's horribly mean to listen. You may be in the upper
school, but I can't say much for your manners. I'm glad I'm not in
the second class!" retorted Marian, adding privately to Gwennie,
however: "I'm afraid they do know a good deal; and it's just spoilt
the S.S.L.U. I don't think I shall trouble to write for it again.
Doesn't it seem twice as far coming back as going, although it's all
downhill? And oh! aren't you dreadfully, cruelly, desperately hungry,
and absolutely starving for your tea?"



CHAPTER XIV

Whitweek with Linda


The Easter holidays were short and sweet. The brief fortnight seemed
to be over almost before Sylvia had realized she was at home, and both
she and her mother found it harder than ever to part when the last day
arrived. There was one compensation, however, which consoled Sylvia
for saying goodbye. Mercy Ingledew had spent the vacation with Miss
Coleman, and on her way back to Aberglyn was allowed to accept Mrs.
Lindsay's invitation to stay a couple of days with Sylvia and travel
with her to school, while Miss Coleman went to see a relation at
Llangollen. The visit was a great success. Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay were
delighted with Mercy and glad that their little daughter should have
made so charming a friend among the elder girls, while Sylvia
thoroughly enjoyed both acting hostess and the return journey together
to Heathercliffe House.

It was now the summer term, which most of the girls considered the
pleasantest time of the year. Every available moment was spent
out-of-doors. Tennis and croquet were in full swing, and the younger
ones amused themselves with rounders and hide-and-seek. Sylvia, who a
year ago had affected to dislike running about, might now be seen
racing round the garden as enthusiastically as anybody at a game of
"follow my leader" or "I spy", and she would have been utterly
astonished if anyone had reminded her of her former tastes.

The school was granted a brief holiday at Whitsuntide, and as it
seemed hardly worth while to make the long journey home for so short a
period, Sylvia was very delighted when she was allowed to accept Mrs.
Marshall's invitation to return with Linda and spend the few days at
Garth Avon. Both little girls looked forward to the event with keen
pleasure. It was the first time that Sylvia had ever paid a visit by
herself, and she felt quite grown-up when she thought about it.

They were to go by train as far as Conway, where Mr. Marshall was to
meet them and drive them home in the dogcart to Craigwen, the place
where his house was situated. Miss Coleman saw them off at Aberglyn,
giving many last injunctions not to lean against the carriage door, or
hang out of the window, or otherwise misbehave themselves, and to be
sure not to get out at a wrong station, which did not seem a very
probable mistake, as Linda knew the line so well. She added a word to
the guard which caused him to come and peep at them with a smiling
face, and assure them that he would see them safely to Conway, and
they need not be in the least afraid. Linda and Sylvia were rather
insulted.

"He needn't treat us like babies!" said Linda. "I've come alone more
than once. It's all Miss Coleman's fussiness. We might be going to
London, instead of only to Conway. There, we're off at last!"

The guard had put the children in a first-class compartment and locked
the door, so that they had it all to themselves. They leaned back
luxuriously, each in a corner, admiring the photographs which adorned
the partitions or the view of the sea from the windows. They were in
the highest spirits, and to travel thus seemed a very good beginning
to a journey which was all too short. They were quite loath to get out
when the train reached Conway, but the stop was of the briefest, and
the friendly guard whisked both them and their bags from the carriage
in a hurry, and, blowing his whistle, jumped into his van as it passed
him.

"There's Daddy!" cried Linda, running to meet her father, who was
waiting for them on the platform, and seizing his hand. "Oh, Daddy
dear, did you let Scamp come with you? And have you brought Bess or
Beauty in the trap?"

"Bess," said Mr. Marshall, when he had welcomed Sylvia. "And Scamp is
tied up outside. I didn't dare to let him into the station. Are these
two bags all you've brought with you? Give them both to me."

Scamp was a lively little fox terrier, which seemed so pleased to see
Linda again that he nearly overwhelmed her with his affection, and ran
round and round, barking like a mad creature, till Mr. Marshall picked
him up and put him in the back of the trap.

"He ran the whole way here," he said, "so I think it would be too far
for him to trot home as well, though he never appears to be the least
tired."

There was just room on the front seat for Linda and Sylvia side by
side, Sylvia in the middle, and Linda at the end, because she was less
likely to fall out. Mr. Marshall touched Bess with his whip, and they
started off through the old streets, past the castle, under the arched
gateway, and away towards the mountains that rose up before them in
the distance. It was all new country to Sylvia, who much admired the
view when they had climbed the great hill out of the town, and could
see the beautiful expanse of the Vale of Conway stretched below them,
with the silvery river winding through its midst. She thoroughly
enjoyed the drive. Bess, the brown cob, went along at a good fast
pace, and so soon covered the ground that by four o'clock they had
passed under the tall avenue of beeches that shaded the road, and
drawn up at the hospitable doorway of Garth Avon. It was a pretty,
oldfashioned house, overgrown with creepers, and at present the walls
were a mass of beautiful pink and white roses, which scented the air
with their fragrance. In front was a lawn, where garden seats, basket
chairs, and a table spread with a white cloth and cups and saucers had
a very inviting appearance.

"I knew you would like to have tea out-of-doors," said Mrs. Marshall,
kissing both the children. "Ellen has made an iced spongecake on
purpose, and baked some scones, and when Mrs. M'Allister heard you
were coming home, she sent over a box of real Scotch shortbread.
Linda, take Sylvia upstairs, and then you can bring her into the
garden again when you have washed your hands. Lizzie has carried up
your bags."

Sylvia was to sleep with Linda in the spare bedroom, a pleasant room
with an oriel window, and a large bed hung with blue curtains, that
looked big enough to hold four little girls instead of two.

"My own room is over the porch," said Linda, "but it only has one very
small bed in it, and Mother thought you'd feel lonely if you slept
here quite by yourself. It's much nicer to be together as we are at
school, isn't it?" To this Sylvia cordially agreed.

"The boys are coming home too, this evening," continued Linda.
"They're going to bicycle all the way from Rhyl. Their school doesn't
break up until afternoon, so they couldn't start until four. I expect
they'll have a nice ride, if Artie's tyre keeps up. He was afraid he
had a puncture. Hilda hasn't any holiday at Whitweek in London. She's
not so well off as when she was at Miss Kaye's, but she'd got beyond
even the first class, you know. She's seventeen, and she's to leave
altogether soon. I wish you'd seen her!"

It was very pleasant sitting at tea in the dear old garden. The beds
were a blaze of flowers, and so were the tall vases which ornamented
the flight of steps leading down to the tennis lawn. Scamp joined the
party, and also a large white Persian cat, which astonished Sylvia by
sitting up and begging as cleverly as her canine companion, with whom
she seemed on excellent terms.

"Scamp is very fond of Snowball," said Linda, "but he hates all other
cats, and he'd kill them if he could catch them. One day, in Conway,
he saw a white puss rather like ours, and it was so funny to watch
him, because he couldn't make up his mind whether he ought to lick it
or chase it."

"How beautifully clean she is!" said Sylvia, taking the pretty soft
creature on her lap, and stroking the long, silky fur. "Do you wash
her?"

"We do sometimes," replied Linda. "But she doesn't like it at all,
poor dear. It takes three of us to manage it, two to hold her, and the
other to soap and rinse her. I never try it without the boys. Once I
thought I had such a splendid idea. I was going to try dry cleaning. I
rubbed her fur thoroughly well with flour, and I was just brushing it
out again when she screwed herself from my arms and jumped through the
open window. It was pouring with rain, and when she came back she was
simply a pudding. I didn't know what to do, and the boys were away; so
I let out the parrot, and put her inside the cage, and then watered
her with the watering can till I got the paste off her."

"Poor Pussie, what a shame!" said Sylvia.

"So it was, but I really couldn't help it that time. She should keep
herself clean, and then she wouldn't need to go through such troubles.
Would you like to come and see the hens and my bantams?"

There was a stableyard at the back of the house which led into a field
where the fowls were kept. They were a pet hobby with Mrs. Marshall,
who spent many hours among her poultry, and had a particularly good
strain of white Leghorns which she greatly valued. There were a number
of neat wire runs, each with its small wooden henhouse, and in
several of these were interesting families of chickens, varying in
size from sweet fluffy atoms, as yellow as canaries, to long-legged
creatures which Sylvia thought were not pretty at all.

"They haven't grown their full feathers yet," said Linda. "They're
ugly ducklings still, but they'll be very handsome by and by. Look at
this fussy old hen. I set her myself during the Easter holidays. She
was so broody that she actually insisted on sitting on a Liebig pot. I
suppose she took it for an egg. She'd have wondered why it didn't
hatch, I expect, if I hadn't given her some real eggs instead."

"You seem to know all about keeping hens," said Sylvia.

"I know a little more now, but I made a most dreadful mistake once.
Mother told me to go to the henhouse, and see if there were any eggs
to send to Aunt Edith. I knew that sometimes the hens laid in the
barn, so I thought I would go there instead. I hunted about and found
a nest with ten lovely brown eggs in it. They were quite warm, so I
was sure they must be perfectly fresh, and I put them in my basket and
carried them to the house. Mother was in a hurry for the post; she
didn't ask where I had got them, but only said I had been quick, and
packed them up in a box at once. Next morning she went to the barn to
feed a broody hen that was sitting there on some very particular eggs
that she had bought specially, and to her horror she found them all
gone! They would have hatched in a few days, so you can imagine how
angry she felt, and what a scolding she gave me for not going to the
henhouse as I was told. I think it was even worse, though, for Aunt
Edith. She had meant to make a Simnel cake with the eggs Mother sent
her, and she broke one after another, and each had a little chicken
inside it!"

"How dreadful!" laughed Sylvia; "I should think she didn't made her
cake."

"Not with our eggs at any rate, and she's always teased me dreadfully
about it since. Now I want to show you the bantams. I like them best,
because they're my own."

The bantams had a special wired run to themselves. They were extremely
neat little birds, with prettily marked plumage, so tame that they
flew readily on to their mistress's outstretched arm to eat the bread
she had brought for them. Linda showed Sylvia their small house with
much pride, and was particularly pleased to find two tiny eggs in the
nesting box.

"We can each have one for breakfast to-morrow morning," she declared;
"they must have laid them on purpose for us. I only got my bantams at
Easter, and these are their first eggs. I'm hoping so much that one of
the little hens will sit. Wouldn't it be lovely to have some wee
chicks about as big as tomtits?"

Sylvia had not much experience with pets, but she was deeply
interested in Linda's possessions: the starling that lived in a cage
in the kitchen, and had learnt to say: "Come kiss me!" and "Who's at
the door?"; the dormouse that was kept in a cosy box lined with hay,
and would scamper round the table in the evenings and eat the nuts
which were given him like a miniature squirrel; and Bute, the rough,
bouncing yard dog, that slept in the big kennel, and was not allowed
to come into the house at all.

"There's something else I'd like you to see," said Linda, taking
Sylvia's arm, and leading her on to the lawn again, then through a
small door into the kitchen garden, a delightful walled enclosure,
full of currant and gooseberry bushes, young apple trees, early
vegetables, and pot herbs, with patches of pinks, pansies, and
forget-me-nots growing in between, and great fragrant bushes of
rosemary, lavender, and southernwood, which smelled most delicious
when the children rubbed them between their hands. In a corner under a
blossoming syringa was a little grave, with a small tombstone at its
head, on which was roughly carved the following inscription:

                  IN LOVING MEMORY OF
                         JOCK
    THE BEST AND MOST FAITHFUL DOG THAT EVER LIVED
                Died February 27, 1907
                     Aged 8 Years.

"It needs cleaning up and weeding," said Linda. "We always keep it
very tidy when we're at home, but of course, when the boys are away
too, there's nobody to look after it. It's rather nicely done, isn't
it?"

"Very," said Sylvia. "Who did it?"

