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For the Sake of the School

BLACKIE & SON LIMITED

16/18 William IV Street, Charing Cross, London, W.C.2

17 Stanhope Street, Glasgow

BLACKIE & SON (INDIA) LIMITED

103/5 Fort Street, Bombay

BLACKIE & SON (CANADA) LIMITED

Toronto

"I felt I must speak to you"

Page 234

Frontispiece

For the Sake of the
School

by

Angela Brazil

Author of "The School on the Loch"

"The School at the Turrets", &c.

With Frontispiece

BLACKIE & SON LIMITED

LONDON AND GLASGOW

Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow

TO THE

SCHOOLGIRL READERS

WHO HAVE SENT ME

SUCH NICE LETTERS

Contents

"Are they never going to turn up?"

"It's almost four now!"

"They'll be left till the six-thirty!"

"Oh, don't alarm yourself! The valley train
always waits for the express."

"It's coming in now!"

"Oh, good, so it is!"

"Late by twenty minutes exactly!"

"Stand back there!" yelled a porter, setting
down a box with a slam, and motioning the excited,
fluttering group of girls to a position of greater
safety than the extreme edge of the platform.
"Llangarmon Junction! Change for Glanafon
and Graigwen!"

Snorting and puffing, as if in agitated apology
for the tardiness of its arrival, the train came
steaming into the station, the drag of its brakes[Pg 12]
adding yet another item of noise to the prevailing
babel. Intending passengers clutched bags and
baskets; fathers of families gave a last eye to the
luggage; mothers grasped children firmly by the
hand; a distracted youth, seeking vainly for his
portmanteau, upset a stack of bicycles with a crash;
while above all the din and turmoil rose the strident,
rasping voice of a book-stall boy, crying his
selection of papers with ear-splitting zeal.

From the windows of the in-coming express
waved seventeen agitated pocket-handkerchiefs, and
the signal was answered by a counter-display of
cambric from the twenty girls hustled back by an
inspector in the direction of the weighing-machine.

"There's Helen!"

"And Ruth, surely!"

"Oh! where's Marjorie?"

"There! Can't you see her, with Doris?"

"That's Mamie, waving to me!"

"What's become of Kathleen?"

One moment more, and the neat school hats of
the new-comers had swelled the group of similar
school hats already collected on the platform;
ecstatic greetings were exchanged, urgent questions
asked and hasty answers given, and items
of choice information poured forth with the utmost
volubility of which the English tongue is capable.
Urged by brief directions from a mistress in charge,
the chattering crew surged towards a siding, and
made for a particular corridor carriage marked
"Reserved". Here handbags, umbrellas, wraps,
and lunch-baskets were hastily stowed away in the[Pg 13]
racks, and, Miss Moseley having assured herself
that not a single lamb of her flock was left behind,
the grinning porter slammed the doors, the green
flag waved, and the local train, long overdue,
started with a jerk for the Craigwen Valley.

Past the grey old castle that looked seawards
over the estuary, past the little white town of
Llangarmon, with its ancient walls and fortified
gates, past the quay where the fishing smacks were
lying idly at anchor and a pleasure-steamer was
unloading its human cargo, past the long stretch
of sandy common, where the white tents of the
Territorials evoked an outcry of interest, then up
alongside the broad tidal river towards where the
mountains, faint and misty, rose shouldering one
another till they merged into the white nebulous
region of the cloud-flecked sky. Those lucky ones
who had secured window seats on the river side
of the carriage were loud in their acclamations of
satisfaction as familiar objects in the landscape
came into sight.

"There's Cwm Dinas. I wish they could float
a big Union Jack on the summit."

"It would be a landmark all right."

"Oh, the flag's up at Plas Cafn!"

"We'll have one at school this term?"

"Oh, I say! Move a scrap," pleaded Ulyth
Stanton plaintively. "We only get fields and
woods on our side. I can't see anything at all
for your heads. You might move. What selfish
pigs you are! Well, I don't care; I'm going to
talk."[Pg 14]

"You have been talking already. You've never
stopped, in fact," remarked Beth Broadway, proffering
a swiftly disappearing packet of pear drops
with a generosity born of the knowledge that all
sweets would be confiscated on arrival at The
Woodlands.

"I know I have, but that was merely by the
way. It wasn't anything very particular, and I've
got something I want to tell you—something
fearfully important. Absolutely super! D'you
know, she's actually coming to school. Isn't it
great? She's to be my room-mate. I'm just
wild to see her. I hope her ship won't be stopped
by storms."

"By the Muses, whom are you talking about?"

"'She' means the cat," sniggered Gertrude
Oliver.

"Why! can't you guess? What stupids you
are! It's Rona, of course—Rona Mitchell from
New Zealand."

"You're ragging!"

"It's a fact. It is indeed!"

The incredulity on the countenances of her companions
having yielded to an expression of interest,
Ulyth continued her information with increased
zest, and a conscious though would-be nonchalant
air of importance.

"Her father wants her to go to school in England,
so he decided to send her to The Woodlands,
so that she might be with me!"

"Do you mean that girl you were so very
proud of corresponding with? I forget how the[Pg 15]
whole business began," broke in Stephanie Radford.

"Don't you remember? It was through a magazine
we take. The editor arranged for readers
of the magazine in England to exchange letters
with other readers overseas. He gave me Rona.
We've been writing to each other every month for
two years."

"I had an Australian, but she wouldn't write
regularly, so we dropped it," volunteered Beth
Broadway. "I believe Gertrude had somebody
too."

"Yes, a girl in Canada. I never got farther
than one short letter and a picture post card,
though. I do so loathe writing," sighed Gertrude.
"Ulyth's the only one who's kept the thing up."

"And do you mean to say this New Zealander's
actually coming to our school?" asked Stephanie.

"That's the joysome gist of my remarks! I
can't tell you how I'm pining and yearning to see
her. She seems like a girl out of a story. To think
of it! Rona Mitchell at school with us!"

"Suppose you don't like her?"

"Oh, I'm certain I shall! She's written me the
jolliest, loveliest, funniest letters! I feel I know
her already. We shall be the very best of friends.
Her father has a huge farm of I can't tell you
how many miles, and she has two horses of her
own, and fords rivers when she's out riding."

"When's she to arrive?"

"Probably to-morrow. She's travelling by the
King George, and coming up straight from London[Pg 16]
to school directly she lands. I hope she's got to
England safely. She must have left home ever
such a long time ago. How fearfully exciting for
her to——"

But here Ulyth's reflections were brought to an
abrupt close, for the train was approaching Glanafon
Ferry, and her comrades, busily collecting
their various handbags, would lend no further ear
to her remarks.

The little wayside station, erstwhile the quietest
and sleepiest on the line, was soon overflowing with
girls and their belongings. Miss Moseley flitted
up and down the platform, marshalling her charges
like a faithful collie, the one porter did his slow
best, and after a few agitated returns to the compartments
for forgotten articles, everything was
successfully collected, and the train went steaming
away down the valley in the direction of Craigwen.
It seemed to take the last link of civilization with
it, and to leave only the pure, unsullied country
behind. The girls crossed the line and walked
through the white station gate with pleased anticipation
writ large on their faces. It was the cult at
The Woodlands to idolize nature and the picturesque,
and they had reached a part of their journey
which was a particular source of pride to the school.

Any admirer of scenery would have been struck
with the lovely and romantic view which burst
upon the eye as the travellers left the platform at
Glanafon and walked down the short, grassy road
that led to the ferry. To the south stretched the
wide pool of the river, blue as the heaven above[Pg 17]
where it caught the reflection of the September
sky, but dark and mysterious where it mirrored
the thick woods that shaded its banks. Near at
hand towered the tall, heather-crowned crag of
Cwm Dinas, while the rugged peaks of Penllwyd
and Penglaslyn frowned in majesty of clouds beyond.
The ferry itself was one of those delightful
survivals of mediævalism which linger here and
there in a few fortunate corners of our isles. A
large flat-bottomed boat was slung on chains which
spanned the river, and could be worked slowly
across the water by means of a small windlass.
Though it was perfectly possible, and often even
more convenient, to drive to the school direct from
Llangarmon Junction, so great was the popular
feeling in favour of arrival by the ferry that at the
autumn and spring reunions the girls were allowed
to avail themselves of the branch railway and approach
The Woodlands by way of the river.

They now hurried on to the boat as if anticipating
a pleasure-jaunt. The capacities of the flat
were designed to accommodate a flock of sheep or
a farm wagon and horses, so there was room and
to spare even for thirty-seven girls and their hand
luggage. Evan Davis, the crusty old ferryman,
greeted them with his usual inarticulate grunt, a
kind of "Oh, here you are again, are you!" form
of welcome which was more forceful than gracious.
He linked the protecting chains carefully across
the end of the boat, called out a remark in Welsh
to his son, Griffith, and, seizing the handle, began
to work the windlass. Very slowly and leisurely[Pg 18]
the flat swung out into the river. The tide was
at the full and the wide expanse of water seemed
like a lake. The clanking chains brought up
bunches of seaweed and river grass which fell with
an oozy thud upon the deck. The mountain air,
blowing straight from Penllwyd, was tinged with
ozone from the tide. The girls stood looking up
the reach of water towards the hills, and tasting
the salt on their lips with supreme gratification.
It was not every school that assembled by such a
romantic means of conveyance as an ancient flat-bottomed
ferry-boat, and they rejoiced over their
privileges.

"I'm glad the tide's full; it makes the crossing
so much wider," murmured Helen Cooper, with an
eye of admiration on the woods.

"Don't suppose Evan shares your enthusiasm,"
laughed Marjorie Earnshaw. "He's paid the same,
whatever the length of the journey."

"Old Grumps gets half a crown for his job, so
he needn't grumble," put in Doris Deane.

"Oh, trust him! He'd look sour at a pound note."

"What makes him so cross?"

"Oh, he's old and lame, I suppose, and has a
crotchety temper."

"Here we are at last!"

The boat was grating on the shore. Griffith was
unfastening the movable end, and in another moment
the girls were springing out gingerly, one
by one, on to the decidedly muddy stepping-stones
that formed a rough causeway to the bank. A cart
was waiting to convey the handbags (all boxes had[Pg 19]
been sent as "advance luggage" two days before),
so, disencumbered of their numerous possessions,
the girls started to walk the steep uphill mile that
led to The Woodlands.

Miss Bowes and Miss Teddington, the partners
who owned the school, had been exceptionally fortunate
in their choice of a house. If, as runs the
modern theory, beautiful surroundings in our early
youth are of the utmost importance in training our
perceptions and aiding the growth of our higher
selves, then surely nowhere in the British Isles
could a more suitable setting have been found for
a home of education. The long terrace commanded
a view of the whole of the Craigwen Valley, an
expanse of about sixteen miles. The river, like a
silver ribbon, wound through woods and marshland
till it widened into a broad tidal estuary as
it neared the sea. The mountains, which rose tier
after tier from the level green meadows, had their
lower slopes thickly clothed with pines and larches;
but where they towered above the level of a thousand
feet the forest growth gave way to gorse and
bracken, and their jagged summits, bare of all
vegetation save a few clumps of coarse grass,
showed a splintered, weather-worn outline against
the sky. Penllwyd, Penglaslyn, and Glyder Garmon,
those lofty peaks like three strong Welsh
giants, seemed to guard the entrance to the enchanted
valley, and to keep it a place apart, a last
fortress of nature, a sanctuary for birds and flowers,
a paradise of green shade and leaping waters, and
a breathing-space for body and soul.[Pg 20]

The house, named "The Woodlands" by Miss
Bowes in place of its older but rather unpronounceable
name of Llwyngwrydd (the green grove),
took both its Welsh and English appellations from
a beautiful glade, planted with oaks, which formed
the southern boundary of the property. Through
this park-like dell flowed a mountain stream, tumbling
in little white cascades between the big
boulders that formed its bed, and pouring in quite
a waterfall over a ledge of rock into a wide pool.
Its steady rippling murmur never stopped, and
could be heard day and night through the ever-open
windows, gentle and subdued in dry weather,
but rising to a roar when rain in the hills brought
the flood down in a turbulent torrent.

Through lessons, play, or dreams this sound of
many waters was ever present; it gave an atmosphere
to the school which, if passed unnoticed
through extreme familiarity, would have been instantly
missed if it could have stopped. To the
girls this stream was a kind of guardian deity, with
the glade for its sacred grove. They loved every
rock and stone and cataract, almost every patch of
brown moss upon its boulders. Each morning of
the summer term they bathed before breakfast in
the pool where a big oak-tree shaded the cataract.
It was so close to the house that they could run out
in mackintoshes, and so retired that it resembled
a private swimming-bath. Here they enjoyed
themselves like water-nymphs, splashing in the
shallows, plunging in the pool, swinging from the
boughs of the oak-tree, and scrambling over the[Pg 21]
lichened boulders. It was a source of deep regret
to the hardier spirits that they were not allowed to
take their morning dip in the stream all the year
round; but on that score mistresses were adamant,
and with the close of September the naiads perforce
withdrew from their favourite element till it
was warmed again by the May sunshine.

The house itself had originally been an ancient
Welsh dwelling of the days of the Tudors, but had
been largely added to in later times. The straight
front, with its rows of windows, classic doorway,
and stone-balustraded terrace, was certainly Georgian
in type, and the tower, an architectural eyesore,
was plainly Victorian. The taste of the early
nineteenth century had not been faultless, and all
the best part of the building, from an artistic point
of view, lay at the back. This mainly consisted of
kitchens and servants' quarters, but there still remained
a large hall, which was the chief glory of
the establishment. It was very lofty, for in common
with other specimens of the period it had no upper
story, the roof being timbered like that of a church.
The walls were panelled with oak to a height of
about eight feet, and above that were decorated
with elaborate designs in plaster relief, representing
lions, wild boars, stags, unicorns, and other
heraldic devices from the coat-of-arms of the original
owner of the estate. A narrow winding staircase
led to a minstrels' gallery, from which was suspended
a wooden shield emblazoned with the Welsh
dragon and the national motto, "Cymru am byth"
("Wales for ever").[Pg 22]

If the hall was the main picturesque asset of the
building, it must be admitted that the unromantic
front portion was highly convenient, and had been
most readily adaptable for a school. The large
light rooms of the ground floor made excellent
classrooms, and the upper story was so lavishly
provided with windows that it had been possible,
by means of wooden partitions, to turn the great
bedrooms into rows of small dormitories, each
capable of accommodating two girls.

The bright airy house, the terrace with its glorious
view of the valley, the large old-fashioned garden,
and, above all, the stream and the glade made a
very pleasant setting for the school life of the forty-eight
pupils at The Woodlands. The two principals
worked together in perfect harmony. Each had
her own department. Miss Bowes, who was short,
stout, grey-haired, and motherly, looked after the
housekeeping, the hygiene, and the business side.
She wrote letters to parents, kept the accounts,
interviewed tradespeople, superintended the mending,
and was the final referee in all matters pertaining
to health and general conduct. "Dear Old
Rainbow", as the girls nicknamed her, was frankly
popular, for she was sympathetic and usually disposed
to listen, in reason, to the various plaints
which were brought to the sanctum of her private
sitting-room. Her authority alone could excuse
preparation, order breakfast in bed, remit practising,
dispense jujubes, allow special festivities, and
grant half-holidays. It was rumoured that she
thought of retiring and leaving the school to her[Pg 23]
partner, and such a report always drew from parents
the opinion that she would be greatly missed.

Miss Teddington, younger by many years, took
a more active part in the teaching, and superintended
the games and outdoor sports. She was
tall and athletic, a good mathematician, and interested
in archæology and nature study. She led
the walks and rambles, taught the Sixth Form, and
represented the more scholastic and modern element.
Her enterprise initiated all fresh undertakings, and
her enthusiasm carried them forward with success.
"Hard-as-nails" the girls sometimes called her, for
she coddled nobody and expected the utmost from
each one's capacity. If she was rather uncompromising,
however, she was just, and a strong
vein of humour toned down much of the severity
of her remarks. To be chided by a person whose
eye is capable of twinkling takes part of the sting
from the reprimand, and the general verdict of the
school was to the effect that "Teddie was a keen
old watch-dog, but her bark was worse than her
bite."

Of the other mistresses and girls we will say more
anon. Having introduced my readers to The Woodlands,
it is time for the story to begin.

Ulyth Stanton was a decided personality in the
Lower Fifth. If not exactly pretty, she was a dainty
little damsel, and knew how to make the best of herself.
Her fair hair was glossy and waved in the most
becoming fashion, her clothes were well cut, her
gloves and shoes immaculate. She had an artistic
temperament, and loved to be surrounded by pretty
things. She was rather a favourite at The Woodlands,
for she had few sharp angles and possessed
a fair share of tact. If the girls laughed sometimes
at what they called her "high-falutin' notions"
they nevertheless respected her opinions and admired
her more than they always chose to admit.
It was an accepted fact that Ulyth stuck to her word
and generally carried through anything that she once
undertook. She alone of six members of her form
who had begun to correspond with girls abroad, at
the instigation of the magazine editor, had written
regularly, and had cultivated the overseas friendship
with enthusiasm. The element of romance
about the affair had appealed to Ulyth. It was
so strange to receive letters from someone you had
never seen. To be sure, Rona had only given a
somewhat bald account of her home and her doings,[Pg 25]
but even this outline was so different from English
life that Ulyth's imagination filled the gaps, and
pictured her unknown correspondent among scenes
of unrivalled interest and excitement. Ulyth had
once seen a most wonderful film entitled "Rose
of the Wilderness", and though the scenes depicted
were supposed to be in the region of the Wild
West, she decided that they would equally well
represent the backwoods of New Zealand, and
that the beautiful, dashing, daring heroine, so
aptly called "the Prairie Flower", was probably
a speaking likeness of Rona Mitchell. When she
learnt that owing to her letters Rona's father had
determined to send his daughter to school at The
Woodlands, her excitement was immense. She
had at once petitioned Miss Bowes to have her as a
room-mate, and was now awaiting her advent with
the very keenest anticipation.

There was a little uncertainty about the time of
the new girl's arrival, for it depended upon the
punctuality of the ocean liner, a doubtful matter if
there were a storm; and the feeling that she might
be expected any hour between 9 a.m. and 4 p.m.
made havoc of Ulyth's day. It was impossible to
attend to lessons when she was listening for the
sound of a taxi on the drive, and even the attractions
of tennis could not decoy her out of sight of the
front door.

"I must be the very first to welcome her," she
persisted. "Of course it's not the same to all the
rest of you—I understand that. She's to be my
special property, my Prairie Rose!"[Pg 26]

"All serene! If you care to waste your time
lounging about the steps you can. We're not in
such a frantic state to see your paragon," laughed
the girls as they ran down the garden to the courts.
After all, the waiting was in vain. Tea-time came
without a sign of the new-comer. It was unlikely
that she would turn up now until the evening train,
and Ulyth resigned herself to the inevitable. But
when the school was almost half-way through its
bread and butter and gooseberry jam, a sudden
commotion occurred in the hall. There was a noise
such as nobody ever remembered to have heard at
The Woodlands before.

"Thank goodness gracious I've got meself here
at last!" cried a loud nasal voice. "Where'll I
stick these things? Oh yes, there's heaps more
inside that automobile! Travelling's no joke, I
can tell you; I'm tired to death. Any tea about?
I could drink the sea. My gracious, I've had a
time of it coming here!"

At the first word Miss Bowes had glided from
the room, and the voice died away as the door of
her private study closed. Sounds suggestive of the
carrying upstairs of luggage followed, and a hinnying
laugh echoed once down the stairs. The girls
looked at one another; there was a shadow in
Ulyth's eyes. She did not share in the general
smile that passed round the table, and she finished
her tea in dead silence.

"Going to sample your new property?" whispered
Mary Acton as the girls pushed back their
chairs.[Pg 27]

"What's the formula for swearing an undying
friendship?" giggled Addie Knighton.

"Was it Rose of Sharon you called her?"
twinkled Christine Crosswood. "Or Lily of the
Valley?"

Ulyth did not reply. She walked upstairs very
slowly. The nasal twang of that high-pitched
voice in the hall had wiped the bloom off her
anticipation. The small double dormitory in which
she slept was No. 3, Room 5. The door was half-open,
so she entered without knocking. Both beds,
the chairs, and most of the floor was strewn with an
assortment of miscellaneous articles. On the dressing-table
was a tray with the remains of tea. Over
a large cabin trunk bent a girl of fourteen. She
straightened herself as she heard footsteps.

Alas! alas! for Ulyth's illusions. The enchanting
vision of the prairie flower faded, and Rona
Mitchell stood before her in solid fact. Solid was
the word for it—no fascinating cinema heroine this,
but an ordinary, well-grown, decidedly plump
damsel with brown elf locks, a ruddy sunburnt
complexion, and a freckled nose.

Where, oh, where, were the delicate features,
the fairy-like figure, and the long rich clustering
curls of Rose of the Wilderness? Ulyth stood for
a moment gazing as one dazed; then, with an effort,
she remembered her manners and introduced herself.

"Proud to meet you at last," replied the new-comer
heartily. "You and I've had a friendship
switched on for us ready-made, so to speak. I[Pg 28]
liked your letters awfully. Glad they've put us in
together."

"Did—did you have a nice journey?" stammered
Ulyth.

It was a most conventional enquiry, but the only
thing she could think of to say.

"Beastly! It was rough or hot all the time, and
we didn't get much fun on board. Wasn't it a sell?
Too disappointing for words! Mrs. Perkins, the
lady who had charge of me coming over, was just
a Tartar. Nothing I did seemed to suit her somehow.
I bet she was glad to see the last of me.
Then I was sea-sick, and when we got into the
hot zone—my, how bad I was! My face was just
skinned with sunburn, and the salt air made it
worse. I'd not go to sea again for pleasure, I can
tell you. I say, I'll be glad to get my things fixed
up here."

"This is your bed and your side of the room,"
returned Ulyth hastily, collecting some of the articles
which had been flung anywhere, and hanging them
in Rona's wardrobe; "Miss Moseley makes us be
very tidy. She'll be coming round this evening to
inspect."

Rona whistled.

"Guess she'll drop on me pretty often then!
No one's ever called neatness my strong point.
Are those photos on the mantelpiece your home
folks? I'm going to look at them. What a lot of
things you've got: books, and albums, and goodness
knows what! I'll enjoy turning them over
when I've time."[Pg 29]

At half-past eight that night a few members of
the Lower Fifth, putting away books in their classroom,
stopped to compare notes.

"Well, what do you think of your adorable one,
Ulyth?" asked Stephanie Radford, a little spitefully.
"You're welcome to her company so far as
I'm concerned."

"Rose of the Wilderness, indeed!" mocked
Merle Denham.

"Your prairie rose is nothing but a dandelion!"
remarked Christine Crosswood.

"I never heard anyone with such an awful laugh,"
said Lizzie Lonsdale.

"Don't!" implored Ulyth tragically. "I've had
the shock of my life. She's—oh, she's too terrible
for words! Her voice makes me cringe. And she
pawed all my things. She snatched up my photos,
and turned over my books with sticky fingers; she
even opened my drawers and peeped inside."

"What cheek!"

"Oh, she hasn't the slightest idea of how to behave
herself! She asked me a whole string of the
most impertinent questions: what I'd paid for my
clothes, and how long they'd have to last me. She's
unbearable. Yes, absolutely impossible. Ugh!
and I've got to sleep in the same room with her
to-night."

"Poor martyr, it's hard luck," sympathized
Lizzie. "Why did you write and ask the Rainbow
to put you together? It was rather buying a
pig in a poke, wasn't it?"

"I never dreamt she'd be like this. It sounded[Pg 30]
so romantic, you see, living on a huge farm, and
having two horses to ride. I shall go to Miss
Bowes, first thing to-morrow morning, and ask to
have her moved out of my room. I only wish there
was time to do it this evening. Oh, why did I
ever write to her and make her want to come to this
school?"

"Poor old Ulyth! You've certainly let yourself
in for more than you bargained for," laughed the
girls, half sorry for her and half amused.

Next morning, after breakfast, the very instant
that Miss Bowes was installed in her study, a "rap-tap-tap"
sounded on her door.

"Come in!" she called, and sighed as Ulyth
entered, for she had a shrewd suspicion of what she
was about to hear.

"Please, Miss Bowes, I'm sorry to have to ask
a favour, but may Rona be changed into another
dormitory?"

"Why, Ulyth, you wrote to me specially and
asked if you might have her for a room-mate!"

"Yes, I did; but I hadn't seen her then. I
thought she'd be so different."

"Isn't it a little too soon to judge? You haven't
known her twenty-four hours yet."

"I know as much of her as I ever want to. Oh,
Miss Bowes, she's dreadful! I'll never like her.
I can't have her in my room—I simply can't!"

There was a shake, suggestive of tears, in Ulyth's
voice. Her eyes looked heavy, as if she had not
slept. Miss Bowes sighed again.

"Rona mayn't be exactly what you imagined,[Pg 31]
but you must remember in what different circumstances
she has been brought up. I think she has
many good qualities, and that she'll soon improve.
Now let us look at the matter from her point of
view. You have been writing to her constantly for
two years. She has come here specially to be near
you. You are her only friend in a new and strange
country where she is many thousand miles away
from her own home. You gave her a cordial invitation
to England, and now, because she does not
happen to realize your quite unfounded expectations,
you want to back out of all your obligations to her.
I thought you were a girl, Ulyth, who kept her
promises."

Ulyth fingered the corner of the tablecloth nervously
for a moment, then she burst out:

"I can't, Miss Bowes, I simply can't. If you
knew how she grates upon me! Oh, it's too much!
I'd rather have a bear cub or a monkey for a room-mate!
Please, please don't make us stop together!
If you won't move her, move me! I'd sleep in an
attic if I could have it to myself."

"You must stay where you are until the end of
the week. You owe that to Rona, at any rate.
Afterwards I shall not force you, but leave it to
your own good feeling. I want you to think over
what I have been saying. You can come on
Sunday morning and tell me your decision."

"I know what the answer will be," murmured
Ulyth, as she went from the room.

She was very angry with Miss Bowes, with
Rona, and with herself for her own folly.[Pg 32]

"It's ridiculous to expect me to take up this
savage," she argued. "And too bad of Miss
Bowes to make out that I'm breaking my word.
Oh dear! what am I to write home to Mother?
How can I tell her? I believe I'll just send her a
picture post card, and only say Rona has come, and
no more. Miss Bowes has no right to coerce me.
I'll make my own friends. No, I've quite made up
my mind she shan't cram Rona down my throat.
To have that awful girl eternally in my bedroom—I
should die!"

After all her heroics it was a terrible come-down
for poor Ulyth now the actual had taken the place
of the sentimental. Her class-mates could not forbear
teasing her a little. It was too bad of them;
but then they had resented her entire pre-appropriation
of the new-comer, and, moreover, had one or
two old scores from last term to pay off. Ulyth
began to detest the very name of "the Prairie
Flower". She wondered how she could ever have
been so silly.

"I ought to have been warned," she thought,
trying to throw the blame on to somebody else.
"No one ever suggested she'd be like this. The
editor of the magazine really shouldn't have persuaded
us to write. It's all his fault in the beginning."

Though the rest of the girls were scarcely impressed
with Rona's personality, they were not
utterly repelled.

"She's rather pretty," ventured Lizzie Lonsdale.
"Her eyes are the bluest I've ever seen."[Pg 33]

"And her teeth are so white and even," added
Beth Broadway. "She looks jolly when she
smiles."

"Perhaps she'll smarten up soon," suggested
Addie Knighton. "That blue dress suits her; it
just matches her eyes."

To Ulyth's fastidious taste Rona's clothes looked
hopelessly ill-cut and colonial, especially as her
room-mate put them on anyhow, and seemed to
have no regard at all for appearances. A girl
who did not mind whether she looked really trim,
spruce and smart, must indeed have spent her life
in the backwoods.

"Didn't you even have a governess in New Zealand?"
she ventured one day. She did not encourage
Rona to talk, but for once her curiosity
overcame her dislike of the high-pitched voice.

"Couldn't get one to stop up-country, where we
were. Mrs. Barker, our cowman's wife, looked
after me ever since Mother died. She was the only
woman about the place. One of our farm helps
taught me lessons. He was a B.A. of Oxford, but
down on his luck. Dad said I'd seem queer to
English girls. I don't know that I care."

Though Rona might not be possessed of the
most delicate perceptions, she nevertheless had
common sense enough to realize that Ulyth did
not receive her with enthusiasm.

"I suppose you're disappointed in me?" she
queried. "Dad said you would be, but I laughed
at him. Pity if our ready-made friendship turned
out a misfit! I think you're no end! Dad said I'd[Pg 34]
got to copy you; it'll take me all my time, I expect.
Things are so different here from home."

Was there a suspicion of a choke in the words?

Ulyth had a sudden pang of compunction. Unwelcome
as her companion was to her, she did not
wish to be brutal.

"You mustn't get home-sick," she said hastily.
"You'll shake down here in time. Everyone finds
things strange at school just at first. I did myself."

"I guess you were never as much a fish out of
water as me, though," returned Rona, and went
whistling down the passage.

Ulyth tried to dismiss her from her thoughts.
She did not intend to worry over Rona more than
she could possibly help. Fortunately they were
not together in class, for Rona's entrance-examination
papers had not reached the standard of the
Lower Fifth, and she had been placed in IV b.

