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The girls had a wonderful time on the moors

RAGGED ROBIN

‘Bobby. Are you there?’

‘Oh, yes. Go away, do.’

But Anne never went away when Robina wept or was in trouble. She sat down quietly on the orchard grass, a quaint little figure in a faded blue overall, with two mouse-coloured plaits dangling over her shoulders, and surveyed Bobby’s prostrate form sadly.

‘Don’t howl so, Bobby, please.’

‘You’d howl like that dog over at Simpson’s—you know you would—if you had to go to school. It’s a shame.’

‘Perhaps father doesn’t mean it,’ hopefully, ‘he’s said it heaps and heaps of times.’

‘But he’s never sent for a hateful fat envelope before, stuffed with things called pros—pros—oh, you know what I mean. And I saw one on the hall table just now—come by the afternoon post. It’s got Northwold Manor School on its hateful flap, so it’s all over now, and it’s all because of that hateful old Piecrust.’

Anne gave a deep sigh, her odd little face so full of woe that Robina might have been going to execution instead of to school.

‘She is a beast. But, oh, Bobby, I do wish you hadn’t drawn that picture of her. It was so awfully like a codfish, and that’s what made her so mad, and burst on father about the arithmetic.’

Bobby sat up with a jerk.

‘Well, doesn’t that show she is a sneak? If you drew a picture of me with a face like fifty codfishes, I shouldn’t rush and tell father you’re an idiot about grammar, should I?’

‘But perhaps school will be nice. They sound lovely in books.’

‘Nice! Do you call it nice to go to a place full of girls you don’t know, who will have lovely clothes underneath as well as on top? Not like the things Nannie makes us out of thick calico and crocheted lace; and they’ll have brushes with silver letters on them, of course, and writing cases, and shoes without straps; and I shall feel awful, as usual. Just like that time Nannie made me go to the Grays’ party in my blue cotton dress with lace in the neck. I’m always all wrong, and always shall be, I suppose.’

She sighed tragically, this draggled little pessimist of twelve; and, however true her dismal prophecy might be in the future, she was certainly ‘all wrong’ at that moment as far as appearance was concerned.

Her mop of silky black hair was bobbed in an untidy, ragged fashion about her ears. Her skirt was absurdly short, and of a sort of patchwork design, for darns and patches covered endless rents. Her blue jersey was painfully short in the sleeves, faded, and darned at the elbows with a darker wool; and her sunburnt face and bare, scratched legs would have more befitted some wandering gipsy, than a young lady preparing for boarding-school.

There was a thud on the orchard grass, and Anne glanced at Bobby anxiously. This was a test if her heart were really broken.

‘Is it a Ribston Pippin?’

Anne gave a sigh of relief and sprang up. ‘I’ll go and see.’ In a moment she was back with a golden and scarlet apple in her hand.

‘Yes, it is—a beauty! You have it, Bobby.’

‘No, don’t be silly; we’ll have bites, of course.’ She put her white teeth into the creamy fruit for the first bite. Then she passed it on to Anne and sighed dismally, just to let her know that even big bites of Ribston Pippins couldn’t heal wounds as deep as hers.

Anne took a bite too, then edged close to Bobby with comforting nearness.

‘But you’ll have new clothes, Bobs, lots and lots.’

‘Yes,’ bitterly, ‘and Nannie and Miss Simms will make them. Oh, don’t. But it isn’t only clothes—fancy having to obey rules all day—it’s bad enough in the mornings—and then there will always be bells ringing, and perhaps half a dozen people worse than the Piecrust saying “don’t” all day—and we’ll go out like some silly crocodile, and every one will hate me, and try to dodge walking with me.’

‘Oh, Bobby, they won’t hate you.’

‘Yes, they will. Didn’t I tell you that I’m all wrong everywhere, as well as clothes. I can’t talk about parties, and don’t even know how to dance, and I shall loathe hockey. Imagine rushing round after a ball all afternoon, instead of playing Indians here in the orchard. And I can’t do arithmetic, nor speak a word of French, and I never did like girls, you know. It wouldn’t be half so bad if I could go to a boys’ school. Then I shouldn’t have to sit round with a lot of silly girls and do horrible sewing.’

Bobby stopped and surveyed the apple anxiously. Apples were scarce, and only windfalls allowed to be eaten. Then, taking a last bite, she passed the core, still generously thick, to Anne, and once more threw herself down and abandoned herself to woe.

Anne ate her share furtively, striving not to appear unsympathetic by crunching with any obvious enjoyment. Then, throwing the core to the chickens in the orchard grass, she gave Bobby a timid nudge.

‘I say, Bobby, it’s long past tea-time. Nan will be in an awful wax. Besides,’ diplomatically, ‘it’ll be such a pity if all the blackberry fluff has gone.’

‘Blackberry fluff! That’s the worst of you, Anne. You always begin to talk about things to eat! If you won’t go without me, I suppose I’ll have to come. I can’t think why people hate being wrecked on desert islands in books—I should just love it.’

She got up fiercely, a tall, lanky young creature in her ragged blue skirt, and began to walk through the long grass, followed by the faithful Anne.

A little stream divided the orchard from the kitchen garden, and Bobby usually cleared it with a hop, skip, and a jump; but this afternoon she crossed by the uninteresting plank, in her opinion meant only for dull grown-ups.

In the kitchen garden old Silas was burning weeds, and the smoke from his fire was curling up in blue mistiness among the pine-trees in the distance. The bees were humming over a great clump of Michaelmas daisies across the stream, and above them flashed the gorgeous flutterings of a thousand butterfly wings.

Bobby sat down on the plank, and began to wail again.

‘Oh! To think I shall have to go away from all this, and live in a stuffy school, with horrible shoes and stockings on all day, and never see an apple, I suppose, except on a plate—and who’ll look after Lancelot I’d like to know?’

Anne sat down patiently. She was conscious that soon they would have to face a blackberry-fluffless tea, and an irate Nannie, and Anne was all for peace. But if Bobby wanted to meditate with her legs in the stream, of course there was nothing to be done, and all she could hope for was that the water would soon prove cold, or that Bobby’s hunger would overcome her grief.

‘I’ll feed Lancelot, of course.’

‘Yes, and the first time it’s wet Nannie won’t let you go out on the wet grass, and you won’t have the brains to find a way to do it. Anyhow he shan’t starve, poor darling, I’ll let him go first, and then probably he’ll be caught by some horrid village boys. Well, it’s all father’s fault.’

‘Bobby! Anne! Bobby! Anne!’

‘There’s Billy calling; I expect Nan’s sent him. Do let’s go, Bobby.’

‘Why can’t they leave us alone? It’s as bad as school, with everyone calling you just when you want to think.’

Anne seized her hand.

‘Never mind. Let’s dodge Billy. He’s sure to be mad having to come after us.’

She rushed Bobby through a little wicket-gate in the hedge, across the garden to the side door of the rambling old vicarage, and gave her no time to rebel until they reached the top of the back stairs.

‘What on earth are you rushing like that for? You needn’t think the boys will have left any jam by this time.’

Anne pushed open the nursery door boldly, and was met by a torrent of wrath from Nannie.

‘Well! so you’ve condescended to come, have you, after we’ve all called ourselves hoarse after ye? You’d think a great girl of nearly thirteen, and the eldest and all, would be well-mannered enough to be in when tea’s ready, and give a hand with tying on her little brother’s bib, seeing her old Nannie has got only one pair of hands. There he goes again, lepping up, and his mug over before she can get enough bread cut to feed ye all.’

‘Oh, don’t lecture, Nan. You’re always bothering me to do something. Humpty is a little nuisance.’

‘Is he indade?—and not such a nuisance as you were yourself at his age, I’ll be bound. Put your overall on, and take your place without another word, miss. And now I suppose Billy’s after losing himself. Ye won’t be content till ye drive me crazy with yer wild ways.’

‘I say, Bobs! Dad wants you after tea in the study. I expect he’s found out about the garden scissors you left on the haystack.’

It was Mike who volunteered this remark. A long-legged boy of eleven, who enjoyed his sister’s tantrums, and usually spent the nursery tea-time in goading Nannie and her on to battle.

‘Oh, do be quiet, and pass the jam, if you’ve had the decency to leave any.’

‘Not a bit of jam passes your lips till ye’ve washed the dirt off ye! I’ve seen dacenter children in Irish cabins, and that’s the truth, and I’ll have no more of it.’

Anne struggled into a brown overall and departed into the bathroom in search of soap and water, but Robina sat still.

‘It’s clean dirt, and I won’t put on an overall like a baby, so you can just leave off bothering, Nan.’

‘Well! Did you ever see the like of that now? Defying me as if I was a nobody in my own nursery! No wonder your poor ma’s wore herself out! Take and eat your bread dry, if ye can’t make yourself dacent, and then go down to the master, and see what he can make of ye.’

Bobby replied to this tirade stormily, and Mike passed her the bread with annoying politeness.

Nannie grew more and more irate, and Anne wept silently, because she was sorry for Bobby, and sorry for herself too; because it wouldn’t be playing the game to eat blackberry fluff denied to Bobby, and she detested dry bread. Humpty emptied his mug of milk into the coveted jam, just as Billy returned hungry and cross, which caused such an uproar of indignation among the rest that Janet, the little maid, came up to say that ‘the master would be obliged if they wouldn’t all behave like a lot of wild beasts at the Zoo, and Miss Robina was to please come down into the drawing-room at once.’

Then it was true! That horrible fat envelope she had seen on the hall table contained the worst, and the dreaded sentence was about to be passed. She was to go to school.

‘And you’ll oblige me by telling your mamma it’s no fault of mine that you go down to the drawing-room looking no better than the gipsy brats on the common.’

Then, changing her tactics, old Nannie caught Bobby by her disreputable skirts as she passed, and cried, ‘There, now. Put on a clean overall, do, lovey, if it’s only to please old Nannie.’

Bobby shook herself free. She was in one of her hard moods, and she had no intention of giving in. She knew perfectly well that she was damaging her own cause by appearing before her father ragged and untidy, for her careless disregard for her clothes when she wanted to enjoy herself was one of his chief reasons for wishing to send her away.

It was the same with lessons. She knew very well that her persistent rebellion against Miss Pye’s rule, and her refusal to try to learn anything she disliked, all brought the hated idea of school nearer; but Miss Pye’s prim slowness had the same effect on Bobby as a red rag has on an infuriated bull. Therefore she brought rebellion into the vicarage schoolroom, and the unfortunate lady’s mornings were more often spent in arguing and remonstrating with this one defiant pupil, than in imparting her conscientiously prepared lessons to the others.

Bobby walked down the wide, shallow staircase. It was covered with a shabby brown carpet with a pattern of faded roses. Anne and she always trod in the very middle of each rose; although often the feat was extremely difficult, as the flowers were far apart, and often faded altogether.

It was the same with the square black and white tiles in the hall below; only the white ones must be trodden on, or some dreadful punishment would be sure to come from the old gray witch whom Billy vowed lived under the stairs.

Bobby professed to scorn this childish nonsense; but all the same she took care, even in the moment of her despair, to jump into the middle of every rose and white tile, and to fly past the dark little cupboard door under the stairs as though a hundred old gray witches pursued her.