"Oswald. He's clever with his hands, and he chipped it out with a
chisel. It took him a frightfully long time, but he said Jock
deserved it. We couldn't let him be forgotten."

"What kind of a dog was he?"

"I'm afraid he was only a mongrel; he was big, and grey, and shaggy,
but we thought him lovely. There never was another so nice."

"Not even Scamp?"

"No, not quite. Jock was such a friend, and so obedient and gentle. We
got him from a farm when he was a tiny puppy; the farmer was just
going to drown him, but Oswald begged so hard to be allowed to keep
him instead, that Mother said he might. Our nurse was quite angry at
first; she said he'd be as much trouble as another child to look
after, but he was so good, she soon grew fond of him, and he used to
live in the nursery. Artie was a baby then, and Jock would keep guard
over his cradle, or watch him when he was put to roll on a rug in the
garden, and no matter how much Artie pulled his hair, he never dreamt
of biting. He used to sleep on the mat at the door of our bedroom, and
the first thing in the morning he'd come running in, wagging his tail.

"One summer we went to stay at Llandudno, and Mother said we musn't take
Jock with us, because the people at the lodgings wouldn't care to have
him. We were dreadfully sorry to leave him behind, and I'm sure he knew
we were going without him, for he cried so. Father said he must be tied
up in the stable to prevent him from following the trap, and we all went
to say goodbye to him; even Nellie, our nurse, kissed him on the nose.
We missed him so much that evening when we got to Llandudno, but next
morning, when we were sitting at breakfast, we heard a whining and
scratching at the door, and in rushed Jock, with about half a yard of
rope dangling at his neck. He must have gnawed it through, and set off
after us. But wasn't it clever of him to know where we'd gone, and to
find out the very house where we were staying? Father said he must have
heard us talking about Llandudno, and have asked all the other dogs he
met on the road which was the right way! Mother was afraid we should
have to send him home again, but when the landlady heard what he'd done,
she allowed him to stay, and he went everywhere with us, and was no
trouble to anybody.

"One day Nellie took us a long walk on the Great Orme's Head. We had
baskets with us, and we wandered about picking blackberries the whole
afternoon. Artie was quite a little fellow then, not more than three
years old; he hadn't even been put into knickerbockers. I suppose we
were so busy filling our baskets that nobody noticed him; at any rate
he managed to run away from Nellie, and go close to the edge of the
cliff where there were some blackberries growing. We think he must
have been trying to lean down to gather them, and have overbalanced
himself, because we suddenly heard him shrieking at the pitch of his
voice, and when we rushed to see what was the matter, there was our
baby hanging over the cliffside, just caught by the brambles, and Jock
holding on to his kilt like grim death. Artie was howling, and Jock
was making the queerest noise; he couldn't bark properly, because he
daren't open his mouth for fear of letting go Artie's clothes. Nellie
pulled them both back together, and sat down on the grass and cried,
and we all hugged Jock and kissed him. Mother said afterwards she
thought he must have been allowed to find his way to Llandudno on
purpose to save Artie's life.

"After that, of course, he was a greater pet even than he'd been
before, and we never went away from home without taking him. Granny
used to put in a special invitation to Jock when she asked us, and she
made him a little cake once on his birthday, and sent it to him by
post. He ate it in three gulps.

"We were so dreadfully sorry when he died. Hilda said she'd like to go
into mourning, and Artie and I inked black edges to some sheets of
tiny notepaper, and wrote on them to tell Granny and Aunt Edith. We
had a beautiful funeral for him, and made wreaths to lay on his grave,
and planted the prettiest flowers we could dig up out of our gardens
on it. It was Oswald who thought of the stone during the Easter
holidays. It wasn't finished until Hilda had gone back to London, so
she hasn't seen it yet. I'm sure she'll like it."

There seemed so many interesting things to see and hear at Garth Avon
that the two girls amused themselves out-of-doors until after seven
o'clock, when they heard a brisk ringing of bells, and, running to the
gate, were just in time to open it for Linda's brothers, who came
riding up on their bicycles. Oswald was a few years older than Linda,
and Artie a little younger; both were nice hearty boys, who seemed
ready to make friends at once with their sister's visitor.

"We've heard such a jolly lot about you, you know," said Oswald,
shaking hands. "Lin can talk of nobody else. We always say the school
must be made up of Sylvia and Miss Kaye."

"You're late, aren't you?" asked Linda. "We thought you'd have been
here an hour ago."

"We may well be late. Artie's tyre punctured on the road between
Abergele and Llandulas, and we had to walk our machines to Colwyn Bay
before we could get anyone to mend it. We tried to patch it up
ourselves, but I hadn't a big enough piece of rubber to cover it. Then
the fellow at the bicycle shop was such a slow chap, I thought he was
going to be all night fiddling over it, and we didn't dare to pump it
till it had dried a little. Luckily we got some tea before we left
school, but we're hungry enough now. Isn't supper ready?"

"Ready and spoiling," said Linda. "It's sausages, and I could smell
them cooking through the kitchen window half an hour ago. Sylvia and I
have been watching in the garden for you ever so long. Be quick and
come down; I want to tell you about a most delightful plan I've
thought of for to-morrow."



CHAPTER XV

An Excursion with a Donkey


Linda's plan proved such a promising one that both the boys and Sylvia
fell in readily with her ideas. She suggested that they should all
four make an excursion to the top of Pen y Gaer, a mountain in the
neighbourhood, where were the remains of a very fine British camp, and
from which they could obtain an excellent view over the whole of the
Conway valley. As it was rather a long walk from Craigwen, she thought
they might borrow a donkey and take it in turns to ride, and also
carry their lunch on its back. They could no doubt buy milk, and get
hot water at a farm, so that they would be able to make tea before
they returned, and thus enjoy a whole day on the moors. Mrs. Marshall
willingly gave her consent. Her children were fond of picnics, and
steady enough to look after themselves without any grown-up person
being with them; she had always encouraged the boys at any rate to be
self-reliant, and though Artie was apt to fall occasionally into
mischief, she knew Oswald would take care of the little girls and
bring them home safely in the evening.

Sylvia looked forward so much to the expedition that she could
scarcely sleep for excitement when she got into the large spare bed
with Linda and the candle was blown out. She lay awake for quite a
long time, listening to an owl hooting in the trees, and the soft
rippling sound of a stream which flowed at the bottom of the garden;
then at last they both merged into a confused dream, and she
remembered nothing more till she woke with the sun pouring in through
the window, and Linda's voice proclaiming that it was a particularly
fine, warm morning, and the very day in all the year which she would
have chosen to scale the heights of Pen y Gaer.

Directly breakfast was over, the children started off first to a
neighbouring farm to borrow the donkey, a shaggy little creature
called Teddie, which was chiefly used by his owner to fetch sacks of
flour from the mill. He was not accustomed to either saddle or bridle,
but the boys led him home by a halter, and tied a cushion on to his
back with a piece of rope. They slung their lunch baskets and two
enamelled tin mugs on either side, like saddle-bags, then, giving
Sylvia the first ride, they helped her to mount, and set off towards
the mountains with Scamp and Bute racing in wild excitement around
them.

It was a very hot day, so it was pleasant to think that they would
soon be out of the close woods, and away on the breezy moors. The
country was at its best; the fields were blue with wild hyacinths, and
the hedgerows yellow with gorse and broom, while everywhere the tender
shoots of the young bracken were unfolding, and showing delicate
golden-green fronds. It was a little late for birds'-nesting, yet
Oswald and Artie, boylike, could not resist hunting in each
likely-looking spot, though a blackbird's second brood, a deserted
linnet's nest, and a last year's yellow-hammer's were the sole result
of their search.

"I wish we could make the donkey trot!" said Sylvia, who had
dismounted to spare poor Teddie's legs for the hardest part of the
hill, but had taken her seat again on reaching a level piece of road.

"We'll try what we can do," said Artie, producing his penknife and
cutting a stick carefully from a hazel tree. "I'll give him a switch,
but I advise you to hold on tight, in case he kicks."

It was not a very hard blow, but Teddie seemed to resent it extremely.
He was a donkey with a character, and instead of galloping on, as
Sylvia had hoped, he ran straight into the hedge, where he entangled
both her hat and hair so successfully in a wild-rose bush, that she
had to scream to be released.

"Perhaps you hit him on the wrong side," she suggested, when the
donkey's nose had been pulled out into the lane again.

"Then we'll try the other," said Artie, who, having dropped his stick,
administered a sounding smack on the thick, shaggy coat.

Teddie, however, evidently did not intend to be coerced; he made at
once for the opposite hedge, and Sylvia found herself in equal
difficulties with a long spray of bramble.

"He's the most obstinate little beast I've ever known," said Linda.
"We'll try him just once more. Oswald, you hold his head exactly in
the middle of the road, then Artie and I'll each give him a thump at
the same second, one on each side. Are you ready, Artie! One, two,
three, off!"

[Illustration: "HE ENTANGLED BOTH HER HAT AND HAIR IN A WILD-ROSE
BUSH"]

This time it was really off and away. The donkey took to his heels,
and cantered along the road in fine style, with the boys and Linda
racing after him, encouraging Sylvia, who was laughing and trying to
hold on her hat and to keep the lunch from falling, while Scamp and
Bute barked themselves hoarse. The enamelled mugs bumped against poor
Teddie's sides, and alarmed him so much that perhaps he thought
somebody was switching him in front, and intended him to run
backwards, for he stopped quite suddenly, and lowered his head, with
the result that Sylvia shot over his neck, and found herself sitting
in the dusty road.

"It serves me right!" she laughed. "No, I'm not hurt in the least.
It's too bad to make him trot when he's carrying both me and the
lunch. I'll walk now, and give him a rest, and then it will be Linda's
turn to ride him."

The road, after winding uphill for several miles between woods and
high banks, led at last on to the moors, where there was a kind of
tableland flanked on two sides by chains of mountains.

"We're not such a very long way from the Druids' circle," said Linda.
"It's only over that peak, I believe."

"It's farther than you'd imagine," said Oswald. "Hilda and I went to
it once, and we thought we should never get there. It's a much easier
way from Aberglyn. Things look so very plain in this clear air that
you often think you're quite close when really you're several miles
off, and you walk and walk, and never seem to get any nearer."

"I hope that won't happen with Pen y Gaer; we can see it so well now,"
said Linda, gazing at the round green top that did not show its full
height from the plateau, though it looked imposing enough from the
valley below.

"It's quite far enough to make me want lunch before I go any farther,"
said Oswald. "There's a stream down here where we can get some water
to drink. Suppose we fasten Teddie to the gate, and camp out on the
stones."

The others agreed. The donkey had already satisfied its thirst at a
brooklet that crossed the road, so they tied it to the rail of the
gate with a piece of rope long enough to allow it to crop the grass at
the edge of the path, and, descending themselves to the bed of the
river, spread out their lunch on a large flat boulder. Mrs. Marshall
had experience in the matter of picnics. First there were ham
sandwiches, sufficiently thick to take the keen edge off their
appetites, but not enough to spoil the hard-boiled eggs and bread and
butter which followed; then came marmalade sandwiches and seed cake;
and last of all some delicious little turnovers, made with tops like
mince pies, and with strawberry jam inside. Everybody was hungry, and
everybody did such ample justice to the good fare that there was
nothing but a solitary turnover left, which they decided to divide
between the dogs, which had already had their share of the meal.

"It's not enough to keep for tea," said Oswald. "I expect we can get
some bread and butter at the farm, as well as the milk and hot water.
Look! there are trout in this stream. I saw a big fellow just then
swimming across the pool."

"So did I," said Artie. "He went under that rock. I'm going to wade
and see if I can get him out."