Ulyth was interested in her school-work. She
stood well with her teachers, and was an acknowledged
force in her form. She came from a very
refined and cultured home, where intellectual interests
were cultivated both by father and mother.
Her temperament was naturally artistic; she was
an omnivorous reader, and could devour anything
in the shape of literature that came her way. The
bookcase in her dormitory was filled with beautiful
volumes, mostly Christmas and birthday gifts.
She rejoiced in their soft leather bindings or fine
illustrations with a true book-lover's enthusiasm.
It was her pride to keep them in daintiest condition.
Dog-ears or thumb-marks were in her[Pg 35]
opinion the depths of degradation. Ulyth had
ambitions also, ambitions which she would not
reveal to anybody. Some day she planned to write
a book of her own. She had not yet fixed on a
subject, but she had decided just what the cover
was to be like, with her name on it in gilt letters.
Perhaps she might even illustrate it herself, for her
love of art almost equalled her love of literature;
but that was still in the clouds, and must wait till
she had chosen her plot. In the interim she wrote
verses and short stories for the school magazine,
and her essays for Miss Teddington were generally
returned marked "highly creditable".

This term Ulyth intended to study hard. It was
a promotion to be in the Upper School; she was
beginning several new subjects, and her interest in
many things was aroused. It would be a delightful
autumn as soon as she had got rid of this dreadful
problem, at present the one serious obstacle to her
comfort. But in the meantime it was only Friday,
and till at least the following Monday she would be
obliged to endure her uncongenial presence in her
bedroom.

It was the first Saturday of the term. So far the
girls had been kept busily occupied settling down
to work in their fresh forms, and trying to grow
accustomed to Miss Teddington's new time-tables.
Now, however, they were free to relax and enjoy
themselves in any way they chose. Some were
playing tennis, some had gone for a walk with
Miss Moseley, a few were squatting frog-like on
boulders in the midst of the stream, and others
strolled under the trees in the grove.

"Thank goodness the weather's behaving itself!"
said Mary Acton, who, with a few other members
of the Lower Fifth, was sitting on the trunk of a
fallen oak. "Do you remember last council? It
simply poured. The thing's no fun if one can't
have a real fire."

"It'll burn first-rate to-night," returned Lizzie
Lonsdale. "There's a little wind, and the wood'll
be dry."

"That reminds me I haven't found my faggot
yet," said Beth Broadway easily.

"Girl alive! Then you'd better go and look for
one, or you'll be all in a scramble at the last!"

"Bother! I'm too comfy to move."[Pg 37]

"Nice Wood-gatherer you'll look if you come
empty-handed!"

"I'd appropriate half your lot first, Lizzikins!"

"Would you, indeed? I'd denounce you, and
you'd lose your rank and be degraded to a candidate
again."

"Oh, you mean, stingy miser!"

"Not at all. It's the wise and foolish virgins
over again. I shan't have enough for myself and
you. I've a lovely little stack—just enough for
one—reposing—no, I'd better not tell you where.
Don't look so hopeful. You're not to be trusted."

"What are you talking about?" asked Rona
Mitchell, who had wandered up to the group.
"Why are some of you picking up sticks? I saw
a girl over there with quite a bundle just now.
You might tell me."

So far Rona had not been well received in her
own form, IV b. She was older than her class-mates,
and they, instead of attempting to initiate
her into the ways of the Woodlands girls on this
holiday afternoon, had scuttled off and left her to
fend for herself. She looked such an odd, wistful,
lonely figure that Lizzie Lonsdale's kind heart smote
her. She pushed the other girls farther along the
tree-trunk till they made a grudging space for the
new-comer.

"I'm a good hand at camp-fires, if you want
any help," continued Rona, seating herself with
alacrity. "I've made 'em by the dozen at home,
and cooked by them too. Just let me know where
you want it, and I'll set to work."[Pg 38]

"You wouldn't be allowed," said Beth bluntly.
"This fire is a very special thing. Only Wood-gatherers
may bring the fuel. No one else is
eligible."

"Why on earth not?"

"Oh, I can't bother to explain now! It would
take too long. You'll find out to-night. Girls,
I'm going in!"

"Turn up here at dusk if you want to know, and
bring a cup with you," suggested Lizzie, with a
half-ashamed effort at friendliness, as she followed
her chums.

"You bet I'll turn up! Rather!"

That evening, just after sunset, little groups of
girls began to collect round an open green space
in the glade. They came quietly and with a certain
sense of discipline. A stranger would have noticed
that if any loud tone or undue hilarity made itself
heard, it was instantly and firmly repressed by one
or two who seemed in authority. That the meeting
was more in the nature of a convention than a
mere pleasure-gathering was evident both from
the demeanour of the assemblage and from the
various badges pinned on the girls' coats. No
teacher was present, but there was an air of general
expectancy, as if the coming of somebody were
awaited. To the pupils at The Woodlands this
night's ceremony was a very special occasion, for
it was the autumn reunion of the Camp-fire
League, an organization which, originally of
American birth, had been introduced at the instigation
of Miss Teddington, and had taken great[Pg 39]
root in the school. Any girl was eligible as a
candidate, but before she could gain admission to
even the initial rank she had to prove herself
worthy of the honour of membership, and pass
successfully through her novitiate.

The organizer and leader of the branch which
to-night was to celebrate its third anniversary was
a certain Mrs. Arnold, a charming young American
lady who lived in the neighbourhood. She
had been an enthusiastic supporter of the League
in Pennsylvania before her marriage, and was delighted
to pass on its traditions to British schoolgirls.
Her winsome personality made her a prime
favourite at The Woodlands, where her influence
was stronger even than she imagined. Miss Teddington,
though it was she who had asked Mrs.
Arnold to institute and take charge of the meetings,
had the discretion to keep out of the League herself,
realizing that the presence of teachers might
be a restraint, and that the management was better
left in the hands of a trustworthy outsider.

To become an authorized Camp-fire member was
an ambition with most of the girls, and spurred
many on to greater efforts than they would otherwise
have attempted. All looked forward to the
meetings, and there could be no greater punishment
for certain offences than a temporary withdrawal
of League privileges.

This September, after the long summer holiday,
the reunion seemed of even more than ordinary
importance.

The sun had set, the last gleam of the afterglow[Pg 40]
had faded, and the glade had grown full of dim
shadows by the time everybody was present in
the grove. The gentle rustle of the leafy boughs
overhead, and the persistent tumbling rush of the
stream, seemed like a faint orchestral accompaniment
of Nature for the ceremonial.

"Is it a Quakers' Meeting or a Freemasons'
Lodge? You're all very mum," asked Rona, whom
curiosity had led out with the others.

"Sh-sh! We're waiting for our 'Guardian of
the Fire'," returned Ulyth, trying to suppress the
loudness of the high-pitched voice. "Mrs. Arnold's
generally very punctual. Oh, there! I believe I
hear her ringing her bicycle bell now. I'm going
down the field to meet her."

Ulyth regarded Mrs. Arnold with that intense
adoration which a girl of fifteen often bestows on
a woman older than herself. She ran now through
the wood, hoping she might be in time to catch
her idol on the drive and have just a few precious
moments with her before she was joined by the
others. There were many things she wanted to
pour into her friend's ready ears, but she knew it
would be impossible to monopolize her as soon as
the rest of the girls knew of her arrival. She fled
as on wings, therefore, and had the supreme satisfaction
of being the first in the field. Mrs. Arnold,
young, very fair, graceful, and golden-haired,
looked a picture in her blue cycling costume as
she leaned her machine against a tree and greeted
her enthusiastic admirer.

"Oh, you darling! I've such heaps to tell you!"[Pg 41]
began Ulyth, clasping her tightly by the arm.
"Rona Mitchell has come, and she's the most
awful creature! I never was so disappointed in
my life. Don't you sympathize with me, when I
expected her to be so ripping? She's absolute
backwoods!"

"Yes, I've heard all about her. Poor child!
She must have had a strange training. It's time
indeed she began to learn something."

"She's not learned anything in New Zealand.
Oh, her voice will just grate on you! And her
manners! She's hopeless! Everything she does
and says is wrong. And to think she's been
foisted on to me, of all people!"

"Poor child!" repeated Mrs. Arnold. ("Which
of us does she mean?" thought Ulyth.) "She's
evidently raw material. Every diamond needs
polishing. What an opportunity for a Torch-bearer!"

Ulyth dropped her friend's arm suddenly. It
was not at all the answer she had expected. Moreover,
at least a dozen girls had come running up
and were claiming their chief's attention. In a
species of triumphant procession Mrs. Arnold was
escorted into the glade and installed on her throne
of state, a seat made of logs and decorated with
ferns. Everyone clustered round to welcome her,
and for the moment she was the centre of an enthusiastic
crowd. Ulyth followed more slowly. She
was feeling disturbed and put out. What did Mrs.
Arnold mean? Surely not——? A sudden thought
had flashed into her mind but she thrust it away[Pg 42]
indignantly. Oh no, that was quite impossible!
It was outrageous of anybody to make the suggestion.
And yet—and yet—the uneasy voice that
had been haunting her for the last four days began
to speak with even more vehemence. With a sigh
of relief she heard the signal given for "Attention",
and cast the matter away from her for the
moment. Every eye was fixed on their leader.
The ceremony was about to begin.

Mrs. Arnold rose, and in her clear, sweet voice
proclaimed:

"The Guardian of the Fire calls on the Wood-gatherers
to bring their fuel."

At once a dozen girls came forward, each dragging
a tolerably large bundle of brushwood. They
deposited these in a circle, saluted, and retired.

"Fire-makers, do your work!" commanded the
leader.

Eight girls responded, Ulyth among the number,
and seizing the brushwood, they built it deftly into
a pile. All stood round, waiting in silence while
their chief struck a match and applied a light to
some dried leaves and bracken that had been placed
beneath. The flame rose up like a scarlet ribbon,
and in a few moments the dry fuel was ablaze and
crackling. The gleam lighting up the glade displayed
a picturesque scene. The boles of the trees
might have been the pillars in some ancient temple,
with the branches for roof. Close by the cascade
of the stream leapt white against a background of
dim darkness. The harvest moon, full and golden,
was rising behind the crest of Cwm Dinas. An owl[Pg 43]
flew hooting from the wood higher up the glen.
Mrs. Arnold stood waiting until the bonfire was
well alight, then she turned to the expectant girls.

"I've no need to tell most of you why we have
met here to-night; but for the benefit of a few who
are new-comers to The Woodlands I should like
briefly to explain the objects of the Camp-fire
League. The purpose of the organization is to
show that the common things of daily life are the
chief means of beauty, romance, and adventure, to
cultivate the outdoor habit, and to help girls to
serve the community—the larger home—as well as
the individual home. In these ultra-modern times
we must especially devote ourselves to the service
of the country, and try by every means in our
power to make our League of some national use.
First let us repeat together the rules of the Camp-fire
League:

"Seeking beauty includes more than looking for
superficial adornment. Beauty is in all life, in
Nature, in people, in the love of one's heart, in
virtue and a radiant disposition. The value of
service depends largely upon the attitude of mind
of the one rendering it. Joy in the performance of
some needed service in behalf of parent, teacher,[Pg 44]
friend, or country constitutes a part of the very
essence of goodness, and multiplies the good
already abiding in the heart. This is the third
anniversary of the founding of a branch of the
League at The Woodlands. So far the work has
been very encouraging, and I am glad to say that
to-night we have candidates eligible for all three
ranks. It shall now be the business of the meeting
formally to admit them. Candidates for Wood-gatherers,
present yourselves!"

Six of the younger girls came forward and
saluted.

"Can you repeat, and will you promise to obey,
the seven rules of the Camp-fire law?"

Each responded audibly in the affirmative.

"Then you are admitted to the initial rank of
Wood-gatherers, you are awarded the white badge
of service, and may sign your names as accepted
members of the League."

The six retired to make way for a higher grade,
and eight other girls stepped into the firelight.

"Candidates for Fire-makers, you have passed
three months with good characters as Wood-gatherers,
and you have proved your ability to
render first aid, keep accounts, tie knots, and prepare
and serve a simple meal; you have each committed
to memory some good poem, and have
acquainted yourself with the career of some able,
public-spirited woman. Having thus shown your
wish to serve the community, repeat the Fire-maker's
desire."

And all together the eight girls chanted:[Pg 45]

Mrs. Arnold said a few kind words to each as
she pinned on their red badges. Only novices
who had stood the various tests with credit were
raised to the honour of the second rank. Those
who had failed must perforce continue as Wood-gatherers
for another period of three months.

There remained one further and higher rank,
only attainable after six months' ardent and trustworthy
service as Fire-makers. To-night three
girls were to be admitted to its privileges, and
Helen Cooper, Doris Deane, and Ulyth Stanton
presented themselves. With grave faces they repeated
the Torch-bearer's desire:

Ulyth kissed Mrs. Arnold's pretty hand as the
long-coveted yellow badge was fastened on to her
dress, side by side with the Union Jack. She[Pg 46]
was so glad to be a Torch-bearer at last. She had
become a candidate when the League was first
founded three years ago, and all that time she had
been slowly working towards the desired end of
the third rank. One or two slips had hindered
her progress, but last term she had made a very
special effort, and it was sweet to meet with her
reward. Torch-bearers were mostly to be found
among the Sixth and Upper Fifth; she was the
only girl in V b who had won so high a place.
She touched the yellow ribbon tenderly. It meant
so much to her.

Now that the serious business of the meeting
was over, the fun was about to begin. The big
camp-kettle was produced and filled at the stream,
and then set to boil upon the embers. Cups and
spoons made their appearance. Cocoa and biscuits
were to be the order of the evening, followed by as
many songs, dances, and games as time permitted.
Squatting on the grass, the girls made a circle
round their council-fire. Marjorie Earnshaw, one
of the Sixth, had brought her guitar, and struck
the strings every now and then as an earnest of
the music she intended to bring from it later on.
Everybody was in a jolly mood, and inclined to
laugh at any pun, however feeble. Mrs. Arnold,
always bright and animated, surpassed herself,
and waxed so amusing that the circle grew almost
hysterical. The Wood-gatherers, whose office it
was to mix the cocoa, supplied cup after cup, and
refilled the kettle so often that they ventured to
air the time-honoured joke that the stream would[Pg 47]
run dry, for which ancient chestnut they were
pelted with pebbles.

When at last nobody could even pretend to be
thirsty any longer, the cups were rinsed in the
pool and stacked under a tree, and the concert
commenced. Part-songs and catches sounded delightful
in the open air, and solos, sung to the
accompaniment of Marjorie's guitar, were equally
effective. The girls roared the choruses to popular
national ditties, and special favourites were repeated
again and again. Several step-dances were executed,
and had a weird effect in the unsteady light
of the waning fire. Mrs. Arnold, who was a splendid
elocutionist, gave a recitation on an incident
in the American War, and was enthusiastically
encored. The moon had risen high in the sky,
and was peeping through the tree-tops as if curious
to see who had invaded so sylvan a spot as the
glade. The silver beams caught the ripples of
the stream and made the shadows seem all the
darker.

It was a glorious beginning for the new term, as
everybody agreed, and an earnest of the fun that
was in store later on.

"We shan't be able to camp out next meeting,
but we'll have high jinks in the hall," purred Beth
Broadway.

"Yes; Mrs. Arnold says she has a lovely programme
for the winter, and we're to have candles
instead of fuel," agreed Lizzie Lonsdale, who
had been raised that evening to the rank of Fire-maker.[Pg 48]

"Trust Mrs. Arnold to find something new for
us to do!" murmured Ulyth, looking fondly in the
direction of her ideal.

"My gracious, I call this meeting no end!"
piped a cheerful voice in her ear; and Rona,
smiling with all-too-obtrusive friendliness, plumped
down by her side. "You've good times here, and
no mistake! I think I'll be a candidate myself
next, if that's the game to play. You're a high-and-mighty
one, aren't you? Let's have a look at
your badge!"

"If you dare to touch it!" flared Ulyth, putting
up her hand to guard her cherished token.

"Why, I wouldn't do it any harm, I promise
you; I wouldn't finger it! It means something,
doesn't it? I didn't quite catch what it was. You
might tell me. How'm I ever to get to know if you
won't?"

Rona's clear blue eyes, unconsciously wistful,
looked straight into Ulyth's. The latter sprang
to her feet without a word. The force of her own
motto seemed suddenly to be revealed to her. She
rushed away into the shadow of the trees to think
it over for herself.

Those were the words she had repeated so
earnestly less than an hour ago. And she was
already about to make them a mockery! Yes, that
was what Mrs. Arnold had meant. She had known
it all the time, but she would not acknowledge it[Pg 49]
even to her innermost heart. Was this what was
required from a Torch-bearer—to pass on her own
refinement and culture to a girl whose crudities
offended every particle of her fastidious taste?
Ulyth sat down on a stone and wept hot, bitter,
rebellious tears. She understood only too well
why she had been so miserable for the last three
days. She had disliked Miss Bowes for hinting
that she was not keeping her word, and had told
herself that she was a much-tried and ill-used
person.

"I must do it, I must, or fail at the very
beginning!" she sobbed. "I know what Mother
would say. It's got to be; if for nothing else, for
the sake of the school. A Torch-bearer mustn't
shirk and break her pledge. Oh, how I shall loathe
it, hate it! Ulyth Stanton, do you realize what
you're undertaking? Your whole term's going to
be spoilt."

The big bell in the tower was clanging its summons
to return, with short, impatient strokes.
Everybody joined hands in a circle round the
ashes of the camp-fire, to sing in a low chant
the good-night song of the League and "God
Save the Queen". Mr. Arnold, who had come to
fetch his wife, was sounding his hooter as a signal
on the drive. The evening's fun was over. Regretfully
the girls collected cups, spoons, and kettle,
and made their way back to the house.

On Sunday morning Ulyth, with a very red face,
marched into the study, and announced:

"Miss Bowes, I've been having a tussle. One-[Pg 50]half
of me said: 'Don't have Rona in your room
at any price!' and the other half said: 'Let her
stop!' I've decided to keep her."

"I knew you would, when you'd thought it
over," beamed Miss Bowes.

"Are all New Zealanders the same?" asked
Ulyth. "I've not met one before."

"Certainly not. Most of them are quite as
cultured and up-to-date as ourselves. There are
splendid schools in New Zealand, and excellent
opportunities for study of every kind. Poor Rona,
unfortunately, has had to live on a farm far away
from civilization, and her education and welfare in
every respect seem to have been utterly neglected.
Don't take her as a type of New Zealand! But
she'll soon improve if we're all prepared to help
her. I'm glad you're ready to be her real friend."

"I'll try my best!" sighed Ulyth.

Having made up her mind to accept the responsibility
which fate, through the agency of the
magazine editor, had thrust upon her, Ulyth,
metaphorically speaking, set her teeth, and began
to take Rona seriously in hand. Being ten months
older than her protégée, in a higher form, and,
moreover, armed with full authority from Miss
Bowes, she assumed command of the bedroom,
and tried to regulate the chaos that reigned on
her comrade's side of it. Rona submitted with
an air of amused good nature to have her clothes
arranged in order in her drawers, her shoes put
away in the cupboard, and her toilet articles allotted
places on her washstand and dressing-table. She
even consented to give some thought to her personal
appearance, and borrowed Ulyth's new
manicure set.

"You're mighty particular," she objected.
"What does it all matter? Miss Bowes gave me
such a talking-to, and said I'd got to do exactly
what you told me; and before I came, Dad rubbed
it into me to copy you for all I was worth, so I[Pg 52]
suppose I'll have to try. I guess you'll find it a
job to civilize me though." And her eyes twinkled.

Ulyth thought, with a mental sigh, that she probably
would find it "a job".

"No one bothered about it at home," Rona continued
cheerfully. "Dad did say sometimes I was
growing up a savage, but Mrs. Barker never cared.
She let me do what I liked, so long as I didn't
trouble her. She was no lady! We couldn't get
a lady to stay at our out-of-the-way block. Dad
used to be a swell in England once, but that was
before I was born."

Ulyth began to understand, and her disgust
changed to a profound pity. A motherless girl
who had run wild in the backwoods, her father
probably out all day, her only female guide a
woman of the backwoods, whose manners were
presumably of the roughest—this had been Rona's
training. No wonder she lacked polish!

"When I compare her home with my home and
my lovely mother," thought Ulyth, "yes—there's
certainly a vast amount to be passed on."

The other girls, who had never expected her to
keep Rona in her bedroom, were inclined to poke
fun at the proceeding.

"Your bear cub will need training before you
teach her to dance," said Stephanie Radford tauntingly.

"She has no parlour tricks at present," sniggered
Addie Knighton.

"Are you posing as Valentine and Orson?"
laughed Gertie Oliver. Gertrude had been Ulyth's[Pg 53]
room-mate last term, and felt aggrieved to be
superseded.

"I call her the cuckoo," said Mary Acton. "Do
you remember the young one we found last spring,
sprawling all over the nest, and opening its huge,
gaping beak?"

In spite of her ignorance and angularities there
was a certain charm about the new-comer. When
the sunburn caused by her sea-voyage had yielded
to a course of treatment, it left her with a complexion
which put even that of Stephanie Radford,
the acknowledged school beauty, in the shade.
The coral tinge in Rona's cheeks was, as Doris
Deane enviously remarked, "almost too good to
look natural", and her blue eyes with the big
pupils and the little dark rims round the iris shone
like twinkling stars when she laughed. That
ninnying laugh, to be sure, was still somewhat
offensive, but she was trying to moderate it, and
only when she forgot did it break out to scandalize
the refined atmosphere of The Woodlands; the
small white even teeth which it displayed, and two
conspicuous dimples, almost atoned for it. The
brown hair was brushed and waved and its consequent
state of new glossiness was a very distinct
improvement on the former elf locks. In the sunshine
it took tones of warm burnt sienna, like the
hair of the Madonna in certain of Titian's great pictures.
Lessons, alack! were uphill work. Rona was
naturally bright, but some subjects she had never
touched before, and in others she was hopelessly
backward. The general feeling in the school was[Pg 54]
that "The Cuckoo", as they nicknamed her, was
an experiment, and no one could guess exactly
what she would grow into.

"She's like one of those queer beasties we dug
up under the yew-tree last autumn," suggested
Merle Denham. "Those wriggling transparent
things, I mean. Don't you remember? We kept
them in a box, and didn't know whether they'd
turn out moths, or butterflies, or earwigs, or woodlice!"

"They turned into cockchafer beetles, as a matter
of fact," said Ulyth drily.

"Well, they were horrid enough in all conscience.
I don't like Nature study when it means
hoarding up creepy-crawlies."

"You're not obliged to take it."

"I don't this year. I've got Harmony down on
my time-table instead."

"You'll miss the rambles with Teddie."

"I don't care. I'll play basket-ball instead."

"How about the blackberry foray?"

"Oh, I'm not going to be left out of that! It's
not specially Nature study. I've put my name
down with Miss Moseley's party."

The inmates of The Woodlands were fond of jam.
It was supplied to them liberally, and they consumed
large quantities of it at tea-time. To help to
meet this demand, blackberrying expeditions were
organized during the last weeks of September, and
the whole school turned out in relays to pick fruit.
A dozen girls and a mistress generally composed
a party, which was not confined to any particular[Pg 55]
form, but might include any whose arrangements
for practising or special lessons allowed them to
go. Dates and particulars of the various rambles
planned, with the names of the mistresses who were
to be leaders, were pinned up on the notice-board,
and the girls might put their names to them as they
liked, so long as each list did not exceed twelve.

On Saturday afternoon Miss Moseley headed a
foray in the direction of Porth Powys Falls, and
Merle, Ulyth, Rona, Addie, and Stephanie were
members of her flock.

"I'm glad I managed to get into this party,"
announced Merle, "because I always like Porth
Powys better than Pontvoelas or Aberceiriog. It's
a jollier walk, and the blackberries are bigger and
better. I was the very last on the list, so I'd luck.
Alice had to go under Teddie's wing. I'd rather
have Mosie than Teddie!"

"So would I," agreed Ulyth. "I scribbled my
name the very first of all. Just got a chance to do
it as I was going to my music-lesson, before everyone
else made a rush for the board. Porth Powys
will be looking no end to-day."

Swinging their baskets, the girls began to climb
a narrow path which ran alongside the stream up
the glen. Some of them were tempted to linger,
and began to gather what blackberries could be
found; but Miss Moseley had different plans.

"Come along! It's ridiculous to waste our labour
here," she exclaimed. "All these bushes have
been well picked over already. We'll walk straight
on till we come to the lane near the ruined cottage,[Pg 56]
then we shall get a harvest and fill our baskets in
a third of the time. Quick march!"

There was sense in her remarks, so Merle
abandoned several half-ripe specimens for which
she had been reaching and joined the file that was
winding, Indian fashion, up the path through the
wood. Over a high, ladder-like stile they climbed,
then dropped down into the gorge to where a small
wooden bridge spanned the stream. They loved to
stand here looking at the brown rushing water that
swirled below. The thick trees made a green parlour,
and the continual moisture had carpeted the
woods with beautiful verdant moss which grew in
close sheets over the rocks. Up again, by an even
steeper and craggier track, they climbed the farther
bank of the gorge, and came out at last on to the
broad hill-side that overlooked the Craigwen Valley.

Here was scope for a leader; the track was so
overgrown as to be almost indistinguishable, and
ran across boggy land, where it was only too easy
to plunge over one's boot-tops in oozy peat. Miss
Moseley found the way like a pioneer; she had often
been there before and remembered just what places
were treacherous and just where it was possible to
use a swinging bough for a help. By following in
her footsteps the party got safely over without serious
wettings, and sat down to take breath for a few
minutes on some smooth, glacier-ground rocks that
topped the ridge they had been scaling. They were
now at some height above the valley, and the prospect
was magnificent. For at least ten miles they
could trace the windings of the river, and taller[Pg 57]
and more distant mountain peaks had come into
view.

"Some people say that Craigwen Valley's very
like the Rhine," volunteered Ulyth. "It hasn't
any castles, of course, except at Llangarmon, but
the scenery's just as lovely."

"Nice to think it's British then," rejoiced Merle.
"Wales can hold its own in the way of mountains
and lakes. People have no need to go abroad for
them. What's New Zealand like, Rona?"

"We've ripping rivers there," replied the Cuckoo,
"bigger than this by lots, and with tree-ferns up in
the bush. This isn't bad, though, as far as it goes.
What's that place over across on the opposite
hill?"

"Where the light's shining? Oh, that's Llanfairgwyn!
There's a village and a church. We've
only been once. It's rather a long way, because
you have to cross the ferry at Glanafon before you
can get to the other side of the river."

"And what's that big white house in the trees,
with the flag?"

"That's Plas Cafn. It's the place in the neighbourhood,
you know," said Stephanie, fondly fingering
her necklace.

"I don't know. How should I?"

"Well, you know it now, at any rate."

"Does it belong to toffs?"

"It belongs to Lord and Lady Glyncraig. They
live there for part of the year."

"Oh!" said Rona. She put her chin on her
hand and surveyed the distant mansion for several[Pg 58]
moments in silence. "I reckon they're stuck up,"
she remarked at last.

"I believe they're considered nice. I've never
spoken to them," replied Ulyth.

"I have," put in Stephanie complacently. "I
went to tea once at Plas Cafn. It was when Father
was Member for Rotherford. Lord Glyncraig knew
him in Parliament, of course, and he happened to
meet Father and me just when we were walking
past the gate at Plas Cafn, and asked us in to tea."

Merle, Addie, and Ulyth smiled. This visit,
paid four years ago, was the standing triumph of
Stephanie's life. She never forgot, nor allowed any
of her schoolfellows to forget, that she had been
entertained by the great people of the neighbourhood.

"He wasn't Lord Glyncraig then; he was only
Sir John Mitchell, Baronet. He's been raised to
a peerage since," said Merle, willing to qualify
some of the glory of Stephanie's reminiscences.

"We don't grow peers in Waitoto, or baronets
either, for the matter of that," observed Rona. "I
don't guess they're wanted out with us. We'd
have no place in the bush for a Lord Glyncraig."

"You'd better claim acquaintance with him, as
your name's Mitchell too. How proud he'd be of
the honour!" teased Addie.

Coral flooded the whole of the Cuckoo's face.
She had begun to understand the difference between
her rough upbringing and the refined homes of the
other girls, and she resented the sneers that were
often made at her expense.[Pg 59]

"Our butcher at home is Joseph Mitchell,"
hinnied Merle.

"Mitchell's a common enough name," said Ulyth.
"I know two families in Scotland and some people
at Plymouth all called Mitchell. They're none of
them related to each other, and probably not to
Merle's butcher or to Lord Glyncraig."

"Nor to me," said Rona. "I'm a democrat, and
I glory in it. Stephanie's welcome to her grand
friends if she likes them."

"I do like them," sighed Stephanie plaintively.
"I love aristocratic people and nice houses and
things. Why shouldn't I? You needn't grin,
Addie Knighton; you'd know them yourself if you
could. When I come out I'd like to be presented
at Court, and go to a ball where the people are all
dukes and duchesses and earls and countesses. It
would be worth while dancing with a duke, especially
if he wore the Order of the Garter!"

"Until that glorious day comes you'll have to
dance with poor little me for a partner," giggled
Merle.

"Aren't you all rested? We shall get no blackberries
if we don't hurry on," called Miss Moseley
from the other end of the rock.