She turned the handle of the drawing-room door with a jerk, and burst in defiantly.

It was a shabby old room, but at that time of her life Bobby believed it to be wonderful—rather like the British Museum, in fact; for it was full of queer foreign things picked up by her uncles and aunts in their travels.

There were huge Chinese jars, quite big enough to hold Anne when the children played the Forty Thieves; only, unfortunately, Bobby, as Morgiana, had knocked one of them down in her excitement and broken a large piece from the side of it, which had caused the dreaded words, ‘You must go to school,’ to be said over and over again.

There was a model of the Leaning Tower at Pisa in a glass cabinet, and an ostrich’s egg—the very thing for giant games—and old coins and Chinese chop-sticks, and a hundred more delightful things to be played with when father was out of the way.

The flowery chintz on the chairs was as faded and old as the carpet; but it was a charming room all the same, with its old china bowls filled with Michaelmas daisies and late summer roses.

‘Well, Robina—— Good gracious, child! you look like a scarecrow!’

The vicar creaked his basket chair testily, and turned to his wife with a frown, saying, ‘Now, perhaps you’ll acknowledge, my dear, that the child is growing up like a little savage.’

‘Bobby, darling, why didn’t you change? you look such a little ragged robin.’

‘I didn’t want to.’

‘Tut!’ The vicar creaked his chair again. ‘It’s the same tale from Miss Pye. “I didn’t want to do arithmetic. I didn’t want to practise.” Very well, then, we will send you somewhere where they will make you want to do something useful, you silly child.’

‘Don’t twist about like that, dear. You know it annoys father, and he’s tired. Sit down on the sofa by me; we want to tell you some news.’

Robina’s mother was rather like Robina herself. She had the same silky black hair and dark gray eyes; only she didn’t frown darkly, although her pale face was full of tired little wrinkles caused by a nurseryful of naughty children.

Bobby adored her mother, but it was hard to adore her father too. He was very clever and wonderful, of course, and could answer any question you asked, just as easily as the row of big encyclopædias in the schoolroom. But he was so strict about lessons, and quite spoilt Bobby’s life with his never-ending threats of school.

She sat down, still frowning darkly, and the vicar put on his eyeglasses, and took a thick envelope from his coat pocket.

‘Do you remember your Aunt Emilia, Robina?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘Well, she hasn’t seen you since you were a little girl of six; but yesterday she wrote a letter to me about you.’

‘About me?’

Bobby’s heart gave a jump. Perhaps she had tortured herself for nothing, and, instead of a hated school, she was going to hear some wonderful surprise about Aunt Emilia, who was her godmother as well as her aunt, and always sent her ten shillings on her birthday.

‘Leave off fidgeting, Robina, and listen to what your aunt says.’

Bobby composed herself with alacrity, while the vicar drew from his pocket a closely-written sheet of paper.

‘Never mind the first part, it’s all about your Uncle Timothy. This is what I wish you to hear, Robina.’

The vicar adjusted his glasses, reproved Bobby for sitting cross-legged, and began to read,—

‘ “I have been thinking a great deal about Robina lately. She must be nearly thirteen—how time flies, to be sure! I have not forgotten that she is my god-daughter, and though I have seen little of her through living abroad so much, I have always intended to do something really helpful for this particular chick of yours. From what I remember of her she was rather a handful, and must be getting a little beyond the ordinary governess. Also, I should imagine that Billy and Tim and Anne would be quite enough for one schoolroom! Therefore I suggest that she should go to a good school at once—at my expense, of course. I am sending you a prospectus of the place that I think would suit her excellently. Mrs Travers’s little girl goes there, and is getting along wonderfully well. It seems that Miss Bellamy, the head-mistress of the school, has a genius for managing difficult girls. Let me know what you think of the plan at once, as Robina ought to be ready to go at the beginning of the autumn term.” ’

The vicar wiped his eyeglasses, and looked at Bobby quite benevolently. ‘Well, you lucky little person, what do you think of that?’

‘I think it’s a horrid sell!’

‘Robina! How many times have I told you that I will not allow you to use schoolboy slang to me?’

Bobby began to weep stormily. It was such a bitter disappointment. There she had been imagining that Aunt Emilia had all sorts of fairy godmother plans for her, and then all she could think of was to send her to some hateful school.

‘I don’t want to go to school. You know I don’t, father, and that’s why you are glad. And I think it’s horrible of Aunt Emilia to pretend she likes me, and then try to make me miserable. I can do fractions all right if I like, only Miss Pye’s such a pig.’

‘Robina!’

‘Well, she is; but I don’t care if she is if you’ll only let me stay at home. Oh, do, father.’

‘And allow you to miss an opportunity of this sort—an excellent schooling for years? Remember the boys will cost so much when they are ready for public school life that I can’t do much for you and Anne, Robina!’

‘I don’t care. What’s the good of cramming when you’re going to be a land girl? and I shan’t be anything else, so there!’

‘Tut! What’s all this nonsense?’

Robina’s mother broke in gently,—

‘Hush, Bobby, and listen to me. This is such a wonderful chance, dear; one that father and I could never give you. We can just manage the outfit at a pinch, if we put our heads together and work hard.’

‘Couldn’t Aunt Emilia manage the outfit, and you and father the school?’ broke in Bobby. ‘Miss Simms and Nannie make such awful things. I don’t mind being a fright here, but it will be hateful when all those horrid girls laugh at me.’

‘They shan’t laugh at you, if I can help it, Bobby.’

Bobby’s eyes filled with tears; her hateful tongue had hurt her mother again, and she could have bitten it out. But it wasn’t Bobby’s way to say she was sorry. She just murmured grumpily, ‘I know that, mummy, but it isn’t only clothes; it’s everything. Oh, father, don’t let me go.’

‘You are going in a fortnight, Robina; and what is more, you are going to sit down at once and write your Aunt Emilia a letter expressing your thanks and gratitude to her for the wonderful chance she is giving to you. When you have written it, bring it to me; for from what Miss Pye says your composition is as disgraceful as your writing. Stop that silly crying. It will not improve your mother’s headache. Run away and write the letter, and oblige me by going quietly, and without banging the door.’

Bobby departed stormily; it was plain that the whole world was against her.

But Anne, the faithful, was waiting at the top of the stairs with Lancelot, Bobby’s pet hedgehog, on her knee.

‘Bobby, I’ve fed Lancelot. He’s had a saucer of cocoa and the biscuit you saved from lunch. What’s the matter? Did Dad find the garden scissors?’

Bobby cast herself upon the stairs.

‘The matter! I’m the miserablest girl in the world, and you needn’t go on working that tea-cosy for Aunt Emilia, because she’s just a horrid sneak!’

BOBBY GOES TO SCHOOL

Long, long after Anne was asleep that night, Bobby lay awake watching the big harvest moon over the cornfield.

She crept out of bed and leaned out of the open window. Outside she could see the rabbits playing among the corn-sheaves in the moonlight, and away in the little pine-wood the owls were hooting.

And to think that such a beautiful silver world should all be spoilt by schools and cruel aunts!

Nannie’s footstep on the stairs made her jump back into bed again, and there she lay planning and plotting some way of escape.

She thought at first of getting up early and running off to Hickory Wood Common to the gipsies there; but Mike would guess that place at once, and, besides, she hated the gipsy woman with the gray beard, she was so like a witch.

People in books often ran away to London when they were persecuted and ill used at home, and Bobby would have rather enjoyed having the experience herself; she might even be lucky enough to get into a blacking factory like Charles Dickens and then write famous books about it afterwards.

But you can’t walk a hundred miles, and Bobby had spent her last sixpence on an aeroplane for Billy’s birthday. Certainly it wouldn’t fly, as Billy had pointed out bitterly; but all the same Bobby had spent her fortune upon it, and Aunt Emilia’s ten shillings wouldn’t come for three weeks; and perhaps she wouldn’t be able to afford ten shilling birthday gifts at all now that she was going to waste all that money on idiotic schools.

The only plan Bobby could think of that would do at all was to starve. She would then become so ill and thin that her mother would never be able to bear to let her go to school; and if she could keep herself awake at night too, her wretched appearance would probably make even her father’s hard heart ache.

She remembered how upset he had been when Anne was awake for two whole nights with toothache; for Anne had looked a miserable little object with dark shadows under her blue eyes.

Bobby decided to begin to starve the very next morning at breakfast time, and to keep herself awake the whole night long. She felt sure she could do it if she kept on saying the kings and queens of England, with the dates of their accession and the names of their wives over and over again; and Miss Pye could never say she shirked her preparation any more, when she heard she had been trying to remember history all night.

‘William I., 1066, married Matilda of Flanders.’ How obliging the Norman kings had been in all marrying Matildas, and what a sell for Miss Pye. She would have loved them to have been Berengarias and Isabellas, or anything horribly mixing-up and hard to remember. ‘John, 1199——’ Who on earth did that horrid John marry? and how lovely it was for Anne to be able to go to sleep and enjoy her dreams without any schools or kings and queens on her mind.

Bobby’s eyelids were so heavy she could hardly bear to keep them open at all; so she decided that poetry would be more exciting than kings’ wives, and plunged into the Pied Piper bravely,—

The cuckoo in the nursery clock called twelve times, but Bobby never heard it; for she was as fast asleep as the care-free Anne.

The next morning Robina’s cheeks were as round and sunburnt as ever, and there were no interesting, dark shadows under her eyes at all; which was very disappointing for the plotter.

There was nothing left but the starvation plan, and she dressed herself fully determined to eat nothing all day—not even if there were apple dumplings for dinner.

The children took it in turns to have breakfast downstairs; for the vicar hated a noisy table. Bobby and Anne went one morning, and Billy and Mike the next. Tim and Humpty were always in the nursery at meal times and, to tell the truth, the elder children envied them. It was much jollier eating bread and jam up with Nannie than being lectured by father downstairs.

It was Bobby and Anne’s turn on that particular morning, and as luck would have it, a dish of scrambled eggs appeared instead of the usual porridge, and bread and marmalade.

‘I don’t want any breakfast, thank you, father.’

‘Tut! What’s this nonsense?’

‘But, Bobby dear, you love eggs.’ Robina’s mother began to look worried. ‘Aren’t you well, dearie?’

‘I don’t want any, thank you.’

‘ “I don’t want” again. What did I say yesterday about that, Robina? Eat your breakfast at once, and let us have no more nonsense, if you please.’

The vicar piled a generous helping of creamy egg on to Bobby’s plate, and Anne gave her a look of deep reproach.

That was the worst of it. Anne and she had a sort of secret compact that if one of them could not eat the other would not. Anne had gone without blackberry fluff the day before; and how could Bobby be so cruel as to force her to go without scrambled eggs to-day?

It was plain the Fates were against Bobby. She could not run away to the gipsies; walk to London; keep herself awake at night, nor starve; therefore she would have to go to school and die there of a broken heart.

She drew her plate towards her as defiantly as she dared, and the anxious Anne gave a sigh of relief, and helped herself to salt.