Both boys pulled off their shoes and stockings, and, plunging into the
river, began to engage in the very unsportsmanlike pastime of tickling
trout. They paddled cautiously upstream, putting their hands under
every likely stone till they felt a fish, then, very gently moving
their fingers along until they had him by the gills, would manage with
a quick jerk to toss him out of the water on to the bank. Linda and
Sylvia followed along the side, much excited at this new form of
fishing, and gathering up the trout placed them in one of the lunch
baskets. The boys had succeeded in catching five or six, which lay
shining and silvery, gasping their last, and they were both trying for
a particularly big one which they could see lying in the cranny of a
rock.

"He'll be a tough subject," said Oswald. "I'll do my best, but you be
ready to make a grab if I miss him!"

Oswald stealthily put forward his hand, but the trout was on the
alert, and long before he could reach its gills it had darted into the
pool, escaping Artie also, who nearly fell into the water in his
efforts to secure it.

"Missed him! What a shame! And he was such a beauty!" cried the
disconsolate boys.

"Now then, what are you doing there, you young poachers?" shouted a
voice from the opposite bank, and, looking up, the children saw a tall
man, in a corduroy velveteen suit and a soft round hat, frowning at
them with a most unamiable expression of countenance.

They were so astonished that none of them knew what to say.

"Come out of that stream this minute!" he commanded the boys, who
obeyed, but naturally on the side where Linda and Sylvia were standing
looking rather frightened at such an unexpected and angry visitor. The
man, who had the appearance of a gamekeeper, crossed the river easily
by jumping from stone to stone, and striding up to the little girls,
peeped inside their basket.

"As I thought!" he remarked. "Now, you young rascals, do you know that
I can take you all up and send you to prison for poaching?"

"Why," gasped Oswald, "we were only catching some trout!"

"Only catching some trout! He says he was only catching some trout!"
echoed the man, as if he were appealing to an imaginary companion. "I
suppose he wouldn't call that poaching? Oh, no!"

"We get them like this in our own stream at home," said Artie.

"That's quite a different matter. Because you get bread and butter at
home's no reason why you should walk into my house and take mine, is
it? This fishing happens to be preserved, and I've got the care of it.
It's a very serious offence is poaching. I've caught you red-handed.
There's the trout in that basket to prove my words."

The boys looked at each other in much consternation.

"We didn't know we were doing any harm," said Oswald at last.

"That's just what folks always tell me in a little affair of this
kind," said the man, producing a pencil and a notebook. "I'm getting
rather tired of the story. I'll trouble you for your names and
addresses, if you please."

"Why do you want them?" asked Artie cautiously.

"You'll know why when you find yourselves charged at the Llanrwst
County Court," replied the man with a grin, "or your father will, to
the tune of five pounds and costs, I reckon, or pretty near. It'll
take all your pocket money or more."

"I'll go to prison first," said Oswald stoutly.

"And so will I," declared Artie.

"Oh, no, no!" cried Linda, thoroughly frightened, and dissolving into
tears. "Please don't send them to prison! Look, I'll put the fish back
into the water. We didn't know it was wrong to take them; we didn't
indeed!"

The man coughed softly behind his hand.

"I wouldn't like to disoblige the young lady," he said; "but it's no
use putting dead fish back into the stream. There," as Linda's tears
flowed faster, "I won't be too hard on you this time. Give me the
trout, and we'll say no more about it. But don't let me catch any of
you poaching here again, or I can't let you go so easy. I've my orders
from headquarters. Now be off with you all!"

Much relieved that the boys should escape fine or imprisonment, Linda
emptied the fish from the basket on to the grass, and, seizing
Sylvia's hand, ran as fast as she could up the bank to where they had
left the donkey tied to the gate, followed by Oswald and Artie, who
only stopped to pick up their shoes and stockings by the way. They
were glad to place the stone wall between themselves and the angry
gamekeeper, and as soon as the boys had put on their footgear, they
loosed Teddie, and started off once more on the road towards Pen y
Gaer.

"What a horrid cross man!" said Sylvia. "I peeped over the wall just
now, and he was still standing there, and shook his fist at me."

"I didn't know any of the water was preserved," said Oswald, who felt
sore at the remembrance. "Well, he needn't think we want to go there
again after his old fish; they aren't such treasures as he supposes."

"Sour grapes!" laughed Artie.

"Oh, shut up! It was you who suggested tickling them first!" said
Oswald, who was thoroughly out of temper, and ready to quarrel with
anybody.

Artie, however, was a good-natured little fellow, and had the tact
simply to whistle, and leave his brother to get over his ill humour.
As nobody was riding the donkey, he mounted it himself, and,
persuading Linda and Sylvia to try what he called "the double-smack
method", indulged in a splendid gallop, which did not meet with so
disastrous a termination as the last one.

They had almost reached the goal of their walk, and, taking Teddie to
a farm which stood near, they asked the woman to allow them to leave
him there while they scaled the summit of Pen y Gaer, and to have her
kettle boiling by the time they came back. Their path now led away
from the road, and over a stile on to the heather. It was a stiff
climb, and made more difficult by the thick gorse through which they
were obliged to push their way, but the view from the top was
sufficient compensation for any trouble they had in arriving there. On
one hand they could see the whole extent of the valley from Bettws y
Coed to Conway, and even the houses on the promenade at Llandudno
fully ten miles away; while on the other stretched the beautiful moors
leading to the gloomy hollow of Lake Dulyn, behind which the mountain
ridges showed purple and jagged against the sky. All around they could
trace the ruins of the old British fort, great piles of stones that
must have been rolled there with incredible labour, perhaps by the
very tribe which had reared the Druids' circle on the slope of Tal y
fan.

"Some of the Welsh people say a giant put them here," said Oswald, who
had recovered his spirits; "or I'm not sure if it wasn't King Arthur
himself. At any rate he took a tremendous jump down the hillside, and
left his footprint on a rock in the stream below there. He must have
worn a No. 15 shoe, to judge by the size."

"Uncle Frank made up a ridiculous story once," said Linda. "It was all
about the black bull of Llyn Dulyn, and how it came one night to Garth
Avon, and tapped at Mother's window with its horns, and said that one
of the little bulls had met with an accident to its eye, and he'd
heard that she had a whole bottle of bulls'-eyes, so would she please
bring some, and come at once with him and cure it. The village people
are always fetching Mother like that to see their children, and she's
simply terrified of bulls, so he told it just on purpose to tease
her."

"Talking of bulls'-eyes makes me think of tea," said Artie. "I'm sure
that old woman's kettle must be boiling now. I vote we go down and
see. Let us try this other part of the hill; it'll be far quicker than
scrambling through the gorse again."

One side of the summit was almost as steep as the roof of a house, and
covered with very short, fine grass, at present so dry and slippery
that the children sat down and slid almost as if it were winter, and
they were tobogganing on the snow. It was great fun, especially when
Artie caught against a stone, and rolled over and over like a ball,
till a convenient gorse bush made a prickly impediment in his career,
and Linda left both hat and hair ribbon behind, and was obliged to
scramble up the slope again to fetch them. It was certainly a much
faster way back to the little whitewashed cottage.

The farmer's wife could not speak much English, but she said a great
deal in Welsh which they took to be an invitation to come inside,
where they found she had set a round table by the fire, nicely spread
with cups and saucers and a clean cloth. The chimney was so big and
wide that as they sat on the old-fashioned settle they could look
right up and see a patch of sky at the top. From a large smoke-stained
beam hung a chain supporting the kettle, which was boiling over on a
fire of peat and dried heather that gave out a very fragrant aromatic
smell, almost recalling Guy Fawkes Day, especially when it was blown
by the bellows. For tea there was a large loaf of home-baked brown
barley bread, and, notwithstanding the ample lunch which they had
eaten by the stream, they were all hungry enough to enjoy it
thoroughly, in spite of the saltness of the butter. It was so pleasant
sitting in the quaint little mountain cottage, with its dim light and
peaty atmosphere, and there were so many jokes to make and stories to
tell, that they lingered until the tall grandfather's clock striking
five reminded them that they were still a good many miles away from
Craigwen, and that it was time to be taking the donkey and setting out
once more on their homeward walk.

"We've had a jolly day," said Oswald, as, tired but in excellent
spirits, the four at last reached the gate of Garth Avon. "Teddie's
done splendidly. I'll give him a first-class report, even for
galloping, and he deserves a good feed of oats. You girls go in; Artie
and I'll take him back to the farm. Are you coming, Scamp? Why, I
really believe it's the first time in my life I've ever seen a dog
look dead beat!"



CHAPTER XVI

The Chinese Charm


"What are we going to do to-day?" asked Oswald after breakfast next
morning. "We've an uncommonly short holiday, so we must spin it out as
well as we can. Who votes for Llangelynin?"

"Too far and too hot," replied Artie, stretching himself comfortably
in his father's armchair. "I feel more inclined to lie on the lawn and
laze than go climbing hills again."

"It's too far for you all after your long walk yesterday," said Mrs.
Marshall. "You boys may do what you like this morning, but Linda and
Sylvia are to stay quietly in the garden until dinner-time. There's an
invitation for you to have tea at Dr. Severn's, which of course I have
accepted. I was sure you would all like to go."

"Rather!" said Oswald. "He's the jolliest chap I know, and that's
saying a good deal. Artie, suppose we take ourselves off to the marsh
and have a dip in the pool; it's about the coolest thing I can suggest
for a day like this, and we shall both enjoy a swim."

"Who is Dr. Severn?" said Sylvia to Linda, when the boys had started
for their bathe, and the two little girls were sitting in a cool,
shady place under the trees, with their books on their knees.

"He's a gentleman who came last summer to live at a house not very far
away," answered Linda. "We only got to know him lately; but he's so
nice, and the boys simply adore him!"

"Hasn't he any children of his own?"

"No. We heard they were dead, and his wife too, but he's never spoken
about them even to Father and Mother. He lives quite alone, with a
housekeeper to look after him. He's been in all kinds of foreign
places, and his rooms are so full of funny things, it's just like
going to a museum. There's a stuffed crocodile, and a mummied cat, and
a horrid lizard in a bottle, and some snake skins, and a locust, and a
scorpion, and a whole case of lovely butterflies. He tells us about
them sometimes, and where he found them."

"I hope he'll show them to us to-day," said Sylvia, who thought the
collection sounded interesting.

"I'm sure he will if we ask him," said Linda. "I should like to see
them again myself, especially the crocodile. He has a big cabinet full
of little drawers, and he keeps curiosities in them from every place
he's been to. There's one with nothing but shells, and another for
corals, and a third for coins, and the rest are each for a separate
country. He's very careful over them; he won't let us take anything
out ourselves, or even handle some of them, he's so afraid they might
get broken. Still, it's fun to look, even if we mayn't touch."

"I expect it's a thousand times nicer than my museum at home," said
Sylvia, "though I have a cabinet in the schoolroom."

"I haven't seen your museum yet, so I can't say, but I'm sure you'll
enjoy Dr. Severn's. We've been to tea twice before, and each time
we've had raspberry sandwich and plumcake and little crisp cocoanut
biscuits. I hope the housekeeper will make them to-day. There's always
the most delicious apricot jam, too, and he hands round a big jug of
cream, and tells us to help ourselves. Then there's a horizontal bar
in the garden that the boys love; they do some of the things on it
that they learn in the gymnasium at school; and there's a tank with
pink water lilies growing in it, only I don't think they'll be out
just yet. I'm so glad he's asked us to-day, because I want you to go
and see it all."

"What a good thing Miss Coleman managed to put that clean dress in my
bag!" said Sylvia. "What should I have done without it? I got this in
quite a mess yesterday."

"I should have had to lend you one of my white muslins, and I'm sure
they'll be too short for me this year, so they would be far too small
for you; you're an inch taller than I am, though you're so much
thinner. We're both to wear our sailor hats. Mother said I couldn't
put on my last year's Sunday summer one if you hadn't your best with
you, and of course it isn't a party."

The invitation was for four o'clock, and by half-past three Mrs.
Marshall had succeeded in getting the prospective guests into what she
considered a sufficient state of tidiness for the occasion.