Everybody scrambled up immediately and set out
again over the bracken-covered hill-side. Another
half-mile and they had reached the bourne of their
expedition. The narrow track through the gorse
and fern widened suddenly into a lane, a lane with
very high, unmortared walls, over which grew a
variety of bramble with a particularly luscious fruit.[Pg 60]
Every connoisseur of blackberries knows what a
difference there is between the little hard seedy ones
that commonly flourish in the hedges and the big
juicy ones with the larger leaves. Nature had been
prodigal here, and a bounteous harvest hung within
easy reach.

"They are as big as mulberries—and oh, such
heaps and heaps!" exclaimed Addie ecstatically.
"No, Merle, you wretch, this is my branch! Don't
poach, you wretch! Go farther on, can't you!"

"I wish we could send the jam to the hospital
when it's made," sighed Merle.

The party spread itself out; some of the girls
climbed to the top of the wall, so that they could
reach what grew on the sunnier side, and a few
skirted round over a gate into a field, where a
ruined cottage was also covered with brambles.
They worked down the lane by slow degrees, picking
hard as they went. At the end a sudden rushing
roar struck upon the ear, and without even
waiting for a signal from Miss Moseley the girls
with one accord hopped over a fence, and ran up a
slight incline. The voice of the waterfall was calling,
and the impulse to obey was irresistible. At
the top of the slope they stopped, for they had
reached a natural platform that overlooked the
gorge. The scene rivalled one of the beauty-spots
of Switzerland. The Porth Powys stream, flowing
between precipitous rocks, fell two hundred feet in
a series of four splendid cascades. The rugged
crags on either side were thickly covered with a
forest of fir and larch, and here and there a taller[Pg 61]
stone-pine reared its darker head above the silvery
green. Dashing, roaring, leaping, shouting, the
water poured down in a never-ceasing volume: the
white spray rose up in clouds, wetting the girls' faces;
the sound was like an endless chorus of
hallelujahs.

"Porth Powys is in fine form to-day. There
must have been rain up in the mountains last
night," remarked Ulyth. "What do you think of
it, Rona?"

"It's a champion! I'm going to climb down
there and get at the edge."

"No, you won't!" said Miss Moseley sharply.
"Nobody is to go a single step nearer. You must
all come back into the lane now, and get on with
blackberry-picking. Your baskets are only half
full yet."

Very reluctantly the girls followed. The fall
exercised a fascination over them, and they could
have stayed half an hour watching its white swirl.
They did not wish, however, to earn the reputation
of slackers. Two other parties had gone out blackberrying
that afternoon, and there would be keen
competition as to which would bring back the most
pounds. They set to work again, therefore, with
enthusiasm, counting stained fingers and scratches
as glorious wounds earned in the good cause.
Rona picked with zeal, but she had a preoccupied
look on her face.

"Say, I liked that waterfall," she remarked to
Ulyth. "One can't see anything of it down in this
old lane. I'm going to get a better view."[Pg 62]

"You mustn't go off on your own," commanded
Ulyth. "Miss Moseley will report you if you
do!"

"Don't excite yourself. I only said I was going
to get a better view. It's quite easy."

Rona put her basket in a safe place, and with the
aid of a hazel bush climbed to the top of the wall.
Apparently the prospect did not satisfy her.

"I'm going a stave higher still. Keep your
hair on!" she shouted down to Ulyth, and began
swarming up the bole of a huge old oak-tree that
abutted on the wall. She was strong and active
as a boy, and had soon scrambled to where the
branches forked. A mass of twisted ivy hung here,
and raising herself with its aid, she stood on an
outstretched bough.

"It's ripping! I can see a little bit of the fall;
I'll see it better if I get over on to that other
branch."

"Take care!" called Miss Moseley from below.

Rona started. She had not known the mistress
was so near. The movement upset her decidedly
unstable balance; she clutched hard at the ivy, but
it gave way in her fingers; there was a sudden
crash and a smothered shriek.

White as a ghost, Miss Moseley climbed the
wall, expecting to find the prostrate form of her
pupil on the other side. To her surprise she saw
nothing of the sort. Near at hand, however, came
a stifled groan.

"Rona, where are you?" shrieked the distracted
governess.[Pg 63]

"Here," spluttered the voice of the Cuckoo;
"inside the tree. The beastly old thing's rotten,
and I've tumbled to the very bottom of the trunk!"

"Are you hurt?"

"No, nothing to speak of."

"Here's a pretty go!" murmured the girls, who
all came running at the sound of shouts. "How's
she going to get out again?"

"Can't you climb up?" urged Miss Moseley.

"No, I can't stir an inch; I'm wedged in somehow."

What was to be done? The affair waxed serious.
Miss Moseley, with a really heroic effort, and much
help from the girls, managed to scale the tree and
look down into the hollow trunk. She could just
see Rona's scared face peeping up at her many
feet below.

"Can you put up your hand and let me pull
you?"

"No; I tell you I'm wedged as tight as a
sardine."

"We shall have to send for help then. May
and Kathleen, run as quickly as you can down the
lane. There's a farm at the bottom of the hill.
Tell them what's the matter."

"I hope to goodness they'll understand English!"
murmured Merle.

"Will I have to stop here always?" demanded
a tragic voice within the tree. "Shall you be able
to feed me, or will I have to starve? How long
does it take to die of hunger?"

"You won't die just yet," returned Miss Moseley,[Pg 64]
laughing a little in spite of herself. "We'll get
you out in course of time."

"I guess I'd better make my will, though. Has
anybody got a pencil and paper, and will they
please write it down and send it home? I want to
leave my saddle to Pamela Higson, and Jake is
to have the bridle and whip—I always liked him
better than Billy, though I pretended I didn't.
Jane Peters may have my writing-desk—much she
writes, though!—and Amabel Holt my old doll.
That's all I've left in New Zealand. Ulyth can
take what I've got at school—'twon't be any great
shakes to her, I expect. You didn't tell me how
long it takes to die!"

"Cheer up! There's not the slightest danger,"
Miss Moseley continued to assure her.

"It's all very well to say 'cheer up' when you're
standing safe on the top," said the gloomy voice of
the imprisoned dryad. "It feels a different matter
when you're boxed up tight with tree all round you.
It's jolly uncomfortable. Where are the girls?"

"Here's one," replied Ulyth, climbing the tree
to relieve poor Miss Moseley, who gladly retired
in her favour. "I'm going to stay and talk to you
till somebody comes to get you out. Oh, here are
May and Kathleen at last! What a fearful time
they've been!"

The two messengers came panting back with
many excuses for their delay. It was a long way
down the lane to the farm, and when they arrived
there they had considerable difficulty in explaining
their errand. No one could understand English[Pg 65]
except a little boy, who was only half-able to translate
their remarks into Welsh. They had at length
made the farmer realize what had happened, and
he had promised to come at once. In the course
of a few minutes they were followed by David
Jones and his son, Idwal, bearing a rope, an axe,
and a saw, and looking rather dismayed at the task
in store for them. It proved indeed a matter of
considerable difficulty to rescue Rona without hurting
her; a portion of the tree-trunk was obliged to
be sawn away before she could obtain sufficient
room to help to free herself, and it was only after
an hour's hard work that she stood at last in safety
on the ground.

"How do you feel?" asked Miss Moseley anxiously,
fearing broken bones or a sprain from the
final effort of extraction.

"Well, I guess it's taken the bounce out of me.
I'm as stiff as a rheumatic cat! Oh, I'll get back
to school somehow, don't alarm yourself! I'm
absolutely starving for tea. Good-bye, you wood-demon;
you nearly finished me!" and Rona shook
her fist at the offending oak-tree as a parting salute.

"She called it demon to rhyme with lemon!"
gurgled Addie, almost sobbing with mirth as she
followed, holding Merle's arm. "The Cuckoo will
cause me to break a blood-vessel some day. It
hurts me most dreadfully to laugh. I've got a
stitch in my side. Oh dear! I wonder whatever
she'll go and do next?"

So sang Rona, bounding noisily one afternoon
into No. 3, Room 5, and popping her hands from
behind over Ulyth's eyes as the latter sat writing
at a table near the window.

"What are you always scratching away for?
Can't you finish your work at prep.? Why don't
you come downstairs and play basket-ball? You're
mighty studious all of a sudden. What have you
got here?"

Ulyth flushed crimson with annoyance, and
turned her sheets of foolscap hastily over to hide
them from her room-mate's prying eyes.

"You're not to touch my papers, Rona! I've
told you that before."

"Well, I wasn't touching them. Looking's not
touching, anyway. What are you doing? It's
queer taste to sit scribbling here half your spare
time."

"What I was doing is my own concern, and no
business of yours."

"Now you're riled," said the Cuckoo, sitting[Pg 67]
down easily on her bed. "I didn't mean any
harm. I always seem sticking my foot into it
somehow."

Ulyth sighed. Nobody in the school realized
how much she had to put up with from her irrepressible
room-mate, whose hearty voice, extraordinary
expressions, and broad notions of fun
grated upon her sensitive nature. Rona did not
appreciate in the least the heroic sacrifice that
Ulyth was making. It had never occurred to her
that she might be placed in another dormitory,
and that she only remained on sufferance in No. 3.
She admired Ulyth immensely, and was quite prepared
to take her as a model, but at present the
copy was very far indeed from the original. The
mistresses had instituted a vigorous crusade against
Rona's loud voice and unconventional English,
and she was really making an effort to improve; but
the habits of years are not effaced in a few weeks,
and she still scandalized the authorities considerably.
Ulyth could tolerate her when she kept to
her own side of the bedroom, but to have meddlesome
fingers interfering with her private possessions
was the last straw to her burden of endurance.

"Do you understand?" she repeated emphatically.
"You're not to touch my papers at all!"

"All serene! I won't lay a finger on them—honest—sure!"
returned the Cuckoo, chanting her
words to the air of "Swanee River", and drumming
an accompaniment on the bedpost. "What
d'you think Stephanie called me just now? She
said I was an unlicked cub."[Pg 68]

"Oh, surely she didn't! Are you certain?"

"Heard her myself. She said it to my face and
tittered. You bet I'll pay her out somehow. Miss
Stephanie Radford needs taking down a peg. Oh,
don't alarm yourself, I'll do it neatly! There'll be
no clumsy bungling about it. Well, if you won't
go down and play basket-ball I shall. It's more
fun than sitting up here."

As the door banged behind Rona, Ulyth heaved
an ecstatic "Thank goodness!" She sat for a
few moments trying to regain her composure before
she recommenced the writing at which she
had been interrupted. The manuscript on which
she was engaged was very precious. She had set
herself no less a task than to write a book. The
subject had come to her suddenly one morning as
she lay awake in bed, and she regarded it as an
inspiration. She would make a story about The
Woodlands, and bring in all the girls she knew.
It was no use struggling with a historical plot or
a romance of the war—she had tried these, and
stuck fast in the first chapters; it was better to
employ the material close at hand, and weave her
tale from the every-day incidents which happened
in the school. So she had begun, and though she
floundered a little at the difficulty of transferring
her impressions to paper, she was making distinct
progress.

"I'd never dare to have it published, of course,"
she ruminated. "Still, it's a beginning, and I
shall like to read it over to myself. I think there
are some rather neat bits in it, especially that shot[Pg 69]
at Addie and Stephie. How wild they'd be if they
knew! But there's no fear of that. I'll take good
care nobody finds out."

When to make time to go on with her literary
composition was the difficulty. It was hard to
snatch even an occasional half-hour during the
day. Where there is a will, however, there is
generally also a way, and Ulyth hit upon the plan
of getting up very early in the morning and writing
while Rona was still asleep. The Cuckoo never
stirred until the seven o'clock bell rang, when she
would awake noisily, with many yawns and stretchings
of arms, so Ulyth flattered herself that her
secret was absolutely safe.

Where to hide the precious papers was another
problem. She did not dare to put them in any
of her drawers, her desk would not lock, and her
little jewel-box was too small to contain them.

The fireplace in the bedroom had an old-fashioned
chimney-piece that was fitted with a loose
wooden mantel-board, from which hung a border
of needlework. It was quite easy to lift up this
board and slip the papers between it and the
chimney-piece; the border completely screened the
hiding-place, and, except at a spring-cleaning, the
arrangement was not likely to be disturbed. Ulyth
congratulated herself greatly upon her ingenuity.
It was interesting to have a secret which nobody
even guessed. She often looked at the chimney-piece,
and chuckled as she thought of what lay
concealed there.

The days were rapidly closing in now, and the[Pg 70]
time between tea and preparation, which only a
few weeks ago was devoted to a last game of tennis
or a run by the stream, was perforce spent by the
schoolroom fire. It was only a short interval, not
long enough to make any elaborate occupation
worth while, so the girls sat knitting in the twilight
and chatting until the bell rang for evening
work.

One afternoon, when tea was finished, Ulyth,
instead of joining the others as usual, walked upstairs
to put away some specimens in the Museum.
She passed V b classroom as she did so, and heard
smothered peals of mirth issuing from behind the
half-closed door.

"What are they doing?" she thought. "I believe
I'll go and see." But catching Rona's laugh
above the rest, she changed her mind, walked on,
and bestowed her fossils carefully in a spare corner
of one of the cases. Meanwhile, the group assembled
round the fire in V b were enjoying themselves.
The room was growing dusk, but, seated
on the hearthrug, Addie Knighton could see quite
sufficiently to read aloud extracts from a document
she was perusing, extracts to which the others
listened with thrilling interest, interspersed with
comments.

"'The girls of the Oaklands'," so she read,
"'were a rather peculiar and miscellaneous set,
especially those in the Lower Fifth. Scarcely any
of them could be called pretty—'" ("Oh! oh!"
howled the attentive circle.) "'One of them,
Valerie Chadford, imagined herself so, and gave[Pg 71]
herself fearful airs in consequence; she was very
set up at knowing smart people, and often bragged
about it.'" ("I'll never forgive her, never!"
screamed Stephanie.) "'The twins, Pearl and
Doris, were fat, stodgy girls, who wore five-and-a-halfs
in shoes and had twenty-seven-inch waists.'"
("Oh! Won't Merle and Alice be just frantic
when they hear?") "'But even they were more
interesting than Nellie Clacton, who usually sat
with her mouth open, as if she was trying to catch
flies.'" ("Does she mean me?" gasped Mary
Acton indignantly.) "'Florence Tulliver was inclined
to be snarly, and often said mean things
about other people behind their backs.'" ("I'll say
something now!" declared Gertrude Oliver.) "'And
Annie Ryton was——'" but here Addie broke off
abruptly and exploded.

"Go on! Go on!" commanded the girls.

"It's too lovely!" spluttered Addie. "O—ho—ho!
So that's what she thinks of me, is
it?"

"Read it, can't you?"

"Here, give the paper to me!"

"No, no! I'll go on—but—I didn't know my
eyes were like faded gooseberries, and my hair
like dried seaweed!"

"Has she described herself!" asked Stephanie.

"I haven't come to it yet. Oh yes! here we are,
farther on: 'Our heroine, Morvyth Langton, was
an unusually——'"

But here Addie stopped abruptly, for a blazing
little fury stood in the doorway.[Pg 72]

"Addie Knighton, how dare you? How dare
you? Give me that paper this instant!"

"No, no! It's much too interesting. Let go!
Don't be silly! How can you? Oh, what a shame!"
as Ulyth in her anger tore the manuscript across
and flung it into the fire.

"Whew! Now you've gone and done it!"
whistled Rona.

Ulyth was holding down the last flaming fragment
with the poker. When it had expired she
turned to the guilty circle. "Who took my papers
from my bedroom?"

Her voice was sharp, and her eyes fixed full on
Rona.

"I didn't touch them. I never laid so much as
a finger on them," protested the Cuckoo.

"But you told someone where they were?"

Rona winked in reply. Yes, alas! winked consciously
and deliberately. (It was well for her that
Miss Moseley was not in the room.)

"I knew you'd got something there," she admitted.
"Were you such an innocent as to think
I never saw you scribbling away hard in the early
mornings? Why, I was foxing! I used to watch
you while I was snoring, and nearly died with
laughing because you never found me out."

If eyes could slay, Ulyth's would have finished
Rona at that moment. But Addie Knighton, whose
suspension of mirth had been merely a species of
temporary paralysis, now relapsed into a choking
series of guffaws, in which the others joined
boisterously.[Pg 73]

"I can't—get—over—seaweed—and faded gooseberries!"
crowed Addie hysterically.

"I don't catch flies with my open mouth!"
shouted Mary Acton, suspending her knitting in
her indignation.

"Will somebody please measure the twins' waists?"
bleated Christine.

"I didn't say it was meant for any of you. If
the cap fits, put it on. Listeners hear no good
of themselves, and no more do people who read
what isn't intended for them. It serves you all
right, so there!" and Ulyth flounced out of the
room.

She ran straight up to her bedroom, and burst
into tears. It was such a tragi-comedy ending
to her literary ambition. She would rather the
girls had been more indignant than that they had
laughed so much.

"I'll never write another line again," she resolved;
and then she thought of the binding she
had always intended to have on her first published
book, and wept harder.

"Ulyth," said the Cuckoo, stealing in rather
shamefacedly, "I'm really frightfully sorry if you're
riled. I didn't know you cared all that much about
those old papers. I told Addie, as a joke, and she
went and poked them out. I think they were fine.
It was a shame to burn them. Can't you write
them over again?"

"Never!" Ulyth replied, wiping her eyes.
"Rona, you don't realize what damage you've
done. There! oh yes, I'll forgive you, but if you[Pg 74]
want to keep friends with me, don't go and do anything
of the sort again, that's all!"

Ulyth felt a little shy of meeting her class-mates
after their discovery of the very unflattering description
she had written of them, but the girls were
good-natured and did not bear malice. They
treated the whole affair as an intense joke, and even
took to calling one another by the assumed names
of the story. They composed extra portions, including
a lurid description of Ulyth herself, illustrated
by rapid sketches on the black-board. The
disappointed authoress took it with what calm she
could muster. She knew they meant to tease, and
the fewer sparks they could raise from her the
sooner they would desist and let the matter drop.
It would probably serve as a target for Addie's wit
till the end of the term, unless the excitement of the
newly formed ambulance class chased it from her
memory. The Woodlanders were trying to do
their duty by their country, and all the girls were
enthusiastically practising bandaging.

"I wish we'd some real patients to bind up,"
sighed Merle one day, as V b took its turn under
Nurse Griffith's instructions.

"I'd be sorry for them if they were left to your
tender mercies," retorted Mavis, who had been
posing as patient. "My arm's sore yet with your
vigorous measures."

"What nonsense! I was as gentle as a lamb."

"A curious variety of lamb then, with a wolf
inside."

"I believe The Woodlands would make a[Pg 75]
gorgeous hospital," suggested Addie hopefully.
"When we're through our course we might have
some real patients down and nurse them."

"Don't you think it! The Rainbow won't carry
ambulance lessons as far as that!"

Ulyth, brushing her hair before the looking-glass
one morning, hummed cheerily.

"You seem in spirits," commented Rona, from
the washstand. "It's more than I am. Miss
Lodge was a pig yesterday. She said my dictation
was a disgrace to the school, and I'd got to stop in
during the interval this morning and write out
all the wrong words a dozen times each. It's too
sickening! I'd no luck yesterday. Phyllis Chantrey
had my book to correct, and her writing and
mine are such opposite poles, we daren't try it on."

"Try what on?" asked Ulyth, pausing with the
brush in her hand.

"Why, the exchange dodge, you know."

"I don't know."

"Don't you take dictation in V b? Well, in
our form we get it twice a week, and Miss Lodge
makes us correct each other's books. We make it
up to try and exchange with a girl whose writing's
pretty like one's own; then, you see, we can alter
things neatly, and allow full marks. It generally
works, but it didn't yesterday."

Ulyth's face was a study.[Pg 77]

"You mean to tell me you correct each other's
mistakes!"

"Why not?" said Rona, not the least abashed.
"Miss Lodge never finds out."

Ulyth collapsed into a chair. What was she to
do with such a girl?

"Don't you know it's the most atrocious
cheating?"

"Is it? Why, the whole form does it," returned
the Cuckoo unconcernedly.

"Then they're abominable little wretches, and
don't deserve to be candidates for the Camp-fire
League. I'm thoroughly ashamed of them. Have
they no sense of honour?"

The Cuckoo was looking perplexed.

"Ulyth Stanton, you're always rounding something
new on me," she sighed. "I can't keep up
with you. I keep my hair tidy now, and don't
leave my things lying round the room, and I try to
give a sort of twitter instead of laughing, and I've
dropped ever so many words you object to, and
practise walking down the passage with a book on
my head. What more do you want?"

"A great deal," said Ulyth gravely. "Didn't
you learn honour at home?"

"Catch Mrs. Barker!"

"But surely your father——?"

"I saw so little of Dad. He was out all day,
and sometimes off for weeks together at our other
block. When he was at home he didn't care to be
bothered overmuch."

An amazed pity was taking the place of Ulyth's[Pg 78]
indignation. This was, indeed, fallow ground.
Mrs. Arnold's comment flashed across her mind:

"What an opportunity for a Torch-bearer!"

"I don't want to be turned into a prig," urged
the Cuckoo.

"You needn't. There's a certain amount of
slang and fun that's allowable, but noblesse oblige
must always come first. You don't understand
French yet? Well, never mind. All that matters
is that you simply must realize, Rona—do listen,
please—that all of us here, including you, mustn't—couldn't—cheat
at lessons. For your own sake,
and for the sake of the school, you must stop
it."

"You think a lot of the school!"

"And quite right too! The school stands to
us for what the State does to grown-up people.
We've got to do our best to keep the tone up.
Cheating brings it down with a run. It's as bad
as tearing up treaties."

"Go ahead. Rub it in," returned the Cuckoo,
beginning to whistle a trifle defiantly.

She thought the matter over, nevertheless, and
returned to the subject that night when they were
going to bed.

"Ulyth, I told the girls exactly what you said
about them. My gracious, you should have seen
their faces! Boiled lobsters weren't in it. That
hit about the Camp-fire Guild seemed specially to
floor them. I don't fancy, somehow, there'll be any
more correcting done in dictation. You've touched
them up no end."[Pg 79]

"I'm extremely glad if what I said has brought
them to their senses," declared Ulyth.

Rona got on tolerably well among her comrades,
but there was one exception. With Stephanie she
was generally in a state of guerrilla warfare. The
latter declared that the vulgar addition to the
school was an outrage on the feelings of those who
had been better brought up. Stephanie had ambitions
towards society with a big S, and worshipped
titles. She would have liked the daughter
of a duke for a schoolfellow, but so far no member
of the aristocracy had condescended to come and be
educated at The Woodlands. Stephanie felt injured
that Miss Bowes and Miss Teddington should have
accepted such a girl as Rona, and lost no opportunity
of showing that she thought the New Zealander
very far below the accepted standard. The
Cuckoo's undoubted good looks were perhaps
another point in her disfavour. The school beauty
did not easily yield place to a rival, and though she
professed to consider Rona's complexion too high-coloured,
she had a sneaking consciousness that it
was superior to her own.

During the summer holidays Stephanie had
taken part in a pageant that was held in aid of a
charity near her home. As Queen of the Roses
she had occupied a rather important position, and
her portrait, in her beautiful fancy costume, had
appeared in several of the leading ladies' newspapers.
Stephanie's features were good, and the
photograph had been a very happy one—"glorified
out of all knowledge" said some of the girls; so[Pg 80]
the photographer had exhibited it in his window,
and altogether more notice had been taken of it
than was perhaps salutary for the original. Stephanie
had brought a copy back to school, and it now
adorned her bedroom mantelpiece. She was never
tired of descanting upon the pageant, and telling
about all the aristocratic people who had come to
see it. According to her account the very flower
of the neighbourhood had been present, and had
taken special notice of her. A girl who had so
lately consorted with the county could not be expected
to tolerate a tyro from the backwoods.
Stephanie was too well brought up to allow herself
to be often openly rude; her taunts were generally
ingeniously veiled, but they were none the less
aggravating for that. The Cuckoo might be callow
in some respects, but in others she was very much
up-to-date. Though she would look obtuse, and
pretend not to understand, as a matter of fact not a
gibe was lost upon her, and she kept an exact
account of the score.

One morning, early in December, Miss Teddington,
who was distributing the contents of the postbag,
handed Stephanie a small parcel. It was
only a few days after the latter's birthday, and, supposing
it to be a belated present, the mistress did
not ask the usual questions by which she regulated
her pupils' correspondence. The letters were
always given out immediately after breakfast, and
the girls took them upstairs to read in their dormitories
during the quarter of an hour in which they
made their beds and tidied their rooms. This[Pg 81]
morning, just as Ulyth was shaking her pillow,
Rona came in, chuckling to herself. The Cuckoo's
eyes twinkled like stars.

"D'you want some sport?" she asked. "If you
do, come with me, and have the time of your
life!"

Ulyth put down the pillow, and hesitated. Fifteen
minutes was not too long an allowance for all
she was expected to do in her room. But Rona's
manner was inviting. She wanted to see what the
fun was. The temptress held the door open, and
beckoned beguilingly.

"All serene!" yielded Ulyth.

Rona seized her by the arm and dragged her
delightedly down the passage.

"Now you're chummy," she murmured.
"Whatever you do, though, don't make a noise
and give the show away!"

Still in the dark as to the Cuckoo's intentions,
Ulyth allowed herself to be led to Dormitory 2,
No. 4, at the opposite side of the house. We have
mentioned before that the bedrooms at The Woodlands
were very spacious—so large, indeed, that
each was partitioned into four cubicles divided by
lath-and-plaster walls. A passage inside the dormitory
gave access to the cubicles, which were in
fact separate little bedrooms, except that the partition
walls, for purposes of ventilation, did not
reach the ceiling. At present the fourth cubicle in
Dormitory 2 was unoccupied, but its furniture was
rather curiously arranged. One of the beds had
been pulled close against the partition, and a chest[Pg 82]
of drawers, with the drawers removed, had been
placed upon it.

"I fixed it up last night, and it was a job,"
whispered the Cuckoo. "Good thing I'm strong.
Now we've got to climb on that, and you'll see
what you'll see!"

Ulyth had an uneasy consciousness that she
ought not to be mixed up in such a business; but,
after all, the girls often scrambled up and peeped
into one another's cubicles for a joke, so her action
would not be without precedent. She was a very
human person, and liked fun as well as anybody.
With extreme caution she and Rona mounted the
chest of drawers, trying not to make the slightest
noise. Their eyes were just on a level with the
top of the partition, and they had a good view of
the next cubicle. The occupants, Stephanie and
her room-mate, Beth Broadway, were far too absorbed
to think of looking up towards the ceiling.
Their attention was concentrated on the parcel
which had arrived by the post. It contained a
small bottle, carefully packed in shavings, and also
a typewritten letter, the purport of which seemed
to electrify Stephanie.

"It's the most extraordinary thing I've ever
heard!" she was saying. "Beth, just listen to this."

And she read aloud:

"66 Holborn Viaduct,

London.

"Dear Madam,

"Having seen your portrait, as a noted
beauty, published in The Princess, The Ladies'[Pg 83]
Court Journal, and other leading pictorials, we
venture to submit to you a sample of our famous
Eau de Venus, an invaluable adjunct to the toilet
of any lady possessing a delicate complexion. It
is a perfectly harmless, fragrantly scented fluid,
which, if applied daily after breakfast, produces a
rose-leaf bloom which is absolutely incomparable.
As it is a new preparation, we are anxious to submit
it to a few ladies of influence in the fashionable
world, feeling sure that, once used, they will recommend
it.

"We shall esteem it a great favour if you will
graciously try the enclosed sample. We do not
ask for testimonials, but any expression of appreciation
from one who figured so admirably as Queen
of the Roses at the Barrfield Pageant would be to
us a source of immense gratification.

"May we recommend that the preparation be
applied immediately after breakfast, as its ingredients
are more potent to the delicate pores of the
skin if used at that period of the morning.

"With apologies for troubling you, and hoping
you will condescend to give our Eau de Venus at
least a trial,

"We remain,



"Faithfully yours,



"Renan, Mariette, et Cie,

Parfumeurs."

"How very peculiar!" gasped Beth, much impressed.[Pg 84]

"It must be because they saw my photo in the
papers," said Stephanie. She was trying to speak
casually, and not to appear too flattered, but her
eyes shone. "I believe that pageant made rather
a sensation, and of course, well, I was the principal
figure in it. I suppose I shall have to try this Eau
de Venus."

"It's in a funny little bottle," commented Beth.

"Samples generally are. They never send you
very much of a thing. They want you to buy a
big bottle afterwards."

Stephanie carefully removed the cork. The preparation
seemed to be of a pink, milky description.

"It smells of violets," she said, offering the
bottle for Beth to sniff.

"I should certainly try it, if I were you," recommended
the latter.

"It says it's quite harmless," continued Stephanie,
referring to the letter, "and should be used
immediately after breakfast. Well, there's no time
like the present!"

If there was a curious agitation on the other side
of the partition, neither girl noticed it. Stephanie
poured some of the liquid into her hand and rubbed
it over her face. Then she turned to the looking-glass.

"It seems very pink and queer! It's all in red
streaks!"

"Perhaps you've put on too much. Wipe some
of it off," advised Beth.

Vigorous measures with a sponge followed, and
Stephanie anxiously surveyed the result.[Pg 85]

"It won't come off!" she faltered. "Oh, what
have I done to myself? I'm all red smears!"

Her dismay was too much for one at least on the
other side of the partition. Rona broke into a loud,
cackling laugh. One swift glance upwards and
Stephanie realized that she was the victim of a
practical joke. It took her exactly three seconds to
reach the next cubicle.