Nobody ever spoke much at breakfast time downstairs; the vicar liked to be quiet while he read his letters, and when the children had finished their meal they were allowed to leave the table, for there were the animals to feed, and they were supposed to run in the garden for half an hour before Miss Pye appeared.

That was another grievance of Bobby’s. Because of her father’s absurd thirst for knowledge for his children, he insisted that Miss Pye should return to her duties after only a month’s holiday. Therefore, when other luckier children were still enjoying playing out of doors all day, the unwilling Bobby and Anne, Billy and Tim were dragged into the schoolroom every morning for the lessons they detested.

To make matters worse, Mike never returned to school until the third week in September, and to show his joy in having escaped from Miss Pye’s bondage, and with the usual impish schoolboy’s desire to aggravate his sisters, he used to delight in strolling past the schoolroom windows, flaunting his freedom; and if, by making diabolical faces, or dressing the cat up in Nannie’s bonnet (well out of Miss Pye’s sight, of course), he could reduce the schoolroom party to helpless giggles, he felt that his time had not been wasted.

When Bobby and Anne went out into the garden, the boys were already on the lawn, collecting ants for Lancelot’s breakfast, who showed his disapproval by rolling himself into a tight ball, with his prickly armour bristling in all directions.

Bobby flew into a temper at once and snatched Lancelot from the grass.

‘Well, you needn’t go on like a game turkey cock just because we gave the poor chap something he likes for breakfast. He must be sick of living on stale biscuits and weak cocoa, and being penned up in a stuffy hutch,’ said Mike.

‘It isn’t stuffy.’

‘Yes, it is; and you’ll see what it’s like being shut up all the time, Miss Turkey Cock, when you get to school. You can’t fly into rages there, and a nice ass you’ll feel when they find out you don’t know enough arithmetic for a kid of ten!’

Bobby flew at Mike, but he dodged her like an eel, and Anne, the peacemaker, cried out, ‘The hall clock struck a quarter to nine ages ago. Billy, it’s your turn to spy.’

For these charming children had established a rule that they should take turns to watch for the unconscious Miss Pye from the henhouse roof, as she appeared near the vicarage, and from long practice they were able to judge by her expression the state of her morning temper. If her countenance looked forbidding and sour, the watcher hastily returned, and pronounced to the waiting trio that they were in for ‘Rhubarb Pie’ that day, and it was thought prudent to rush to the schoolroom and hastily glance over the previous day’s ‘prep.’

If, however, their unfortunate governess looked merely disagreeable, ‘Gooseberry Pie’ was the watchword; an amiable expression meant ‘Plum Pie,’ and if, by any miracle, she was seen to smile as she approached the gate, she was excitedly pronounced to be as sweet as ‘Cherry Pie.’

Alas, poor Miss Pye seldom deserved the last title! For the task of teaching the vicarage children was not always a thing to smile about, and, after six years of it, the state of her daily temper was more often of the ‘rhubarb’ variety.

Billy departed, and returned almost immediately with a gloomy expression. There was a chorus of ‘Well?’

‘Rhubarb! The early kind, without sugar rations. She’s punctured her bike on those tacks we spilt when we came from the village, and she’s in an awful wax. I say, we’d better go in and have a squint at that beastly grammar!’

The schoolroom party disappeared with a rush, after an envious glance at the lucky Mike, reclining with annoying indolence on the garden-roller, eating an enormous apple.

Miss Pye was a little person, extremely neat and upright. She wore eyeglasses, which made her look strict and forbidding, and she was always fussy and nervous and afraid she was not doing her duty.

She would have been a very successful teacher with ordinary children; but the vicarage children were not ordinary; a fact that she never realised nor understood. Robina was moody and passionate, with a hatred of restraint of any sort. Anne was clever, but extremely slow. Mike had brought many gray hairs round Miss Pye’s temples before he was sent to a preparatory school, and Billy would have driven a saint to desperation. Tim was more like an eel than a boy, and all five of them detested Miss Pye’s way of teaching, and never showed the least interest in her carefully prepared lessons. She was over-anxious, too fond of repetition, and Bobby’s gipsy nature hated her preciseness.

The children’s questions nearly drove her mad. She would have been glad to have answered nice sensible ones out of text-books, but the things she was asked were not sensible at all in her opinion, for she so seldom knew the answer. ‘How many teeth has a crocodile got?’ ‘How long would it take an aeroplane to fly to the moon?’ ‘Do islands go down to the bottom?’ That was the sort of question they sprang upon her, so that she was kept in a continual state of nervousness; and was well aware of their delight when she was forced to confess her ignorance on these knotty points; not being quick-witted enough to conceal it and turn the tables on her tormentors.

There was no doubt at all that morning that Miss Pye was ‘in a wax,’ when she entered the schoolroom, and her temper was not improved by discovering that Anne, in her hurry to look over her badly-learnt lessons had forgotten to put on her shoes.

Shoes were worn during lesson hours in summer time only out of deference to Miss Pye; for she objected to sitting down to teach a ‘set of bare-footed ragamuffins.’

All the same, this rule did not endear her to her pupils; and the poor lady would have given a great deal to repeal the law, for it was the cause of endless discord between them.

Robina nearly always kicked off the hated shoes under the table, and Anne followed her example as usual. Then Billy would promptly work with the toe of his own shoe until he had mixed them up or hidden them, which meant a wild rush underneath the table, and scuffles and head-bumping every time either of the girls was called up for repetition.

‘Anne! Fetch your shoes at once; and take ten lines before play-time for forgetting them again. Robina! Why are the ink-pots not out?’

‘I told you so,’ whispered Billy. ‘Green rhubarb—and very crusty. Just our luck it’s a grammar morning!’

‘I say, Miss Pye; Bobby’s going to school,’ said Billy, hoping to distract his governess’s attention while he hastily scanned ‘The Inflection of Nouns,’ from a grammar book which was mostly in little pieces.

‘I am extremely glad to hear it,’ said Miss Pye coldly. ‘Though I am sorry that her ignorance and idleness will naturally bring discredit upon me as well as upon herself.’

Bobby was in a fury at once, and flashed out, ‘Anyway, I don’t suppose the lessons will be dull at school.’

‘Probably not. The pupils are sure to be intelligent children and easy to interest—not little savages. And Robina, you may write fifty lines before bedtime to-night for impertinence. Come, Anne, you begin. What do you know of the Possessive Case?’

But Anne knew nothing about the Possessive Case, and neither did Billy. Robina did not choose to know, and Tim, with his tongue in his cheek, was laboriously writing his morning copy.

Anne looked at Miss Pye’s relentless face in despair, and, finding no pity there, her eyes went roving into the garden for inspiration. Then her rosy cheeks became redder and redder, and instead of expressing regret that she and the Possessive Case were strangers, she burst into hysterical giggles.

Of course, Bobby and Billy looked out of the window too, and Billy instantly exploded into his pocket-handkerchief, and Bobby forgot she was furious.

For, mincing along the lawn, well out of Miss Pye’s vision, was Mike, dressed in that lady’s neat little toque and knitted sports’ coat, and carrying a pile of books primly under his arm.

‘Well, Anne?’

Miss Pye eyed her crimson victim coldly. At last, ‘I don’t know, Miss Pye. I mean the Possessive Case is—Oh!——’

Anne broke into wild laughter, and Billy and Tim ducked under the table to explode, for Mike was now diligently reading one of his books, with a paper eyeglass on his nose, in absurd imitation of Miss Pye.

‘Very well, I see you all intend to be rude and impertinent, as well as lazy and inattentive as usual. You may——’

The door opened quickly, and the children’s mother came in.

‘Oh, Miss Pye, I’m so sorry to interrupt you, but I meant to see you before lessons began this morning. You know I told you yesterday about the kind offer Bobby’s aunt has made, and now it is all settled. I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to excuse Bobby this morning, please. There is so much to be done, and I must take her into town to-day.’

‘Certainly, Mrs Dare. Robina, you may put your books away. I will leave your preparation with Anne.’

Miss Pye felt relieved. She could always manage the younger children better when the rebellious Bobby was absent.

Bobby rose with alacrity. If school meant escaping from Rhubarb Pie and the Possessive Case, it certainly had its advantages.

Visits to town were rare, too; and it would be a pleasant change to see some shops and have lunch with nobody but mother at Moffats. She made up her mind to choose some of that delicious brown fish, and fruit salad. All the same, it would never do to show in any way that she was enjoying herself or taking any interest in the hated school.

The other children instantly became indignant.

‘Oh, I say, mum; it isn’t fair! Why should Bobs have all the fun? Can’t we have a holiday too?’

‘Of course not, you lazy monkeys! What would Miss Pye say? And you have not to be fitted with new hats and coats. Now be good, and don’t worry father, he’s writing to-day. You are all going to have dinner with Nannie in the nursery. She is making apple dumplings for you this minute.’

A big tear splashed from Anne’s blue eyes, and Billy kicked off his shoes under the table savagely. Tim put his tongue in his cheek, and began his copy again manfully. After all Miss Pye would have to go away some time, even if he didn’t know his nine times; and it was nice to have apple dumplings to look forward to in the nursery with Nannie.

‘Never mind!’ whispered Robina to the prisoners. ‘I’ll ask mum to bring you some of those curranty biscuits from Moffats.’

And Anne dried her eyes, a little comforted.

During the walk to the station and in the train crawling with country slowness townwards, Bobby was silent, and the more her mother tried to cheer her up, the gloomier she became.

‘I must show you the letter I had from Miss Bellamy this morning, darling. She seems such a charming person, and the school appears to be delightful. Not a big place where you would be homesick and bewildered, but quite small. It will be like going into a big friendly family. You must ask father to show you the prospectus to-night.’

‘No, thank you, mother.’

‘I do wish you would be reasonable, Bobby dear. It makes me so miserable when you take it like this. You will love it when you get there, I feel sure, and you want older girls with you now. Anne is a darling, of course, but she’s such a baby. Besides, you haven’t enough to do at home, and that makes you grumpy. You know there is never any time so happy as——’

‘Oh, mummy, don’t, please.’

‘Don’t what, dear?’

‘Talk all that silly stuff about school being the happiest time in your life. I tell you I shan’t like it. I hate silly girls and silly rules; and how can I be happy when they’ll never let me be by myself, or run in the wind without any shoes on?’

‘Hush, hush, dear! You must try to like it, and to make the most of it too, or father will be so disappointed. You know, Bobby, you can work well if you like.’

Robina remained obstinately silent, and the train arrived at last at the little country town which was all she knew of the world.

Her mother hurried her from shop to shop, for time was short and there was much to be done.

The reluctant Bobby thrust her feet into stiff boots and slippers, and rebelled fiercely over her mother’s choice of hats.

It was not long before worried lines began to appear over Mrs Dare’s eyes, and Bobby became panic-stricken at the sight of her mother’s shabby old purse producing so many notes to pay for her clothes; for she was old enough to understand that money was scarce at the vicarage.

‘Oh, dear me, how terribly expensive stockings are! I wonder why you need so many pairs. I’m so sorry, darling, but I’m afraid we shall have to make your old dressing-gown do.’

‘But it’s all faded, mummy.’

‘I know, dear, but you’ll see what wonders Nannie will do with a packet of dye.’