It was about twenty minutes' walk to Dale Side, a pretty modern
bungalow which had been built by an English gentleman with a leaning
towards the picturesque, and who had therefore chosen the site to
secure the most beautiful views, and had made the interior as artistic
as his excellent taste could devise. After living there a few years,
the owner, on account of his wife's health, had gone to reside in
Italy, and the little property had been on sale until the preceding
summer, when it had been purchased, together with a few acres of land,
by Dr. Severn, who was a newcomer to the neighbourhood. Though he was
therefore only a comparative stranger, the young Marshalls already
regarded the kindly doctor as a friend, and it was with very smiling
faces that they rang his bell that afternoon.

"I saw you arriving," cried their host, hastening to the door himself
to meet them. "I was just looking out for you, and hoping you would
come soon to interrupt a tiresome letter I felt obliged to write. Now
I'm justified in putting it off for an hour or two at any rate.
Linda's quite shocked at me! But I didn't say I wouldn't finish it
afterwards, did I? Shall we go straight through to the pine wood? I've
had the table carried out there for tea. It's the coolest place we can
find on a hot day."

By the time she had known him ten minutes, Sylvia had decided that she
liked Dr. Severn immensely. He was a tall, rather gaunt man, with a
thin, pale, clean-shaven face that bore traces of ill health or
suffering in the hollow cheeks and the lines around the mouth; his
hair was iron grey, rather long, and combed straight back from his
broad forehead, and he had the brightest, keenest, pleasantest blue
eyes that it was possible to imagine. His manner was so winning and
jolly that he made everybody feel at home immediately. He seemed to
know exactly the subjects about which boys and girls liked to talk,
and to be able to enter into everything almost as if he were a boy
himself. The four visitors soon found themselves chatting to him
perfectly freely, telling him of school scrapes and adventures, of
plans for the summer holidays, and asking his opinion on various
disputed points, while he, in turn, was full of jokes and
reminiscences of his own far-off schooldays.

"Never save the best till last!" he declared, handing round the cake
long before the plates of bread and butter were finished. "I've kept
to that motto ever since I was a small boy, and I had very good reason
for adopting it. Once, when I was a little fellow of about seven years
old, I was taken to pay a visit to an old lady who lived in the
country. Children were brought up on the plainest fare in those
days--porridge, and bread and milk, roast beef or mutton with
potatoes, rice pudding or suet dumpling, with jam roly-poly, as a
special treat on your birthday, was all that was considered good for
us; so you can imagine I felt pleased when I saw a large pudding full
of currants come on to the table at dinner-time. The old lady gave me
a generous serving, and told me to help myself to as much sugar as I
liked with it, assuring my mother that sweet things were necessary for
children, a sentiment with which I cordially agreed then, whatever
opinions my elders might hold. There were a great many currants in my
slice of pudding, and it struck me how much nicer they would taste if
I could eat them all together as a titbit at the last; so I picked
them carefully out one by one, and put them to the side of my plate. I
suppose it must have taken me rather a long time, or perhaps the
others had smaller helpings; at any rate they had finished first, and
all laid down their spoons and forks except myself. I gulped my last
piece of pudding in a hurry, and was just going to enjoy my saved-up
fruit, when the old lady, who had been watching me, said: "Poor boy!
Isn't he fond of currants? Leave them, my dear; I would never force a
child to eat what it doesn't like," adding a direction to the servant
to take my plate away. I had had tremendous warnings before I came
about behaving myself properly, and also I was much too shy to
protest, so I was obliged to watch my cherished currants being whisked
from the table before I had been able to taste a single one of them.
If I had ever been inclined to be miserly, I think this incident would
have cured me of hoarding up riches."

"What a shame! Didn't you get anything instead?" asked Artie.

"Not at dinner, but afterwards the old lady, who was a very kind soul,
took me into her kitchen garden, and told me to eat as many ripe
gooseberries as I liked. There were various sorts, big red ones, hairy
yellow ones, and smooth green ones, and I'm sure I ate enough to make
up amply for what I missed at pudding time. As far as I recollect I
never stopped picking the whole afternoon. Small boys can accommodate
a great deal."

"I don't think gooseberries do one any harm," said Artie. "We eat
simply loads. We each sit down beside a bush, and try who can make the
biggest pile of skins. Mother says the blackbirds would take them if
we didn't."

"I'm glad she doesn't make a fuss about it, as some people do," said
Linda. "I was so angry last summer. A lady came one afternoon to see
us, and brought a horrid little girl with her called Mona. Mother told
me to take this child into the kitchen garden and give her some fruit,
so I marched her off, and, just as we were leaving the drawing-room,
her mother called out: "You may have eight strawberries and twelve
gooseberries, darling, but no more." She was very stupid, and wouldn't
talk to me, so I kept picking the ripest and biggest strawberries and
gooseberries I could find, and handing them to her. I never thought of
counting them, but she suddenly went quite red, and said she wouldn't
have any more. She'd hardly look at the chickens or the rabbits or
anything I tried to show her, and I was very glad indeed when it was
time for her to go home. Her mother came to fetch her from the garden,
and said: 'Did you eat more than I told you, dear?' and Mona said: 'No
I didn't. This little girl tried very hard to make me, but I wouldn't
take even one strawberry more. Wasn't I good?'

"The lady looked at me as if she thought I deserved smacking, but I
couldn't explain, because she was just shaking hands with Mother and
saying goodbye. I've felt cross about it ever since, and if she brings
Mona again, I declare I'll run away and hide, and not take her into
the garden at all. Don't you think it was too bad?"

"Much too bad!" said Dr. Severn. "I think Mona was what is called a
prig. Please go on with the cocoanut biscuits. I assure you I'm not
counting them!"

"I really couldn't eat another," said Linda, "though they're very
delicious. Aren't you going to show us any of your curiosities in the
house? You promised you would, and Sylvia does so want to see them."

"A promise is a promise," replied Dr. Severn, rising from his basket
chair. "But in the meantime I think I see Mr. Richards coming through
the garden in search of us. I wonder if he's had any tea."

Mr. Richards was the curate, and a great favourite with Oswald and
Artie; he was an athletic young fellow, fresh from College, and always
ready to go skating or boating, or to play a game of cricket with
them, or carry them off with him to the golf links. He declared now
that he had already had tea, but was longing for a little exercise on
Dr. Severn's horizontal bar, where he thought he could show the boys a
feat or two which perhaps they had not yet learnt at school. Oswald
and Artie rushed away with him at once, and, flinging off their coats,
were soon vying with each other in swinging, circling, hanging by
their legs or feet, and various other acrobatic performances that
looked exceedingly warm work for a hot day, but which seemed to afford
them the most immense satisfaction. Dr. Severn stood by and encouraged
them to do their best, then, after watching for a short time, left
them with Mr. Richards, and took Linda and Sylvia into the house.

"You'll be getting tired of circus and would rather have museum for a
change, I expect," he said. "I'll show you all my curios, and then you
shall each choose something for me to tell you about."

The study was a delightful little room, with a French window opening
into the garden. One side was quite filled by a large Japanese cabinet
with many sliding cupboards and drawers. Linda certainly had not
exaggerated the number of wonderful things which it contained. There
were treasures from Egypt, from Palestine, from India, from China, and
from Japan. Wherever the doctor had travelled he seemed to have picked
up some object of interest, and to examine the various drawers was
like taking a peep into far countries. He allowed Linda and Sylvia to
dress themselves up in some of the gorgeous silk scarves and sashes,
to slip on the Japanese kimonos, and put their feet into the Turkish
slippers.

"I think I like the Indian things best; they smell the nicest," said
Linda, snuffing at a sandalwood box, and trying the effect of some
filagree ornaments on her own hair and Sylvia's. "How grand the women
must look in these! No, I shouldn't like to wear the nose ring, thank
you, nor the earrings, though I'd love the bangles. They must have
tiny wrists. I can only just push these over my hands. Aren't they
meant for a child?"

"No," replied Dr. Severn, "they are really for a grown-up woman, but
the people of all Eastern nations have very small hands compared with
us Westerns. If you like the scent of sandalwood, what do you think
of this? It comes from the vale of Kashmir." He drew the stopper from
a bottle of attar of roses as he spoke.

The odour was so deliciously sweet and overpowering that it filled the
whole room.

"It's the true stuff," said the doctor, "not the wretched imitation
which is often sold over here. Now if I put a drop on each of your
pocket handkerchiefs it will scent all your clothes for a
twelve-month. Where are they?"

"It's lucky they're clean ones," said Sylvia, rummaging in her pocket.
"I shall keep mine in my drawer after this, and not send it to the
wash, ever. It's lovelier even than lavender water or eau de Cologne."

"I believe it takes a thousand roses to make one drop of this," said
Dr. Severn, "so you have a great deal of concentrated sweetness there.
This round box comes from Damascus, and I don't think it's quite empty
yet. If you have smelled true attar you ought also to taste genuine
Turkish delight. Open your mouths and shut your eyes, and you'll find
a surprise."

Dressed in the wonderful embroidered garments, with silver ornaments
in their hair, scented with roses, and their mouths full of lumps of
delight, the two little girls felt as if they had wandered into the
land of the Arabian Nights, had been transformed into Eastern
princesses, and had only to command a slave of the lamp to come
forward and carry out their slightest desire.

"It's simply lovely," said Linda. "I never tasted anything so nice in
my life before. I think you're a magician, and can carry us off to
Persia, or India, or anywhere with a wave of your wand. But please,
you promised to tell us each a story about something, and you haven't
done so yet."

"Because you haven't chosen a 'something'," said Dr. Severn; "say what
you'd like, and I'll try to wave my magic wand."

"Then I'll have this funny little tassel of blue beads."

"That's a charm against the evil eye," said the doctor. "I got it in
Cairo. The Mohammedan mothers believe many people, especially
strangers, to be possessed of most uncanny powers, and think that if
they look very hard at their babies they can bewitch them, and cause
them to catch various diseases, and even to die. To avert the evil
they put charms on the children, and you may see a tiny boy with his
head shaved, all except a long lock which hangs over his eyes with one
of these bead talismans dangling at the end. The charms are always
blue, because that is considered the magical colour. The people are
very dark themselves, so they are terrified at the sight of an
Englishman with eyes of the dreaded shade; they are quite sure he must
be a desperately bad character, and it is safer to keep out of his
path. When I have been in the East, I have often seen mothers turn
their babies away lest my glance should fall on them. It is considered
very unlucky also to praise a child, and its parents, even though they
may be extremely rich, will sometimes let it look dirty and neglected
for fear anyone might happen to admire it."

"You can't bewitch me!" cried Linda. "I've got the talisman safe in my
hand!"

"I didn't say I was admiring you, did I?" laughed the doctor. "Though
these gorgeous robes are certainly very becoming."

"You're a true magician. I shall be frightened of you now. Is that all
you can tell me about my 'something'?"

"I'm afraid I know no more."

"Then, Sylvia, it's your turn."

"May I choose exactly what I want?" asked Sylvia.

"Certainly you may," replied Dr. Severn.

"Then I'd like to hear the story of that little carved ivory locket
that's hanging on your watch-chain. It looks like a charm too."

A spasm of pain crossed the doctor's face at Sylvia's words, but he
recovered himself in a moment.

"That would not interest you, dear child," he said gravely. "It is not
a curiosity such as the other things I have shown you."

"It's a charm, though, isn't it?" asked Sylvia. "I've been noticing it
all the afternoon. It's so exactly like another I've seen."

"That could hardly be," said Dr. Severn. "This carving has no
duplicate."

"But I know one that's its own twin," persisted Sylvia. "It's the same
size and shape, and has the same carving on it, these little
three-cornered kind of leaves round the edge, and these marks like
queer letters in the middle. I couldn't possibly forget it."

"Where did you see it?" enquired Linda.

"It's the Chinese charm that they found tied round Mercy's neck when
she was brought to the hospital. She showed it me one Sunday evening,
and I held it in my hand and looked at it so carefully."