"So it's you, is it?" she exploded. "Well,
Ulyth Stanton, I am astonished! Evil communications
corrupt good manners, and yours smack of
the backwoods."

"Don't throw it on Ulyth; she knew nothing
about it," retorted the chuckling Cuckoo belligerently.
"It's my business, and I don't mind telling
you so!"

"I might have known, you—you utter cad!
You don't deserve to be in a school among
ladies!"

"Go on. Pitch it as strong as you like. The
cub's quits with you now for all your airs and your
nastiness."

"Oh, don't!" protested Ulyth, interfering in
much distress. "Rona, do stop! I'd no idea you
meant to play such a dreadful trick on Stephie."

"You must have known something of it, or you
wouldn't have come to look on. I expect you were
at the bottom of it," sneered Stephanie; "so don't
try to sneak out of it, Ulyth Stanton. Your precious
joke has marked me for life."

"No, no! It's only cochineal and milk. I got
it from the cook," put in the Cuckoo.[Pg 86]

"It's stained her face all over, though," said
Beth Broadway reproachfully.

"I shall go straight to Miss Bowes," whimpered
Stephanie.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Ulyth.
"Try some methylated spirit first. I'll give you
some from my room."

The remedy proved efficacious. The stains
yielded to gentle rubbing, and the four girls flew
in a wild hurry to make their beds, three much
relieved and one naughtily exultant.

"I've paid out Stephie," panted Rona, tucking
in her blankets anyhow. "I felt proud of that
letter. Made it up with the help of advertisements
in the Illustrated Journal. Then I typed it in the
study while Teddie was out. You didn't know I
could type? Learnt how on the voyage, from a
girl who'd a typewriter on board with her. I laid
on the butter pretty thick. I knew Steph would
swallow it to any amount. Oh, didn't she just look
flattered? It was prime! The under-housemaid
posted the parcel for me."

"Stephie'll never forgive you!"

"Much I care!"

"Your bear cub still needs taming, Ulyth," said
Gertrude Oliver. "She spilt her coffee this morning—such
a mess on the tablecloth! I wish I
didn't sit next to her. I felt like Alice at the March
Hare's tea-party."

"It was half Maud's fault; she jerked her elbow,"
pleaded Ulyth in extenuation.

"Oh, you can't whitewash her, so don't try! I
won't say she isn't better than when she arrived,
but there's room for improvement."

"She's much slimmer. I suppose it must have
been the voyage that had made her grow so fat in
September."

"I wish, at any rate, you could get her out of
using those dreadful backwoods expressions. It's
high time she dropped them. She's been here
nearly a full term."

Ulyth thought so too, and the next time she
found a suitable opportunity she tackled Rona on
the subject.

"You're too nice to speak in such a queer way.
You've no idea how it spoils you," she urged.
"You could be another girl if you'd only take a
little trouble."[Pg 88]

"What's the use? Who minds what I'm like?"
returned the Cuckoo a trifle defiantly.

"I do," said Ulyth emphatically.

"Not really?"

"Indeed I do. I care very much. You came
over here to be my friend, and there are many
things I want in a friend."

"I didn't know you cared," replied Rona in a
softened voice. "No one ever did before—except
Dad, when he said I was a savage."

"Don't you want to show him what you can
grow into?" asked Ulyth eagerly. "Think how
surprised and pleased he'll be when he sees you
again!"

"There's something in that."

"There's a great deal in it. I know I often make
myself do things I don't want because of Mother;
she's such a darling, and——" She stopped short,
realizing too late the mistake she was making.

"I can't remember Mother," answered Rona,
turning away with a suggestive cough. "It's all
very well for you."

Ulyth could have bitten her tongue out. She
said no more, for she knew her room-mate well
enough by this time to have learnt that sympathy
must be offered with the utmost discretion. The
poor Cuckoo was only too well aware of the deficiencies
in her home and upbringing, but the least
hint of them from others immediately put her on
the defensive. In her own way she was very proud,
and though there was a vast difference between
Stephanie's stinging remarks and Ulyth's well-[Pg 89]meant
kindness, anything that savoured of compassion
wounded her dignity.

The conversation brought urgently to Ulyth a
question which had been disturbing her, and which
she had persistently tried to banish from her
thoughts. Where was Rona going to spend
Christmas? So far as anyone knew she had not
a friend or relation in the British Isles. Miss
Bowes and Miss Teddington always went away
for the holidays, and The Woodlands was left in
the charge of servants. Rona could not stay at the
school, surely? Had Miss Bowes made any arrangement
for her? Ulyth vacillated for at least five
minutes, then took out her writing-case and began
a letter home.

"Best-beloved Motherkins,

"I am such a nasty, horrid, selfish thing!
In every one of your letters you have hinted and
hinted and hinted that we should ask Rona for
Christmas. You wouldn't say it outright until
you were sure I wanted it. That was just the rub.
I didn't want it. I'm afraid even now I don't
quite. I've had her all the term, and I thought it
would be so blissful to be without her for four
whole weeks, and have you and Father and Oswald
and Dorothy and Peter just to myself. But oh,
Motherkins, she's such a lonely waif of a girl!
I'm so dreadfully sorry for her. She seems always
out of everything. I'm sure she's never had a
decent Christmas in her life. I believe she's fond
of her father, though I don't think he took very[Pg 90]
much notice of her—she let out once that he was
so disappointed she wasn't a boy. But Mrs. Barker,
the housekeeper, must have been a most terrible
person. Rona had no chance at all.

"Motherkins, she's never seen a real English
home, and I'd like to show her ours. Yes, I would,
although in a way she'll spoil everything. May
she sleep in the spare room, and let me have my
own to myself? I could stand it then.

"Dearest darling, I really mean it; so will you
write straight off to Miss Bowes before I have time
to turn thoroughly horrid again?

"Your very loving daughter,



"Ulyth."

Having sent off the letter, and thus burnt her
boats, Ulyth accepted the situation with what
equanimity she could muster. Mrs. Stanton's invitation
arrived by return of post, and was accepted
with great relief by Miss Bowes, who had been
wondering how to dispose of her pupil during the
holidays. The Cuckoo received the news with such
pathetic glee that Ulyth's heart smote her for not
feeling more joyful herself.

"Are you sure you want me?" asked Rona wistfully.

"Of course we do, or we wouldn't ask you,"
replied Ulyth, hoping her fib might be forgiven.

"I'll try and not disgrace you," volunteered the
Cuckoo.

A few days before the end of the term Rona[Pg 91]
received a letter from New Zealand. She rushed
to Ulyth, waving it triumphantly.

"Dad's sent me this," she announced, showing
a very handsome cheque. "I wrote to him three
days after I got here, and told him my clothes
looked rubbishy beside the other girls', and he
tells me to rig myself out afresh. I suppose he forgot
about it till now. How'm I going to get the
things? There isn't time to ask Miss Bowes to
send for them before the holidays. Can I buy them
at the place where you live?"

"Very well indeed, and Mother will help you
to choose. I know she'll get you lovely clothes;
she has such exquisite taste! She'll just enjoy
it."

"And shan't I just? I'll give away every rag I
brought with me from New Zealand. They'll come
in for that rummage sale Teddie was telling us
about."

The last lesson was finished, the last exercise
written, even the last breakfast had been disposed
of. The boxes, packed with great excitement the
day before, were already dispatched, and four railway
omnibuses were waiting to take the girls to
Llangarmon Junction Station. Much to their regret,
Miss Bowes would not allow them to go by
Glanafon—the picturesque route by the ferry was
reserved for summer weather. In winter, if the day
happened to be stormy and the tide full, there was
often great difficulty in crossing, the landing-place
was muddy and slippery, and even if the train was
not missed altogether (as sometimes happened)[Pg 92]
the small voyage was quite in the nature of an
adventure.

Miss Bowes' wisdom was thoroughly justified
on this particular morning, for there was a strong
west wind, and the rain was pouring in torrents.

"It would have been lovely fun in the flat. There
must be big waves on the river," declared Merle
Denham, half aggrieved at missing such an interesting
opportunity.

"Why, but look at the rain! You couldn't hold
up an umbrella for half a second. It would be
blown inside out directly. You'd be as drenched
as a drowned rat before you reached the train,"
preached her more prudent sister.

"And suppose you were blown off the stepping-stones
into the river!" added Beth Broadway. "It
would be a nice way of beginning the holidays!
No. On a morning like this I'd rather have the
omnibus. We shall at least start dry."

"I'm so glad you're taking Rona home with
you," whispered Lizzie Lonsdale to Ulyth. "I
should have asked her myself if you hadn't. It
would have been a wretched Christmas for her to
be left at school. I never saw anyone so pleased!"

The Cuckoo was indeed looking radiant at the
golden prospect in store for her. Much to her surprise,
everybody had been particularly nice to her
that morning. Several girls had given her their
addresses and asked her to write to them, Miss
Bowes had been kindness itself, and even Miss
Teddington, whose conduct was generally of a
Spartan order, when bidding her good-bye in the[Pg 93]
study, had actually bestowed an abrupt peck of a
kiss, a mark of favour never before known in the
annals of the school. To be sure, she had followed
it with a warning against relapsing into loud
laughter in other people's houses; but then she
was Miss Teddington!

Ulyth lived in Staffordshire, and the journey
from North Wales was tedious; but what schoolgirl
minds a long journey? To Rona all was new
and delightful, and to Ulyth every telegraph-post
meant that she was so much nearer home. The
travellers had a royal reception, and kind, tactful
Mrs. Stanton managed at once to put her young
guest at ease, and make her feel that she was a
welcome addition to the family circle. Oswald,
Ulyth's elder brother, had come from Harrow only
an hour before, and Dorothy and Peter, the two
younger children, were prancing about in utmost
enthusiasm at the exciting arrivals.

"Father hasn't come in yet?" asked Ulyth, when
she had finished hugging her mother. "Well, it
will be all the bigger treat when he does. Oh,
Oswald, I didn't think you could grow so much
in a term! Dorothy, darling, don't quite choke
me! Peterkin, come and shake hands with Rona.
Toby, do stop barking for half a moment! Where's
Tabbyskins? And, please, show me the new parrot.
Oh, isn't it lovely to be at home again!"

Almost the whole of the next day was spent by
Mrs. Stanton, Ulyth, and their delighted visitor in
a tour round various outfitting establishments—an
exhilarating time for Rona, who was making her[Pg 94]
first acquaintance with the glories of English shops.
Their purchases were highly satisfactory, and as
Ulyth helped her friend to dress for dinner on
Christmas Day she reviewed the result with the
utmost complacency.

"Didn't I tell you Mother has good taste? Rona,
you're lovely! This pale-blue dress suits you to a T.
And the bronze slippers are so dainty; and your
hair is so pretty. You can't think how it has
improved lately."

"Do I look like other girls?" asked Rona, fingering
the enamelled locket that had been given her
that morning by Mr. and Mrs. Stanton.

"Rather! A great deal nicer than most. I'm
proud of you. I wish they could all see you at The
Woodlands."

"I'm glad if I shan't disgrace you. What a good
thing Dad's cheque came just in time!"

In her new plumage the Cuckoo appeared turned
into a tropical humming-bird. Ulyth had thought
her good-looking before, but she had not realized
that her room-mate was a beauty. She stared almost
fascinated at the vision of blue eyes, coral
cheeks, white neck, and ruddy-brown hair. Was
this indeed the same girl who had arrived at school
last September? It was like a transformation scene
in the pantomime. Clothes undoubtedly exercise
a great effect on some people, and Rona seemed to
put away her backwoods manners with her up-country
dresses. There was a dignity about her
now and a desire to please which she had never
shown at The Woodlands. She held herself[Pg 95]
straight, walked gracefully instead of shambling,
and was careful to allow no uncouth expressions to
escape her. Her behaviour was very quiet, as if
she were watching others, or taking mental stock
of how to comport herself. If occasionally she
made some slight mistake she flushed crimson,
but she never repeated it. She was learning the
whole time, and the least gentle hint from Mrs.
Stanton was sufficient for her. Miss Teddington
need not have been afraid that the loud laugh
would offend the ears of her friends; it never rang
out once, and the high-pitched voice was subdued
to wonderfully softened tones. For her hostess
Rona evinced a species of worship. She would
follow her about the house, content simply to be
near her, and her face would light up at the
slightest word addressed to her.

"The poor child just wanted a good mothering,"
said Mrs. Stanton to Ulyth. "It is marvellous
how fast she is improving. You'll make something
of your little wild bird after all. She's worth
the trouble."

"I'd no idea she could grow into this," replied
Ulyth. "Oh, Motherkins, you should have seen
her at first! She was a very rough diamond."

"Aren't you glad to have a hand in the polishing?
It will be such a triumph."

Two members of the household, at any rate, saw
no fault in the visitor. Dorothy and Peter haunted
her like small persistent ghosts, begging for stories
about New Zealand. The accounts of her life in the
bush were like a romance to them, and so fired their[Pg 96]
enthusiasm that in the intervals of playing soldiers
they tried to emulate her adventures, and were
found with a clothes-line in the garden making
a wild attempt to lasso the much-enduring Toby.

"Rona's very good-natured with them," said
Ulyth. "She doesn't mind how they pull her
about, and Peter's most exhausting sometimes. I
shouldn't like to carry him round the house on my
back. Dorothy's perfectly insatiable for stories;
it's always 'Tell us another!' How funny Oswald
is at present. He's grown so outrageously polite
all of a sudden. I suppose it's because he's in the
Sixth now. He was very different last holidays.
He's getting quite a 'lady's man'."

"The young folks are growing up very fast,"
commented Mr. Stanton in private. "It seems
only yesterday that Oswald and Ulyth were babies.
In another year or two we shall begin to think of
twenty-first-birthday dances."

"Oh, don't talk of anything so dreadful!" said
Mrs. Stanton in consternation. "They're my
babies still. The party on Thursday is to be
quite a children's affair."

Though "Motherkins" might regard the coming
festivity as entirely of a juvenile character, the
young people took it seriously. They practised
dancing on the polished linoleum of the nursery
every evening. Rona had had her first lessons
at The Woodlands, and was making heroic efforts
to remember what she had learnt.

"You'll get on all right," Ulyth encouraged her.
"That last was ever so much better; you're drop[Pg 97]ping
into it quite nicely. You dance lightly, at
any rate. Now try again with Oswald while I
play. Ossie, I'm proud of you! Last Christmas
you were a perfect duffer at it. Don't you remember
how you sat out at the Warings'? You've improved
immensely. Now go on!" and Ulyth began
to play, with her eyes alternately on the piano and
on the partners.

"I suppose a fellow has to get used to 'the light
fantastic' sometime," remarked Oswald, as, after a
successful five minutes' practice, he and Rona sat
down to rest.

"Perhaps you'll have to dance with princesses
at foreign Courts when you're a successful ambassador,"
laughed Ulyth.

"Is that what Oswald's going to be?" asked
Rona.

"I'd have tried the Army or the Navy, but my
wretched eyes cut me off from both; so it's no use,
worse luck!" said Oswald. "I should like to get
into the Diplomatic Service immensely though, if
I could."

"Why can't you? I should think you could do
anything you really wanted."

"Thanks for the compliment. But it's not so
easy as it sounds. I wish I had a friend at Court."

"We don't know anybody in the Government,"
sighed Ulyth. "Not a solitary, single person. I've
never even seen a member of Parliament, except, of
course, Lord Glyncraig sometimes at church; but
then I've never spoken to him. Stephanie had tea
with him once. She doesn't let us forget that."[Pg 98]

"I wish you'd had tea with him, and happened
to mention particularly the extreme fascinations and
abilities of your elder brother," laughed Oswald.

"Could Lord Glyncraig be of any use to you?"
asked Rona. She had grown suddenly thoughtful.

"He could give me a nomination for the Diplomatic
Service, and that would be just the leg-up I
want. But it's no use joking; I'm not likely to get
an introduction to him. I expect I shall have to go
into business after all."

"I think when I was ten I must have been the
most objectionable little imp on the face of creation,"
said Rona slowly. "I am ashamed of
myself now."

"Why this access of penitence for bygone
crimes?"

"Oh, nothing!" replied the Cuckoo, flushing.
"I was only just thinking of something. Shall
we try that new step again? I'm rested now."

"Yours to command, madam!" returned Oswald,
with a mock bow.

Rona's visit to the Stantons was a delightful
series of new impressions. She made her first
acquaintance with the pantomime, and was alternately
amused and thrilled as the story of "The
Forty Thieves" unfolded itself upon the stage.
Not even Peter watched with more round-eyed
enthusiasm, and Mr. Stanton declared it was worth
taking her for the mere pleasure of seeing her face
when Ali Baba disappeared down a trap-door. As
everything in England was fresh to her, she was[Pg 99]
a most easy guest to entertain, and she enjoyed
every separate experience—from a visit to the
public library with Mr. Stanton to toffee-making
in the nursery with Peter and Dorothy.

Although it was a quiet Christmas in some
respects, friends were hospitable, and included her
in the various little invitations which were sent to
Ulyth and Oswald; so her pretty dresses had a
chance of being aired. The great event to the
young folk was the party which was to be given
at the Stantons' own house, and which was to be a
kind of finish to the holidays. The girls revelled
in every detail of preparation. They watched the
carpet being taken up in the drawing-room, the
large articles of furniture removed, and the door
taken off its hinges. They sprinkled ball-room
chalk on the boards of the floor, and slid indefatigably
until the polish satisfied Ulyth's critical taste.
They decorated the walls with flags and evergreens.
They even offered their services in the kitchen, but
met with so cool a reception from the busy cook
that they did not venture to repeat the experiment,
and consoled themselves with helping to write the
supper menus instead.

"I think I've seen to everything," said Mrs.
Stanton distractedly. "The flowers, and the fairy
lamps, and the programmes, and those extra boxes
of crackers, and the chocolates, and the ring for the
trifle. You've seen about the music, Gerald?"

"Violin and piano," replied Mr. Stanton. "I'm
feeling a thorough-going martyr. Giving even a
simple children's hop means sitting in rooms with[Pg 100]out
doors and living on turkey drumsticks for a
fortnight afterwards!"

"Oh, we'll get the house straight again sooner
than that! And you needn't eat grilled turkey
unless you like."

"I don't appreciate parties."

"We must amuse the young folks, and it isn't
a grand affair. If the children meet together they
may as well dance as play games."

"Daddikins, how nasty you are!" exclaimed
Ulyth, pursuing him to administer chastisement in
the shape of smacking kisses. "You know you're
looking forward to it quite as much as we are."

"That I deny in toto," groaned her father as he
escaped to his snuggery, only to find it arranged as
a dressing-room.

Ulyth wore white for the great occasion, with her
best Venetian beads; and Rona had a palest sea-green
gauzy voile, with fine stockings and satin
shoes to match. Dorothy was a bewitching little
vision in pink, and Peter a cherub in black velvet.
Oswald, having reached the stage of real gentleman's
evening-dress, required the whole family to
assist him in the due arrangement of his tie, over
which he was more than usually particular. Ulyth
even suspected him of having tried to shave, though
he denied the accusation fiercely.

It is always a solemn occasion waiting in the
drawing-room listening for the first peal of the bell
announcing visitors. Mrs. Stanton was giving a
last touch to the flowers, Ulyth sat wielding her
new fan (a Christmas present), Oswald was button[Pg 101]ing
his gloves. Dorothy, too excited to stand
still for a moment, flitted about like a pink fairy.

"I'm to stop up half an hour later than Peter,
Rona; do you hear that?" she chattered. "Oh,
I do hope the Prestons will arrive first of anybody!
I want to dance with Willie. Father let me have
a cracker just now, and it's got a whistle inside it.
I wish I had a pocket. Where shall I put it to
keep it safe? Oh, I know—inside that vase!"

As she spoke, Dorothy jumped lightly on to the
seat of the cosy corner that abutted on the fireplace,
and reached upwards to drop her whistle inside the
ornament. In her excitement she slipped, tried to
save herself, lost her footing, and fell sideways over
the curb on to the hearth. Her thin, flimsy dress
was within half an inch of the fire, but at that
instant Rona, who was standing by, clutched her
and pulled her forwards. It all happened in three
seconds. She was safe before her father had time
to run across the room. The family stared aghast.

"Whew! That was a near shave!" gasped
Oswald.

Dorothy, too much surprised and frightened to
cry, was clinging to her mother. Mr. Stanton,
acting on the spur of the moment, rushed to the
telephone to try if any ironmonger's shop in the
town was still open, and could immediately send
up a wire-gauze fire-protector. The fireplaces in
all the other rooms were well guarded, but in the
drawing-room the hearth was so wide, and the curb
so high, that the precaution had not been considered
necessary.[Pg 102]

"It only shows how absolutely vital it is to leave
no chance of an accident," said Mr. Stanton, returning
from the telephone. "Matthews are sending
a boy up at once with a guard. If it hadn't
been for Rona's promptitude—— Oh, there's the
bell! Oswald, fetch your mother a glass of water."

Poor Mrs. Stanton looked very pale, but had
recovered her composure sufficiently to receive her
young guests by the time they were ushered into
the drawing-room. Dorothy, child-like, forgot her
fright in the pleasure of welcoming her friends the
Prestons, and everything went on as if the accident
had not occurred. Mr. Stanton, indeed, kept a
close watch all the evening, to see that guards were
not pushed aside from the fires, and Mrs. Stanton's
eyes watched with more than usual solicitude a
certain little pink figure as it went dancing round
the room. The visitors knew nothing of the
accident that had been avoided, and there was no
check on the mirth of the party. The guests were
of all ages, from Peter's kindergarten comrades to
girls who were nearly grown-up, but it was really
all the jollier for the mixture. Tall and short
danced together with a happy disregard of inches,
and even a thorough enjoyment of the disparity.
Rona spent a royal evening. Her host and hostess
had been kindness itself before, but to-night it
seemed as if they conspired together to give her the
best of everything. She had her pick of partners,
the place of honour at supper, and—by most
egregious cheating—the ring somehow tumbled
on to her plate out of the trifle.[Pg 103]

"I'm getting spoilt," she said to Oswald.

"The mater's ready to kiss your boots," he returned.
"I never saw anything so quick as the
way you snatched old Dolly."

All good things come to an end some time, even
holidays, and one morning towards the end of
January witnessed a taxi at the door, and various
bags and packages, labelled Llangarmon Junction,
stowed inside.

"I don't know how to thank you. I haven't any
words," gulped Rona, as she hugged "Motherkins"
good-bye.

"Do your best at school, and remember certain
little things we talked about," whispered Mrs.
Stanton, kissing her. "We shall expect to see
you here again."

The general verdict on Rona, when she arrived
back at The Woodlands, was that she was wonderfully
improved.

"It isn't only her dresses," said Gertrude Oliver,
"though she looks a different girl in her new
clothes; her whole style's altered. She used to be
so fearfully loud. She's really toned down in the
most amazing fashion. I couldn't have believed it
possible."

"I'm afraid it's only a veneer," declared Stephanie,
with a slighting little laugh. "You'll find plenty
of raw backwoods underneath, ready to crop up
when she's off her guard. You should have heard
her this morning."

"And she broke an ink-bottle," added Beth
Broadway.

"Well, she's not perfect yet, of course, but I
stick to it that she's improved."

"Oh, I dare say! But Ulyth's welcome to keep
her cub. She'll always be more or less of a trial.
What else can you expect? 'What's bred in the
bone will come out!'"

"Yes, I'm a great believer in heredity," urged[Pg 105]
Beth, taking up the cudgels for her chum. "If
you have ancestors it gives you a decided pull."

"Everybody has ancestors, you goose," corrected
Gertrude.

"Well, of course I mean aristocratic ones. The
others don't count. It must make a difference
whether your grandfather was a gentleman or a
farm-boy. Rona says herself she's a democrat.
I'm sure she looked the part when she arrived."

"I don't know that she exactly looks it now,
though," said Gertrude, championing Rona for
once.

Everyone at the school realized that the Cuckoo
was trying to behave herself. The struggles towards
perfection were sometimes almost pathetic,
though the girls mostly viewed them from the
humorous side. She would sit up suddenly, bolt
upright, at the tea table, if Miss Bowes' eye suggested
that she was lolling; she apologized for
accidents at which she had laughed before, and
she corrected herself if a backwoods expression
escaped her.

"Am I really any shakes smarter—I mean, more
toned up—than I was?" she asked Ulyth anxiously.

"You're far better than you were last term. Do
go on trying, that's all!"

"Will they take me as a candidate in the Camp-fire
League?"

"I expect so, but we shall have to ask Mrs.
Arnold about that."

Since the great reunion by the stream in September
there had been no meetings of the Camp-fire[Pg 106]
League. Mrs. Arnold had been ill, and then had
gone away to recruit her health, and no one was
able to take her place as "Guardian of the Fire".
She was recovered now, and at home again, and
had promised to help to make up for lost time by
superintending a gathering at the beginning of the
new term. It was to be held in the big hall of the
school, though the girls begged hard to have it out-of-doors,
pleading that on a fine evening they could
keep perfectly warm, and it would only resemble a
Fifth of November affair.

"That may be all very well for you, but I'm not
going to risk Mrs. Arnold's catching cold," returned
Miss Bowes; which argument put a final
stop to the idea.

"We'll have ripping fun in the hall, if we can't
be outside," beamed Addie. "I always enjoy a
stunt."

"What's a stunt?" asked Rona.

"A stunt? Why, it's just a stunt!"

"It's an American word," explained Lizzie. "It
means just having any fun that comes. An impromptu
kind of thing, you know. We sing, or
recite, or act, or dance, on the spur of the moment—anything
to keep the ball rolling, and anybody
may be called upon at any moment to stand up and
perform."

"Without knowing beforehand?" queried Rona,
looking horror-stricken.

"Yes, that's the fun of it. We have a bag with
all our names written on slips of paper, and we
draw them out one by one to fill up the programme.[Pg 107]
Nobody knows who's to come next. You may be
the very first, or you may sit quaking all the evening,
and never be called at all."

"I hope to goodness—I mean, I hope very much—I
shan't be drawn."

"You never know; so you'd better have something
in your mind's eye."

Punctually at six o'clock on the appointed night
the whole school filed into the hall, each girl
carrying a candle in a candlestick. Saluting their
leader, they ranged themselves round the room for
the opening ceremony. At an indoor meeting this
was of necessity different from the kindling of the
camp-fire, but it had a certain impressiveness of its
own. First the lamps were extinguished, and the
room was placed in entire darkness. Then Mrs.
Arnold struck a match and lighted her candle,
which she held towards the Torch-bearer of highest
rank, who lighted hers from it, and performed the
same service for her next neighbour. In this way,
one after another, the candles were lighted all round
the room, every girl saying, as she offered the flame
to her comrade: "I pass on my light!" After the
"shining" song was sung, all the candlesticks were
arranged on the large central table, taking the place
the camp-fire would have occupied out-of-doors.

The business of the meeting came first, the roll-call
was read, and the recorders gave their reports
of the last gathering. Several members were
awarded honours for knowing the stars, being able
to observe certain things in geology and field
botany, or for ability in outdoor sports or indoor[Pg 108]
occupations, such as carpentry, stencilling, or sewing.
The ambulance work and the knitting done
last term were specially noted and commended. A
few new candidates applied for enrolment, and their
qualifications were carefully considered by the
Guardian of the Fire. Rona, after undergoing the
League Catechism from Catherine Sullivan, the
head girl and chief Torch-bearer, had submitted her
name as candidate, and now waited with much
anxiety to hear whether she would be accepted.
After several others had been admitted, Mrs. Arnold
at last called:

"Corona Margarita Mitchell."

Quite startled at the unaccustomed sound of her
full Christian name, Rona saluted and stepped
forward.

"You have passed only three out of the seven
tests required," said Mrs. Arnold. "I'm afraid you
will have to try again, Rona, and see if you can be
more successful before the next meeting. No candidate
can be accepted except on very good grounds.
That is the law of the League."

Much crestfallen, the Cuckoo fell back into her
place, and Mrs. Arnold was just about to read the
next name when Ulyth interrupted:

"Please, Guardian, if a candidate has shown
unusual presence of mind, may that not stand in
place of some of the other tests?"

"It depends on the circumstances. How does
that apply in this case?"

"Rona has saved a life," declared Ulyth, then
explained briefly how Dorothy had fallen on to the[Pg 109]
hearth and had been caught back from the fire in
the very nick of time.

"In her thin dress she would probably have been
burnt to death but for Rona's quickness," added
Ulyth, with a tremble in her voice.

"I had not heard of this," replied Mrs. Arnold.
"Rona is very greatly to be congratulated on her
presence of mind. Yes, I may safely say that it can
cancel the tests in which she has failed, and that we
may enrol her to-night as a candidate. Corona
Margarita Mitchell, if for three months you preserve
a good character in the school, and learn to recite
the seven rules of the Camp-fire Law, you may
then present yourself as eligible for the initial rank
of Wood-gatherer in the League. There is your
Candidate's Badge."

Immensely gratified, Rona received her little bow
of blue ribbon. She had hardly dared to hope for
success, as Catherine had been rather withering
over her Catechism, and had warned her that she
would probably be disqualified. It was pleasant to
meet with encouragement, and especially to be commended
before the whole school. She had never
dreamt of such luck, and she looked her grateful
thanks at Ulyth across the room.

She was the last but one on the list of applicants,
and when Jessie Howard (alas, poor Jessie!) had
been rejected the ceremonial part of the meeting
was over. The girls smiled, for now the "stunt"
was to begin. Catherine produced the bag, shook
it well, and handed it to Mrs. Arnold, who drew
out a slip of paper.[Pg 110]

"Marjorie Earnshaw!" she announced.