Her mother began to count her money nervously, and Bobby hated herself fiercely for rebelling about faded dressing-gowns. Probably all the family would have to starve through Aunt Emilia’s idiotic offer of an expensive school for her, if it meant fortunes having to be spent on uncomfortable boots and stockings and hideous hats. She made up her mind that the delicious brown fish and fruit were impossible luxuries, and that she would express a wish to lunch on sandwiches and milk.

‘I did want to have your long walking coat made at Robinson’s. I’m afraid you’re right, dear. Miss Simms is a bit dowdy.’

‘Oh, never mind, mother. Who cares? Let her make it.’ Bobby swallowed fiercely. She had known from the beginning she would be ‘all wrong.’

‘Don’t you really, darling? Well, that makes everything much easier, and I shall manage splendidly. Now we’ll go and have lunch,’ said her mother, much relieved.

She hurried Bobby to Moffats, and insisted on the fish and fruit salad so cheerfully that Bobby felt comforted, and thought that perhaps the old purse held a secret fortune after all; and her happiness increased when a tempting bag of the ‘curranty biscuits’ was taken home for the nursery, too.

After this expedition the days passed with alarming swiftness for Bobby.

Miss Simms was installed in the nursery, and made blouses too long in the sleeves and too high in the neck with terrible persistency, and the long walking coat was even a more dismal failure than Bobby had anticipated.

She summoned her victim many times a day to try on these wonders. ‘I can’t see why she can’t make a hideous sack without wanting to stick pins in my neck every five minutes,’ said Bobby savagely. ‘And remember, Anne, if you ever let out to mum that I hate every single thing I’ve got, I’ll tell you ghost tales every night in the holidays.’

Anne obediently trembled in her sandals, and promised inviolable secrecy.

To add to Robina’s troubles, her mother could not take her to school, for she was too busy packing off Mike, and helping Nannie nurse Humpty with a cold, to spare time for the long journey up north. So Bobby was to travel up to town with her father, who would probably lecture her all the way, and then to join a teacher in charge of a party of the detested schoolgirls for the rest of the journey.

On the morning of her departure a more forlorn-looking little creature was never seen.

Nannie was heart-broken, and all past misdemeanours were forgiven and forgotten at the sight of Bobby’s hard-set little face. ‘Bless you, darlint,’ she cried. ‘Why, you’ll be back tormenting us all before we can turn round. In time to light the Christmas candles, too! And the grand things ye’ll know now! The master himself will be after asking you questions! Here’s the picture you’ve been begging for ever since you were a babby; of the good St Francis with the little birds all round him, as good as gold. You won’t be forgetting old Nannie with that, will ye now?’

Anne wept silently. Life would be so dull without Bobby.

Mike left off teasing and said gruffly, ‘I say, Bobs, don’t be a slacker about writing to a chap sometimes.’

Billy and Tim disappeared. They were horribly afraid they were going to howl like Nannie.

Robina’s mother was very pale and her eyes were misty; and the worst of it was the morning was tearful too. All the September sunshine had disappeared, and the rain fell in a cold drizzle.

The vicar showed his emotion by being a little more testy than usual, and he scolded old Silas severely for knocking Bobby’s brand-new box on the wheel of the cart. Then he put on his eyeglasses and surveyed his wretched daughter with a troubled stare.

She looked such a queer little object in Miss Simms’s coat, just too long and too wide everywhere. ‘My dear, is she all right?’

‘Of course she is. Aren’t you, darling?’ Bobby’s mother hugged her to her.

‘Of course, mums.’

Robina kissed her mother, and climbed into the cart with an odd smile on her pale face. She was setting out to a hateful school hundreds of miles from everybody she loved; it was raining miserably, and, thanks to Miss Simms, she looked a dowdy. In fact, at that moment Robina felt that things were more ‘all wrong’ than they had ever been in her life.

The whole family stood on the doorstep, and Bobby choked back her tears and waved a wet handkerchief with desperate cheerfulness.

NORTHWOLD MANOR

During all the preparations for Robina’s going to school, she had steadfastly kept to her resolution to take no interest in the proceedings at all. It was true she was dying to peep at the prospectus and look at the photographs Miss Bellamy had sent, but her pride forbade it. All she knew was that Aunt Emilia’s wonderful school was called Northwold Manor House, and was in Yorkshire. And Yorkshire was, she imagined a cold, dreary place that took up too much room on the map ever to be cosy; a place where battles were continually being fought, too, in the old days, according to the history books.

Robina set her teeth at this thought; for she was prepared to fight some battles herself, in her determination never to become ‘a silly schoolgirl.’

All the way up to London she sat silent, though her father, really upset at the sight of the white face of his most wayward and difficult child, tried his best to cheer her up by being most genial and kind.

‘Well, Robin, so you are going to see something of the world at last.’

‘I didn’t know school was the world, father.’

‘Tut, tut! What a silly little girl you are, my dear.’

The vicar then washed his hands of his contrary daughter and buried himself in his newspaper, and miserable Bobby sat bolt upright in her corner, watching the fields go whirling by, and thinking of the long miles taking her farther and farther from Nannie and Humpty, Anne, and the orchard, and her mother.

When they reached London the noise and the crowd bewildered her. It was all so different from sleepy Welling, the country town to which she had always been taken for shopping, or when a visit to the dentist was necessary. She had always thought Moffats’ the confectioner’s, a wonderful place, with its gay green-tiled tables, and the delicious scent of coffee in every corner. But the restaurant to which her father hurried her when they left the train was a palace compared with Moffats; for it had hundreds of snowily-clad tables, and dozens of pretty velvet-shod waitresses. In fact, it was rather like the picture of a feast in the Arabian Nights, Bobby thought; the carpets were so thick, and the walls so gorgeous, and somewhere behind a big alcove musicians were playing softly.

‘What a horrible vulgar place!’ said her father disgustedly. ‘But there isn’t time to find another—— What will you have, Robina? Now don’t choose rubbishy pastry, please.’

But by this time Bobby was so wretched and homesick that the very sight of the chocolate éclairs and cream buns heaped on the tables before lucky people who had finished with boarding-schools long ago, made her turn pale, and she shook her head miserably, and said, ‘Nothing, thank you, father. I’m not hungry.’

‘Tut, tut! What nonsense! You had better have some soup and milk pudding, that can’t hurt you—and do not annoy me by making any fuss over it, I beg of you, Robina.’

‘No, father—I can’t eat soup, and I won’t.’

The vicar was in despair. He had received strict orders that Bobby must eat a good lunch before starting on her long journey northwards—and when Bobby set her lips and said, ‘I won’t,’ his usual course was to send her upstairs. But such a punishment was impossible here, and time was flying with incredible swiftness. Then he had a happy inspiration.

‘Very well, then, you hard-hearted child. If you leave here hungry, it, of course, means a sleepless night for your poor mother.’

‘You needn’t tell her.’

‘Am I in the habit of being untruthful, Robina?’

Bobby seized the plate the waitress had just put before her, and swallowed the contents fiercely.

‘There! You can tell her I’ve eaten it—disgusting stuff!’

‘Very well, Robina.’ The vicar pushed his own food away almost untasted. ‘I don’t want to be harsh, my child, to-day, but I cannot help feeling thankful for the wonderful chance your aunt has given you, and I shall look forward, Robina, to seeing a great improvement in you by the Christmas holidays, for I fear Miss Pye is right in calling you “a wild little savage.” Fetch your umbrella and mackintosh—we shall have very little time to get to the station.’

Bobby’s heart gave a leap of despair. In a moment even her father would be gone, and she would be left to face a strange lady perhaps worse than Miss Pye—and a crowd of critical schoolgirls—alone!

Now she knew how people felt when they were marched off to prison with no hope of escape. She gathered up her umbrella and mackintosh—another grievance, for she detested using either of them—and followed her father desperately.

Miss Bellamy had written to say that one of the teachers, with a few other pupils she was taking back to school, would meet Robina under the big clock in time to catch the northern express.

‘I hope this Miss Hudson won’t be late,’ said the vicar in a fidget. His own train was nearly due to return to Welling, and he was also anxious to hand over his black sheep to another shepherd.

Bobby’s heart again gave a leap. Suppose she darted back into the street or fell down in a fainting fit! Then the northern express would go without her, and Miss Hudson would very likely refuse to return for one girl; or better still, perhaps Miss Bellamy would refuse to have a person in the school who had fits.

But alas for her plans! At that very moment her father cried, ‘Ah, there she is!’ and grasping Bobby’s wrist firmly, led her straight to the dreaded Miss Hudson.

She wasn’t like Miss Pye at all. She was just an ordinary looking person in an extremely well-cut coat and skirt, and a comfortable travelling cap—the sort of person who seemed not to care if Bobby wanted to go to school or not. Near her there seemed to Bobby to be a crowd of schoolgirls—though there were but six really—girls of all ages, and dressed in a way that made the new girl’s heart sink lower than ever. Their long blue travelling coats were fluffy and warm, just the right length and neatly cut. Their blue hats were of the ‘pull-on’ shape, becoming and comfortable, and made of soft velvet. Very different, alas, from the ugly, hard blue felt that Robin’s mother had bought to be serviceable.

But it was their legs that caused Bobby the worst anguish, for her own mother had insisted on her wearing thick, black-ribbed stockings and stout, country-made boots; while these other lucky girls, also travellers to the cold north, wore neat, well drawn-up stockings, and comfortable, low-heeled shoes. No hated mackintoshes and umbrellas dangled from their arms—they carried them strapped on to dark leather suit-cases, with thick, warm travelling rugs.

The worst had happened. Bobby was ‘all wrong,’ and in a moment the fact that she had no suit-case nor travelling-rug would be discovered, and every one of those staring schoolgirls would pity her!

The vicar, still grasping Robina firmly, introduced himself.

Miss Hudson smiled sweetly. ‘Oh, Mr Dare, I am so glad you have come. We have all been watching for you—it’s getting rather late, you know. Is this the little girl? What is your name, dear?’

‘Bobby.’

‘No, no, Miss Hudson. That’s just a nursery name we want to forget now that we are nearly thirteen and going to school.’ Why would her father treat her like a baby before these supercilious-looking schoolgirls, Bobby thought furiously.

‘Her name is Robina—Robina Emilia to be precise.’

Miss Hudson smiled again—she was always charming to everybody, and she felt sorry for the vicar having such an odd-looking child. ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t promise she will be called that at school. Schoolgirls are incorrigible about nicknames, you know. But anyhow, I will be good, and begin to call her by her own pretty name at once. Robina, say good-bye to your father, dear. I simply must collect you all now.’

She turned away to the bookstall tactfully, and began to talk to the girls.

‘Good-bye, my child.’ The vicar kissed her quite tenderly. ‘Remember this is a wonderful chance, and your mother and I expect great things of you.’

Bobby clung to him desperately, but he kissed her again, and freeing himself gently, shook hands with Miss Hudson and hurried away.

‘Robina, these are some of your schoolfellows. You’ll know all their names long before we reach Broadford, I suppose. Dora, this is our new girl. I suppose she will be in your dormitory, so you had better look after her at once.’