"Where did your friend get her charm?" asked Dr. Severn quickly.

"It was fastened round her neck when she was a baby. A Chinese woman
crawled with her to the hospital, because she was so wounded she was
dying. Not Mercy, I mean, but the poor woman. Mercy wasn't hurt at
all. They adopted her at the hospital, and then she was brought to
England, and came to Miss Kaye's, but nobody's ever found out yet who
she is. Isn't it just like a storybook?" said Sylvia, who loved to
bring forward the romantic side of her friend's history.

"How long ago is it since this happened?" enquired Dr. Severn with a
curious strained tone in his voice which neither of the children
noticed.

"About sixteen years. Mercy is nearly seventeen."

"Is that her true name?"

"No. Nobody knew her real name, so they called her Mercy Ingledew. She
had on Chinese clothes, and the nurse thought the locket must be a
Chinese charm too. She hadn't a single English thing that anyone could
tell her by. Wasn't it a pity?"

"A great pity, if her friends are alive to claim her."

"We don't know whether they are or not," said Sylvia. "I'm always
trying to find them, but Miss Kaye says I'm not to talk to Mercy about
it, because it's no use to keep raising false hopes, and we must all
be very kind to her, to make up for her not having a father and
mother of her own. It's funny her little charm should be just the same
as yours, though, isn't it? Did this one come from China too? I should
have liked a story about it."

"Some other day, perhaps," said Dr. Severn, rising hastily and walking
to the window. "Let us go out and find the boys. The sky looks so
threatening, I'm afraid there's a thunderstorm brewing, and I had
better send you home before it begins."

"We must take off our wonderful clothes, then," said Linda, beginning
to untwist the scarves and put away the Turkish slippers. "Goodbye,
dear sandalwood box! How I love the smell of you!"

"Keep the box if you like," said Dr. Severn briefly, "and you, Sylvia,
the bottle of attar. I don't want either. Come, children, I'm sorry to
hurry you, but I don't want you to be caught in the rain. Get your
hats, and Mr. Richards will see you home on his way to Craigwen."



CHAPTER XVII

The Sketching Class


Linda and Sylvia had a great many experiences to relate to the other
girls when they returned to Heathercliffe House, and as they were the
only ones in the class who had been away for the few days, they were
able to enjoy a position of much importance until their adventures
were all told. Nothing particular seemed to have happened during their
absence. Brenda had broken her bedroom jug, Connie had fallen against
the mowing machine and her forehead was ornamented with large strips
of sticking plaster which did not improve her personal appearance, and
Dolly had locked the door of the book cupboard in the Kindergarten
room and lost the key, much to Miss Coleman's wrath. Otherwise there
were no events worth chronicling.

"Unless you'd like to hear that I've made a fresh copy of my Greek
history notes," said Marian. "They're most beautifully neat, and
underlined with red ink. I'm sure Miss Kaye'll say they're better than
anybody else's."

But as both Linda and Sylvia declared that did not interest them in
the least, Marian's piece of information fell rather flat.

All the girls seemed to find it a little difficult to settle into
harness again after the short holiday. The weather was warm, and in
spite of open windows the schoolrooms were apt to feel close and
stuffy. Miss Arkwright tried the plan of holding her class under the
big hawthorn in the garden, but she found that a bird singing in the
tree, a bumble bee settling on a flower, or a butterfly flitting
across the lawn was enough to put dates and rivers completely out of
her pupils' minds, and to wipe even their best-known facts from their
memories, so she did not repeat her experiment.

"In our grandmothers' days schools always had their holidays in June,"
said Sylvia, yawning, as she idly picked the heads off the daisies on
the lawn one afternoon. "They broke up just when the hot weather
begins, and then they had all the lovely time when the evenings are so
long and you can be out-of-doors until bedtime, and the strawberries
are ripe, and they're cutting the hay. I think it was far nicer. We
don't break up till the 31st of July."

"Yes, but remember they'd have the whole of August at school," said
Marian. "Think of having to come back just at the time when everyone's
going away now to the seaside. And what an enormous term it would make
till Christmas!"

"They had quarters then," said Sylvia, "and a little holiday at
Michaelmas, like the Easter one."

"I don't believe children went home from boarding-schools for it
though. If you read old-fashioned books you will notice that the boys
always talk of 'a half' as if they stayed from Midsummer to Christmas,
and from Christmas to Midsummer again. It must have seemed such a
long while."

"I think it must have been perfectly horrible to go to school then,"
said Nina Forster. "My grandmother tells me stories about when she was
a little girl, and I should have hated it. They had to learn their
lessons off by heart, and stand with their hands behind their backs
and say them just like parrots, and if they forgot or made a mistake
the governess rapped them on the head with her thimble. She called it
'thimble pie'. It used to make them too nervous to remember things."

"How nasty of her! What else did they do?" asked the girls, who liked
to be told tales while they lounged.

"They had to use backboards every day, and chest expanders. Then they
had much plainer food than we have, and they were obliged to finish up
every morsel upon their plates; they mightn't leave anything. They
always had brown bread except on Sundays, and rice puddings nearly
every day. They hardly ever went picnics or excursions; they only used
to go for stupid walks along the roads, two and two, with a mistress
at each end. The music teacher had a silver pencil with a heavy knob
at the end, and if a girl played a wrong note she used to bring it
down with a thump upon her hand. Granny says it made her hate music.
Then they mightn't send letters home without the headmistress seeing
them, and she used to make them write the most absurd rubbish, so that
they weren't their own letters at all. Granny had her twelfth
birthday at school, and when she wrote to thank her father for his
present the governess insisted on her putting: 'Now that I have
attained to my twelfth year I feel I am no longer a child, and must
put away childish things'. Wasn't it stupid? They used to write the
most beautiful hand, though, far, far neater than ours, but they took
a fearfully long time over it. They'd spend a week at an exercise that
we do in a day. The teachers were very strict and very cross, and
there seemed to be so many punishments--being sent to bed, and being
kept in, and learning long columns of spelling. Granny says girls are
spoilt now, but I know I'd rather go to Miss Kaye's than to the school
she was at."

"I should think so," said the others; "I don't believe any other could
be really nicer than this."

"I sometimes wish I'd gone to a different one, though," said Jessie
Ellis.

"Why?"

"Because my three cousins were here, and they're so tremendously
clever. It's rather hard when you're not very bright yourself, and the
teachers keep saying: 'You mean to tell me you can't learn this, and
you an Ellis!' I think they must have taken my share of the brains in
the family. At any rate it's not quite fair to blame me because I
can't do everything they did. Ethel won a scholarship for Newnham, and
I never even scrape through the easiest class exam as a rule. I don't
care much. Mother says I must be a home girl and like sewing. I'm glad
I don't get my pocket money by my marks."

"Oh, but does anybody?"

"Yes, I knew a girl who did. Her father gave her sixpence every week
she was top, and nothing at all if she was lower than halfway in the
class. He said it was to make her work."

"Before I came to school I used to get my pocket money for doing
things," said Brenda. "I had a penny for every hour I practised, so if
I wanted to save up I used to do a little extra at the piano; then
there was a penny a week for wearing my gloves, and another penny for
using the back stairs, and a halfpenny for eating salt, and another
halfpenny if I remembered to wipe my boots. I rather liked it."

"I don't think it was nice at all," declared Marian. "It was bribing
you to do what you ought to have done in any case."

"Yes, so it was," echoed Gwennie. "We always wipe our boots."

"Oh, you two are perfect, of course!" said Brenda. "You never do
anything wrong! What about that French book which was lost last week?"

"It wasn't my fault or Gwennie's either," said Marian, rising and
putting an end to a conversation which threatened to become too
personal. "Somebody must have borrowed it without asking us. I'm going
in now to learn my verbs." And she departed, leaving the others
laughing, for poor Marian did not always succeed in living entirely
according to her excellent precepts and "Practice what you preach" is
a motto held in high estimation by schoolgirls.

Though ordinary lessons in the garden had proved a failure, Miss Kaye
made a new departure by arranging that Mr. Dawson, the drawing master,
should organize a sketching class, to include those of his pupils whom
he considered sufficiently advanced to benefit by outdoor instruction.
It was mostly composed of girls from the first and second classes, but
Marian, Linda, and Sylvia had done such good work in the studio that
Mr. Dawson decided he would allow them to commence drawing from nature,
and to their great delight they were permitted to join the party. They
felt almost like artists as they set off with camp stools, sketching
blocks, pencils, indiarubbers, paintboxes and water tins, and were
installed under their master's direction beneath the shade of a hedge
to make a valiant attempt at reproducing a picturesque gate and a
gnarled oak tree which overhung it. It was a great deal more difficult
than they had at first imagined. The bars of the gate were puzzling,
and the oak tree somehow refused to turn out a tree at all, and was
inclined to bear more resemblance to a lamp-post or a telegraph pole.

"It may be better when we get some colour on," said Sylvia hopefully.
"Everyone will know the brown part is meant for the trunk and the
green part for leaves."

"My gate looks as if I'd been playing naughts and crosses on my
paper," sighed Linda. "I've rubbed it out seven times, and I'm afraid
it's not straight now. The paper's quite spoilt. It'll be horrid when
I begin to paint."

"We can't expect to do very much the first time, I suppose," said
Marian. "My tree looks like a cabbage on a broomstick. I can lend you
my indiarubber if you want it to clean up with. It's a softer one than
yours. I want to get to the painting part and yet I'm afraid to
begin."

"So am I," said Linda. "I don't know what Mr. Dawson will say when he
sees the muddle I've made of this gate. Here he comes now."

The master must certainly have found the little girl's work far from
talented, but, taking her seat, he made a patient effort to correct
the mistakes in her drawing, adding a clever line or two of his own to
show her how it ought to be done, then with a word of encouragement to
Marian and Sylvia he passed on to some of his elder pupils.

The painting did not prove such a redeeming feature as Sylvia had
anticipated. Her sky refused to go on smoothly, and, as she was in too
great a hurry to let it dry properly before she commenced her tree,
the edges ran into each other hopelessly, producing an effect that was
perhaps too impressionistic for most tastes. The trunk of the tree
would not appear round, and the branches had an uncomfortable
suggestion of signposts, and she could not get the right colour for
the grass, and found the shadows absolutely baffling.

"It's a perfect daub," she cried, flinging down her brush as Mercy
came round presently to see how they were getting on.

"So's mine, I'm afraid," said Mercy. "You may see it if you like, but
it's hardly worth looking at. I'm letting it dry before I touch it any
more. It was getting into such a dreadful mess. Sketching from nature
isn't at all easy. I think Mr. Dawson's extremely clever to paint
such lovely things. You should see the sweet little bit he put in for
Trissie Knowles. It seems no trouble to him."

"I wish you'd do a piece for me, Mercy," said Linda.

"Oh, I daren't! Mr. Dawson would find it out directly, and perhaps he
mightn't like it. May Spencer's sketch is far the best of anybody's.
She just dashed it off, and it looks so nice. Helen Ward let her sky
dry in patches, and Mr. Dawson had to take her board to the stream and
dip it in the water to wash it off again. We're doing the cottage, you
know, round the corner, and when Sybil Lake had painted all the front
of hers she discovered she'd left out one of the windows."

"Who's this coming along the road?" interrupted Marian. "He's smiling
at one of us, I'm sure. I don't know him. Do you?"

"Dr. Severn!" cried Linda and Sylvia, and, springing up, they put
their sketching materials on the grass and hurried to meet him.

"Good afternoon! This is quite a surprise to me," said the doctor. "I
didn't expect to find my two little friends suddenly blossoming into
full-blown artists. I hope I'm not interrupting a lesson."

"Oh, no! We're all waiting for Mr. Dawson to come round and tell us
what to do next," said Linda. "Where are you going, Doctor? Won't you
sit down and talk for a minute? Please have my camp stool."