"Glad it's one of the Sixth to open the ball,"
murmured some of the younger girls as Marjorie
stepped to the circle reserved for performers in front
of the table.

The owner of the one guitar in the school was
always much in request at Camp-fire gatherings,
so it seemed a fortunate chance that her name should
be drawn first. She had brought her instrument,
so as to be prepared in case the lot fell on her, and
giving the E string a last hurried tuning she sat
down and began a popular American ditty. It was
a favourite among the girls, for it had a lively, rollicking
chorus, which they sang with great gusto.
Fifty voices roaring out: "Don't forget your Dinah!"
seemed to break the ice and set the fun going.

Marjorie's E string snapped suddenly, but she
played as best she could on the others, though she
confessed afterwards that she felt like a horse that
has lost its shoe. Except for this accident she
would have responded to the enthusiastic calls of
"Encore!"; as it was, she retired into the background
to fix a new string. It lent a decided element
of excitement to the programme that nobody
knew what the next item was to be. The lot, as it
happened, fell on one of the younger girls, who was
overwhelmed with shyness and could only with
great urging be persuaded to recite a short piece of
poetry. By the law of the Stunt everybody was
obliged to perform if called upon, so Aveline fired
off her sixteen lines of Longfellow with breathless
speed, and fled back joyfully to the ranks of the[Pg 111]
Juniors. Two piano solos and a step-dance followed,
then the turn came to Doris Deane, a member of
the Upper Fifth. Doris's speciality was acting, so
she promptly begged for two assistants, and chose
from IV b a couple of junior members who had
practised with her before. Taking Nellie and
Trissie for "Asia" and "Australia", she gave the
scene from Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch
where that delightful but haphazard heroine gets
herself and the children ready to go to the opera.
The zeal with which she ironed their dresses, her
alternate scoldings and cajolings, her wild hunt for
the tickets, which all the while were stuck in her
belt, the grandeur of her deportment when the
family was at last prepared for the outing, all were
most amusingly represented. Doris was really a
born actress, and so completely carried her audience
with her that the lack of costumes and scenery was
not felt in the force of the reality that she managed
to throw into her part. Covered with glory, she
gave place to her successor, who, while bewailing
the hardness of her luck in having to follow so
smart a performance, recited a humorous ballad
which won peals of applause. Mrs. Arnold again
dipped her hand into the bag and unfolded a twist
of paper.

"Corona M. Mitchell," she read.

"Not me, surely! I can't do anything," objected
Rona hastily.

"You'll have to," laughed the girls. "No one's
let off."

"I can't, I tell you. I've no parlour tricks."[Pg 112]

"Give us a story, Rona," suggested Ulyth.
"One of those New Zealand adventures you used
to tell to Peter and Dorothy. They loved them."

"Yes, yes! A camp-fire story. That would be
spiffing!" clamoured the girls. "Sit on the floor,
near the fire, and we'll all squat near you. We
haven't had a story for ages and ages!"

"Tell it just as you did at home," urged Ulyth.

"I'll try my best," sighed Rona, taking a small
stool near the fire, so as to be slightly above the
audience clustered round the hearthrug.

"It happened about a year ago," she began;
"that's summer-time in New Zealand, you know,
because the seasons are just opposite. It was
Pamela Higson's birthday, and I'd been asked to
go over for the day. I saddled Brownie, my best
pony, and started at seven, because it's a twelve-mile
ride to the Higsons' farm, and I wanted to be
early so as to have time for plenty of fun. Brownie
was fresh, and he wasn't tired when I got there, so
we decided to give him an hour's rest and then ride
up into the bush and have a picnic. Pamela showed
me her birthday presents while we waited. She'd
had a box sent her by the mail, and she was very
delighted about it.

"Well, at perhaps eleven o'clock I set off with
Pamela and the rest of the Higson children. There
was Jake, just my own age, and Billy, a little
younger, and Connie and Minnie, the two smallest.
Oh yes, we each had our own horse or pony:
Everybody rides out there. We slung baskets and
tin cans over our saddles and then started up by[Pg 113]
the dry bed of the river towards the head of the
gully. It was very hot (January's like July here),
but we all had big hats and we didn't care. It was
such fun to be together. When your nearest neighbours
are twelve miles off you don't see them often
enough to get tired of them. Billy was always
making jokes, and Jake was jolly too in a quiet
kind of way. Sometimes we could all ride abreast,
and sometimes we had to go in single file, and our
horses seemed to enjoy it as much as we did.
Brownie loved company, so it was a treat for him
as well as for me. The place we were going to was
a piece of high land that lay at the top of the valley
above the Higsons' block. There were generally
plenty of berries up there, and we thought they'd
just be ripe. It took us a fairly long time to do the
climb, because there was no proper road, only a
rough track. It was lovely, though, when we got
up; we had a splendid view down the gully, and
the air was so much cooler and fresher than it had
been at the farm. We tethered our horses and
gathered scrub to make a fire and boil our kettle.
In New Zealand no one thinks of having a meal
without drinking tea with it. We'd the jolliest picnic.
The Higsons were famous for their cakes, and
they'd brought plenty with them. I can tell you
we didn't leave very many in the baskets.

"'Best put out our camp-fire,' Jake said when
we'd finished; so we all set to work and stamped it
out carefully. Everything was so dry with the heat
that a spark might easily have set fire to the bush.
Then we took our cans and went off to find berries.[Pg 114]
There were heaps of them; so we just picked and
picked and picked for ever so long. Suddenly,
when we were talking, we heard a noise and looked
round. There was a stampede among the horses,
and two of them, Billy's and Connie's, had broken
loose and were careering down the gully. We ran
as quick as lightning to the others for fear they
might also free themselves and follow. I caught
Brownie by the bridle and soothed him as well as
I could; but he was very excited and trembling,
and kept sniffing. Then I saw what had frightened
him, for a puff of wind brought a puff of smoke with
it, and ahead of us I saw a dark column whirl up
towards the sky. Even the youngest child who's
lived in the bush knows what that means. When
all the grass and everything is so dry, the least
thing will start a fire. Sometimes campers-out are
careless, and the wind blows sparks; sometimes
even a piece of an old bottle left lying about will
act as a burning-glass. We didn't inquire the
reason; all we knew was that we must tear back to
the farm as rapidly as we could. Bush fires spread
fearfully fast, and this one would probably sweep
straight down the gorge.

"With two animals gone, luck was against us.
Billy took Minnie's pony, Connie mounted behind
Jake, and I made Minnie come with me on Brownie,
because he was so strong, and better able to bear
the double burden than Pamela's horse. It was
well for us we were good riders, for we pelted down
that gully fit to break our necks. Brownie was a
sure-footed little beast, but the way he went slither[Pg 115]ing
over rocks would have scared me if I hadn't
been more afraid of the fire behind. We knew it
would be touch and go whether we could save the
farm or not. If the men were all far away there
would be very little chance, though we meant to do
our level best.

"Well, as I was saying, we just stampeded down
the gully, and our horses kept their feet somehow.
I guess we arrived at the house like a tornado.
We yelled out our news, and coo-eed to some of
the men we could see working in the distance.
They came running at once, and Mrs. Higson sent
up the rocket that was used on the farm as a danger-signal.
Fortunately the rest of the men had only
gone a short way. They were back almost directly,
and everybody set to work to make a wide ring of
bare land round the farm. They cut down trees,
and threw up earth, and burnt a great patch of
grass, and we children helped too for all we were
worth. We were only just in time. We could see
the great cloud of smoke coming down the valley,
and as it grew nearer we heard the roaring or the
fire. It seemed to bear down on us suddenly in
a great burning sheet. For a moment or two the
air was so hot that we could scarcely breathe, then
the flame struck our ring of bare land, and parted
in two and passed on either side of us, leaving the
farm as an island. We watched it go crackling
farther down the valley, till at last it spent itself in
a rocky creek where it had nothing to feed on. All
the place it had passed over was burnt to cinders,
a horrible black mass. Only the house and the[Pg 116]
buildings and a few fields round them were untouched.
It was an awful birthday for poor
Pamela."

"Was your own farm hurt?" asked the girls
breathlessly, as Rona paused in her story.

"Not at all. You see it was in quite a different
valley, and the fire hadn't been near. Jake rode
home with me, to make sure I was safe. Dad
hadn't even seen the smoke."

"Suppose you hadn't noticed the fire when you
were up in the hills?"

"Then we should have been burnt to cinders,
farm and all."

"I think Rona's most thrilling adventure will
have to end our Stunt," said Mrs. Arnold. "It's
nearly eight o'clock. Time to wind up and get
ready for supper. Attention, please! Each girl
take her candle. Where's our pianist? Torch-bearer
Catherine, will you start the Good-night
Song?"

"I'm a candidate now, thanks to you!" exulted
Rona to Ulyth; "perhaps by Easter I may be a
Wood-gatherer!"

"It's something to work for, isn't it?" said
Mrs. Arnold, who happened to overhear

Winter in the Craigwen Valley, instead of proving
a dreary season of frost or fog, was apt to be as
variable as April. Sheltered by the tall mountains,
the climate was mild, and though snow would lie
on the peaks of Penllwyd and Cwm Dinas it rarely
rested on the lower levels. Very early in January
the garden at The Woodlands could boast brave
clumps of snowdrops and polyanthus, a venturous
wallflower or two, and quite a show of yellow
jessamine over the south porch. The glade by
the stream never seemed to feel the touch of winter.
Many of the oak-trees kept their brown leaves till
the new ones came to replace them, honeysuckle
trails and brambles continually put out verdant
shoots, the lastrea ferns that grew near the brink of
the water showed tall green fronds untouched by
frost, and the moss was never more vivid. The
glen, indeed, had a special beauty in winter-time, for
the bare boughs of the alders took exquisite tender
shades of purples and greys, warming into amber
in the sunshine, and defying the cunningest brush
which artist could wield to do them justice. By
the middle of January the tightly rolled lambs' tails[Pg 118]
on the hazels were unfolding themselves and beginning
to scatter pollen, and a few stray specimens
of last summer's flowers, a belated campion
or hawkweed, would struggle out from the
rough grass under a protecting gorse-bush. The
days varied: rain, the penalty for living near
mountains, often swept down the valley, bringing
glorious cloud-effects, and sending the stream
swirling over its boulders with a boom of myriad
voices. Sometimes the sudden swelling of its tributaries
made the Craigwen River overtop its banks,
flooding the low-lying meadows till, augmented
by the high tide, its waters filled the valley from
end to end like a lake. This occasional flooding
of the marsh was good for the fields, and ensured
a rich hay-crop next summer, so the school felt it
could enjoy the picturesque aspect without needing
to deplore loss to the farmers.

On the 21st of January Miss Teddington had a
birthday. She would have suppressed the fact altogether
if possible, or treated it in quite a surreptitious
and off-hand fashion, but with her autograph
plainly written in forty-nine separate birthday-books
the Fates were against her. She was obliged
to receive the united congratulations of the school,
to accept, with feigned surprise, the present which
was offered her, and to say a few appropriate words
of appreciation and thanks. She did not do it well,
for her manner was always abrupt, and even
verged on the ungracious, the greatest contrast to
the bland and tactful utterances of Miss Bowes.

This year the annual ceremony was gone through[Pg 119]
as usual: Catherine, as head girl, proffered the
good wishes and the volume of Carlyle; Lucy
Morris, on behalf of the Nature Study Union,
handed a bouquet of polyanthus, rosemary, periwinkle,
pansies, and pink daisies culled from the
garden, the earliness of which Miss Teddington
remarked upon, as though she had not watched
their progress for the last week.

"I'm very much obliged to you all," she said
jerkily, looking nevertheless as if she were longing
to bolt for the door.

But she was not yet to make her escape. There
was another time-honoured ceremony to be observed.
All eyes were turned to Miss Bowes, who
rose as usual to the occasion.

"I think, girls," she said pleasantly, "that, considering
it is Miss Teddington's birthday, we ought
to take some special notice of the occasion. Suppose
we ask her to grant a holiday, so that we may
make an expedition in her honour. Who votes for
this?"

Forty-nine hands were instantly raised, and forty-nine
voices cried "I do!" Miss Teddington, who
utterly disapproved of odd holidays during term-time,
submitted with what grace she could muster,
and gave a rather chilly assent, which was immediately
drowned in a storm of clapping. The girls,
who always suspected the Principals of an annual
argument on the subject, felt they had scored for
this year at any rate, and were certainly one holiday
to the good.

There was no question at all as to where they[Pg 120]
should walk. Every 21st January, weather permitting,
they turned their steps in the same direction.
On certain portions of the marsh, near the
river, grew fields of wild snowdrops, and to go
snowdropping before February set in was as much
an institution as turning their money when they
first heard the cuckoo, or wishing at the sight of
the earliest white butterfly. As a matter of fact,
though the delicate fiction of asking for the holiday
was preserved, it was such a sine qua non that the
cook was prepared for it. She had baked jam tartlets
and made potted meat the day before, and was
already cutting sandwiches and packing them in
greaseproof paper. Every girl at The Woodlands
possessed a basket, just as she owned a penknife or
a French dictionary. It was equally indispensable.
She would carry out her lunch in it, and bring it
back filled with flowers, berries, or nature specimens,
as the case might be. Each was labelled
with the owner's name, and hung in a big cupboard
under the stairs. Some of the girls also used
walking-sticks with crooked handles, which were
found convenient weapons for hooking down
brambles or branches of catkins.

Shortly after ten o'clock the school started, every
Woodlander bearing her basket, containing sandwiches,
two tartlets, an orange, and a small
enamelled drinking-mug. There were to be no
camp-fires to-day, so cold water from the stream
would have to suffice, and would make tea all the
more welcome when they returned home. It was
quite a fine morning, with sudden gleams of sunshine[Pg 121]
that burst from the clouds and spread in
long, slanting, golden rays over the valley; just
the kind of sky the early masters of landscape
painting loved to put in their pictures, with a
background of neutral tint and a bright, scraped-out
light in the foreground. The little solitary farms
stood out white here and there against the green
of the fields, the pine-trees on the hill-sides showed
darkly in contrast to the bare larches. Cwm Dinas
was inky purple to-day, but Penllwyd was capped
with snow. Miss Bowes, who was not a good
walker, had not ventured to join the expedition,
but Miss Teddington strode along at the head of
the party, chatting to some of the Sixth Form.

"I'm sure she's wishing she were giving a Latin
lesson instead," said Lizzie Lonsdale. "She looks
rather grim."

"Perhaps she's remembering she's a year older
to-day," returned Beth Broadway.

"How old is she, do you think?" giggled Addie
Knighton.

"That, my child, is a secret that will never be
divulged. I dare say you'd like to know?"

"I should, immensely."

"Then you won't be gratified, unless you go to
Somerset House and hunt her name up in the
register of births. Even then you'd find it difficult,
for you don't know her Christian name, only her
initial."

"Yes; she never will write more than 'M. Teddington'
in anybody's birthday-book. M might
stand for Mary or Martha or Margaret or Milli[Pg 122]cent
or anything. Doesn't even Miss Bowes
know?"

"If she does she won't tell. It's a state-secret."

"Well, never mind; we call her Teddie, and
that will do."

Many were the ingenious devices which the girls
had adopted for trying to find out both Miss
Teddington's Christian name and her age. They
spoke of historic events that had happened before
their parents had been born, fondly hoping she
might betray some memory of them and commit
herself. But she was not to be caught; she treated
all events, however recent or old, from a purely
impersonal standpoint, and left them still in the
dark as to whether she was an infant in arms at
the time or an adult able to enjoy the newspapers.
On the subject of names she was indifferent, and
would express no opinion on the relative merits of
Mary, Martha, Margaret, Millicent, Marion, Muriel,
Mona, or Maud.

"It's either plain Mary, or something so fearfully
fancy she won't own up to it," decided the
girls.

In whatever decade Miss Teddington's birthday
placed her, this year she was certainly in the prime
of life and energy as concerned the school. Her
keen eyes noticed everything, and woe betide the
slacker who thought to escape her, and dared
bring an unprepared lesson to class. Her sarcasms
on such occasions made her victims writhe,
though they were apt to be witty enough to amuse[Pg 123]
the rest of the form. Though, like John Gilpin's
wife, she was on pleasure bent to-day, she never
for a moment forgot she was in charge, and kept
turning to see that everybody was following, and
nobody straggling far off in the rear.

It was a three-mile walk from The Woodlands to
the snowdrop meadows—first along the high road,
with an occasional short cut across a field or through
a spinney, then down a deep, narrow lane past a
farm, where the sight of a new-born lamb (the first
of the season) caused great excitement. Some of
the girls, who loved old superstitions, pretended to
divine their luck by whether it was standing facing
them or otherwise when they first caught a glimpse
of it; but, the general verdict deciding that it was
exactly sideways, they found it impossible to give
any accurate predictions for the future.

"You'd better keep to something vague that can
be construed two ways, like the Delphic Oracle or
Old Moore's Almanac," laughed Ulyth.

Once past the farm the walk began to grow
specially interesting. The deep lane, only intended
for use in summer, when carts brought
loads of hay from the marsh, was turned by winter
rains into the bed of a stream. The girls picked
their way at first along the bank, then by jumping
from stone to stone, but finally the water grew so
deep it was impossible to proceed farther without
wading. They had been in the same emergency
before, so it did not daunt their enthusiasm. One
and all they scaled the high, wide, loosely built
wall to their left. Here they could walk as on a[Pg 124]
terrace, with the flooded lane on one side and on
the other the rushing Porth Powys stream, making
its hurrying way to join the Craigwen River. It
was not at all an easy progress, for the wall was
overgrown with hazel bushes and a tangle of
brambles, and its unmortared surface had deep
holes, into which the unwary might put a foot.
For several hundred yards they struggled on, decidedly
to the detriment of their clothing, and
rather encumbered by their baskets; then at last
they reached the particular corner they were seeking,
and scrambled down into the meadow.

This field was such a favourite with the girls
that they had come to regard it almost as their own
property. Miss Teddington had found it out many
years ago, and its discovery was always considered
a point in her roll of merit. It was an expanse of
grassy land, bounded on one side by the Porth
Powys stream and on the other by a deep dyke,
and leading down over a rushy tract to the reed-grown
banks of the river. The view over the
many miles of marshland, with the blue mountains
rising up behind and the silvery gleam of the river,
was superb. The brown, quivering, feathery reeds
made a glorious foreground for the amber and
vivid green of the banks farther on; and the gorgeous
sky effects of rolling clouds, glinting sun,
and patches of bluest heaven were like the beginning
of one of St. John's visions.

Near at hand, dotted all over the field, bloomed
the wild snowdrops in utmost profusion, with a
looser habit of growth, a longer stalk, and a wider[Pg 125]
flower than the garden variety. Lovely pure-white
blossoms, with their tiny green markings, they
stood like fairy bells among the grass, so dainty
and perfect, it seemed almost a sacrilege to disturb
them. The girls, however, were not troubled with
any such scruples, and set to work to pick in hot
haste.

"I'm going down by the stream," said Ulyth;
"one gets far the best there if one hunts about, and
I brought my stick."

Rona, Addie and Lizzie joined her, and with
considerable difficulty scrambled down to the
water's edge. For those who preferred quality to
quantity, and who did not mind getting torn by
briers, this was undoubtedly the place to come.
In pockets of fine river-sand, their roots stretching
into the stream, grew the very biggest and finest
of the snowdrops. Most of them peeped through a
very tangle of brambles; but who minded scratched
arms and torn sleeves to secure such treasures?

"Look at these. The stalks must be nine inches
long, and the flower's nearly as big as a Lent lily,"
exulted Ulyth. "I shall send them to Mother, with
some hazel catkins and some lovely moss."

"Everybody will be sending away boxes to-night,"
said Addie. "The postman will have a
load."

"What's that?" cried Lizzie, for a sudden rush
and scuffle sounded on the other side of the
stream, a rat leaped wildly from the bank, and
a shaved poodle half jumped, half fell after it into
the water.[Pg 126]

The rat was gone in an eighth of a second, but
the dog found himself in difficulties. It was a case
of "look before you leap", and a fat, wheezy, French
poodle is not at home in a quick-rushing stream.

"Oh, the poor little beast's drowning!" exclaimed
Ulyth in horror.

Rona, with extreme promptitude, had flown to
the rescue. Close by where they stood the trunk
of a half-fallen alder stretched out over the water.
It was green and slippery, and anything but an
inviting bridge, but she crawled along it somehow,
and, clinging with one hand, contrived to reach the
dog's collar with the other and hold him up. What
she would have done next it is impossible to say,
for he was too heavy to lift in her already precarious
position; but at that moment a gentleman,
evidently in quest of his pet, parted the hazel
boughs and took in the situation at a glance.

"Hold hard a moment," he called, and, scrambling
down the bank, managed to make a long arm
and hook his stick into the poodle's collar and drag
the almost strangled creature to shore.

Until Rona had cautiously wriggled round on
the bough, and crept back safely, the spectators
watched in considerable anxiety. They need not
have been alarmed, however, for after her many
New Zealand experiences she thought this a very
poor affair.

The owner of the dog shouted his thanks from
the opposite bank of the stream and disappeared
behind the high hedge. The whole episode had
not taken five minutes.[Pg 127]

"Do you know who that was? It was Lord
Glyncraig," said Addie in rather awestruck tones.

"Was it? Well, I'm sure I don't care," returned
Rona a trifle defiantly. "I'd have saved John
Jones's dog quite as readily."

"What a pity he didn't ask your name! He
might have invited you to tea at Plas Cafn, then
you'd have scored over Stephie no end."

"I'm sure I don't want to go to tea at Plas Cafn,
thank you," snapped Rona, rather out of temper.

"But think of the fun of it," persisted Addie.
"I only wish they'd ask me."

"They won't ask any of us, so what's the use
of talking?" said Lizzie. "Let's go back to the
others; it must be time for lunch."

They found the rest of the girls seated on the
wall, as being the driest spot available, and already
attacking their packets of sandwiches. Some had
even reached the jam-tartlet stage.

"It's a good thing we've each got our own
private basket, or there wouldn't be much left for
you," shouted Mary Acton. "Where have you
been all this while?"

"Consorting with members of the Peerage,"
said Addie airily. "Oh yes, my dear girl! We've
had quite what you might call a confidential talk
down by the stream with Lord Glyncraig."

"Not really?" asked Stephanie, pricking up her
ears.

"Really and truly! He's not your special property
any longer. Rona has quite supplanted
you."[Pg 128]

"I don't believe it. You're ragging." Stephanie
was rather pink and indignant.

"Ask the others, if you want to know."

No one was particularly sorry to take a rest after
all the scrambling. The lunch tasted good out-of-doors,
and the last tartlet had soon disappeared.
Rona, perched on a tree-stump, began her orange,
and tossed long yellow strands of peel on to the
bank below her.

"Oh, stop that, before Teddie catches you!"
urged Ulyth; but she was too late, for Miss Teddington
had already spied the offending pieces.

"Who threw those?" she demanded. "Then,
Rona Mitchell, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.
Go and pick them up at once, and put them
inside your basket. What do you think the field
will look like if more than fifty people strew it with
orange-peel and sandwich-paper! We don't come
here to spoil the beautiful spots we have been enjoying.
I should be utterly disgraced if the school
behaved like a party of cheap-trippers. Woodlanders
ought to respect all natural scenery. I
thought you would have learnt that by this time,
but it appears you haven't. Don't forget it again."

Much crushed, Rona collected the peel, and,
wrapping it carefully in her piece of sandwich-paper,
put it in the very bottom of her basket,
under a layer of catkins. The girls had brought
bobbins of thread with them, and were making their
snowdrops into little bunches, with ivy leaves and
lambs'-tails from the hazel. A few lucky explorers
had even found some palm opening on the sallows.[Pg 129]
Several had nature notes to contribute. Nellie
Barlow and Gladys Broughton had seen a real
weasel, and plumed themselves accordingly, till
Evie Isherwood capped their story by producing
the remains of a last year's chaffinch's nest she had
found in a tree.

"If I said I'd seen a snake, should I be believed?"
whispered Rona.

"Certainly not. Everyone knows that snakes
hibernate; so don't try it on," returned Ulyth,
laughing.

"Half-past two. We must be going back at
once, girls, or there won't be time to send off your
snowdrops," said Miss Teddington. "Pack your
baskets and come along."

The girls left the snowdrop field with reluctance,
though they realized the necessity for hurry. Nearly
everyone wished to dispatch her spoils home, and
unless the boxes were sent very early to the post-office
the chances were that there would not be time
for the postmaster to stamp them officially, and that
they might languish somewhere in the background
of the village shop until next day, and consequently
arrive at their destination in an utterly withered
condition.

The school scrambled back along the top of the
wall, therefore, with what haste the brambles and
hazel-bushes allowed them, splashed recklessly
among the pools of the flooded lane, and regained
the high road with quite record speed. Ulyth,
walking with Lizzie Lonsdale, had left Rona in
the rear. Rona, owing to her intimacy with Ulyth,
tried to tag on to V b, often receiving snubs from
some of its members. Her own form-mates were
all considerably younger than herself. At first
they had teased her shamelessly, but since the
Christmas holidays, recognizing that she was gaining
a more established position in the school, they[Pg 131]
had begun to treat her more mercifully. Some of
them were really rather jolly children, and though
twelve seems young to fourteen, the poor Cuckoo
was still a lonely enough bird to welcome any
crumbs of friendship thrown in her way.

At the present moment Winnie Fowler and
Hattie Goodwin were clinging to her arms, one on
either side. Their motives, I fear, were a trifle
mixed. They found Rona amusing and liked her
company, but also they were tired and found if
they dragged a little she would pull them along
without remonstrance.

"My shoes are ever so wet," boasted Winnie.
"I plumped down deep in the lane, and the water
went right through the laces at the top. It squelches
as I walk. I feel like a soldier in the trenches."

"I've torn my coat in three places," said Hattie,
not to be outdone. "It will be a nice little piece
of work for Mrs. Johnson to mend it."

"Glad they don't make us mend our own coats
here," grunted Winnie.

"Miss Bowes would be ashamed to see me in it
if I did," Hattie chuckled, "but I've knitted a whole
sock since Christmas, and turned the heel too.
Cuckoo, aren't you tired?"

"Not a scrap," replied Rona, who was stumping
along sturdily in spite of her encumbrances.

"Well, I am. I wish it wasn't three miles back."

"It's not more than two as the crow flies."

"But we're not crows, and we can't fly, and there
are no aeroplanes to give us a lift. We've got to
tramp, tramp, tramp along the hard high road.[Pg 132]
I begin to sympathize with Tommies on the
march."

"Why need we stick to the high road?" said
Rona, pausing suddenly. "If we struck across
country we'd save a mile or more. Look, The
Woodlands is over there, and if we made a beeline
for it we'd cut off all that enormous round by
Cefn Mawr. Who's game to try?"

"Oh, I am, if we can dodge Teddie!"

"Likewise this child," added Winnie.

"Oh, we'll dodge Teddie right enough! It will
be good scouting practice," chuckled Rona. "Sit
down on that stone and tie your shoelace, and we'll
wait for you while the others go on; then we'll
bolt through that gate and over the wall into the
next field."

The idea that it was scouting practice lent a
vestige of sanction to the proceeding. Winnie
took the hint, and adjusted her shoelaces with
elaborate care and deliberation.

"Don't be all day over that," said Miss Teddington,
who passed by but did not wait.

The moment she was round the corner of the
road, and the high hedge screened her from view,
the three deserters were through the gate and running
across the field. They scaled a wall without
much difficulty, and found themselves on a wide
gorse-grown pasture. Though they could not now
see the chimneys of The Woodlands in the distance,
there were other landmarks quite sufficient
to guide them. They plodded on cheerfully.

"It would be prime to have our snowdrops all[Pg 133]
packed up before the others got back," ventured
Hattie. "They'd be so surprised. They'd wonder
how we'd stolen a march on them."

"If Teddie asks where we were, we can truly say
'at the front'," Winnie giggled.

"You'd better not pick up any nature specimens,
though, or she'll want to know 'the exact
locality' where you found them."

"Um—yes! That might be awkward. This
toadstool shall stay on its native heath, in case it
tells tales."

It was rather a fascinating walk, all amongst the
gorse-bushes. None of the three had been there
before, and instinctively the younger ones left Rona
to lead the way. Her bump of locality had been
well developed in New Zealand, so she strode on
with confidence. But the ground shelved down
suddenly, revealing a natural feature upon which
they had not counted, a fairly wide brook, running
between sandy banks. Here indeed was an obstacle.
Winnie and Hattie stared at it with blank
faces and groaned.

"We'd forgotten the wretched Llanelwyn stream.
What atrocious luck! Don't believe there's the
ghost of a bridge anywhere. Shall we have to go
back?"

"I'm not going back," declared Rona sturdily.
"There must be some way of getting over it some
where. Come along and we'll prospect."

"Oh, for the wings of a dove!" sighed Hattie.
"Even those of the raggedest sparrow would be
welcome."[Pg 134]

"Better wish yourself a fish, for you may have
to try swimming," grunted Winnie.

"I can't swim—not a stroke! You'll suggest I
shall jump it next, I suppose. Look here, we shall
have to go back. There's nothing else for it.
Rona! Corona Mitchell! Corona Margarita!
Cuckoo! Where've you gone to?"