All the girls came forward and shook hands, and stared at Bobby as schoolgirls will, and one of them—a girl with fair plaits and pale blue eyes, said in an undertone which was distinctly heard by Bobby, ‘What an awful little freak!’

Certainly the girl near her said hastily, ‘Oh, do shut up, Monica—the kid will hear you,’ but the mischief was done. Bobby was the most miserable girl on earth, with an undying hatred for the girl with the fair plaits.

‘Now, have you all got what you want to read? Elsie, I should leave something in the automatic machine for another hungry person, if I were you. Come along, now, all of you.’

‘Oh, Miss Hudson, can’t we get some bananas? We’re still frightfully hungry.’

‘Nonsense! We shall miss the train. Robina, walk with me, you look rather like a person who gets lost at the last moment.’

Miss Hudson piloted her party to the platform by which the northern express stood panting and puffing fiercely.

‘Here is the luggage. Get in, all of you, while I see to it.’ She flung open the door of a carriage marked ‘engaged,’ just as a porter trundled past with a truck loaded with boxes and bundles labelled, ‘Northwold Manor School, Broadford, Yorks.’

No sooner had their guardian disappeared than the girls all began to chatter at once. Sweets were devoured in large quantities, and Miss Hudson was called ‘a pig’ for not letting them buy bananas. Only the tall girl called Dora kept quiet, and she wrapped herself warmly in her rug, drew a pile of books from her suit-case, and began to read.

‘Gushing thing,’ said the girl called Monica. ‘She’s worse than the sugar-plum. I say, Joyce, you might change with me. I’ve read this thing before.’

They then proceeded to make themselves comfortable, unpacking brightly-coloured, expensive new books, luxurious packets of chocolates, and wrapping themselves in woolly rugs in a most casual way. In fact, as Robina thought bitterly, not one of these girls looked as though she had ever owned a faded dressing-gown in her life, or ever called ‘blackberry fluff’ for tea a treat.

When Miss Hudson returned, she also unpacked her wraps, and it was then that poor Bobby’s rugless state was discovered.

‘You poor child. You haven’t a rug! We ought to have warned you how cold it is travelling northwards. Never mind, you can tuck in with me,’ and the miserable Bobby, who wanted nothing so much as to be left alone, was forced to sit in close contact with the dreaded teacher.

Everybody except herself had books, and a rather jolly-looking girl compassionately offered her an illustrated paper, which she refused gruffly, with the excuse that she would rather look out of the window. After that every one left her alone, and the train rushed along with terrifying speed, as it seemed to the country-bred Bobby.

But a fresh humiliation was to come. After two hours’ run every one produced neat little packets of sandwiches and cake, and Bobby realised, with a pang, that the packet her mother had given her at the last moment was probably still lying on the red velvet cushions of the restaurant where she had choked down her meagre lunch. But not for worlds would she have said so; for who would be likely to believe that a girl without rugs, chocolates, or books, would ever be provided with such things as cakes and sandwiches?

Miss Hudson realised the situation at a glance, and said kindly, ‘You must think us all rather greedy people, Robina, but I expect most of us lunched earlier than you did. All the same, I dare say you can manage one of my little cakes if you try.’

The girls all instantly offered some of the contents of their packets to Robina; but she remained obstinate in her refusal, declaring she was not hungry. As a matter of fact she was cold and hungry too; but nothing on earth would have induced her to accept a crumb from the hateful girl with the fair plaits, even if she had been starving.

She might be ‘an awful freak,’ but she would show them she was not a beggar.

Outside, across the flying fields the dusk was beginning to gather, and there was a sharp, keen sting in the air that blew through the open windows which made Bobby shiver miserably.

‘There are the moors,’ cried Miss Hudson at last, ‘and there is a real moorland mist coming across.’

Bobby peered out of the window anxiously. Outside were the great, wonderful, rolling moors, where the mists crept like long-fingered gray phantoms, and every tree-stump and bush took on odd, fantastic shapes in the darkness; and every little moorland home looked like some cheerful Jack o’ Lantern.

How Anne would love to see it! Though, of course, Billy would say the twisted trees were wicked old witches!

It was dark when the train reached the busy town of Broadford, and Robina was stiff with cold and cramp. There was a big covered wagonette outside the station, waiting to take them to Northwold Manor, four miles away. Bobby stumbled into it blindly, feeling more homesick than ever. At home in the dear old vicarage, Anne would be in bed in the little room near her mother’s, with her head tucked comfortably under the bedclothes because of the witch under the staircase; and perhaps Nannie had just been in to say good-night and scold a little and tuck a piece of toffee into Anne’s mouth.

The girls were chattering all at once, about people and things Robina had never heard of; and they were fearfully excited over a cricket match they had won at the end of the previous term, but such phrases as ‘she spoilt everything by lobs and half-volleys,’ and ‘spooned a catch,’ were as Greek to Bobby, for she and Anne had always preferred their own games to playing cricket with the boys in the paddock.

Suddenly a lantern flashed through the darkness. They were driving through a stone gateway, along a winding drive, to a big, square, gray house, where lights twinkled from every window.

The door was flung open wide. A tall, angular woman in a gray dress and spotless collar and cuffs stood waiting to greet them. ‘Miss Bellamy,’ thought Bobby, with a shiver.

Miss Hudson jumped down from the carriage. ‘Well, matron, here we are again.’

‘And brought the mist with you, too, miss. Come right in, all of you. You must be rare and tired, and supper’s waiting. Is this the new little girl?’

‘Yes. Robina, this is matron, and if you are in any difficulty you must go to her. Where is she to sleep?’

‘In the Long Dormitory,’ answered matron. ‘You take her there after supper, please, Miss Dora, and show her where to put her things. The rest of the young ladies are in bed, and Miss Bellamy won’t see the little girl to-night—she’s better in bed, she says, after such a long journey. I’ve had supper laid in my room, Miss Hudson. There’s a fire there.’

‘That will be charming. Come along, girls,’ and she led the way into the big, lofty hall.

It was so big Bobby gasped, and winding away into the dimness above there was a wide, stone staircase with every broad step as white as snow. She wondered what happened when thirty girls had muddy feet!

The floor was stone too, and there was a great stone fireplace with a black oak settle drawn up near it, and a big black bearskin flung before it.

Over the fireplace there hung a large oil painting of a jolly-looking old gentleman in a scarlet hunting coat. He had such a merry twinkle in his eye that Bobby somehow felt a little less lonely.

In matron’s room there was a cheerful fire, and a hot meal waiting. Bobby tried to swallow some soup, but she wanted to cry horribly, and it was terrible to think of going up to bed to face a lot more strange girls.

‘Robina, you are tired out,’ said Miss Hudson kindly. ‘Take her up, Dora, please, and Monica, Elsie, and Betty, you sleep in the Long Dormitory too, I think. Good-night. Don’t chatter with the others.’

Bobby was in despair once more. It was just her horrible luck that the sneering fair girl should sleep in the same dormitory—she supposed she would amuse herself with watching for more signs of ‘awful freakishness’ in the new girl.

Dora led the way through a little door, up a wooden staircase, to a long, polished corridor, where one light burned dimly. She flung open a door on the left and immediately a subdued murmuring from within ceased.

Dora turned on the light, and there was a chorus of ‘Oh’s! How mean of you, Dora. We thought it was Foxy.’ ‘Hallo, girls! I say, Betty’s had her hair bobbed. Doesn’t she look a stunner!’ until Robina felt more out in the cold than ever.

It was a long room, with four beds on each side of it—green curtains divided them, and a white chest of drawers stood beside each.

Four of the beds were occupied, all by girls a little older than Robina, as she saw hopelessly.

‘Oh, do be quiet!’ said the tall girl they called Dora, ‘and remember I don’t intend you all to racket about the dormitory as you did last term. This is Robina Dare—which is her bed?’

‘The end one, of course.’ Seven voices all spoke at once—seven pairs of eyes exchanged glances meaningly.

‘Oh, very well. You had better get out your night things, Robina, and get to bed at once.’

Bobby turned cold. Her night things were in her big box, and there was not a sign of it to be seen.

‘But they’re in my box!’

‘Your box! Do you mean to say you didn’t bring them in your suit-case with your brushes and things? Why, the heavy luggage won’t be up from the station till to-morrow morning! What a horrid fix! I shall have to fetch matron, I suppose.’ Dora was anxious to get to her own cronies among the senior girls, and began to think that Robina Dare was a little nuisance.

Matron came up at once, and found a disconsolate Bobby sitting on the bed.

‘Now, what’s to be done, I wonder? We can manage brushes and a dressing-gown, but it’s the other things. Do you wear a nightgown or pyjamas, my dear?’

Bobby blushed scarlet. They were old-fashioned at the Vicarage, and she and Anne always wore thick calico nightgowns in the summer and flannel ones in the winter. There were six of the latter, made by Nannie, in her box at the station that very moment. The girls looking at her so curiously were all clad in warm, gaily-coloured pyjamas, and she realised with a pang that she was ‘all wrong’ once again.

‘I wear nightgowns.’

‘Very well. We must borrow from mademoiselle—she is small. Wait a moment, child.’

In a few minutes she returned with a folded white nightgown over her arm.

‘Here it is—it looks very thin. No wonder mademoiselle shivers, but I’ll give you an extra blanket. Now all stop chattering and get to bed at once.’

Matron disappeared, and Bobby unfolded the nightgown fiercely. It had very short, full sleeves, and a low, transparent yoke of lace gaily threaded with pink ribbon—not by any means a suitable garment for Ragged Robin!

There was a shriek of subdued laughter. ‘Oh, I say! Let’s give a ball! Now we know what Mademoiselle means when she talks about “une nuit blanche.” She evidently dreams she is in a snowdrift!’

A dark, pretty girl they all called Cherry, jumped out of bed and examined the nightgown. Then she shrugged her shoulders affectedly. ‘Mais oui—it is very “chic” this little robe de nuit. You Engleesh you do wear the garments so “solide.” ’ She gave a shudder. ‘But for me, nevare, nevare—no, I could not do it.’

Judging by the suppressed giggles which came from all sides, Bobby guessed this to be a very good imitation of the owner of the ‘chic’ nightgown, whatever that meant.

She undressed with a scarlet face—her own garments, she was uncomfortably aware, were decidedly ‘solide’—then, struggling into the flimsy night attire of Mademoiselle, she said her prayers and jumped into bed.

There was instantly a chorus of cries from the beds.

‘Oh, I say. That’s cool! What about the light?’

‘I don’t know what you mean. What about it?’

‘The one in the end bed always puts it out. Doesn’t she, girls?’ It was the fair-haired Monica who spoke, and she gave the information with so much enjoyment that Bobby could not help guessing that she herself had usurped the new girl’s bed.

It was certainly true the light was nearest to her; but not near enough for her to stand on her bed and put it out. She would be forced to get up, and grope her way back again in the darkness. But she had no intention of letting these girls think she was afraid, so she draped the long tail of Mademoiselle’s nightgown round her, and leapt out of bed and turned off the light.

But before she could get back somebody said in a hissing whisper: ‘Mind nobody grabs you. Burglars love hiding under beds. Monica always looks!’