"It's a big surprise to us," added Sylvia. "We didn't know you ever
came to Aberglyn."

"I find myself here to-day," said Dr. Severn. "Thank you, Linda, but
I'm afraid I should break down your little seat if I were to put my
weight on it. There's a convenient stump here which will do very well.
Now you can imagine I'm an art critic, and show me some of the
masterpieces. I see both your friends are painting, also," he
continued, smiling at Mercy and Marian. "Will they let me look at
their pictures too?"

Dr. Severn was always at his ease with young people; his pleasant blue
eyes and genial manner seemed to attract them at once; and he had soon
added Mercy and Marian to the list of his admirers.

"I used to do a little sketching myself once," he said when he had
duly inspected the four studies and sympathized with their owners'
difficulties, "so I know how much harder it is than it looks,
particularly when one's a beginner. I found many quaint corners to
paint when I was abroad, especially in China and Japan."

"China! Were you ever in China?" asked Mercy with some eagerness.

"I was stationed in Szu-chwan for more than twenty years," replied Dr.
Severn.

"Do you know the Ingledew Hospital at Tsien-Lou?"

"I have heard of it, but I've never been there. I was in a different
district, and the distances were great and travelling often
dangerous."

"I wish you'd seen it," said Mercy wistfully. "I lived there for six
years, and I still write to Dr. and Mrs. Harrison and to Sister
Grace."

"Their names are well known, though I have not had the good fortune
to meet them personally," answered Dr. Severn, gazing steadily at
Mercy with a strange look in his blue eyes. "Can you remember much of
your life in China?"

"Not a great deal. I was only seven when I left and there has been
nobody to talk to me about it and remind me. I haven't forgotten the
narrow streets and the crowds of people in strange dresses who used to
be walking about in them, nor our garden at the hospital with the
camellias, and the high wall round it. I remember the little mission
church, too, where we had service on Sundays. It was all in Chinese,
but I could speak it then quite easily. I couldn't understand a single
word now."

"Do you know Chinese, Doctor?" asked Linda.

"Very well," replied Dr. Severn, "though it took me many years of hard
study to learn it. It's the most difficult language in the world."

"Worse than French?"

"Fifty times worse!"

"I shouldn't think it was worth the trouble."

"There were reasons which made me consider it worth any amount of
trouble. I wished to talk to the people, and as they couldn't
understand my speech I was forced to learn theirs."

"Were they pleased?"

"Some of them were grateful, some of them didn't care, and some were
very angry with me. I was like the man who sowed the seed. I had to
fling it everywhere, no matter what ground it fell on."

"And can you write Chinese characters too?" asked Marian.

"A little, but not so well as I can talk. Here comes your drawing
teacher. I'm afraid he'll think I'm encouraging you to be idle.
Goodbye for the present! You may very likely see me again before the
day is over."

"I wonder what Dr. Severn talked to the people about in China!" said
Sylvia, as she watched his retreating figure walking briskly away down
the road. "It must have been something very important to make him take
so much trouble."

"I think I can guess," said Mercy softly, as she picked up her
half-finished sketch and ran back to her easel in time for the
master's criticism.



CHAPTER XVIII

Dr. Severn Explains


Linda and Sylvia had been much delighted at their unexpected meeting
with the owner of Dale Side, and could talk of nothing else during
tea. You may judge, therefore, Sylvia's astonishment and interest
when, on passing the drawing-room shortly before preparation hour, she
caught a glimpse of Dr. Severn seated there engaged in earnest
conversation with Miss Kaye. The drawing-room was forbidden ground to
the girls, so, after one hasty glance, Sylvia was on the point of
hurrying away, and had already reached the bottom of the stairs when
Miss Kaye called to her.

"Come in, my dear," said the mistress, as Sylvia timidly presented
herself, not certain whether she had done anything wrong or not, "come
in, and close the door after you."

Dr. Severn smiled and held out his hand, and Sylvia went and stood by
his side, feeling sure now that whatever was the matter she was not
going to be scolded.

"It was Sylvia and not Linda who spoke of it?" enquired Miss Kaye; "I
believe you said Sylvia?"

"I did," replied Dr. Severn. "She mentioned that her schoolfellow had
shown it to her. It may, of course, be merely a coincidence, but it
seems worth investigating, and I should greatly like to see it."

"What are they talking about?" Sylvia wondered, glancing from one to
another to try and read the answer in their faces. She could not
understand the conversation at all, nor connect it with anything that
had occurred. Miss Kaye, however, soon enlightened her.

"You told Dr. Severn, Sylvia, that Mercy Ingledew had shown you a
carved ivory locket which was tied round her neck when she was found
at the hospital in China. I was not aware that Mercy possessed it, and
I have never seen it myself. Can you describe it?"

"It was just the same as the one Dr. Severn has," answered Sylvia. "It
was seeing his that made me think of Mercy's. They are both exactly
alike."

"You are absolutely sure?"

"Quite! It was small and beautifully carved, with little leaves round
the edge and funny letters in the middle. I thought it must be meant
for a locket, only it won't open."

"As you say, it is certainly a remarkable coincidence," said Miss
Kaye, turning to Dr. Severn. "I am very anxious not to distress the
poor girl needlessly, but I think we are justified in looking into the
matter. Sylvia, will you go and find Mercy, and tell her quietly that
I wish to speak to her in the drawing-room, and ask her to bring this
locket with her. Do not try to explain anything, and do not let any of
the other girls hear you. I would rather they did not know about it."

Sylvia left the room in a whirl of excitement. Something was going to
happen. Of that she was sure. Did Dr. Severn, who had been in China
himself, know anything about Mercy's relations? The idea was so
overwhelming and so delightful that it almost took her breath away.
Ever since she had first heard Mercy's story she had been hoping that
some clue might be found to her parentage, and that at last they were
on a right track seemed absolutely too good to be true. She found her
friend reading in the garden, and was able to give her message as
briefly and quietly as Miss Kaye had desired. Mercy rose at once, and,
asking no questions, went to her bedroom to fetch the locket, then,
rejoining Sylvia, who had waited for her at the foot of the stairs,
she took the child's hand and walked into the drawing-room. It was a
moment of intense anxiety for all.

"Mercy dear," began Miss Kaye, after a moment's pause, as if she
hardly knew how to open the subject, "we had agreed that it was wiser
not to speak about the events which occurred in the first year of your
life, but I am going to break through my rule to-day. Dr. Severn, whom
you met this afternoon, believes that he can throw some light upon
your early history, and even solve the mystery of your birth. From
what he tells me a very strange chain of circumstances has led him to
make enquiries, and it seems more than probable that you may learn
something at last. Try and calm yourself, my dear child, and let Dr.
Severn look at the locket which you have brought."

Poor Mercy was trembling with agitation. Was her long-deferred hope
at length to be realized? Ever since she had been old enough to notice
the difference between herself and other girls, she had looked forward
to this, at first with eager expectation, but latterly as a dream
never likely to be fulfilled and only leading to perpetual
disappointment. All the cherished castles in the air which she had
striven so bravely to put away from her, all the longing and yearning
which she had so often felt for those unknown parents of her infancy,
all the grief, the solitude, and the shrinking sense of her lonely
position rose up in renewed force as, with shaking fingers, she laid
her Chinese charm in the doctor's outstretched hand.

Dr. Severn had removed his own locket from his watch chain, and he now
placed the two side by side on the table.

"You observe, Miss Kaye," he said, "that they are so exactly alike
that it would be impossible to tell them apart, but when they are
together you may notice that there is a slight difference in the
characters which form the centre. To one unacquainted with Chinese it
is perhaps hardly perceptible, but if you had any knowledge of the
written language it could not fail to strike you. This, however, is
only one of the minor points. I have still to make the great test."

He took his own locket in his hand and pressed a secret spring. It
opened, disclosing inside a small coloured photograph of a lady with a
sweet face and fair hair, at which he asked both Miss Kaye and Mercy
to look carefully. He then lifted the other locket from the table.

"If, as I believe, this is the true duplicate," he said, "the spring
will be here, and it will open like its fellow."

The three spectators held their breath. Sylvia was white as a ghost,
and Miss Kaye put her arm round Mercy to prevent her from falling. One
swift pressure of the doctor's thumb, and the charm had flown open,
revealing an exact facsimile of the former portrait. Dr. Severn placed
the pair side by side again upon the table and turned to Mercy.

"You did not know its secret?" he asked. "How could you when there was
no one to show you the tiny catch? You have seen that the pictures in
the two lockets are of the same person? In mine it is of my beloved
wife, and in yours it is the portrait of your mother. Yes, Mercy, you
are indeed my daughter, given back, as it seems to me, from the dead,
and after all these years of our separation I claim you thus through
the memory of one by whom we were both held equally dear!"

"So you're really Dr. Severn's own daughter! It's almost too nice to
believe!" exclaimed Sylvia a few minutes later, when Mercy, with an
April face, half-smiles and half-tears, kissed her and thanked her for
her share in bringing about her new-found happiness.

"It is true nevertheless," replied Dr. Severn. "The locket has removed
every shadow of doubt. There is still, however, a great deal to be
explained, and with Miss Kaye's permission I will relate both how I
lost my child and why I had apparently made no effort to recover her.
It is a long story, but for a full understanding of the facts of the
case it is necessary for me to begin at the beginning.

"It is now more than twenty years ago that, having obtained my degree
as a doctor of medicine, and held appointments at various hospitals in
London and the provinces, I determined to devote myself to the mission
field, and sailed for China. I was appointed head of the medical
mission at Tsi-chin in the canton of Szu-chwan, and on arrival there I
bade goodbye to Western civilization. In those days the people of
China were even more ignorant and fanatical than they are now. The
prejudice against Europeans was intense, and for a long time our best
efforts seemed thrown away. I should have been very disappointed and
down-hearted if it had not been for the cheery hopeful courage of my
wife, who had given up an easy life in England to help the cause, and
whose work among the Chinese women was the beginning of the ultimate
success which attended our mission.

"The very first to become a Christian was a woman named Lao-ya, and
through her we found access to numerous houses, the doors of which had
been formerly closed against us. Our small church began to grow. Many
who came to the hospital as patients would listen to our story of the
Great Physician, and tell it again in their own homes.

"I wish I could describe to you our life in that strange inland
Chinese city. We were hundreds of miles from Hong-Kong, which was the
nearest British settlement, and travelling was so difficult and so
slow that it took many weeks to reach the coast, and was both
fatiguing and dangerous. We made ourselves as comfortable as we could
in the house, half-Chinese, half-European, which had been built under
my directions, and we tried to grow English seeds in our garden to
remind us of the home we had left.

"Three children were born to us, a boy named Edmund, and twin girls
whom we christened Mary and Una, and, though we were so far away from
our own native land, we managed to be a very happy little household.
The woman Lao-ya was our nurse, and as devoted to the babies as if
they had been her own. She would never leave them for an instant, and
no trouble seemed too great for her to take on their behalf.

"Among the more earnest members of our church was a man called
Kan-Sou, who was a very clever carver of ivories, an art in which the
Chinese excel. I had been able to cure his wife of a painful disease,
and he was anxious to give me a present of some of his own work. One
day, therefore, he brought me two small lockets which he had made
specially for my two little girls. The exquisite threefold tracery of
the border was intended, so he said, as a symbol of the doctrine of
the Trinity; on one side was the Chinese equivalent for 'Good Luck',
and on the other, also in Chinese characters, the names Mary and Una.
He had contrived a secret spring by which the lockets would open, and
had carved inside the date of the children's baptism, the entire
Western part of the idea being copied from a trinket we possessed in
the house, which Lao-ya had once shown him, though his rendering of it
was wholly Eastern. As I found there was sufficient space in each to
contain a portrait, I inserted two small photographs of my wife which
I had taken myself, and coloured, and, to show our appreciation of his
kindness, we tied his gifts round the babies' necks with pieces of
ribbon. I believe poor Lao-ya must have considered them to be some
kind of Christian charm, for she would never allow them to be taken
off, and always treated them as if they were objects of veneration.