"Coo—ee!" came in reply from the distance,
and presently Rona appeared beckoning vigorously.

"We're—going—back," shouted Hattie.

"No, no! Come along here."

Anxious to see if she had found any solution of
the problem, the others pelted down a slope and
joined her.

"Here's our bridge," said Rona proudly, as
soon as they rounded the corner.

"That thing!" exclaimed Winnie, looking aghast
at the decidedly slim pole, that was fixed across
the stream as a cattle bar.

"I'm not a tight-rope dancer, thank you!"
sneered Hattie rather indignantly.

"It'll be quite easy," Rona urged.

"Oh, I dare say! You won't find me trying to
walk across it, I can tell you."

"I didn't ask you to walk. I'm going to sit on
it cross-legged, like a tailor, and shuffle myself
over. It's broad enough for that. I'll go first."

"Oh, I daren't! I'd drop in!" wailed the
younger ones in chorus.

"Now don't funk. What two sillies you are!
It won't be as hard as you think. Just watch me
do it."[Pg 135]

Fortunately the pole had two great advantages:
it was firmly fixed in the bank on either side, so
that it did not sway about, and, being the trunk
of a fir-tree with the bark still left on, its surface
offered some grip. Rona's progress was slow but
steady. She worked herself over by a few inches
at a time. When she reached the water's edge on
the far side she dropped on to a patch of silver
sand and hurrahed.

"Buck up, and come along," she yelled lustily.

This was scouting with a vengeance, and more
than the others had bargained for; but the stronger
will prevailed, and though they shook in their shoes
they were persuaded to make the experiment.

"I'm all dithering," panted Hattie, as Winnie
pushed her forward to try first.

It was not as bad as she had expected. She was
able to cling tightly with hands and knees, and
though she had one awful moment in the middle,
when she thought she was overbalancing, she
reached Rona's outstretched hand in due course.

"You squealed like a pig," said the Cuckoo.

"I thought I was done for. Wouldn't you like
to feel how my heart's beating?"

"No, I shouldn't. Don't be affected. Come
along, Win. We can't wait all day. I'll fish you
out if you tumble in, I promise you. It isn't deep
enough to drown you."

With many protestations, Winnie, really very
much scared, followed the others' lead, and got
along quite successfully till within a foot of the
brink; then the sudden mooing of a cow on the[Pg 136]
bank startled her, and so upset her equilibrium
that she splashed into the water, wetting one leg
thoroughly.

"Ugh! My shoes were squelchy enough before,"
she lamented. "You can't think how horrid it is."

"Never mind, you've got across."

"But you might sympathize."

"Haven't time. We shall have to hurry up if we
mean to be back before the others."

"Did you think the cow was Teddie calling you?"
laughed Hattie, who, having got her own trial over,
could afford to jest at other people's misfortunes.

"You'd have jumped yourself. Oh dear, I spilt
most of my snowdrops, though I did tie the basket
round my neck!"

"Never mind; you can't fish them out of the
stream now. I'll give you some of mine. Here,
take these," said Rona. "I've nobody to send
them to," she added, half to herself, as she climbed
the bank.

"Oh, thanks awfully! I always send Mother a
big bunch. She looks forward to them. I've brought
a cardboard box from home on purpose to pack
them in, because the cook runs quite out of starch-boxes.
Some of the girls last year had to wrap
theirs just in brown paper. If you don't want
yours, can you spare me a few more?"

"I'll keep just these to put in my bedroom, and
you may have the rest if you like," replied Rona,
stalking ahead.

Every now and then the sense of her loneliness
smote her. She would probably be the only girl[Pg 137]
in the school who was not sending flowers away
to-night. How different it would be if she had
anybody in England who took an interest in her
and cared to receive her snowdrops!

"It's no use crying for the moon," she decided,
blinking hard lest she should betray symptoms of
weakness before her juniors. "When a thing
can't be helped it can't, and there's an end of it."

"Cuckoo! Corona Margarita! Do wait for us!
You walk like the wind."

"Or as if a bull were chasing you," panted
Hattie, overtaking her and claiming a supporting
arm. "Do you see where we've got ourselves to?
The only way out of this is to go straight through
the Glynmaen Wood."

"Well, and why shouldn't we go through the
Glynmaen Wood? Is it any different to any other
wood?"

"No, only they're horribly particular about trespassing.
They stick up all kinds of notices warning
people off."

"What rubbish! Why, in New Zealand we go
where we like."

"Oh, I dare say, in New Zealand!"

"Look, there's a notice up there," said Winnie,
pointing over the hedge to a tree whereon was
nailed a weather-stained board bearing the inhospitable
legend: "Trespassers Beware".

Rona stared at it quite belligerently.

"I should like to pull it down," she observed.
"What right has anybody to try to keep places all
to themselves?"[Pg 138]

"I suppose it belongs to Lord Glyncraig."

"All the more shame to him then. I shall take
a particular pleasure in going, just because he sticks
up 'Don't'."

"Suppose we're caught?"

"My blessed babes, you don't suppose I've come
all this short cut and scrambled over a pole to be
turned back by a trespass notice! Do you want to
cross the stream again and trail home by the road?"

"Rather not!"

"Then I'll give you a boost to get over the fence
there."

The property was well protected. It took Rona's
best efforts to help her companions to scale the high
oak boards. When they had all dropped safely to
the other side they set off through the trees in the
direction they judged would bring them out nearest
to The Woodlands.

Three girls in thick shoes do not pass absolutely
silently through a wood, especially if they indulge
in giggles. Winnie and Hattie, moreover, could
never be together without chattering incessantly.
For the moment they had forgotten every principle
of scouting. In that quiet, secluded spot their shrill
voices rang out with extreme clearness. A rabbit
or two scuttled away, and a pheasant flew off with
a whirr. Presently another and heavier pair of
boots might be heard tramping towards them, the
bushes parted, and a dour-looking face, with lantern
jaws and a stubbly chin, regarded them grimly.
The gamekeeper glowered a moment, then growled
out:[Pg 139]

"What are you three a-doing here?"

"That's our own business," retorted Rona briskly.

" Indeed? Well, it happens to be my business
too. You're trespassing, and you know it."

"We're doing no harm."

"Aren't you? I suppose it's nothing to scare
every pheasant in the wood. Oh dear no!"

"What nonsense! It was only one," exclaimed
Rona, standing up against the bullying tone.
"You're making the most unnecessary fuss. What
right have you to stop us?"

"More right than you've got to be here. I won't
have anybody in these woods, schoolgirls or no
schoolgirls, so just you get back the way you
came, or——"

"That will do, Jordan," said a voice behind him.

The keeper started, turned, and touched his cap
obsequiously.

"Beg pardon, my lord, but the trespassing that
goes on here gets past bearing, and wants putting
a stop to."

"Very well, I'll settle it myself," and Lord Glyncraig—for
it was he—readjusted his glasses and
stared reprovingly at the three delinquents.

"Ah! girls from The Woodlands—evidently out
of bounds. I shall have to report you to your headmistress,
I'm afraid. Your names, please."

"Winnie Fowler," "Hattie Goodwin," murmured
two subdued voices.

Rona did not answer at all. She kept her head
down and her eyes fixed on the ground.

"It's—it's surely not the same girl who did me[Pg 140]
such a service this morning on the marsh? Then
I must repeat my thanks. Now, look here, you've
been up to some mischief, all three of you. Get
back to school as quick as you can, and I'll say
nothing about it! There! Off you go!"

Without another word the sinners pelted along
through the wood, never pausing till they reached
the railing and climbed over on to the high road.
Here, on free ground, they felt at liberty to express
their indignation.

"He's a nasty, horrid old thing to turn us out!"
panted Hattie.

"How he looked at you, Rona!" said Winnie.
"He stared and stared and stared!"

"Wondering where he'd seen me before, I suppose.
I expect the green stains on my coat reminded
him. I got them hauling up his precious dog."

"It wasn't with him in the wood."

"Oh, it's sitting by the fire drinking linseed tea!
It looked a pampered brute."

"We shall have to scoot to keep clear of Teddie."

"All right. Scooterons-nous. Thank goodness,
there's the hedge of The Woodlands! We'll slip
in through the little side gate."

The three certainly merited discovery for their
misdeeds, but on this occasion they evaded justice;
for, as luck would have it, they reached the house
just a moment or two before the rest of the school,
and Miss Teddington, who was in a hurry to pack
her boxes of snowdrops, concluded that they must
have been in front with Ulyth and Lizzie, and did
not stop to remember that she had left them tying[Pg 141]
Winnie's shoelace by the roadside. It was seldom
that such a palpable lapse escaped her keen eye
and even keener comprehension; so they might
thank their fortunate stars for their escape. Hattie
and Winnie made great capital out of the adventure,
and recounted all the details, much exaggerated,
to a thrilled audience in IV b.

Rona did not mention the matter to Ulyth. Perhaps,
knowing her room-mate's standards, in her
heart of hearts she was rather ashamed of it.

Ulyth and Lizzie Lonsdale were sitting cosily in
the latter's bedroom. It was Shrove Tuesday, and,
with perhaps some idea of imitating the Continental
habit of keeping carnival, Miss Bowes for that one
day relaxed her rule prohibiting sweets, and allowed
the school a special indulgence. Needless to say,
they availed themselves of it to the fullest extent.
Some had boxes of chocolate sent them from home;
others visited the village shop and purchased delicacies
from the big bottles displayed in the windows;
while a favoured few managed to borrow pans from
the kitchen and perform some cookery with the aid
of friends. Lizzie had been concocting peppermint
creams, and she now leant back luxuriously
in a basket-chair and handed the box to Ulyth.
The two girls were friends, and often met for a
chat. Ulyth sometimes wished they could be room-mates.
Though Rona was immensely improved,
she was still not an entirely congenial companion.
Her lack of education and early training made it
difficult for her to understand half the things Ulyth
wanted to talk about, and it was troublesome always
to have to explain. In an equal friendship there[Pg 143]
must be give and take, and to poor Rona Ulyth
was constantly giving her very best, and receiving
nothing in return. Lizzie, on the contrary, was
inspiring. She played and painted well, was fond
of reading, and was ready to help to organize any
forward movement in the school. She and Ulyth
pottered together over photography, mounted specimens
for the museum, tried new stitches in embroidery,
and worked at the same patterns in chip
carving. The two girls were at about the same
level of attainment in most things, for if Ulyth had
greater originality, Lizzie was the more steady and
plodding. It was Ulyth's failing to take things up
very hotly at first, and then grow tired of them.
She was apt to have half a dozen unfinished pieces
of fancywork on hand, and her locker in the carpentry-room
held several ambitious attempts that
had never reached fruition.

Lizzie, as she munched her peppermint creams,
turned over the pages of a volume of Dryden's
poems, and made an occasional note. Each form
kept a "Calendar of Quotations" hung up in its
classroom, the daily extracts for which were supplied
by the girls in rotation. It was Lizzie's turn
to provide the gems for the following week, and
she was hunting for something suitable.

"I wish Miss Bowes had given me Shakespeare,"
she said. "I could have got heaps of bits out of
my birthday-book, just suitable for the month, too.
I don't know why she should have pitched on
Dryden. No one's going to be particularly cheered
next week with my quotations. I've got:[Pg 144]

"That's dismal, in all conscience!" put in
Ulyth.

"That sounds quite as dismal, does it not? I
wonder why Scott calls Dryden 'glorious John'?
I think he's rather a dismal poet. Listen to this:

Shall I put it down for Thursday?"

"For goodness' sake don't! You'll give us all
the creeps," laughed Ulyth.

"Well, it won't be a champion week."

"I'll tell you what you might do. Draw some
illustrations round the mottoes. That would make
them more interesting."

"Oh, I dare say! I haven't time to bother."

"Nonsense, you have! I'll do some of them for
you. You needn't be original. It doesn't take
long to copy things."[Pg 145]

"Will you do four, then, if I do three?"

"All serene. I'll begin this evening if you'll
give me the cards."

Ulyth dashed off quite a pretty little pen-and-ink
sketch in ten minutes after tea, and put the cards
by in her drawer, intending to finish them during
"handicraft hour" the next day; but she completely
forgot all about them, and never remembered
their existence till Saturday, when she came
across them by accident, and was much dismayed
at her discovery.

"I'll have to do them somehow, or Lizzie'll never
forgive me," she ruminated. "I must knock them
off just as fast as I can. I could copy those little
figures from the American Gems; they're in outline,
and will be very easy. Oh, bother! It's cataloguing
day, and one's not supposed to use the
library. What atrocious luck!"

Twice during the term the books of the school
library were called in for purposes of review by the
librarian, and on those days nobody was allowed to
borrow any of the volumes. It was most unfortunate
for Ulyth that this special Saturday should
be the one devoted by the monitresses to the purpose.
She had failed Lizzie so often before in their
joint projects that she did not wish to encounter
fresh reproaches. Somehow three illustrations had
to be provided, and that within the space of about
half an hour. Ulyth was fairly clever at drawing,
but she was not capable of producing the pictures
out of her head. She must obtain a copy, and that
quickly.[Pg 146]

"Helen Cooper's librarian this month," she
thought. "I wonder if she's finished checking
the catalogue yet? I saw her walking down the
stream five minutes ago with Mabel Hoyle. Why
shouldn't I have the American Gems for half an
hour? It wouldn't do any harm. It really is the
merest red tape that we mayn't use the books. I
shall just take French leave and borrow it."

Ulyth went at once to the library. Helen had
evidently been at work there, for the list lay open,
with a sheet of paper near, recording the condition
of some of the copies. A glue-pot and some rolls
of transparent gummed edging showed that Helen
had been busy mending battered covers and torn
pages. She probably meant to finish them after
tea. The book of American gems was in its usual
place on the shelf. The temptation was irresistible.
Ulyth did not notice, as she was taking it down,
that someone with a smooth head of sleek fair
hair was peeping round the corner of the door,
and that a pair of not too friendly blue eyes were
watching the deed. If flying footsteps whisked
along the corridor and out into the garden, she was
blissfully unconscious of the fact. She took the
volume to her own form-room and settled herself
at her desk with her drawing materials, cardboard,
pencil, india-rubber, fine pen, and a bottle of
Indian ink. The little figures were exactly what
she wanted, quite simple in outline, but most effective,
and not at all difficult. They would certainly
improve Lizzie's calendar for the week, and relieve
the sombre character of the Dryden quotations.[Pg 147]
She worked away very rapidly, sketching them
lightly in pencil, intending to finish them in ink
afterwards. She grew quite interested, especially
when she reached the pen part. That little face
with its laughing mouth and aureole of hair was
really very pretty; she had copied it without having
to use the india-rubber once.

"Ulyth Stanton, what are you doing with that
book?" said a voice from behind her desk.

Beside her stood Helen Cooper and Stephanie
Radford, the former hugely indignant, the latter
with a non-committal expression. Ulyth started
so violently that the bottle of Indian ink overturned
and spread itself out in three streams.

"Oh Jemima!" shrieked Ulyth in consternation.

"Now you've done it!" exclaimed Helen angrily.
"Ink all over the page. What a disgraceful mess!
For goodness' sake stop; you're making it worse.
Give it to me."

Ulyth, who was frantically mopping up the black
streams with her pocket handkerchief, surrendered
the book to the outraged librarian. Nemesis had
indeed descended upon her guilty head.

"You knew perfectly well that you weren't
allowed to take it to-day," scolded Helen. "You
sneaked into the library and got it while I was
out."

"Someone else has been sneaking too," thought
Ulyth, with a glance at Stephanie's face. "I fancy
I know who turned informer." Then aloud she
said: "I'm fearfully sorry. I'll buy a new copy of
the book."[Pg 148]

"I don't believe you can; it's one Mrs. Arnold
gave to the school, and is published in America.
I'll try sponging it with salts of lemon, but I'm
afraid nothing will take out the stain. I thought
better of you, Ulyth Stanton. One doesn't expect
such things from V b. You'll borrow no more
books till the end of the month. Do you understand?"

Ulyth responded with what meekness she could
muster. She admitted that the monitress had
reason for wrath, and that she had really no excuse
worthy of urging in extenuation of her crime. It
was hard to be debarred the use of the library for
more than a fortnight, but, Helen, she knew, would
enforce that discipline rigidly. The unfortunate
motto-cards had come in for the bulk of the ink,
and were completely spoilt. Ulyth carried the
ruins to Lizzie's bedroom and pleaded peccavi.

"Well, I suppose it can't be helped. I've done
my three cards with pictures of flowers, and the
rest of the calendar will have to be plain," said
Lizzie. "You were rather an idiot, Ulyth."

"I know. I'd have asked Helen for the book if
she'd been anywhere near, and I meant to tell her
afterwards that I'd taken it."

"Didn't you explain that to her?"

"No. It didn't come well when she'd just
caught me."

"You let her think the worst of you."

"It couldn't be helped. I'm sure Stephanie
hunted her up and told her."

"Stephanie doesn't like you."[Pg 149]

"No, because I champion Rona, and Stephanie
can't bear her."

"There's nothing so much wrong with the
poor old Cuckoo now; she's wonderfully inoffensive."

"Yes, but she's not aristocratic. Stephie rubs
that in to her continually. She calls her 'a daughter
of the people'."

"Stephanie Radford can be uncommonly snobbish
sometimes."

Stephanie from the very first had resented Rona's
presence at The Woodlands, and since the practical
joke which the latter had played upon her she had
disliked her heartily. She lost no opportunity of
showing her contempt, and of trying to make Rona
seem of small account. She revived an ancient
tradition of the school which made it a breach of
etiquette for girls to go into other form-rooms than
their own, thus banishing Rona from V b, where
she had often been brought in by Ulyth or good-natured
Addie to share the fun that went on. If
obliged to take Rona's hand in figure-dancing, she
would only give the extreme tips of her fingers, and
if forced on any occasion to sit next to her, she
would draw away her skirts as if she feared contamination.

"The Woodlands isn't what it used to be," she
would assure a select circle of listeners. "When
my eldest sister was here there were the Courtenays
and the Derringtons and the Vernons and
quite a number of girls of really good family.
Miss Bowes would never have dreamt then of[Pg 150]
taking a girl she knew nothing about; she was so
particular whom she received."

"The poor old Cuckoo has her points," volunteered
Addie. "I'm afraid most of us aren't
'county'!"

"All schools are more mixed than they used to
be," admitted Stephanie candidly; "but I'd draw
the line at specimens straight from the backwoods."

Few of the girls really liked Stephanie, nevertheless
her opinions carried weight. A school-mate
who dresses well, talks continually of highborn
friends, and "gives herself airs" can nearly always
command a certain following among the more unthinking
of her comrades, and such girls as Beth
Broadway, Alice and Merle Denham, and Mary
Acton were easily impressed by Stephanie's attitude
of superiority, and ready to follow her lead on
a question of caste. It gave them a kind of reflected
credit to belong to Stephanie's circle, and
they liked to pride themselves upon their exclusiveness.

Though Rona was many thousand miles away
from her home, she evidently did not forget her
New Zealand friends, and looked out anxiously for
the thin foreign letters which arrived from time to
time. She never showed them to anybody, and
spoke little of old associations, but a word would
slip out here and there to reveal that she cared
more than she would give her schoolfellows to suppose.
One afternoon, shortly before the New Zealand
mail was expected, Rona was working in her[Pg 151]
portion of the garden, when Mary Acton brought
her a message.

"Some visitors to see you. They're waiting in
the practising-room," announced Mary.

"Visitors to see me!" exclaimed Rona, throwing
down her rake. "Whoever can they be?"

"I'm sure I don't know," replied Mary stolidly.
"They asked for Miss Mitchell, so I suppose that's
you. There isn't anyone else in the school named
Mitchell."

"It must be me!"

Rona's eyes were wide with excitement. Visitors
for herself! It was such an utter surprise. For
one moment a wild idea flashed across her mind.
Her face suddenly hardened.

"What are they like? Do you know them?" she
gasped.

"Not from Adam, or rather Eve. They're just
two very ordinary-looking females."

Much agitated, Rona flew into the house to wash
her hands, slip off her gardening-apron, and change
her shoes. When this very hasty toilet was completed,
she walked to the practising-room and
entered nervously. Two ladies were sitting near
the piano, with their backs to the window. They
were not fashionably dressed, but perhaps they
were cold, for both wore their large coat collars
turned up. Their felt hats had wide floppy brims.
One carried a guide to North Wales, and the other
held an open motor-map in her hand, as if she had
been studying the route.

"Miss Mitchell? How d'you do?" said the taller[Pg 152]
of the two as Rona entered. "I dare say you'll
be surprised to see us, and you won't know who
we are. I'm Mrs. Grant, and this is my cousin,
Miss Smith. We live in New Zealand, and
know some of your friends there. We're visiting
England at present, and as we found ourselves
motoring through North Wales, we thought we
would call and see you."

"It's very good of you," faltered Rona. "Which
friends of mine do you know?"

"The Higsons. They sent you all kinds of
messages."

"Oh! How are they? Do tell me about them!"

Rona's cheeks were flushed and her lips quivering.

"Pamela has grown, of course. Connie and
Minnie have had measles. Billy had a fall from
his horse and sprained his ankle badly, but he's
all right again now."

"And Jake?"

"Spends most of his time with the Johnson
girls."

"Who are they? I never heard of them."

"They came after you left."

"To which farm?"

"Oh, not very far away, I believe!"

"I wonder Pamela didn't tell me all that in her
letter. Which farm can it possibly be? Surely
not Heathlands?"

"I believe that was the name."

"Then have the Marstons gone?"

"Yes, to the North Island."[Pg 153]

"Oh! I'm very sorry. Why didn't they
write to me? Did you hear any other news,
please?"

"Pamela told me something about your home."

A shadow crossed Rona's face.

"Is it—is it Mrs. Barker?" she asked nervously.

"Yes, it's about her."

"What has she been doing?"

"Getting married again."

"Oh! Oh! Who would have her?"

"Your father."

"No!" shrieked Rona, her eyes ablaze. "It
can't be! That dreadful, drinking woman! Oh,
I can't—I won't believe it!"

"She's your stepmother now, whether you like
it or not."

"Daddy! Daddy! It can't be! How could
you? You knew she drank!"

"He's drinking himself—like a fish."

"No! My daddy?"

Rona, a moment ago furious, had turned white
as a ghost. She put out a trembling hand and
clutched the piano blindly; then, with a pitiful,
broken cry, she fell, half-fainting, half-sobbing, on
to the floor. At that moment Ulyth, with her
music-case, entered the room.

"What's the matter? Rona! Rona, dear! Are
you ill? Who are these—people?"

She might well ask, for the behaviour of the two
strangers was most unprecedented. They were
leaning on each other's shoulders and roaring with
laughter. One of them suddenly threw up her[Pg 154]
hat, and turned down her collar, revealing the
familiar features of Stephanie Radford.

"Done you brown!" she exploded. "Paid you
back in your own coin for your precious Eau de
Venus sell! I'm even with you now, Rona Mitchell!
Come along, Beth." And the pair disappeared,
guffawing.

Rona picked herself up shakily, and subsided on
to a chair, with her face in her hands.

"It's not true then?" she quavered.

"What isn't true?"

"They told me Dad had married Mrs. Barker,
and that he was—drinking!"

"Stephanie told you that?"

"Yes. Oh, I'm queer still!"

"Rona, darling, of course it's nothing but a
black, wicked lie. Don't cry so. There isn't a
word of truth about it. They were only ragging
you. Oh, don't take it so hard! I'll settle with
Stephanie for this."

Half an hour afterwards a very grim, determined
Ulyth, supported by Lizzie Lonsdale, sought out
the masqueraders and spoke her mind.

"She ragged me, so why shouldn't I turn the
tables on her? It's nothing to make such a hullabaloo
about!" yapped Stephanie.

"But it is. The trick she played on you was
only fun after all. Yours was the cruellest thing
you could think of to hurt and wound her. You
may pride yourself on your family, Stephanie
Radford, but I'm sure the very commonest person
would have had nicer feelings than to do this. I[Pg 155]
can never think the same of you and Beth
again."

"Oh, of course you take up the cudgels for your
precious Cuckoo!" snapped Stephanie. "Don't
make such an absurd fuss. I shall do what I like,
without you setting yourself up to lecture me. So
there! If you don't like it, you may lump it."

"Not a very aristocratic form of expression for
a scion of the Radfords of Stoke Radford!" commented
Lizzie, as she and Ulyth stalked away.

The spring term wore slowly on. March winds
came and went, taking the sweet violets with them,
but leaving golden Lent lilies and a wealth of
primroses as a legacy to April. The larch forest
above Porth Powys was a tangle of green tassels,
the hedgerows were starry with blackthorn, and
the Pyrus japonica over the dining-room windows
was a mass of rosy blossom. Spring was always
a delightful season at The Woodlands; with the
longer days came rambles and greater freedom.
Popular opinion ran high in extolling country life,
and any girl who ventured to prefer town pleasures
found herself entirely in the minority.

Rona had several invitations for the Easter holidays,
one from Mrs. Stanton among the number;
but Miss Bowes, thinking it better for Ulyth to
have a rest from her room-mate's presence, decided
in favour of Winnie Fowler. Ulyth could not help
feeling a sense of relief that the matter was thus
settled. Rona was very little trouble to her now—indeed,
she rather liked her company; but she
would be glad to have her mother to herself for
the few short weeks.

"I wouldn't for the world have tried to stop her[Pg 157]
coming, Motherkins," she wrote home; "but Miss
Bowes said most emphatically that she must go to
the Fowlers. I'm sure they'll give her a good time,
and—well, I admit it will be a rest to me. Just at
present I don't want to share you. Now you know
the whole of your horrid daughter! Lizzie asked
me if I would spend part of the holidays with her,
but I managed to make an excuse. I felt I couldn't
spare a single precious day away from you. I have
so much to talk about and tell you. Am I greedy?
But what's the use of having one's own lovely
mother if she isn't just one's ownest sometimes?
I tell you things I wouldn't tell anyone else on
earth. I don't think all the girls feel quite the
same; but then their mothers can't possibly be like
mine! She's the one in a thousand! I'm sitting
up late in my bedroom to write this, and I shall
have to report myself to Miss Lodge to-morrow;
but I felt I must write."

After the Easter holidays everybody returned to
The Woodlands prepared to make the most of the
coming term. With the longer evenings more
time was allowed out-of-doors, and the glade by the
stream became a kind of summer parlour. Those
girls who had some slight skill in carpentry constructed
rustic benches and tables from the boughs
blown down by last autumn's storms, and those
who preferred nature untouched by art had their
favourite seats in snug corners among the bushes
or on the stones by the water-side. With the first
burst of warm weather bathing was allowed, and
every morning detachments of figures in mackin[Pg 158]toshes
and tennis-shoes might be seen wending
their way towards the large pool to indulge in the
exhilarating delight of a dip in clear, flowing water,
followed by a brisk run round the glade. These
pre-breakfast expeditions were immensely appreciated;
the girls willingly got up earlier for the
purpose, and anyone who manifested a disposition
to remain in bed was denounced as a "slacker".

One day, towards the end of May, when some of
the members of V b were sitting with their fancywork
on the short grass under an oak-tree, Addie
Knighton came from the house and joined them.
There was beaming satisfaction in Addie's twinkling
grey eyes; she rubbed her hands ostentatiously,
and chuckled audibly.

"What's to do, Addie, old girl? You're looking
very smug," said Lizzie.

"Aha! Wouldn't you like to know? What'll
you give me if I tell you now?"

"Never buy pigs in pokes. It mayn't be important
at all," volunteered Merle.

"Oh, indeed! Isn't it? Just wait till you
hear."

"It's nothing but one of your sells," yawned
Gertrude Oliver, moving so as to rest her back
more comfortably against Ulyth.

"Mrs. Arnold doesn't generally spring sells upon
us."

Ulyth jumped up so suddenly that Gertrude collapsed
with a squeal of protest.

"Mrs. Arnold here and I never knew! Where
is she?"[Pg 159]

"Don't excite yourself. She's gone by now. She
only stayed ten minutes, to see Miss Bowes, but it
was ten minutes to some purpose. Do you know
what she's actually proposed?"

Addie's listeners were as eager now as they had
been languid before.

"Go ahead, can't you?" urged Lizzie.

"Well, the whole school's to go camping for
three days."

This indeed was news!

"Stunning!"

"Spiffing!"

"Ripping!"

"Scrumptious!" burst in a chorus from the
elated four.

"Details, please," added Ulyth. "When and
where, and how, and why?"

"Is it a Camp-fire business?" asked Lizzie.

"Of course it is or Mrs. Arnold wouldn't be
getting it up. It's happened this way. The Llangarmon
and Elwyn Bay detachments of Boy Scouts
are to camp at Llyn Gwynedd for ten days early in
June. Mr. Arnold has the arranging of it all. And
Mrs. Arnold suggested that the tents might just as
easily be hired a few days sooner, and we could use
them before the boys came. It's such a splendid
opportunity. It would be too expensive to have
everything sent down on purpose just for us, but
when they're there we can hire the camp for very
little extra. It's the carriage and erecting that
cost so much. Miss Bowes, I believe, hummed
and ha-ed a little, but Teddie just tumbled to[Pg 160]
the idea and persuaded the Rainbow to clinch
it."

"Good old Teddie! I believe it's the tragedy of
her life that she can't live altogether in the open
air. She adores Red Cross Work."

"The teachers are all to come to camp; they're
as excited as you please about it. It was Miss
Lodge who told me that Mrs. Arnold was here, and
I rushed down the drive and caught her just for a
second."