The cat was out of the bag, judging by the titter, and Bobby scored up another grudge against her enemy, Monica.

After that there were only subdued whisperings in the darkness, till suddenly a door banged near the dormitory.

‘That’s Dora. It’s jolly useful that her bed squeaks so. She hates getting up when she’s once warm.’

‘Suppose Foxy takes it into her head to go cub-hunting!’

‘Not she—I bet she’s boring Sweetums with tales about her holidays in Wales.’

All this was Greek to Bobby, but she guessed some dormitory prank was about to take place. ‘I dare say they mean to toss me in a blanket,’ she thought. ‘Well, I don’t care.’

‘Sh—sh—sh!’ came from all sides after a few minutes. ‘There’s a creak! Old Dora’s in bed right enough. You’ve got the matches, Cherry.’

‘Somebody cough while I strike one. One—two—three!’ Cherry placed a lighted candle on the floor, and the six other girls sprang up too, drew candles from under their pillows, lighted them by Cherry’s, and set them in a circle in the middle.

Then they all squatted round in a circle too, and began to talk in low whispers.

Bobby sat up in bed and watched. She found these schoolgirls more interesting squatting round the ring of candle-light dressed in gay pyjamas, than eating chocolates in trim coats and becoming hats. All the same, they seemed to her a dull lot. Now, if she had been asked to conduct the proceedings, she would have suggested a silent pillow-fight at once, or a waxwork show.

Suddenly the Council rose with one accord, and advanced towards Bobby’s bed solemnly.

‘I say, Bobbina, or whatever your name is, you’ve got to pay the toll,’ said the pretty dark girl who had so successfully imitated Mademoiselle.

‘What is the toll?’

‘Every new girl entering the Long Dormitory must pay it. You must amuse us all in some way for at least ten minutes—dance, or tell a tale, or something—and if you can’t—well, you have to pay the forfeit, and treat us all to a thumping big bag of chocs. next time we go into town.’

‘Will a tale do?’ said Bobby boldly.

‘Do you know a decent one?’ asked Cherry suspiciously.

‘Dozens.’

‘Very well, fire away, but remember it’s not to be anything silly or kiddish, but something really thrilling.’

‘It is thrilling,’ promised Bobby. For the first time that day she saw some prospect of enjoying herself. It was not for nothing that she had made Anne’s hair stand on end for all these years when they lay shivering deliciously in bed; and here was an opportunity to revenge herself upon the fair-haired Monica.

She wrapped the matron’s red dressing-gown round Mademoiselle’s creation, and marched back with her victims to the circle of light.

‘Well, do begin. What on earth are you staring at?’

For Bobby was staring into vacancy in a decidedly creepy way. At last she began to speak in slow, mysterious tones.

‘Once upon a time there was an old, old house. It had towers and turrets and such a lot of staircases and passages you could lose yourself in it, and sometimes you wandered and wandered on until you came to the underground cellars—and once there, you were filled with horror.’

‘What on earth for?’

‘Because they were full to the top with skeletons.’

‘How beastly—but go on.’

‘Nobody dare go near the house at night because the shrieks in it were so awful.’

‘Owls, I suppose,’ said a voice scornfully.

‘No, it wasn’t owls. It was the ghost!’

‘What sort of a Johnny was he?’

‘That was the strange part of it. It was nothing but a hand.’

‘How ghastly—but do go on.’ The listeners huddled more closely together. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t shiver like that, Elsie. You nearly made me knock the candle over——’

‘Oh, shut up and let’s hear the tale.’

‘Well! One dark stormy night the daughter went to bed along one of the old passages carrying a candle, when suddenly the Hand came out of the darkness like a cold, white snake, and clutched her round the neck—like this——’ Bobby sprang up, let the red dressing-gown fall to her feet, and stood a ghostly figure in the dim light. Then, with a sudden flick, she swept all the candles out with the tail of her long white nightdress, and placed a cold, froggy hand on Monica’s neck!

There was a wild piercing shriek, and then dead silence and consternation. ‘Now you’ve done it. What a silly ass you are, Monica. Pick up the candles before Foxy comes!’

But it was too late. The door flew open, and Dora, sleepy and indignant, appeared, followed by a severe-looking, auburn-haired lady in a dark cloth dress and a stiff linen collar.

‘What on earth is the matter? Is anybody ill? Miss Bellamy heard that noise in her own room with the door closed. What are those candles? I see you choose to make a good beginning by breaking rules the first night, girls. Who was it who screamed?’

‘I did.’ Monica was still shivering.

‘Why, may I ask?’

‘The new girl told such a horrible tale.’

Bobby looked at Monica with contempt, and the rest of the girls murmured indignantly. Miss Fox adjusted a pince-nez, and looked at Bobby intently. ‘What is your name?’ she said coldly.

‘Robina Dare.’

‘Oh! Then, Robina Dare, you will kindly report yourself in Miss Bellamy’s room to-morrow morning before prayers.’

THE BELLAMY GIFT

Miss Adela Bellamy had been head-mistress of Northwold Manor School for twenty-five years.

She was a clever woman, with a wonderful understanding of girls of all ages; and although she took only a limited number of pupils, her school was very well known, and there was always a long list of candidates waiting for a vacancy.

It was only through the influence of Mrs Travers, a great friend of Miss Bellamy’s, that Robina’s Aunt Emilia had been able to place her niece in the school.

Miss Bellamy was a shrewd, kind woman, who was immensely respected and admired, but not very much loved by her pupils. The reason of her popularity among parents as a head-mistress was her thoroughness. Her girls wasted no time on accomplishments for which they had neither talent nor taste. She gave them a sound modern education, and tried to inspire them with a love of good literature. She herself was a brilliant Shakespearean scholar—and an artist of more than ordinary talent.

She was slightly old-fashioned in her ideas, and declared that most modern schools were so busy teaching a girl how to play, that work was often only in the background of her thoughts.

Plain needlework, domestic science, and cookery for the older girls all came into the Northwold Manor curriculum, and nobody was allowed to dabble in science or art there. Whatever work a girl did she was expected to do it heart and soul.

Mr Dare had written to Miss Bellamy, telling her plainly that his child was idle though clever; disobedient and moody, with a rebellious hatred for discipline of any sort, but essentially honest and truthful. But the head-mistress was used to receiving letters of this sort. They never dismayed her: in fact, she rather liked difficult girls, and found the polishing of rough diamonds interesting work.

All the same, it was unusual for the most unruly new pupil to create a disturbance in the dormitory the very first night at school; and she felt sorry that she had to greet her new black sheep with scoldings.

When Robina entered her study before prayers, she was in one of her blackest moods. A terrible reaction had taken place after the excitement of the night before, and she had scarcely closed her eyes when a great clanging bell had forced her to get out of a bed that had only just become comfortable.

Then came a plunge into icy cold water, and a mad rush to dress in ten minutes—at home she and Anne had always dressed in a leisurely way in spite of Nannie’s upbraidings. Then physical drill and breathing exercises in the recreation hall, with all the windows open to the moor in the chilliest way. Bobby hated it all. Drill at home had always been rather a pleasant relaxation in the middle of the morning lessons, and afforded excellent opportunities for giving Miss Pye a bad time: but here Miss Hudson might have been a sergeant drilling her platoon to perfection, and she picked out Robina as a person particularly in need of her instruction.

‘You breathe wrongly, you walk wrongly, and you stand wrongly,’ she said severely. ‘Let me see that leg action again. That’s very feeble. You must take a little extra drilling every day, I see that plainly. Come to me in the music-room at a quarter to one, and I will give you a little neck exercise that will work wonders if you’ll only put your heart into it.’

That was the last straw. An interview with the dreaded Miss Bellamy before lessons, and neck exercises afterwards was too much, and Robin would have rebelled there and then, if it had not been for the pretty dark girl they all called Cherry.

‘I say,’ she whispered, ‘it was a shame last night, and it was jolly decent of you not to blab. Monica was a little beast.’

‘Oh, I don’t care.’ Bobby set her lips. ‘I’m used to rows—I was always in one at home.’

‘Well, you’ll get in an awful row here if you break rules, and I don’t think it’s the thing for us all to sit mum while you catch it.’

Miss Hudson gave a sharp command to march at that moment, and as they filed out of the hall Dora seized hold of Robin.

‘Look here, you little torment. You are not going to be a nuisance in my dormitory—the others are bad enough. You can go to Miss Bellamy now, but next time you make a disturbance I’ll haul you off to Christine, and she’ll deal with you in a way you will remember.’

‘Who is Christine?’ said Bobby contemptuously; she had a poor opinion of Dora Woods, and not knowing anything about schools and the position of seniors, she resented her interference.

‘Who is Christine? She is Christine, and the sooner you learn that little girls are here to do as they are told, the better, my child. Now go downstairs. Miss Bellamy’s room is the first door on the right.’

Bobby strolled away leisurely, burning with indignation. If she was going to be domineered over by a lot of big girls as well as by Miss Hudsons, and Miss Foxes, and Miss Bellamys, the sooner she ran away from school the better!

The big hall looked cold in the early autumn morning light. The only cheerful spot of colour in it was the scarlet hunting coat of the old gentleman in the picture over the fireplace; and his eyes looked at Bobby with the same merry twinkle that had comforted her the night before. She liked his face. It looked so jolly and kind, and it reminded her of the pictures in An Old-Fashioned Christmas, which Aunt Emilia had sent her last year.

In front of her was a big panelled door, and she knocked at it with a thumping heart.

‘Come in!’

Bobby went in with a rush, her pale face still set in hard lines.

It was a big, square room, with more books in it than Bobby had ever seen in her life, although there were plenty at the Vicarage. The walls were lined with them, and above them there were pictures—pictures of vivid blue skies, mountains, and soft clouds.

There were three big windows opposite the door, and outside them were the great rolling moors, still chilly and gray with mist.

Miss Bellamy was sitting at a long carved table in the middle of the room writing. She was quite old—at least she seemed so to Bobby—for her hair was iron-gray. But she sat very trim and upright in her chair, and her dark, piercing eyes and ruddy cheeks reminded Bobby of some one in a puzzling way.

‘Come here, Robina.’ Miss Bellamy held out her hand. At a glance she saw that here was a very homesick little girl keeping herself from giving way by sheer bravado.

‘Do you see this big book, Robina?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want you to look inside it. See, here are the names of all the pupils I have ever had at Northwold Manor. This is the page where I have written the names of the girls here now. Christine Elliot comes first, she is our head girl—I rather think we shall be proud of her some day. Read on to the very end.’

Robina read the names slowly, until she came to the last—‘Robina Emilia Dare,’ and her face flushed.

‘Every week the form mistresses report to me about each pupil whose name is written here; and every week I write a mark by each name. Sometimes it is red—that means good work and conduct—sometimes it is gold—that is excellent—and sometimes it is black. You know what that means.’

‘I suppose it means bad.’

‘Very bad—but it is much worse if the black mark has to be written on the very first day a girl enters the school.’

Bobby flushed scarlet.

‘What were you doing in the dormitory last night?’

‘Only telling ghost tales.’

‘Ghost tales! Why, I thought you were a clever child.’