"All this time the people of Tsi-chin, though regarding us with
extreme suspicion, had never yet proved themselves to be absolutely
hostile. When the twins were nearly a year old, however, we began to
notice a marked change in the demeanour of the townsfolk, both towards
us and the Mission. Ugly rumours reached us of riots in other cities,
and cruelties the very mention of which was enough to fill one with
horror. There was an epidemic of disease among the natives, caused by
their own dirt and ignorance of the common laws of health, and many of
their priests had spread the report that it had been introduced by the
foreigners for the purpose of reducing their numbers, and thus
enabling the British to conquer their country, and that all true
patriots must rise and destroy the source of the evil. This dangerous
doctrine spread rapidly, and the news filled me with the greatest
uneasiness. I hesitated long whether I ought to take my wife and
children to the coast, but I decided that the danger among the
strangers whom we should be forced to encounter on our long journey
was even greater than that of remaining in the place where we had
cured many sick people and could certainly count upon obtaining help
from at least a few of them.

"I shall never forget one spring morning, now sixteen years ago. The
town seemed quiet, and our fears had been somewhat lulled to rest. I
had finished my work in the hospital, and went into our garden, where
my wife was sitting sewing beside our three little ones as they played
with their nurse under a blossoming tree. I stood for a moment
watching the pretty picture they made, the three little rosy English
faces in contrast to Lao-ya's almond eyes and smooth black tresses,
the gay background of flowers, the pagodas of the temple in the city
beyond standing out against the brilliant blue sky, and the bright
sunshine which shone on my wife's fair hair and the children's flaxen
heads and turned them all to gold. Well might the scene live in my
memory; it was the last time I was ever to see them thus!

"I had just received an urgent message to attend a mandarin who lived
many miles up in the hills, and who now lay seriously ill and had
expressed a wish to see me. Everything appeared so tranquil that I
thought I might safely leave the Mission for a short period, and I
made preparations to set off at once, taking a few necessary
instruments and drugs with me.

"I was able to relieve my patient, and was about to start for home
when to my anger and surprise I found that I was practically a
prisoner. No violence was offered me, but for several days I was
confined in a room from which there was no possibility of escape, and
in spite of my earnest entreaties my jailer would give me no reason
for this seemingly poor return for my services. At the end of the
fifth day, however, the mandarin sent for me, and, after professing
himself on the road to recovery, informed me that a terrible massacre
of Christians had been taking place, and if he had not afforded me the
safe shelter of his house I must certainly have perished among the
rest. As a mark of his gratitude for my skilled attendance he was now
sending me to the coast with a strong escort which had his orders to
convey me as speedily as they could to Hong-Kong.

"You can imagine my wild alarm at this terrible news, and my anxiety
to reach Tsi-chin to ascertain the fate of the mission and of my
family. The soldiers on the whole were sympathetic fellows, and they
consented to march by the hospital, though they assured me it would be
better for me if I could refrain from doing so.

"I will not attempt to describe to you the scene of desolation which
greeted me. My house was looted and wrecked, both church and schools
were a pile of charred ashes, and all my workers were dead. Not one
seemed to have escaped the general catastrophe. In the ruins of what
had once been my beautiful garden I found my wife lying with our
little Una in her arms and our boy close to her side; they had
evidently been trying to make their escape when they were followed and
murdered by the furious mob. Mary, I had no doubt, had also perished,
together with poor faithful Lao-ya and our other servant, but I could
not search further, as the soldiers, obedient to their master's
orders, tore me away from the terrible scene, and carried me, more
dead than alive, to the coast. There for many months I lay stricken
down with brain fever, and it was not until after more than a year's
rest, spent mostly in Japan, that I was able to take up my work again
in China.

"One of the soldiers, with kindly thoughtfulness, had cut the locket
from little Una's neck and placed it amongst my possessions. Perhaps
he was a father himself, and I think that my grief had touched him. It
contained the only portrait which I now possessed of my wife, and for
this reason I have worn it always upon my watch chain.

"From this account you will readily understand why I made no enquiries
for my other child, believing as I did that it was impossible for her
to have lived. My long illness and subsequent absence prevented my
hearing the story of the foundling at the Ingledew hospital. Perhaps
the news never reached my remote district; at any rate, by the time I
returned it had been forgotten among the many heartrending incidents
of that dreadful uprising. It was no doubt Lao-ya who had managed to
flee with her nursling, though I still cannot understand why she
should have travelled the immense distance from Tsi-chin to Tsien-Lou,
unless she were trying to reach the home of her parents, who, I
understood, came from a different province. Where she was wounded, or
what horrors and cruelties she encountered, we shall never know, since
she paid for her devotion with her life.

"For fourteen years more I remained in the canton of Szu-chwan, then,
owing to my broken health, I was obliged reluctantly to give up my
work there and return to England. The death of an uncle had left me
in easy circumstances, and, finding the climate of North Wales suited
me, I bought Dale Side and settled down there with the intention of
writing a book on the many modern problems of China and its future
development, a subject on which I thought I was competent to express
an opinion.

"It was not until Sylvia spoke of the facsimile of my locket owned by
her schoolfellow, and until she had told me the story of how Mercy was
left at the Ingledew hospital, that it ever occurred to me that it was
possible for my little Mary to have survived the general massacre, and
even then I put the idea aside as romantic and absurd. It haunted me,
however, to such an extent that I determined to go over to Aberglyn
and make a few private enquiries from Miss Kaye on the subject. When I
first saw Mercy I was struck at once by her likeness to my dead wife,
and the locket soon proved to my entire satisfaction that I was not
mistaken in my conjectures. All the dates exactly correspond, and I
think there will now be no difficulty in convincing everybody of her
identity."

"It is indeed a very strange and happy ending to a sad story," said
Miss Kaye, wiping her eyes. "Mercy on her part has gone through a time
of trial which I am sure has done its work in helping to form her
character. She has been much to us in the school, and I could not hand
over a sweeter daughter to a more worthy father."

"Then she is Mary Severn now, instead of Mercy Ingledew!" exclaimed
Sylvia.

"She was baptized Mary," said Dr. Severn. "But we will call her Mercy
still. No fitter name could have been chosen. It was mercy that saved
her life, mercy that preserved her during all the years we were apart,
mercy that brought about our marvellous meeting, and it is mercy that
has given her back to me at last."



CHAPTER XIX

The Prize Giving


All the school was delighted at Mercy's good fortune, but no one more
so than Sylvia. To feel that Dr. Severn's discovery was indirectly due
to herself was an unbounded satisfaction.

"I always wanted so much to discover Mercy's friends," she said to
Linda. "And isn't it strange that when I believed I'd found her mother
it was just a silly mistake, and when I'd really found her father, I
didn't suspect it in the least. I never dreamt of Dr. Severn being a
relation, even when I saw his locket was the same as Mercy's. You see,
Mercy said it was a Chinese charm, so I thought perhaps they were
quite common, like the blue-bead tassel he'd been showing you, and
anybody who'd been in China might have one. Suppose I hadn't come to
stay with you at Whitsuntide, or we hadn't gone to tea that afternoon,
you wouldn't have noticed that locket, because Mercy hadn't shown hers
to you; and if you'd told Dr. Severn about her being found, he'd never
have guessed it was his own Mary. I don't think anything you could
have offered me in the whole world would have made me gladder than
this!"

There was only one flaw in Sylvia's happiness. Mercy, who was now
seventeen, was to leave Heathercliffe House to be mistress of Dale
Side. Both Miss Kaye and Dr. Severn thought her right place was with
her father, and that her schooldays might fitly come to a close.

"I couldn't part from her again," said the doctor, "not even to send
her to so short a distance as Aberglyn. We've still to learn to know
each other, and the more we're in each other's company the better. I
can arrange for visiting masters to give her lessons in painting and
music, but she's such a tall girl, I feel she's almost a woman, and
will soon begin to take care of me, instead of allowing me to take
care of her."

To Sylvia, Mercy's absence would leave a great blank, but she was
consoled when Dr. Severn promised that she should be their first
visitor, and that he would ask her mother to allow her to spend part
of the August holidays with them at Craigwen, where Linda and her
brothers would be able to join them constantly for walks and
excursions. There was little more of the summer term left for anyone
at Heathercliffe House. The few remaining weeks passed quickly by, and
brought the annual garden party and prize giving, with which Miss Kaye
always celebrated the breaking up. It was the great occasion of the
school year, and many of the girls' parents came over to Aberglyn on
purpose to be present. The day fortunately proved fine, and all the
thirty-four pupils found themselves in such effervescent spirits that
the mistresses had a hard task to keep their attention during the
morning classes.

"Connie Camden, sit up straight and place your feet together," said
Miss Arkwright. "I cannot allow you to have your arm round Brenda's
waist, even if it is the last day. Linda, put that lozenge in your
pocket; if I see it again, I will take it from you. Marian, tie your
hair ribbon. Gwennie, you have lost your place three times; I'm
astonished at you! Sylvia, don't fidget; I told you not to touch
Nina's ruler. Nina, shut your pencil box at once. Now, Jessie, begin
again, and parse more carefully; antelope is not an abstract noun."

It was certainly difficult to recall the rules of grammar when the
girls remembered that this was actually the very last lesson, and that
for seven whole weeks their books would be lying idle, the schoolrooms
would be deserted, the blackboard and maps put away, and they
themselves would be enjoying the country or seaside in company with
their respective families. Even Marian answered at random, and poor
Miss Arkwright was getting into despair, when fortunately for all the
bell rang, and they were at liberty to disperse. There was still
enough discipline left to cause the class to walk decorously through
the door, but once outside in the passage they danced about like a
little crew of savages, and, tearing downstairs, ran into the garden
to work off their excitement, leaving their teacher standing with a
sigh of relief at her open desk to put the last marks to their now
finished exercise books.

"We're going to Whitby for the holidays," said Connie. "We've taken a
furnished house, and our cousins are coming to stay next door. There
are eight of them and eleven of us, so shan't we just have a jolly
time? Hurrah!"

"We're off to Scotland," said Nina. "And Mother's promised I may take
all the coach rides that the others do. I haven't had a cold now since
Easter."

"Don't boast," cried Brenda, "or you'll be sure to catch one this
afternoon, and Miss Kaye'll put you to bed, and say you aren't well
enough to travel to-morrow."

"She shan't!" declared Nina indignantly. "I wouldn't stay there. I'd
get up and go home if I were coughing and sneezing till I couldn't see
out of my eyes."

"Then they'll roll you up in a blanket," said Connie, who loved to
tease, "with a shawl tied over your head, and carry you down to a cab
as they did with Rosie when she began with chicken pox and was sent to
the fever hospital. You'll have to travel in the luggage van, because
everybody'll think you're infectious, and won't have you in their
carriage. The doctor'll go with you, and keep taking your temperature
and feeling your pulse, and telling you to put out your tongue, and
listening at your bronchial tube all the time. He won't be able to
hear much, though, because of the rattling of the train. Perhaps he'll
take it for the rattling of your breath, and think you're very bad!
It'll be a most exciting journey for you."

"You horrid girl! I haven't caught the cold yet, and I don't mean to!"
said Nina, pursuing Connie, who dodged away round the summer house,
calling out as a parting shot:

"Be sure to let us know how many bottles of medicine you take!"

"I travelled in the guard's van once," said Jessie Ellis. "Mother
couldn't bring me to school herself, and nobody we knew was going to
Wales either, so the guard took me with him. I rather liked it. There
was such a lovely big window, and he let me look at a kitten that
somebody was sending in a basket, and when we stopped at Chester he
got me a glass of milk from the refreshment room. I'm going straight
to Llandudno to-morrow; we're to stay there for three weeks. My
brother's school broke up yesterday, and he's coming here with Father
and Mother this afternoon."

"What are you going to do, Marian?" asked Linda.