This indeed was an event in the annals of the
school. Never since the Camp-fire League was
started had its members found any opportunity of
sampling life under canvas. They had practised
a little camp cookery down by the stream, but their
experiments had not gone much farther than frying
eggs and bacon or roasting potatoes in hot ashes,
and they were yearning to try their hands at gipsies'
stews and gallipot soups. With Mrs. Arnold for
leader they expected a three days' elysium. Even
Miss Teddington, they knew, would rise to the
occasion and play trumps. Llyn Gwynedd was
a small lonely lake about six miles away, in the
heart of the mountains beyond Penllwyd and Glyder
Garmon. It was reached from The Woodlands by
a track across the moors, but it communicated by
high road with Capelcefn station, so that tents,
camp-furniture, and provisions could be sent up by
a motor-lorry. The ground was hired from a local
farmer, who undertook to supply milk, butter, and
eggs to the best of his ability, and to bring meat
and fresh vegetables from Capelcefn as required.[Pg 161]
To cater for a whole school up in the wilds is a task
from which many Principals would shrink, and
Miss Bowes might be forgiven if she had at first
demurred at the suggestion. But, with Mr. Arnold's
practical experience to help her, she gave her orders
and embarked (not without a few tremors) upon the
proceeding.

"If the mountain air makes you so hungry you
eat up two days' provisions in one, it means you'll
have to fast on the third day," she assured the girls.
"I'm sending up what I hope will be sufficient.
It's like victualling a regiment. Of course we shan't
go at all if it's wet."

Mr. Arnold, who very kindly volunteered to see
that the camp was properly set up and in thorough
working order before the school took possession,
superintended the erection of the tents and reported
that all was in apple-pie condition and only waiting
for its battalion. On 2nd June, therefore, a
very jolly procession started off from The Woodlands.
In navy skirts and sports coats, tricolor ties,
straw hats, and decorated with numerous badges
and small flags, the girls felt like a regiment of
female Territorials. Each carried her kit on her
back in a home-made knapsack containing her few
personal necessities, and knife, spoon, fork, and
enamelled tin mug. A band of tin whistles and
mouth organs led the way, playing a valiant attempt
at "Caller Herrin'". The teachers also were prepared
for business. Miss Teddington, who had done
climbs in Switzerland, came in orthodox costume
with nailed boots and a jaunty Tyrolean hat with[Pg 162]
a piece of edelweiss stuck in the front. Miss Lodge
wore a full-length leather coat and felt hat in
which she looked ready to defy a waterspout or
a tornado. Miss Moseley, who owned to an ever-present
terror of bulls, grasped an iron-spiked walking-stick,
and Miss Davis had a First Aid wallet
slung across her back. In the girls' opinion Miss
Bowes shirked abominably. Instead of venturing
on the six-mile walk she had caught the morning
train to Capelcefn, and was going to hire a car at
the Royal Hotel and drive up to the lake with the
provisions. Mrs. Arnold, who, with her husband,
had taken rooms at the farm for a few days, was
already on the spot, and would be ready to receive
the travellers when they arrived.

On the whole it was a glorious morning, though
a few ill-omened clouds lingered like a night-cap
round Penllwyd. Larks were singing, cuckoos
calling, bluebells made the woods seem a reflection
of the sky, and the gorse was ablaze on the common.
The walk was collar-work at first, up, up, up, climbing
a steep track between loose-built, fern-covered
walls, taking a short cut over the slope that formed
the spur of Cwm Dinas, and scaling the rocky little
precipice of Maenceirion. Some who had started
at a great rate and with much enthusiasm began to
slacken speed, and to realize the wisdom of Miss
Teddington's advice and try the slow-going, steady
pace she had learned from Swiss guides.

"You can't keep it up if you begin with such a
spurt," she assured them. "Alpine climbing has
to be like the tortoise—slow and sure."[Pg 163]

Once on the plateau beyond Cwm Dinas progress
was easier. It was still uphill, but the slope was
gentler. They were on the open moors now, following
a path, little more than a sheep track, that led
under the crag of Glyder Garmon. Except for an
occasional tiny whitewashed farm they were far from
human habitations, and the only signs of life were
the small agile Welsh sheep, the half-wild ponies
that grazed on these uplands during the summer
months, and a pair of carrion crows that wheeled
away, croaking hoarsely at the sight of intruders.
On and on over what seemed an interminable reach
of coarse grass and whinberry-bushes, jumping
tiny brooks, and skirting round sometimes to avoid
bogs, for much of the ground was spongy, and
though its surface of sphagnum moss looked inviting,
it was treacherous in the extreme. At last they
had rounded the corner of Glyder Garmon, and
there, far away to the right, like a sheet of silver,
Llyn Gwynedd lay gleaming in the distance.

The sight of their destination, even though it was
two miles away, cheered up those weaker spirits
that were beginning to lag, especially as something
white on the south side, when examined through
Miss Teddington's field-glasses, proved to be the
tents. Three-quarters of an hour's brisk walking
brought them to the lake, and in ten minutes more
they were announcing their approach to the camp
in a succession of wild hoorays.

Mr. and Mrs. Arnold were waiting to do the
honours, and, parading in their very best style, the
League marched in and took possession.[Pg 164]

By the time they had been two hours at Llyn
Gwynedd all the girls felt like old, well-seasoned
campers. Mrs. Arnold was no novice, and at once
assumed her post as leader and captain in command.
Miss Bowes, Miss Teddington, and the
other teachers were assigned tents of honour, and
every member of the League was placed on definite
duty. Some were cooks, some water-carriers, some
scullions, and some sentries, according to their
qualifications and the rank they held in the League.

The field hired for the camping-ground had been
carefully chosen. It was on the far side of the lake,
away from the road, sheltered on the north and east
by mountain ridges, and with a shelving beach of
fine silvery sand where the waves lapped in gentle
little ripples. A narrow brook, leaping from the
heights above, passed through the centre and gave
a quite uncontaminated water supply. All around
rose peaks which had not been visible at The Woodlands,
the rough, splintered crest of Craig Mawr,
the smoother summit of Pencastell, and the almost
inaccessible precipice of Carnedd Powys. It was
glorious to sit by the lake and feel that they were
not obliged to return to school before dark, but could
stay and watch the sun set behind Pencastell and the
gloaming creep quietly on. Of course everybody
wanted to explore the immediate vicinity, and little
bands, each in charge of a Torch-bearer, were allowed
to skirt round the lake within sight of the camp. Each
girl had her League whistle, and knew the signals
which meant "Meal-time", "Danger", and "Return
instantly to camp". These had been rehearsed[Pg 165]
in the glade at The Woodlands, and formed part of
the examination of every candidate.

Ulyth, as a Torch-bearer, was able to head a party,
and started off in quest of bog myrtle along the
bank, returning with great armfuls of the delicious-smelling
aromatic shrub to cast into the fire during
the evening "stunt".

The gathering of the League that night was a
memorable occasion. The ceremonies were observed
with strictest formality, and as visitors were present
a special welcome song was sung in their honour.
The scene was immensely picturesque and romantic:
the red sun setting between Craig Mawr and Pencastell
threw a last glow on the lake, the blazing
fire lighted up the camp and the rows of eager faces,
and behind all was the background of the eternal
hills.

Rona, having successfully passed through her
probation, was admitted as a Wood-gatherer and
awarded the white badge of service. Several
younger girls also received initiation into membership.
With the League ceremonial, songs, stories,
and cocoa-making, the evening passed very swiftly
away. At nine o'clock everybody was expected to
turn in. A night under canvas was a new experience.
The stretcher-beds and the clean blankets
looked inviting. Strict military discipline was
observed in the camp, and sentries were told off
on duty. In as perfect order as a regiment the
girls went to their tents. Ulyth was sharing
quarters with Addie, Lizzie, and Gertrude. She
tucked herself up in her blankets, as she had been[Pg 166]
taught at camp drill, and then lay quietly for a
long, long time, watching the patch of sky through
the tent door.

She seemed only to have been asleep for about
an hour, when the patrol touched her on the
shoulder. Instantly she sprang up, broad awake.

"Relieve sentry at west guard," was the order,
and the patrol passed on.

It was too dark to see her watch, but Ulyth knew
it must be nearly one o'clock. She hastily donned
the warm garments ordered to be worn by sentries,
and hurried away to relieve Helen Cooper. Her
post was at the west end of the camp, where the
field merged into a rushy swamp before it rose
into the hill that led towards the farm.

"The password is 'Louvain'," said Helen, retiring,
not at all sorry to seek the comfort of her
bed. "One leg of the camp-stool is most rickety,
so I warn you not to lean too hard on it. Good
night."

Left alone, Ulyth sat down with extreme caution
on the deficient camp-stool and surveyed the situation.
There were clouds across a waning moon,
and it was fairly dark. She could see the outlines
of the tents in black masses behind her; in front
the field lay dim and shadowy, with a mist creeping
from the water. Up above, to her right, against an
indigo sky, the Great Bear was standing almost on
its head, with its tail in the air. One of the tests of
a Torch-bearer was a knowledge of the stars, and
Ulyth had learnt how to tell the time by the position
of this particular constellation. She made a[Pg 167]
rapid calculation now, reckoning from the day of
the month, and was glad to find it came out correctly.
Cassiopeia's white arms were hidden by
the mountains, but the Milky Way shimmered in
the east, and overhead Arcturus blazed as he had
done in the days when the patriarch Job recorded
his brilliance. To the extreme north a patch of
light lay behind Penllwyd, where the sun, at this
season hardly dipping far out of sight, worked his
course round to the east again. How quiet it was!
The silence was almost oppressive. The gentle lap
of the tiny waves on the lake was not equal to the
rush of the stream at The Woodlands. Not even a
night-bird called. The camp was absolutely still
and slumbering.

Ulyth rose and paced about for a while. It was
too cold to sit still long. She must only use the
camp-stool when she needed a rest.

"Sentries ought to be allowed chocolates," she
murmured, "or hot peppermints, just to keep up
their spirits. Ugh! How weird and eerie it all is!
There isn't a sound anywhere. It's not an enlivening
performance to keep watch, I must say."

She stopped, suddenly on the alert. What was
that noise in the darkness to her left? She distinctly
heard a rustle among the gorse-bushes, and
thought something moved in the deep shadow.

"Halt! Who goes there?" she challenged.

There was no reply, but the rustle sounded
again, this time nearer to the camp. She listened
with every sense strained to the uttermost. Something
or someone was slinking in from the field[Pg 168]
and creeping cautiously towards the tents; of that
she was nearly certain. Wild ideas of thieving
tramps flooded her brain. A louder sound confirmed
her suspicions. She could hear it quite distinctly
in the direction of the kitchen. Her duty was
plain. She blew her whistle promptly; it was
answered by those of the three other sentries, from
the north, east, and south quarters, and immediately
torches began to flash, and voices to ask the
cause of alarm. The guard was roused, and began
an instant tour of inspection.

"Something crept past me, straight towards the
centre of the camp," Ulyth reported.

The lights flashed away in the direction of the
kitchen. The girls were on their mettle, and meant
business. Whoever the intruder was, he should be
run to earth and made to give an account of himself.
They felt perfectly capable of taking him
prisoner and binding his hands behind him with
a rope. Indeed, they thought they should hugely
enjoy doing so, particularly if he turned out to be
a burglar. Numbers give courage, and a very
martial spirit was in the air.

"If he's hiding in one of the tents we'll drag him
out by the legs!" proclaimed Marjorie Earnshaw
fiercely.

Everybody was sure it must be a "he". The
news spread through the camp like lightning,
and it was even rumoured that he wore a coat
and top-boots. Miss Teddington herself had
emerged, and was waving a lantern as a searchlight.[Pg 169]

"This way," blustered Marjorie, heading for
the kitchen quarter. "The sneaking cur! We'll
have him!"

"Why aren't we allowed bayonets?" lamented
Ruth White.

"Oh, I hear a noise! There's something there
really," urged Kathleen Simpson, with a most unsoldierly
squeal. "Oh, I say! Here he comes!"

There was a sudden scratch and scramble, and
from out the larder rushed a dark object on four
legs, with a white something in its mouth. Helen
made a valiant dash at it, but it dodged her, and
flew like the wind away between the tents and off
somewhere over the fields in the direction of the
farm. The guard with one accord burst out laughing.

"A thieving Welsh sheep-dog raiding the
larder!" exclaimed Catherine.

"It's stolen a whole leg of mutton, the brute!"
wailed Doris, who belonged to the Commissariat
Department. "I didn't think it could have reached
that. It must have jumped high. It doesn't deserve
its prize."

"No wonder it wouldn't answer when I challenged
it," observed Ulyth.

"Well, I'm glad it's no worse than a dog," said
Miss Teddington. "We must take steps to-morrow
to make the larder safer, or we shall be troubled
again."

"We'll place a guard over it," replied Catherine
promptly. "Jessie Morrison, you are on sentry
duty at once to watch the larder. Maggie Orton
will relieve you at three."

After the scare in the small hours, everyone
settled down again to slumber. Nevertheless the
girls woke with the birds. Many of them had
registered a solemn vow the night before that
they would watch the sun rise, and each was
pledged to arouse the others at all costs; so at
the first hint of dawn heads began to pop out of
tents, and the camp was astir. Addie Knighton,
still half-dazed with sleep, was led firmly by Gertrude
Oliver to the edge of the lake and forced to
wash her face.

"You'll thank me when you're really awake,"
purred Gertie, ignoring her victim's protests. "It's
only what I promised you faithfully last night.
You told me to duck you in, if nothing else would
do it."

"Oh, I'm awake now! I am truly. You needn't
be afraid I'll go back to bed," bleated Addie, afraid
her friend might proceed to extremities. "Hadn't
you better haul up Alice next?"

"I left Chrissie doing that. She's going round
the tents with a wet sponge. Look! Isn't that
worth getting up to see?"[Pg 171]

The grey of the sky had flushed into carnation
pink, and up from behind the wall of the mountains
rose the great ball of the sun, red at first through
a veil of mist, but shining out golden as he cleared
the cloud-bank. Everything was waking up. A
peewit called by the water's edge, a cock crew from
the farm-yard, and a dog barked lustily.

"Our thief of the night complaining of an attack
of indigestion, I hope," said Ulyth, joining Addie
and Gertie at the lake-side. "How much can a
dog eat without feeling ill?"

"We had a collie that consumed three rabbits
once," laughed Addie. "We didn't ask it how it
felt afterwards. It got a good thrashing, I remember."

"We'll keep a stick handy to-night, in case of
any more raids. Who's on breakfast duty? I'm
getting wildly hungry. I hope the bacon hasn't
disappeared with the mutton."

Although the three days' sojourn under canvas
was in a sense a holiday, it was conducted in a very
business-like spirit and with rigid discipline. All
the daily duties were performed zealously by bands
of servers, who polished tins, peeled potatoes,
washed plates, or cleaned shoes, as the case might
be. The League was putting to a practical proof
the seven rules of the Camp-fire Law. Beauty was
all around them, and knowledge to be had for the
asking. They proved themselves trustworthy by
their service, and glorified work in the doing of the
camp tasks. Health was drawn with every breath
of mountain air, and, judging from their faces,[Pg 172]
the seventh rule, "Be happy", seemed almost
superfluous. Everyone looked radiant, even Mary
Acton, who was a champion grumbler, and generally
ready to complain of crumpled rose-leaves.
After breakfast and service duty came drill, a more
than usually formal affair, for Mr. Arnold himself
reviewed them. He had great experience with the
Boy Scouts, so the girls were anxious to do the
utmost credit to their beloved Guardian of the Fire.
The Ambulance Corps gave a demonstration of
First Aid; another detachment took down and re-erected
a tent; the juniors showed their abilities in
knot-tying, and the seniors in signalling. Their
inspector declared himself perfectly satisfied, and
commended certain members for special proficiency.

"I shall tell the boys' battalions how well you
can do," he declared. "It will put them on their
mettle. They won't want to be beaten by a ladies'
school."

When the display was over, all dispersed for a
ramble round the lake while the dinner stewed;
only the cooks on duty remained, carefully watching
their pots. Ulyth, Rona, Lizzie, and Gertrude
wandered past the farm and up the hill-side to the
head of a crag, whence they had a glorious view
down over the sheet of water below.

"Llyn Gwynedd looks so cheerful and innocent
now, one wouldn't believe it could ever be treacherous
and do dreadful things," remarked Gertrude.

"What things?" asked Ulyth.

"Why, I believe someone was drowned just[Pg 173]
down there a great many years ago. I heard
Catherine saying so last night, so I suppose it's
true."

"It's perfectly true, and I can tell you who it
was," answered Lizzie. "It was the eldest son of
Lord Glyncraig. He was fishing here, and the
boat got upset. It was the most dreadful tragedy.
He was such a fine, promising young fellow, and
had only been married quite a short time. He was
the heir, too, which made it worse."

"But there are other sons, aren't there?" asked
Ulyth.

"Yes, but he was the flower of the family. The
rest are no good. The second son, the present heir,
is a helpless invalid, the third is in a sanatorium for
consumption, and the fourth was the proverbial
prodigal, and disappeared. If Lord Glyncraig
knows where he is, nobody else does."

"Hadn't the one who was drowned any children?"

"Only a girl. The second and third aren't
married."

"Then will the estate have to go to the prodigal
in the end?"

"I suppose so, if he's alive, and turns up to
claim it."

"Peers have their troubles as much as commoners,"
commented Ulyth. "I've never heard
this before. I'm sorry for Lord Glyncraig. Plas
Cafn is too good to go to a prodigal."

"Yet prodigals sometimes turn out better than
elder brothers, if we accept the parable," remarked[Pg 174]
Rona, throwing stones into the water as viciously
as if she were aiming at an enemy.

"Don't!" said Ulyth. "You'll disturb the trout,
and Mrs. Arnold wants to fish this afternoon. Rona,
do stop! Let's go down to the edge again, and try
and find some bog bean. You'll get a proficiency
badge if you can show twenty specimens of wild
flowers and name them. Yes, I won mine last
year, and so did Lizzie."

"I'd rather win a proficiency badge for shooting,"
grunted Rona. "Why can't Teddie let us
get up a ladies' rifle corps?"

"Only wish she would, just! It would be
prime," agreed the others.

Dinner was ready by twelve o'clock—not at all
too early for a company that had breakfasted at
seven. Despite the purloining of the leg of mutton
there was enough to go round, and everybody decided
that the cooks deserved proficiency badges.
The servers also did their work promptly, and removed
plates and dishes with the maximum of
speed and the minimum of clatter. By half-past
one everything was washed up and polished, and
the kitchen department in apple-pie order.

"I'm afraid we may have rain," said Miss Teddington,
looking anxiously at the sky, which was
now completely overcast with clouds.

"One often gets a shower among the mountains
when the valley escapes," commented Mrs. Arnold.
"I don't think it will be much this afternoon, if
there's rain at all. The patrols know what to do
if it begins. This grey sky will be good for fishing."[Pg 175]

Mrs. Arnold was an enthusiastic angler, and had
brought her fishing-tackle with her to camp. She
intended that afternoon to hire a boat from the farm
and see if she could beguile some of the wily trout
from the lake.

"I'll take four girls with me," she announced:
"two to row, one to steer, and one to help with the
landing-net."

Needless to say, she could have had dozens of
volunteers, but her choice fell on Kathleen Simpson,
Ruth White, Gladys Broughton, and Evie Isherwood,
who, highly elated, went off to unmoor the
boat. Then, Ruth and Kathleen rowing, and
Gladys steering, they made gently down the lake
towards the west end, where the stream flowed out.

Pretty Mrs. Arnold looked particularly charming
in a blue-and-white boating-costume, with a little
blue fisherman's cap perched on her fair hair. It
was the fashion for the girls to adore her, and she
certainly had four whole-hearted admirers with her
that afternoon, ready to be at her beck and call,
and to perform any service she wished. They
followed her instructions to the letter, and watched
her line and reel with tense eagerness.

"I hope we may catch some salmon trout," said
Mrs. Arnold; "they're much more delicate than
the ordinary ones. If we've luck we may get
enough at any rate to give Miss Bowes and Miss
Teddington a dish for supper. Row gently along
there, I saw a fish jump; if it's hungry it may
fancy my fly. Good biz! there's a bite. I'll
have to play him gently; he feels a strong[Pg 176]
fellow. Are you ready, Evie, with the landing-net?"

It was frightfully exciting as Mrs. Arnold wound
her reel, and the prey came within reach. Was he
really hooked, or would he break away at the last
moment and disappoint them?

"We've got him! We've got him! Quick,
Evie! Oh, I say! Isn't he splendid?"

A silvery-grey, gleaming, glittering object was
leaping in the landing-net at the bottom of the boat.

"Oh, what luck!" yelled Evie.

"He must be a patriarch!" cried the rowers.

"I can't see him. Oh, do let me look!" squealed
Gladys, forgetting everything in her eagerness.
"Ruth, you're in the way. I must look."

And up she sprang, trying to push past Ruth
and Kathleen.

"Sit still!" shouted Mrs. Arnold frantically, but
the mischief was done.

It all happened in two seconds. No one quite
knew how, though Ruth declared afterwards that
in trying to scramble past her Gladys stepped on
the gunwale. Over toppled the boat, and almost
before its occupants knew their danger they were
struggling in the water. The girls could swim a
little—a very little. Kathleen, gasping and spluttering,
struggled valiantly towards the bank; Evie,
with a certain instinct of self-preservation, turned
on her back, and managed to keep herself afloat
somehow. Ruth and Gladys clutched the upturned
boat and, clung there screaming. Mrs.
Arnold was in even more desperate straits. She[Pg 177]
could not swim, and she had fallen too wide of the
boat to be able to grasp it. The few patrols left in
charge of the camp stood for a moment paralysed,
then tore along the side of the lake towards the
scene of the accident. But someone else was
quicker. Rona, hunting for botany specimens,
had been watching the fishing from the bank close
by. There was a rush, a splash, a swift little figure
wildly ploughing a path through the lake, beating
the water with short, impatient strokes.

"I won't clutch you," cried Mrs. Arnold,
pluckily keeping her presence of mind. "I believe
I can manage to float."

She lay still as Rona put a hand under her
shoulder and towed her towards the shore, so still
that she neither stirred nor spoke when Doris and
Catherine, who had reached the spot, helped to
drag her from the water.

"Oh, she's drowned!" shrieked Doris.

"No, no! Lay her down flat. She's opening
her eyes."

Marion Harper and Madge Johnson, both tolerable
swimmers, were plunging to help Evie; Kathleen
was already struggling ashore. "Wait till
we can come for you!" shouted Rona to Ruth and
Gladys; "don't let go the boat."

Evie was pulled ashore first, not much the worse.
Rona had trouble with Gladys, who had waxed
hysterical, but with Marion's help she landed her
safely and went back for Ruth. By this time the
danger-signal, blown lustily from several League
whistles, brought all who were anywhere within[Pg 178]
reach rushing to the rendezvous. Mrs. Arnold,
with wet golden hair clinging round her white face,
leaned against Catherine's shoulder, while Doris
rubbed her hands.

"I'm glad my husband's gone to Capel Garmon
to-day. Please let me tell him myself," were her
first words. "It was good little Rona who saved
me," she added, smiling faintly at Miss Bowes,
who was down on her knees beside her on the
grass.

"I wish I'd done it. I wish I'd done it. Oh,
how I envy you, Rona!" cried Ulyth, regarding
her friend with wide shining eyes of admiration.

Miss Teddington, pale but very self-controlled,
had taken command of the situation. Eight people
were thoroughly wet through and bedraggled, and
must be hurried to camp and dried, and given hot
drinks as speedily as possible. The rescuers
needed cosseting as much as the rescued. Madge
and Marion were shivering and trembling, and
Rona, now the excitement of her sudden dash was
over, looked more shaky than she would allow.

"We must tuck them up in blankets," said Miss
Teddington. "First Aid Corps on duty, please!
The difficulty is going to be how to get their clothes
properly dried in a place like this."

Mrs. Arnold, with Miss Bowes to look after her,
went to the farm to seek fresh garments. As for
the girls, there was nothing for it but to go to bed
for an hour or two, while a band of servers lighted
a good fire, wrung the water from the drenched[Pg 179]
articles of clothing, and held them to the blaze.
Blankets were commandeered freely from other
beds, and piled round the seven heroines, who,
propped up with pillows, each had a kind of reception
as she sipped her hot cocoa.

"We all of us forgot about the boat," said Rona
suddenly. "It's drifting upside down, and the oars
are anywhere."

"Never mind. David Lewis will get it somehow,
I suppose. It will drift towards the bank, and he'll
wade for it."

"Where did you learn to swim like that, Rona?"

"In the lake at home. We had one nearly as
big as this close to our farm."

"The Cuckoo's turned up trumps," murmured
Alice Denham. "I didn't know she was capable
of it."

"Then it only shows how extremely stupid and
unobservant you are," snapped Ulyth.

The servers declared afterwards that drying
clothes round a bonfire was the most exciting duty
they had ever performed. Gusts of wind blew the
flames in sudden puffs, necessitating quick snatching
away of garments in the danger zone. Shoes
were the most difficult of all, and needed copious
greasing to prevent their growing stiff.

"I wonder if the Ancient Britons went through
this performance?" said Winnie Fowler. "Did
they have to hold their skin garments round camp-fires?
Thank goodness, we've got these things
dry at last! We're only in the nick of time. Here
comes the rain."[Pg 180]

It was a melancholy truth. The Welsh mountains
have a perverse habit of attracting clouds,
even in June; the sky, which had been overcast
since midday, was now inky dark, and great drops
began to fall. It was a calamity, but one for which
everybody was fully prepared. The patrols rushed
round the camp loosening ropes, lest the swelling
hemp should draw the pegs from the ground, and
took a last tour of inspection to see that no bed
was in contact with the canvas.

"If you even touch the inside of the tent with
your hand you'll bring the water through," urged
Catherine in solemn warning; "so, for your own
sakes, you'd best be careful. You don't want to
spend the night in a puddle."

It was a new experience to sit inside tents while
the storm howled outside. Rain up at Llyn
Gwynedd was no mere summer shower, but a
driving deluge. Servers in waterproofs scuttled
round with cans of hot tea and baskets of bread
and butter, and the girls had a picnic meal sitting
on their beds. One tent blew over altogether, and
its distressed occupants, crawling from under the
flapping ruin, were received as refugees by their
immediate neighbours. Fortunately the storm,
though severe, was short. By seven o'clock it
had expended its fury, and passed away down the
valley towards Craigwen, leaving blue sky and
the promise of a sunset behind. Glad to emerge
from their cramped quarters, the girls came out
and compared experiences. There was plenty to
be done. The fallen tent had to be erected, and[Pg 181]
various cans and utensils which had been left outside
must be collected and wiped before they had
time to rust.

"This is the prose of camp-life," said Catherine,
picking the gravy-strainer out of a puddle and
rinsing it in the lake. "I hope we shall get the
poetry to-morrow again."

"Oh, it's lovely fun when it rains!" twittered
some of the younger ones.

Mr. Arnold came down from the farm to inquire
rather anxiously how the camp was faring after the
storm, and particularly to have news of the girls
who had been in the lake. He had left Mrs. Arnold
in bed, still rather upset with the shock of the
accident.

"I feel responsible for bringing you all here,"
he said to Miss Teddington. "I shan't be easy in
my mind now till the whole crew's safe back at The
Woodlands."

"We've taken no harm," Miss Teddington assured
him. "The girls kept dry, and they're as
jolly as possible; indeed, I think most of them
thoroughly enjoyed the rain."

Llyn Gwynedd, after showing what it could do
in the way of storms, provided fine weather for the
next day. The ground soon dried, and camp-life
continued in full swing. Mrs. Arnold, herself again
after a night's rest, took the morning drill, and led
a ramble up the slope of Glyder Garmon in the
afternoon. She was the heart and soul of the
"stunt" that evening.

The girls, at any rate, were sorry to say good[Pg 182]-bye
to the lake on Friday morning, whatever their
elders might feel on the subject.

"I hope the Boy Scouts will have as ripping a
time as we've had," was the general verdict when,
having left the camp in perfect order, the procession
set out to tramp down to Aberglyn.

"Barring total immersions in the lake, please,"
said Mr. Arnold, as he returned the parting salute.

"But that was an opportunity," urged Ulyth.
"I wish it had come my way. Rona, Madge, and
Marion will all get special bravery medals at next
quarterly meeting. I've no luck!"

The girls at The Woodlands, while they contributed
to various charities, had one special and
particular object of interest. For several years
they had supported a little girl at an orphanage.
She was called their orphan, and twice a year they
received accounts of her progress. They sent her
a Christmas present annually, and her neat little
letter of thanks was handed round for everybody
to read. Poor Susannah Maude was the daughter
of very disreputable parents; she had been rescued
from a travelling caravan at the age of ten, and
the authorities at the Alexandra Home had done
their best to obliterate her past life from her
memory. When she reached school-leaving age the
question of her future career loomed on the horizon.
After considerable correspondence with the matron,
Miss Bowes had at length decided to have the girl
at The Woodlands, and try the experiment of
training her as a kitchen-maid. So in February
Susannah Maude had arrived, small and undersized,
with a sharp little face and beady, black
eyes, and a habit of sniffing as if she had a perpetual
cold.[Pg 184]

"Not a bit like the blue-eyed, flaxen-haired
orphan of fiction," decided the girls, rather disappointed
at the sight of their protégée.