Bobby flushed again. Nobody had ever called her clever before.

‘To frighten people with ghost tales is both stupid and ignorant; and to have unshaded candles on the floor was more than stupid for you might have burnt the house down. Who lighted the candles?’ This was a ‘test’ question, although Bobby did not know it.

‘I can’t tell you.’

Miss Bellamy looked at her shrewdly. ‘You mean you won’t tell tales. Very well, Robina, we will leave that question unanswered, though I do not mean the others to go unpunished. It is the black mark I wish to talk about. I shall be sorry to have to write it by your name. It is such a bad beginning, and I want to be just too. I do not forget that schools and rules are strange to you. If I leave this space by your name clear and white, will you promise me never to break dormitory rules again?’

‘Oh, no—I couldn’t promise.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I might forget.’

‘Forget! But you are not a baby, and it is your duty to remember.’

‘But I don’t want to remember. I hate rules and I hate school, and if you don’t want me to stay I can go home.’

‘Be silent! I have not sent for you that you may tell me what you hate and what you like, and if I choose to send you home, of course I shall do so. But I do not choose, and while you remain here I expect you to keep our rules and conduct yourself sensibly. Sit down on that chair. I have one other thing to say to you.’

Bobby sat down defiantly.

‘Northwold Manor School is endowed with a gift, left to it by my father ten years ago—his portrait hangs in the hall.’

Now Bobby knew of whom Miss Bellamy reminded her.

‘He left two hundred pounds a year for three years, to any pupil who should bring honour to the school by doing something to prove she had true British pluck. Half the money must be spent on her education—or the whole of it if she wishes, and has any special talents to cultivate. If not, the money is to be held in trust for her until she is twenty-one. Are you listening?’

‘Yes, Miss Bellamy.’ Bobby was listening intently.

‘Then perhaps it will interest you to know that my father’s gift has never yet been earned. I have had girls who have brought scholastic honours to the school, girls who have played the game with sport and grit, but never has one particular pupil distinguished herself in the way that I know my father meant. The prize is still not won—but every girl in the school—you have read their names—has the same chance of winning it—though I confess it is not very promising when one of them begins her school career with a black mark by her name. That is why I am going to give you one more chance to promise me you will keep dormitory rules.’

‘I can’t promise.’

Miss Bellamy flushed. Her spirit too was up now. She had offered peace, and the new girl with the pale set face had declared war. The question now was who would win?

‘Very well, Robina. You may go now. I have only one more thing to say, and that is that I shall not deal with you so leniently if you are sent to me again.’

Bobby went out slowly, her heart bursting, but still determined not to give way. The bell clanged again as she passed through the hall, and girls big and little were pouring into the big room on the left, where tables were set for breakfast.

Nobody took any notice at all of Bobby, except Cherry, who gave her an encouraging smile.

She sat down at one of the five tables, and Bobby, pining for a friendly look, slipped into the seat next to her.

At that moment Monica, with her fair plaits annoyingly sleek and tidy, came up too.

‘Well! I like that! Perhaps you’ll kindly get up and let me have my place. The new girls usually wait till the seniors tell them where to sit.’

Bobby got up, furious. ‘How did I know it was your seat? and I certainly shan’t sit at your table if I can help it.’

‘Well, you needn’t be rude about it.’

Here Cherry got up. ‘Come on, Robina. I’ll ask matron where you are to sit. She is taking Christine’s table to-day.’

‘Why can’t I sit where I like?’

‘Because it’s school, my child, and you can’t do a thing without breaking a rule. But there’s one rather jolly thing about this school, the mistresses never have breakfast, or tea, or supper with us, the seniors each take a table, and they all choose five juniors. You’re an awful swell if you’re at Christine’s table.’ Cherry turned up her eyes. ‘Oh, my child, that’s where you go when you’re a saint—and I’m jolly glad I’m not one. At dinner time, Miss Bellamy and all the mistresses dine with us, and of course we have to mind our p’s and q’s and talk French, and all that rot. I say, matron, where’s Robina to sit please?’

Matron was bustling round a table in the middle of the room.

‘Robina? Oh, the new little girl. Go and sit at the end table, my dear.’

There seemed to be all the smallest girls at the end table, which was presided over by a rather plump girl with tawny hair and freckles, named Frances Hay.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Bobby.’

‘Don’t be absurd. I suppose you are that new little torment poor Dora’s got on her hands. There’s your cocoa, and don’t upset it for goodness’ sake.’

Bowls of porridge, fish, bread and marmalade, and cocoa were provided for breakfast, and Bobby was annoyed to find that she was hungry. There was a great deal of noise and chatter, and Bobby felt that she was the only outsider in the family party.

After breakfast Cherry came up to her again,—

‘We have half an hour’s rec. in the garden now, before school. If you like I’ll show you where we change. Come along.’

Monica was nowhere in sight, so Bobby followed Cherry down a long stone passage to the cloak-room where all the girls were changing their house slippers for thick shoes.

‘That’s your locker. You keep your shoes and boots in it, and tennis racquet. I’ll show you the garden if you like.’

Cherry thought Bobby a queer kid; but she admired her pluck the night before, and she felt she owed her a little gratitude.

The garden was rather dreary-looking. A long thick shrubbery sheltered it from the winds on the north-east. The south windows of the house looked on to big tennis and croquet lawns, and a door in the wall on the west side opened into a large playing field.

‘Here’s Dorothy Venner! She’s spotted you. Well, I’ll do a bunk!’

Cherry disappeared as a tall girl sauntered up to them.

‘What is your name?’ she said to Bobby, who was getting tired of this inevitable question; so she answered shortly, ‘Bobby.’

‘How absurd,’ she laughed rather affectedly. ‘Well, Bobby, or Billy, or Jacky, or whatever your name is, would you like to be a subscriber to the school magazine?’

‘I don’t know what it is.’

‘It’s a magazine, of course, all about school doings, and stories and poems and things. Christine edits it, and if you send her something really clever, perhaps she’ll publish it. It comes out twice a term, and we all subscribe two shillings each to pay for printing and all that.’

Bobby’s heart sank. She had only five shillings in the world, and it startled her to think of spending two of them the very first day on ‘a silly old magazine,’ but she wouldn’t have let this girl know of her poverty for worlds.

‘Very well. I’ll join.’ She drew out the new purse Nannie had bought for her, and gave Dorothy Venner two shillings with an air of great wealth.

‘Thanks awfully! Don’t forget to write something clever.’ Dorothy strolled along in search of fresh victims, but before Robina could escape, up came the tawny-haired girl of the breakfast table.

‘I say—wouldn’t you like to be a member of the school Dramatic Society?’

Bobby’s heart sank again. ‘How much is it?’

‘How much is it? What an idiotic question. It’s not a pot of jam—it’s a society which gets up plays and concerts. If you mean the subscription—that’s half a crown—of course that pays for programmes and rouge and powder. You have to get a lot of things to make a play a success.’

This was dreadful! Fancy facing the world with only sixpence in your pocket, and perhaps half a dozen girls round the corner, all wanting you to join societies and clubs!

But Robina once more drew out her purse, and paid her subscription to the Dramatic Society with a magnificent air. Then she hid in the shrubbery till the bell rang.

The morning was rather a miserable affair, for Mike’s prophecy was fulfilled, and Robina’s woeful ignorance was discovered. She had never taken any interest in Miss Pye’s laboriously prepared lessons, and the knowledge she had picked up by reading all the books she could get hold of in her father’s library was of little use to her when she came to answer the questions set for her on her test paper.

She was placed in the Third Form, among the younger girls she had rather scorned at breakfast time, greatly to her disgust.

After morning lessons came hockey practice, and here again she was ‘all wrong,’ for she knew nothing of the game, and felt awkward and clumsy. At the end of the game a very jolly-looking girl with dark curly hair and lovely eyes, and a little older than Bobby, came up to her.

‘I say! Are you the girl who kicked up such a rumpus in the Long Dormitory last night? Congrats! They are such a dull lot there—except Cherry. She’s all right, but she doesn’t get a chance. And they might have such a glorious time too, for Dora’s quite deaf and quite blind, and hates bothering. I wish you were in our dormitory.’

‘Which is yours?’ Bobby felt flattered.

‘The South Dormitory in the next corridor. Dorothy Venner’s our monitor. She’s rather a gorgon, but fortunately she sleeps heavily.’

‘I can’t think why we have to obey the girls,’ said Bobby disgustedly.

‘The seniors, my child! It’s a great system of Miss Bellamy’s. She believes in the seniors having a very good influence, and all that—and she thinks we’ll all be madly ambitious to be seniors too. They have the dullest time, poor things, directly they get into the Sixth, always having to boss and be prigs. I mean to fail in all my exams, when once I get into the Fifth. Fancy having to live up to Christine.’

‘Who is this wonderful Christine?’ asked Bobby for the second time that day.

‘Christine! She’s Christine Elliot, the head girl, most awfully clever and does everything A1. It’s the fashion to worship her, but I don’t, because I’m a wicked person, I suppose.’

‘And so am I!’ cried Bobby.

‘I believe you are. You’ve got eyes just like my sister, and she’s a perfect demon! I think we’d better chum up, don’t you?’

‘Rather!’ Bobby’s spirits began to rise, though she was terribly afraid this new friend would desert her when she found out that she had nothing but a boxful of dowdy clothes and sixpence in the world!

‘That’s all right, then. My name’s Brigit Dennis. Biddy for short to my special chums. There’s the bell. We’ll have to run.’

When they reached the dressing-room Monica greeted Bobby spitefully.

‘Well, Bobbina. You’re in for another row! Miss Hudson’s in an awful wax. You never showed up for those neck exercises in the music-room at a quarter to one.’

RAGGED ROBIN GOES TO TOWN

Before the week was over Robina had been in hot water with every teacher in the school, and there was open warfare between her and the matron.

Old Nannie had found it easier to tidy up herself than to make Bobby do it; and the result was that the matron was continually finding her dressing-gown lying on the floor, and her clothes scattered in all directions. Order marks were showered upon her thick and fast, but they made no difference to ‘Ragged Robin.’

She rebelled so fiercely against the ‘little neck exercises’ that Miss Hudson changed the extra quarter of an hour she had imposed upon her to double the time; for at Northwold Manor the punishment always fitted the crime.

When Miss Fox—or Foxy, as the junior girls wickedly called her—demanded why Robina was unable to answer the questions she had just put to her on the geography lesson, she replied calmly, ‘Because I was thinking of something else.’

‘Were you, indeed?’ said Miss Fox, crimson with wrath. ‘Then during the recreation time you may think of geography,’ and Bobby was left in the schoolroom with the lesson to learn by heart.

When old Signor Nessi came in from Broadford to give the girls their weekly singing lesson, Robin kept silence.

‘There is a young lady there that does not sing ever one little note. Why is that, I ask you, please?’

He was an amiable old thing, and he beamed on Bobby as he asked the question.

‘I don’t feel like singing.’

There was a subdued titter—the school was beginning to find the new girl amusing.

‘Not feel that you sing! No, young lady, I do not think it is that—no, not at all. It is perhaps because you cannot sing—hein.’