"I'm not quite sure. We wanted the Isle of Man, but it's such a
trouble to take the little ones on the steamer. We have to choose a
nice safe place where there's sand for them to dig, and the tide
doesn't come in too fast. Gwennie was nearly drowned at Arnside when
she was five, and it's made Mother so nervous ever since."

"I'm going to learn the bicycle," said Brenda. "My eldest sister's
promised to lend me hers, and lower the saddle. If I can manage well
enough to ride on the road I'm to go with Ada and Willie to Ashmere,
and that's eight miles off. But father's dreadfully afraid of motor
cars. Hazel isn't coming home this summer; Aunt Cicely's taking her a
tour in Switzerland. Isn't she lucky?"

All the members of the third class had promised faithfully to
correspond with one another, and Sylvia suggested that they should
each keep a diary of their adventures, to be read aloud at the next
meeting of the S.S.L.U., which had languished during the summer, but
which they intended to take up with renewed vigour when the days began
to close in once more.

"Everybody must agree to send everybody else at least two picture
postcards," said Linda, "and then we can compare them when we come
back to school."

"Yes, if one's mother will pay for them," said Connie, who had
returned to the lawn. "Mine struck last holidays, and said eleven
children all wanting stamps continually was ruining her, and we must
buy our own. Postcards are a penny each, and they need halfpenny
stamps, so it'll cost exactly one and ninepence to send two to every
one of you. I can't possibly afford it! Not if I want any donkey rides
or chocolates."

The others laughed. The comfortable assurance that "Mother will pay",
held by most boys and girls, had not caused them to think of the
expense, and Connie's calculations were startling.

"Well, of course, if you can't, you can't," said Linda, "and we shan't
expect them. You may write a kind of round-robin letter and send it to
me, and I'll send it to somebody else, who'll pass it on to the next.
That'll only take you one stamp, and you must go without a pennyworth
of chocolates."

The guests were to arrive at half-past three o'clock, and the moment
dinner was over, the girls hurried to their bedrooms for the very
important ceremony of changing their dresses. Linda's thick, straight,
brown locks had been wetted and plaited in the tightest possible
braids the night before, to give it the required wave. Nina Forster
had even tried the experiment of screwing hers up in curl papers; but
the hard, round knobs had stuck into her head, and made her too
uncomfortable to sleep, so, after tossing about uneasily for an hour,
she could bear it no longer, and had pulled them out with a solemn vow
to relinquish the idea of ringlets in the future. Marian, whose long
beautiful auburn hair was generally brushed stiffly back from her face
and worn in a neat pigtail, left it loose for once, and allowed
Gwennie to tie it with two large bows of light-blue ribbon to match
her sash; an alteration much appreciated by the girls, who declared
they scarcely recognized her. Connie had little vanity, and, being
arrayed the first of anybody, she flitted about among the various
bedrooms like a small moth, giving free criticisms of the others'
costumes.

"Yes, that's a very pretty dress, Linda," she remarked. "White muslin
over a pink slip suits you, though it rather reminds me of a
dressing-table or a baby's cradle, all the same; I want to hang a pin
cushion on to you! Sylvia, if you'd grown another half-inch they'd
have had to let down a tuck. I like the little daisy pattern and the
rows of narrow lace; they're rather sweet. You must wear the daisy
brooch you got on your birthday. You should see Brenda! Her dress was
so stiffly starched I couldn't fasten it for her; I had to fetch
Mercy, and she opened the buttonholes with a pair of scissors. Jessie
Ellis has on a pale-green silk, and she's almost afraid to sit down
for fear of soiling it. I hate things that won't wash. Ta, ta! I'm
going to see Marian. Gwennie spilled a whole bottle of scent over her
clean muslin, but luckily her other had just come back from the
laundry. She's sewing the buttons on it now."

The girls were allowed to go into the garden to await their friends,
and kept up an excited commentary on the list of arrivals.

"There's Marian's mother! and she's brought a little one with her,
such a darling, the image of Gwennie, only far prettier. That must be
Mrs. Ellis and Jessie's brother. How terribly shy he looks! I don't
wonder; the only boy in a girl's school! That's Sybil Lake's eldest
sister; she used to come here herself once. There's Mr. Cameron; I
thought he wouldn't stay away. And there are Mr. and Mrs. Fenwick and
Miss Winnie. I wish Mr. Cecil had come too. Who are these who've just
got out of a cab?"

"Father and Mother," replied Sylvia, jumping to her feet. "And why,
surely, they've brought Aunt Louisa with them!"

It was actually Aunt Louisa herself, who was shaking hands cordially
with Miss Kaye, and gazing about her with a complacent expression, as
if she were remembering that it was all due to her persuasions that
her niece was a pupil at Heathercliffe House, and congratulating
herself still upon the wisdom of her plan.

She greeted Sylvia most affectionately, asked which were Linda and
Mercy, had quite a pleasant chat with Miss Arkwright on the subject of
Education, and seemed altogether to be enjoying herself immensely.
Sylvia was delighted to have the opportunity of introducing her father
and mother to Mr. and Mrs. Marshall and Dr. Severn, who were among
the guests, and she was not satisfied till she had taken them the
entire round of the house and garden, that they might see for
themselves the places she had so often described.

Tea was served in the garden, the girls helping to pass cups and hand
plates, luckily without any mishaps, though Connie Camden nearly upset
the cream, which was only saved through the quickness of May Spencer;
and little Greta Collins, who had been told to carry round a sugar
basin, offered it to Mr. Cameron, and, as he was too busy talking to
notice her, dropped three lumps into his cup and went away, an
unpleasant surprise for him when he discovered it, as he did not take
sugar. Sadie and Elsie Thompson were supremely happy in the possession
of their father, whose ship had arrived at Liverpool just in time to
allow him to come to the prize giving. It was quite pathetic to see
how they clung to his hands, and would scarcely let him out of their
sight the whole afternoon, and the girls were glad to hear that he was
going to take the two children away for a short holiday without the
guardianship of the stern aunt.

"We're to go to Liverpool first," said Elsie gleefully to Sylvia. "And
Daddy'll show us all over his big ship. We'll see the engines, and the
compass, and his cabin, and we're to have tea on the upper deck. He
says we may talk through his speaking trumpet, and sound the foghorn,
and turn the wheel just a tiny piece. Then we're going a long way in
the train to stay at a farm in the country, quite alone with Daddy.
Won't it be fun? He's going to send you an Indian necklace, because
we told him you'd been so kind to us, and your mother'd sent us such a
lovely cake on Sadie's birthday. He's got it locked up in his cabin on
the ship, but I don't think I ought to have told you, 'cause it's to
be a surprise."

Miss Kaye had allowed a full hour for tea and talk, and at the end of
that time the guests were asked to assemble in the large schoolroom
for the distribution of prizes, which were to be given away by the
Rector of Aberglyn. The room was prettily decorated with flowers, and
on a table at one end lay a number of handsomely bound books. The
children were obliged reluctantly to be separated from their parents,
as it was necessary for them to sit in classes, and once more the
members of the third form found themselves side by side. Mr. Edwards,
the rector, made a short opening speech, complimenting both teachers
and pupils on a year of industrious work, and said what pleasure it
gave him to see the rows of bright happy young faces before him, and
to know how much they had learnt at Heathercliffe House. He reminded
them of the high standard in right and honour as well as knowledge
which it was Miss Kaye's object to maintain there, and begged them to
make the best possible use of their schooldays, upon which, he
declared, they would often look back as the happiest time in their
lives.

There were no competitive prizes among the little ones, each of whom
was called up to receive a small present for good conduct, and when
the rector had made some kindly remarks, he turned to the third
class. The prizes were awarded according to the result of the
examination, and of all the weekly marks gained during the year, the
totals being added together. It was therefore a test both of correct
memory and of steady application, and would show that the winner had
worked hard for her laurels. The class knew that it must lie between
Marian and Sylvia; no one else had the slightest chance; and the girls
gazed eagerly at Mr. Edwards, waiting for the important announcement.
He held a beautifully illustrated edition of _British Ballads_ in his
hand.

"This is the prize for English," he said, "and I have much pleasure in
presenting it to Sylvia Lindsay, who, I am sure, must have worked with
the greatest industry to gain it, and thoroughly deserves her
success."

Everybody clapped as Sylvia walked up the room to receive her book,
and she herself could scarcely believe her good fortune. She had never
really expected to win, and for the moment her triumph was sweet. Poor
Marian, whose face had fallen at the news, joined nevertheless in the
applause, and Sylvia in her turn was able to give her a hearty clap as
the rector declared her to be the best French scholar, and awarded her
a copy of Lafontaine's _Fables_. Nina took the music prize, and
Gwennie the one for neatness, punctuality, and general orderliness,
which completed the list for the third class, and Mr. Edwards went on
to the second class, ending with the first, where Mercy very
appropriately came out head of the school.

Sylvia felt as if her brain were in a whirl. It was all as she had
wished; she held her reward in her hand, and her father and mother
had been there to see her claim it. Surely life could contain no
greater joy! But who was standing up now, to make the closing speech?
It was Dr. Severn, and everyone who knew his story and Mercy's was
anxious to hear him. He said only a few quiet words, but they were so
concise and to the point that they lived for many years in the
memories of some of those who listened to them. After congratulating
the girls who had taken prizes, and urging all to fresh efforts, he
spoke to those who had tried and had been unsuccessful.

"The greatest deeds in the world," he said, "have often been done by
people who have failed not only once, but many times, yet have never
let themselves be discouraged. Don't stop trying, but, on the other
hand, don't look at the prize as the chief end of your striving. It's
a poor thing, after all, compared with the gain to your character that
every honest endeavour will bring you. Remember, too, that we can't
all have the post of honour; somebody has to stand aside and take
second best, and the one who can do it the most bravely and generously
is winning what is far more worth having than a prettily bound book.
You learn many lessons at Heathercliffe House, but believe me the
greatest of them is the power to give up your own way sometimes, and
to be happy in the pleasure and success of others. It mayn't seem easy
just at first, but I can assure you it brings the best and most
lasting happiness in the end. I read a few lines a day or two ago that
explain just what I mean, so I'm going to say them to you:

      'Our chiefest duty here below
       Is not the seeming great to do,
    That the vain world may pause to see;
       But in steadfast humility
    To walk the common walk, and bear
    The thousand things, the trifling care,
       In love, with wisdom, patiently.
    Thus each one in his narrow groove
    The great world nearer God may move.'"

As Sylvia listened, her small triumph seemed to fade away into
something higher and better, and almost unconsciously she and Marian
clasped hands, their rivalry forgotten in a nobler ideal. All the
events of the school year passed rapidly through her memory: she was
changed greatly from the rather selfish little girl who had given so
cold a welcome to her guests at that wet-day party, and as her mother
afterwards kissed her and praised her for her success, it was with a
heartfelt meaning in her words that she said:

"I did try hard the whole time, just to please you and Father. I
didn't want to come to school at all, but I'm glad you made me. I like
it now most immensely, and I simply can't tell you how very extremely
glad I am that you didn't choose anywhere else, but sent me here to
Miss Kaye's!"



Transcriber's Note:

Punctuation has been standardised. Hyphenation and spelling have been
retained except as follows:

    Page 20
    in giving the dolls'-house _changed to_
    in giving the dolls' house

    Page 21
    turn me yound three _changed to_
    turn me round three

    Page 31
    you will need to amuse youself _changed to_
    you will need to amuse yourself

    Page 33
    and the housemaid crotcheted _changed to_
    and the housemaid crocheted

    Page 48
    with her damp pocket handherchief _changed to_
    with her damp pocket handkerchief

    Page 98
    opportuity of saying something _changed to_
    opportunity of saying something

    Page 137
    Lend me you scissors, Marian _changed to_
    Lend me your scissors, Marian

    Page 225
    and second classes, but Marin _changed to_
    and second classes, but Marian





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