Perhaps the cook was disappointed too. At any
rate, many complaints of smashed dishes, imperfect
wiping, and inadequate sweeping of corners reached
Miss Bowes, who urged patience, harangued the
culprit, and shook her head, half laughing and half
sighing, over the domestic catastrophes. Though
strictly confined to the kitchen regions, the orphan
took the deepest interest in the young ladies of the
school. Her keen eyes would peer out of windows,
and her head bob round doors in continual efforts
to gain some idea of their mode of life. A chance
word from one of them wreathed her in smiles.
She was a funny, odd little object with her short
squat figure and round bullet head, and thin little
legs appearing underneath her official white apron.
Her official name was Susan, but every girl in the
school called her Susannah Maude. At the instigation
of Miss Bowes her patrons took the furthering
of her education in hand, and each in turn
bestowed half an hour a day in hearing her read
history, geography, or some other suitable subject.
A little bewildered among so many fresh teachers,
the small maid nevertheless made what efforts she
could, and read loud and lustily, even if she did
not altogether digest the matter she was supposed
to be studying.

"I believe she reads the words without taking
in a scrap of the sense," laughed Ulyth, when her
turn as instructress was over. "She was gazing[Pg 185]
at my dress, or my watch, or my handkerchief whenever
she could spare an eye from her book. She
thinks them of far more importance than Henry
VIII."

"So she does," agreed Lizzie. "I tried to get
her interested yesterday in the number of his wives—I
thought the Bluebeard aspect of it might move
her—but she only said: 'What does it matter when
they're all dead?' I felt so blank that I couldn't
say any more."

Nobody quite remembered whose idea it was
that their orphan should be invited to the Camp-fire
meetings. Somebody in a soft-hearted moment
suggested it, and Mrs. Arnold replied: "Oh yes,
poor little soul! Bring her, by all means." So
Susannah Maude had come, and once there she
apparently regarded herself as a member of the
League, and turned up on every available occasion.
How much she understood of the proceedings or
of the scope of the society nobody could fathom.
She sat, during the meetings, bolt upright, with
folded arms, as if she were in school, her bright,
beady eyes fixed unblinkingly upon Mrs. Arnold,
whom she seemed to regard as a species of priestess
in charge of occult mysteries.

"Would I be struck dumb if I told what goes
on here?" she asked Ulyth one day; and, although
she was assured that no such act of vengeance on
the part of Providence would overtake her, she
nevertheless preserved a secrecy worthy of a Freemason,
and would drop no hint in the kitchen as to
the nature of the ceremonies she witnessed.[Pg 186]

One or two points evidently made a great impression
upon her. During the spring months
Nature lore was very much to the fore, and the
members qualified for candidateship to the various
grades by exhibiting their knowledge of the ways
and habits of birds. Notes of observations were
read aloud at the meetings, particulars recorded of
nests that had been built in the school grounds,
with data as to the number of days in which eggs
were hatched and the young ones fledged. It was
an unwritten law at The Woodlands never to disturb
the birds. The girls were not allowed to take
any eggs from the nests, and were taught not to
frighten a sitting bird or to interfere with the fledge-lings.
After several years of such consideration
The Woodlands had become a kind of bird sanctuary,
where the little songsters appeared to know
they were free from molestation. That the fruit in
the garden suffered rather a heavy toll was true;
but, as Miss Bowes remarked: "One can't have
everything. We must remember how many insects
they clear away, and not grudge them a few
currants and gooseberries. They pay us by their
lovely songs in the spring."

Ulyth was a great devotee of Nature study, and
had the supreme satisfaction of being the first to
discover that a pair of long-tailed tits were building
in a gorse-bush down the paddock. She was immensely
excited, for they were rather rare birds in
that district, and generally nested much higher up
on the hills. This was indeed the only instance on
record of their having selected The Woodlands for[Pg 187]
their domestic operations. As she had made the
discovery, it was her particular privilege to take
the observations, and every day she would go very
quietly and cautiously and seat herself near the
spot to note the doings of the shy little architects.
It was a subject of intense interest to watch the
globular nest grow, and then to ascertain, when
the parents were out of the way, that eggs had
actually been laid in it. Ulyth was so afraid of
disturbing the tits that she conducted her daily
observations alone, fearing lest even Lizzie's presence
might frighten them. "When there are two
of us we can't help talking, and an unusual sound
scares them worse than anything," she decided.

One morning she started for her daily expedition
to the paddock. The little hen had been sitting
long enough to make Ulyth think the eggs must
surely be hatched, and that probably the parents
were both already busy catering for their progeny.
She crept noiselessly round the corner to the hollow
where the bushes were situated. Then she
gave a gasp and a cry of horror. On the ground,
quite close to the nest, knelt Susannah Maude,
busily occupied in smearing some sticky white
substance over the lower boughs and shoots of
the gorse-bushes. She looked round with a beaming
face as Ulyth approached. Her beady eyes
twinkled with self-congratulation.

"Susannah! What are you doing, you young
imp of mischief?" exclaimed Ulyth in an agony.

"Catching your birds for you, Miss," responded
the orphan, a thrill of pride in her voice. "It's[Pg 188]
bird-lime, this is, and it'll soon stick 'em, you'll
see. I knows all about it, for my father was a
bird-catcher, and I often went with him when I
was a kid. I'd a job to get the lime, I can tell
you, but Bobby Jones brought me some from
Llangarmon."

She looked at Ulyth with a smile, as if waiting
for the praise that she deemed due to her efforts.
Utterly aghast, Ulyth stammered:

"But, Susannah Maude, we—we don't want the
birds caught."

The orphan appeared puzzled. A shade crossed
her sharp little face.

"Not want to catch 'em? What's the use of 'em,
then? Dad caught 'em and sold 'em."

Ulyth had to keep a strong curb over her temper.
After all, how could this ignorant child know what
she had never been taught? Miss Bowes might
well preach patience and forbearance.

"It's very cruel to snare the birds with lime at
any time, especially now, when they have young
ones who would starve without them," she explained
with what calm she could muster. "Promise
me that you will never try to do such a thing
again, and never interfere with any of the nests.
Mrs. Arnold will be most grieved to hear of this."

The orphan's black eyes filled with tears.

"Will she mind? I thought she'd like 'em to
keep in a cage as pets. I'd do anything in the
world to please her."

"Then leave the birds alone, if you want to
please her. Run now to the house and fetch me[Pg 189]
a basin full of hot water and a cloth. I must wipe
all this horrible stuff off the bushes. Bring a knife,
too, for I shall have to cut away some of the
branches and burn them. I hope the tits won't
desert."

Ulyth was late for school that morning, but the
offence was condoned by Miss Teddington when
she heard the reason.

"I hope you washed every scrap of the lime off?"
she asked anxiously.

"I didn't leave it while there was enough to
catch even a bumble-bee. The birds are back.
They came directly I'd gone a dozen yards away."

"That shows the young ones are hatched. I
hope Susan won't direct her energies into any
other natural-history experiments."

"We shall be sorry we brought her to the Camp-fire
if she does. She means well, but the worst
of her is that you never can calculate in the least
what she may do next. She's a problem."

During the summer term the Camp-fire Guild
had many informal meetings by the stream. The
girls were often allowed to take tea there, a permission
which they highly appreciated. Mrs.
Arnold had lent them a small camp-oven, in which
they could bake cakes, and many culinary efforts
resulted from the acquisition. On Saturday afternoon
Gertrude Oliver and Addie Knighton were on
the cooking-list as special scouts, and, having mixed
some currant-buns, placed them carefully in the
oven. They were in charge of the camp-fire and[Pg 190]
responsible for the preparation of the tea, to which
that day all the mistresses were to be specially invited.
The rest of the school were in the playing-field
practising flag-signalling under the joint
superintendence of Mrs. Arnold and Miss Teddington.

"It's a nuisance we can't leave the cakes," sighed
Addie. "I did so want to see them send that
message about the aeroplane."

"They're baking all right," said Gertrude. "We
can't make them any quicker by looking at them.
Couldn't we just run to the top of the gravel-pit
and watch for a few minutes? There's Susannah
Maude; she'd keep an eye on them. Hello!
Susan!"

The orphan, in virtue of being a hanger-on of
the Camp-fire, was wandering about by the stream
in the wake of the proceedings. She came running
up eagerly at Gertrude's call.

"I'll mind 'em for you, Miss. I've watched
Cook dozens of times. I'll look after the kettle
too. You leave it to me."

"I hope it won't be a case of King Alfred and
the cakes."

Susan grinned comprehension.

"Standard V Historical Reader. Not me!" she
chuckled. "I always thought the woman was a
silly to trust a man to turn the cakes."

"Well, mind you show up better. You might
as well put the milk-can in the stream to keep cool.
We don't want it curdled, and I'm certain there's
thunder about."[Pg 191]

Addie and Gertie were sure they were not absent
long. They just stood and watched a few messages
being sent, then ran back promptly to their
duties.

Susannah Maude was in the very act of trying
to lift the big camp-kettle from its trivet.

"Hold hard there!" screamed Addie, running
to the rescue. "You can't move that alone.
Susan! Stop!" It was too late, however. The
small busybody had managed to stir the kettle, but,
her youthful arms being quite unequal to sustaining
its weight, she let it drop, retreating with a wild
Indian yell of alarm. The stream of boiling water
fortunately escaped her, but nearly put out the
fire. When the steam and dust had subsided, the
rueful scouts picked up the empty kettle gingerly,
as it was hot.

"We shall have to build up the fire again,"
lamented Gertrude. "Oh, Addie, the cakes!"

She might well exclaim. In a row among the
ashes were the soaked, dust-covered remains of the
precious currant-buns.

"I took 'em out of the oven because they were
done," explained Susan hastily, justifying herself.
"I thought you shouldn't blame me for letting 'em
burn, anyhow; and I put 'em down there on some
dock-leaves to keep hot. I couldn't tell the kettle
would fall on 'em."

"They're done for," sighed Addie. "There
isn't one fit to eat. Help us to fill the kettle again
as soon as you can, and fetch some more sticks and
gorse, you black-eyed Susan!"[Pg 192]

"Where's the milk-can?" asked Gertrude uneasily.

"I put it in the stream as you told me," replied
the orphan rather sulkily, indicating with a nod
the location.

Decidedly anxious as to its safety, the girls ran
to the water-side. They always put the can in a
particular little sheltered corner fenced in by a few
stones. Susannah had helped them to place it
there many times, and had even named the spot
"the dairy". They looked in vain. The milk
was certainly not there now.

"What in the name of thunder have you done
with the can, you wretched imp?" shouted Addie,
thoroughly angry.

"You said it ought to keep very cool, so I threw
it into the deep pool. 'Tain't my fault," retorted
Susannah, who had a temper as well as her benefactresses.

"I've half a mind to throw you after it!" raged
Gertie, her fingers twitching to shake the luckless
orphan.

Perhaps Susannah's experienced eye gauged the
extent of her wrath, and decided that for once she
had gone too far. She did not wait to proffer any
more explanations, but turned and fled back towards
the house, resuming her neglected pan-scouring
in the scullery with a zeal that astonished
the cook.

Addie and Gertie replenished the camp-fire and
refilled the kettle; but the cakes were hopeless, and
the milk was beyond recall. Doris Deane, the[Pg 193]
champion swimmer of the school, dived for the can
next morning and brought it up empty; the lid
was never recovered, probably having been washed
into a hole.

The Guild sat down that afternoon rather disconsolately
to milkless tea. Addie had begged a small
jugful from the kitchen, enough for their guests,
the mistresses, but it was impossible to replace the
big two-gallon can at a moment's notice.

"I begin to wish the school had never supported
an orphan at the 'Alexandra Home for Destitute
Children'," sighed Gertie, eating plain bread and
butter, and thinking regretfully of her spoilt cakes.
"I vote next term we ask to give up collecting for
it, and keep a monkey at the Zoo instead. We
could send it nuts and biscuits at Christmas."

"And currant-buns?" giggled Beth Broadway.

"You are about the most unfeeling wretch I ever
came across!" snapped Gertrude.

"Lizzie," announced Ulyth, sitting down on a
stump in the glade, and speaking slowly and emphatically,
"The Woodlands isn't what it used to
be."

"So Stephanie was saying the other day," agreed
Lizzie, taking a seat on the stump by the side of
her friend. "She thinks it's a different place
altogether."

"It is; though not exactly from Stephie's point
of view. I don't care the least scrap that there are
no Vernons or Courtenays or Derringtons here
now. Stephie can lament them if she likes. I
never knew them, so I can't regret them. There's
one thing I can't help noticing, though—the tone
has been going down."

"Do you think it has?" replied Lizzie thoughtfully.
"Merle and Alice and Mary are rather
silly, certainly, but there's not much harm in them."

"I don't mean our form; it's the juniors. I've
noticed it continually lately."

"Now you come to speak of it, so have I. I don't
quite know what it is, but there's a something."

"There's a very decided something. It's come
on quite lately, but it's there. They're not be[Pg 195]having
nicely at all. They've slacked all round,
and do nothing but snigger among themselves
over jokes they won't tell."

"They're welcome to their own jokes as far as
I'm concerned, the young idiots!"

"Yes, if it's only just fun; but I'm afraid it's
something more than that—something they're
ashamed of and really want to hide. I've seen such
shuffling and queer business going on when any of
the monitresses came in sight."

"Have you said anything to Catherine or Helen?"

"No, and I don't want to. It's very unfortunate,
but they've really got no tact. Catherine's so high-handed,
and Helen's nearly as bad. They snap the
girls up for the least trifle. The result is the
juniors have got it into their tiresome young heads
that monitresses are a species of teacher. They
weren't intended to be that at all. A monitress is
just one of ourselves, only with authority that we
all allow. She ought to be jolly with everybody."

"Um! You can hardly call Catherine jolly with
the kids."

"That's just it. They resent it; they've gone
their own way lately, and it's been decidedly downhill.
I'm persuaded they're playing some deep and
surreptitious game at present. I wish I knew what
it was."

"Can't Rona tell you?"

"I wouldn't pump Rona for the world. It's
most frightfully difficult for her, a junior, to be
room-mate with a senior. Her form always suspect
her of giving them away to the Upper School.[Pg 196]
Rona's had a hard enough struggle to get any
footing at all at The Woodlands, and I don't want
to make it any harder for her. If she once gets the
reputation of 'tell-tale' she's done for. Since
Stephanie made that fuss about juniors coming
into senior rooms I mayn't ask her into V b; so
if she's ostracized by her own form too she'll be
neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring. No;
however I find out it mustn't be through Rona."

"Yes, I quite see your point. Now you speak
of it, I believe those juniors are up to something.
There's a prodigious amount of whispering and
sniggering among them. 'What's the joke?' I
said to Tootie Phillips yesterday, and she flared
out in the most truculent manner: 'That's our own
business, thank you!'"

"Tootie has been making herself most objectionable
lately. She wants sitting upon."

"Catherine will do that, never fear."

"No doubt, but it doesn't bring us any nearer
finding out what those juniors are after."

"They vanish mysteriously after tea sometimes.
I vote we watch them, and next time it happens
we'll stalk them."

"Right-O! But not a word to anybody else, or
it might get about and put them on their guard."

"Trust me! I wouldn't even flicker an eyelid."

Now that Ulyth and Lizzie had compared notes
on the subject of the juniors, they became more
convinced than ever of the fact that something
surreptitious was going on. Nods, hints, words
which apparently bore a hidden meaning, nudges,[Pg 197]
and signs were the order of the day. All friendly
advances on the part of seniors were repelled, the
younger girls keeping strictly to themselves. This
was the more marked as there had never been any
very great division at The Woodlands between
Upper and Lower School, the whole of the little
community sharing in most of the general interests.

After tea there was a short interval before evening
preparation began, and during the summer term
this was spent, if possible, out-of-doors by everybody.
One afternoon, only a few days after the
conversation just recorded, the girls had filed as
usual from the dining-hall, and were racing off for
tennis, basket-ball, or a run by the stream. As
Ulyth, down on her knees in the darkest part of
the hall cupboard, groped for her mislaid tennis-shoes,
two members of IV b came in for a moment
to fetch balls. They were in a hurry and they evidently
did not perceive her presence.

"Did you get the tip?" Irene Scott asked Ethel
Jephson under her breath. "By the lower pool
immediately."

"All serene! Tootie told me herself."

"Pass it on then; though I think most know."

As they ran down the passage, Ulyth, relinquishing
her hunt for the missing shoes, rose to her feet.

"There's one here who didn't know," she
chuckled. "This is a most important piece of information.
Immediately, by the lower pool, is it?
Well, I must go and find Lizzie. What are those
precious juniors up to, I wonder?"

Lizzie was taking her racket for a game of tennis,[Pg 198]
but she readily gave up her place to Merle Denham
at a hint from Ulyth.

"I told you they vanished after tea," she said,
as the two girls sauntered into the glen. "We'll
track them this time. Don't on any account look
as if you were going anywhere. Sit down here
and give them a few minutes' grace, in case
stragglers come up. They probably won't begin
punctually. I'll time it by my watch."

When five minutes had elapsed there was not a
solitary junior to be seen in the glade, and Ulyth
and Lizzie, deeming themselves safe, set out in the
direction of the lower pool.

This was a part of the stream at the very verge
of the grounds belonging to The Woodlands; indeed,
the greater portion of it lay in the land of
a neighbouring farmer, and to reach its pebbly
bank meant a scramble round some palings and
under a projecting piece of rock.

Ulyth and Lizzie were too wary to follow the
juniors by this path, but scaled the palings at
another point, and under cover of a thick copse of
gorse-bushes approached the pool from the side
that lay in the farmer's field. By most careful
scouting they found a spot on the bank where they
could see and hear without being seen.

Below them, seated on the rocks by the edge of
the water, were practically almost the whole of the
Lower School. They cuddled close, with their arms
round each other, and to judge from their repressed
giggles they appeared to be enjoying themselves.
Tootie Phillips, a long-legged, excitable girl of[Pg 199]
thirteen, mounted upon a boulder, was addressing
them with much fervour. Ulyth and Lizzie missed
the beginning of her remarks, but when they came
within earshot they realized that she was in the
midst of a vigorous harangue against the seniors.

"Are we to be trodden down just because we're
a little younger than they are?" urged Tootie.
"Why should they lord it over us, I should like to
know? They were juniors themselves only a year
or two ago. I tell you the worm will turn."

"It's turned pretty considerably," guffawed
Cissie Newall.

"It knows which side its bread's buttered,"
cackled Irene Scott.

"Buttered! You mean sugared, don't you?"

At this sally the whole party broke into a shout
of laughter.

"Good for you, Ciss!"

"Sugared! Ra—ther!"

"Shut up, you sillies! Someone will hear us,"
commanded Tootie. "I was saying before, we're
not going to be sat upon, either by teachers or
monitresses or seniors. We'll take our own way."

"A sugary way," chirped Ethel Jephson.

The girls hinnied again. There was evidently
something underlying the joke.

"When perfectly ridiculous rules are made, that
never ought to have been made," continued Tootie,
"then we've a right to take the law into our own
hands and do as we please."

"Our pocket money's our own," grumbled a discontented
spirit from the back.[Pg 200]

"Of course it is, and we ought to be able to do
what we like with it."

"And so are our brooches, if we want to——"

"Sh—sh!"

"Shut up, stupid!"

"Well, we all know."

"No need to blare it out, if we do."

"I wasn't blaring."

"Violet Robertson, remember your oath," commanded
Tootie. "If you let a word of—we know
what—leak out, you're sent to Coventry for the rest
of the term. Yes. Not a single one of us will
speak one single word to you. Not even your own
room-mates. So there!"

"Well, you needn't make such a precious fuss.
I'm sure I wasn't letting out secrets," retorted
Violet sulkily. "But I think there ought to be
some rate of value. My brooch was a far better
one than Mollie's."

"Right you are, my hearty, and I'm going to
speak about it. We mustn't let ourselves be done,
even by—you know who!"

"And she's sharp."

"She's getting too sharp. We must stop it, even
if we have to break off for a whole week."

"No, no!"

"Oh, not that anyhow!"

"Well, look here, if you're such sillies, you
deserve——"

But at this most interesting point the loud clanging
of the preparation-bell put a stop to any further
argument. With one accord the girls jumped up,[Pg 201]
and fled back as fast as they could run in the direction
of the school. Ulyth and Lizzie, at the risk
of being late for evening call-over, gave the conspirators
time to get well away before they ventured
to follow.

"What's the meaning of all this?" queried Lizzie,
as they scouted cautiously through the glade.

"I can't imagine. They're evidently doing something
they oughtn't to, the young wretches! But
they're keeping it very dark."

"We shall have to watch them."

"We must indeed," sighed Ulyth. "Lizzie, I
loathe eavesdropping and anything that savours of
underhand work, but what are we to do? Something
is going wrong among the juniors, and for
the sake of the school we've got to put it right if we
possibly can. It's no use asking them their sweet
secret, for they wouldn't tell us; and I'm afraid
setting the monitresses on the track would only
make things worse. If we can find out what
they're doing, then we shall know our ground.
I'm a Torch-bearer and you're a Fire-maker, and
we must appeal to them to keep their Camp-fire
vows. But we can't do that till we've some idea
of which rule they're breaking. How can we say
to them: 'I strongly suspect you're not being
trustworthy'? We've got to prove our words."

"Prove them we will. We'll dodge about till
we catch them in the act," agreed Lizzie.

To both the girls it was uncongenial though
necessary work. As seniors and League officers
they felt they owed a duty to the school, but that[Pg 202]
it would be far wiser to appeal privately to the
juniors' sense of honour, and win them back to
straight paths of their own free will, than to carry
the matter to head-quarters. For the present,
patience and tact must be their watchwords.

Several days went by, and nothing particular
occurred. Either the younger girls were on their
guard or they had suspended their activities. On
Friday evening, however, as Ulyth was coming
along the passage from practising, she accidentally
cannonaded into half a dozen members of IV b
who were standing near the boot cupboard. She
evidently surprised them, for one and all they
hastily popped their hands into their pockets. It
was promptly done, but not so quickly as to prevent
Ulyth from seeing that they were eating
something.

"It's all right," gasped Bertha Halliwell, with
apparent unconcern, in reply to Ulyth's apologies.
"You nearly upset me, but I'm not fractured."

"I wish you'd take care, though," grumbled
Etta Jessop, surreptitiously wiping a decidedly sticky
mouth; "no one likes being tumbled over."

Ulyth passed on thoughtfully. What had they
all been munching, and where did they get it from?
Private supplies of cakes and sweets were utterly
forbidden at The Woodlands. Their prohibition
was one of the strictest rules of the school, to break
which would be to incur a very severe penalty from
Miss Teddington. Was this the explanation of
Tootie's rather enigmatical remarks down by the
stream?[Pg 203]

"If that's their precious secret, and they're just
being greedy, I'm too disgusted with them for
words!" commented Lizzie, when informed of the
discovery.

Saturday and Monday passed with quite exemplary
behaviour on the part of the juniors. The
keenest vigilance could discover nothing. But on
Tuesday Lizzie came across another clue. She had
been monitress for the afternoon in the drawing-class,
and after the girls had left she stayed behind
to put away various articles that had been used and
to tidy the room.

As she worked along the desks where IV b had
been sitting, collecting stray pencils and pieces of
india-rubber, she noticed a book lying on the floor
and picked it up. It was a French grammar, with
"Etta Jessop" written on the fly-leaf and had
evidently been accidentally dropped. She turned
over the pages idly. In the middle was a scrap of
paper torn from an exercise-book, and on this was
scribbled: "Where will she be to-night?" while in
a different hand, underneath, as if in answer to the
question, were the words: "Side gate at 8. Pass,
'John Barleycorn'."

This was most important. It was the first, indeed
the only definite, information they had to go upon.
Lizzie replaced the slip of paper and laid the book
on the floor just where she had found it. Etta
would no doubt soon discover her loss, and come
back to fetch it. In the meantime this very valuable
piece of news must be communicated to Ulyth.

The chums talked the matter over earnestly.[Pg 204]

"Something's happening at the side gate at
eight o'clock, and they've got a password; that's
clear," said Lizzie.

"Then I think it's our plain duty to go and
investigate," returned Ulyth. "If the worst comes
to the worst we could report ourselves, and tell
Teddie why we went. She'd understand."

"I hope it won't need that," fluttered Lizzie
nervously.

The girls were not allowed out of the house after
preparation, so any excursions into the garden were
distinctly against the rules.

Feeling very culpable at thus breaking the law
of the school, Ulyth and Lizzie crept quietly from
the cloak-room door soon after eight had struck.
It was not yet dark, but the sun had sunk behind
the hills, and the garden was in deep shadow.
They passed the tennis-courts and the rose parterre,
and ran down the steps into the herbarium. Just
at the outskirts of the shrubbery a small figure was
skulking among the bushes. At the sound of footsteps
it gave a low, peculiar whistle, then advanced
slightly from the shadow and stood at attention, as
if in mute challenge of the new-comers. Irene
Scott, for it was she, was evidently on sentry duty.
No one with a knowledge of camp-life could mistake
her attitude.

"We'll bluff it off," whispered Ulyth, and, taking
Lizzie's arm, she marched quietly past, murmuring:
"John Barleycorn".

The effect of the password was electrical. Irene
looked immensely astonished. She had certainly[Pg 205]
not expected such knowledge on the part of
seniors.

"Are you in it too? Oh, goody!" she gasped;
then very softly she called: "All's well!" and,
turning, dived back among the bushes.

Lizzie and Ulyth pushed on towards the side
gate. It was open, and inside, under the shelter
of a big laurel, stood a woman with a basket. She
was a gipsy-looking person, with long ear-rings,
and she wore a red-and-yellow handkerchief tied
round her neck. As the girls approached she uncovered
her basket with a knowing smile.

"I've brought plenty to-night, Missies," she said
ingratiatingly. "Cheesecakes and vanilla sandwiches
and coco-nut drops and cream wafers.
What'll you please to have?"

"Are you selling them?" asked Ulyth in much
amazement.

The woman glanced at her keenly.

"I've not seen you two before," she remarked.
"Yes, dearie, I'm selling them. They're wholesome
cakes, and won't do you any harm. Try
these cream wafers."

"No, thanks! We don't want anything," stammered
Lizzie.

"If you've spent all your money," persisted the
hawker, "I'm always open to take a trinket instead.
There's a young lady been here just now, and gave
me this in place of a sixpence," showing a small
brooch pinned into her bodice. "Of course such
things aren't worth much to me, but I'd do it to
oblige you."[Pg 206]

At the sight of the little brooch Ulyth flushed hotly.

"We're not allowed to buy cakes and tarts," she
replied. "I'm sure Miss Bowes doesn't know that
you come here to sell things. It's not your fault,
of course, but please don't come again. It's breaking
the rules of the school."

The woman covered up her basket in an instant.

"All right, Missie, all right," she said suavely.
"I don't want to press things on you. That's not
my way. You won't catch me at this gate again,
I promise you. Good night!" and, slipping out
into the lane, she was gone directly.

Ulyth shut the door and bolted it.

"She mayn't come to this particular spot again,"
said Lizzie, "but she'll find some other meeting-place,
the cunning old thing. I could see it in her
eye. So this is their grand secret! What a remarkably
honourable and creditable one!"

"It's worse than I thought," groaned Ulyth.
"They must have been going on with this business
for some time, Lizzie. Do you know, that brooch
was Rona's. I recognized it at once. It's one she
brought from New Zealand, with a Maori device
on it."

"I thought better of Rona."

"So did I. She's improved so much I didn't
think she'd slip back in this way."

"I believe Tootie Phillips is the ring-leader."

"There's no doubt of it. From all we've seen,
the juniors have got a systematic traffic with this
woman, and post scouts to keep watch while she's
about. You heard Irene call: 'All's well!'"[Pg 207]

"They'll be feasting in their bedroom to-night."

"Rona won't dare, surely. Lizzie, I shouldn't
have thought much of it if they'd done it once just
for a lark. We're all human, and juniors will be
juniors. But when it gets systematic, and they
begin to sell their brooches, that's a different
matter."

"What are you going to do? Tackle the kids
and tell them we've found out, and they've got to
stop it?"

"Will they really stop it just at our bidding?
Or will it only put them on their guard and make
them carry the thing on with more caution?"

"Then give a hint to the monitresses?"

"I wonder if we ought. I wish Catherine and
Helen were different."

"Well, what do you suggest?"

"There's only one other way. Mrs. Arnold is
coming to The Woodlands on Friday afternoon.
Suppose we wait, catch her alone, and tell her all
about it. She's our 'Guardian of the Fire', and
we ought to be able to ask her things when we're
in difficulties. She doesn't belong to the school,
so it isn't like telling a teacher or a monitress. We
know we can trust her absolutely."

"Right-O! But it seems a long time to have to
wait."

"It can't be helped," said Ulyth, as they hurried
back through the garden.

She had decided, as she thought, for the best,
though, as the result proved, she had chosen a
most unfortunate course.

Ulyth went to her bedroom that evening in much
agitation of mind. She was torn by conflicting
impulses. At one moment she longed to tax Rona
frankly with a breach of school rules, air the whole
subject, and state her most emphatic opinion upon
it. If Rona alone had been concerned in the
matter she would have done so without hesitation,
but the knowledge of the number of girls who were
involved made her pause.

"I might do more harm than good," she reflected.
"After the way Tootie has been inciting
them to take sides against the seniors, they'd be
up in arms at the least hint. It will be worse if
they know they're discovered, and yet go on in an
even more underhand fashion."