‘Cannot!’ That was a word Bobby could never endure; especially when her enemy Monica was near.

‘I can sing,’ she said, scowling at poor Signor Nessi.

‘Ah! Then let us hear,’ bowing politely.

Bobby looked round. Not a single girl looked as though she believed she could sing a note, and the Signor was waiting with a courteous but slightly ironical smile.

She stood up defiantly, threw back her head, and began to sing,—

Her voice was like a blackbird’s, liquid, pure, and sweet. Yes, Ragged Robin could sing,—

As the last note died away there was a dead silence for a moment, and then the senior girls began to clap, and the juniors followed noisily.

Old Signor Nessi rubbed his hands. The song had refreshed him after his dull afternoon: it was as though a bird had sung a spring song out of the autumn mists.

‘Yes, young lady, you can sing—but there are other songs to learn, hein?—and always you shall be the little bird——’

But Robin spoilt it all by an obstinate refusal to sing another note, and the distressed old singing master, knowing that discipline must be enforced, was obliged to send for Miss Swete to come to the rescue.

Miss Swete taught music to the younger girls, and as her nature was rather like her name, and she was fond of what the girls called ‘gushing,’ she was known as ‘the Sugar Plum.’

But Miss Swete argued in vain with the obdurate Robina, and all she could do was to dismiss her to the smaller music-room, where she spent the rest of the afternoon alone, playing scales.

It was that very afternoon that the wonderful Christine returned to school. Monica rushed into the schoolroom just before tea to announce the news.

‘I say, girls, she’s come!’

‘Who’s come?’ demanded Brigit Dennis.

‘Christine, of course. She’s just driven up, and looks absolutely ripping.’

‘Don’t be a silly ass. I thought you meant that the Queen had come at least. Awful rot, I call it, making out Christine’s so wonderful.’

‘You’d be nice and swanky if Christine chose you for her table, anyhow, Brigit Dennis!’ said the snubbed Monica.

‘That’s all you know about it—I can’t see it looks very exciting drinking cocoa with a saint!’

Naturally, after all this, Bobby looked forward to seeing this wonderful Christine. She was a tall, pale girl, with quantities of fair hair, plaited round her head in a way that certainly gave her rather a saintlike expression.

She held out her hand to Bobby in the sweetest way, and looked pained when the new girl jerked herself away. The rest of the girls, except a very few, crowded round her and hung on every word she uttered. Brigit caught Bobby’s eye.

‘Well, are you going to join it?’

‘Join what?’

‘The Anti-Christine League. There’s no subscription, and only five members!’

‘Rather! Who are the other members?’

‘Cherry Ball, Pamela Reid, Dilys Vaughan, and yourself—of course I’m the president.’

‘What do you do?’

‘Oh, try to squash all this silly rot, and stick up for junior rights. Christine’s an awful tyrant really.’

‘How do you do it?’ asked Bobby, much interested.

‘Well, look at the school magazine. She edits it, and all the other seniors have a finger in the pie—and all we do is to fork out two shillings every term. If we write anything for it and try to make it a bit thrilling, Christine calls us to her room—she’s got a room of her own, of course—and talks in the sweetest way’—Brigit mimicked Christine’s soft tones: ‘ “It’s quite a good little story, Brigit. I should hate to discourage you, dear, but you see it’s so—so—daring, and you haven’t made the least attempt at style, you bad child! Suppose we talk it over, and I help you to polish it a little.” Then you get disgusted and take it away, and Christine and the seniors fill up the pages with dull stories and idiotic poetry.’

‘We ought to have a magazine of our own—a secret one!’ Bobby suggested.

‘That would be jolly. . . . And it’s just the same with the Dramatic Society—the seniors have all the fun, and we have to come on in a crowd, and hold up their trains, and say, “Long live the King,” or something else idiotic.’

‘Well. Let’s have a secret Dramatic Society too.’

‘It would be absolutely ripping—especially if we could have dormitory performances. I do wish you and Cherry were in ours. Pam and Dilys are all right, but the rest are such stick-in-the-muds we can’t have any fun.’

‘Well, it can’t be as bad as ours—they can’t think of anything more exciting to do than hoarding up candles and lighting them when Dora is snoring.’

Cherry came up with a bounce.

‘What’s that about candles?’

‘Robina—no, I’m going to call you Bobby—Bobby says she wishes you and she were in the South Dormitory, and so do I. Cherry, do fetch Pam and Dilys. Bobby’s going to join the Anti-Christine League.’

Cherry rushed away, and soon reappeared with Pamela Reid, a rather short girl with very dark eyes, and Dilys Vaughan, a slight fair girl, whom Bobby had liked from the first day she saw her.

‘Bobby’s going to join the League. She’s got some awfully brainy ideas, and agrees with us that the worshipful Christine is too much worshipped.’

‘Hear, hear!’

‘I think an Adventure League would be rather nice, too.’ Bobby began to feel in her element.

‘Rather!—but you can’t have adventures when you’re sent to bed at eight o’clock in a school full of saints.’

‘Yes, you can, if you try. I could have one any time I liked.’ Bobby was beginning to enjoy herself in earnest.

‘How?—I don’t call getting into a row an adventure,’ cried Cherry.

‘You have to take risks, of course—like the smugglers in the old days. They had tremendous adventures and heaps of fun, but of course they got caught sometimes,’ said Robin.

‘Well, what adventure are you going to have?’

‘You’ll see!’ Bobby looked wise. ‘I hereby make a solemn vow that before three days have passed, I, Robina Dare, will have had a great adventure.’

She had not the faintest idea of how she would carry out her vow; but she was thoroughly enjoying the impression she had made on her audience. They had not found anything to admire in her knowledge, and certainly not in her clothes—therefore she would make herself a reputation for bravery.

‘Will you tell us when you’ve thought of something?’

‘Of course—but you must all vow you will not betray me.’

‘As if we would. But remember Foxy always scents mysteries,’ warned Brigit.

‘Does she? I’m not afraid of a dozen Foxys,’ boasted Bobby.

But the very next day Bobby found that she would be forced to embark upon an adventure at once, if she did not want her poverty to be discovered. It was raining, and one of the girls brought her a message just before recreation began.

‘Christine wants you in her room.’

‘Christine! What an awful cheek! I’m not going. I suppose she thinks she’s as great as Miss Bellamy.’

The little girl’s eyes went round like windmills with horror.

‘Not going? You had better go and tell her so yourself, then, Robina Dare. I’m not going to.’

‘I say, Bobby, do go.’ Brigit’s eyes danced. ‘Perhaps she’s taken a fancy to you, and wants you to write her an editorial.’

‘No. She wants to be sweet,’ cried Cherry. ‘Bobby hasn’t licked her boots yet, and she’s beginning to feel anxious. Christine loves to be worshipped.’

‘Very well—I’ll go. Just for fun!’ and Bobby marched away.

Christine’s room was on the top story. It was called Christine’s room, but it was really a private sitting-room for the use of all the senior girls.

Secretly Robina was immensely impressed by the splendour of this room, for there were rose-coloured curtains at the windows, white basket chairs with flowery cushions, and books and pictures everywhere. A little oil stove in the corner, a kettle, and cups and saucers, showed that the saintly Christine and her staff sometimes indulged in a secret cup of cocoa while they produced their ‘great works,’ as Brigit called them, for the school magazine.

Robina looked round and frowned darkly, as became a faithful member of the ‘Anti-Christine League.’

‘Is that you, Robina? You’ve got such a sweet little name; the girls say you are a robin, too. You see I’ve heard all about the singing!’

Christine, sitting at a table covered with papers, smiled her very sweetest.

‘What do you want me for, please?’ Bobby continued to frown.

‘Just to make friends. You see, I’m the head girl here, and I always think the head girl should be a kind of big sister to all the rest—don’t you? And I love you all to come and tell me things and let me help you if I can.’

‘I should loathe it.’

‘Loathe what?’

‘Loathe gushing over people all day,’ scornfully.

‘Helping people isn’t gushing, Robina.’ Christine looked pained. ‘I’m afraid you don’t understand me. But there’s another thing I want to say, and that is that this term I’m going to ask every girl in the school to pull together for splendid results at the end of the year, in work and games. We must be keen, for that wins, and brings honour to the school; and we do want to do it honour on its silver anniversary, don’t we?—for it will be twenty-five years since Miss Bellamy began her school in Northwold Manor House. Are you keen, Robina?’

‘Not a bit. I don’t care a straw for Northwold Manor School. I call it a beastly place.’ Bobby hoped to stir the dignified Christine out of her usually unruffled calm.

‘I can’t have you speaking like that, of course. We must have another talk soon, but I’m much too busy now.’ Christine found the situation awkward, she was not used to such blunt dealings. ‘There is just one more thing, though. Would you like to join our Needlework Guild?’

Bobby’s heart sank again. After successfully snubbing the wonderful head girl, she was going to be asked for another half-crown, and be forced to confess that she was a person with only sixpence in the world!

‘I don’t know what it is,’ she said, desperately hoping for an interruption to save her.

‘It’s a kind of working party,’ said Christine patiently. ‘It was really my idea that we should sort of adopt some poor children, you know, and clothe them entirely with things we make ourselves. Each form has its own particular protégée, and we work two evenings a week after supper for an hour, while Miss Bellamy reads to us. Every member pays five shillings a term for buying materials and things, and at the end of the term Miss Bellamy allows us to give an entertainment and charge a small sum for entrance, and that also goes to the fund.’

Five shillings! Robina turned cold, but she never showed her despair. ‘Oh, very well—I’ll join, of course, but I haven’t got any money with me now.’

‘That’s all right, of course—any time before the end of this week will do, when I have to make up my accounts. You may go now.’

Christine gave the dismissal with a dignified air; she felt that the interview had not been a success, and she must put this Robina girl in her place.

‘Oh, thanks—but I was just going.’ Bobby turned away in a leisurely way, and Christine thought it was wiser to pretend she had not heard.

Dora Woods came in as Bobby went out, and the over-wrought Christine greeted her with the words, ‘What an awful child!’

‘Who? Robina? Isn’t she the limit! My child, I shall be gray-haired before the end of the term with having to sleep with one eye open! She nearly set the dormitory on fire the first night she came—but I forgot—Miss Bellamy wants you.’

Instead of going to report to the Anti-Christine Society, Bobby retired to the then almost empty schoolroom to try to think of some plan by which she could procure five shillings by the end of the week. Most girls, she reflected bitterly, would simply write home for it; but, of course, she couldn’t, because shillings were scarce at the Vicarage. Mike cost such a lot, and so did everything. All her life Bobby had heard the same reply to anything she had wanted, ‘We can’t afford that, dear. Wait till our ship comes in.’

If only she had something to sell. People in books always sold their possessions when they had no money. She began to think rapidly of her things. How lovely it would have been to have sold her hideous hat and thick boots that were so hopelessly ‘all wrong,’ but, of course, that would be worse than writing home for five shillings.

The only thing she really could sell was the gold brooch like a horseshoe that Aunt Emilia had given to her years before; but the question was where to sell it?

Then a brilliant idea flashed through Bobby’s mind. Why not startle the Adventure League and sell the brooch at the same time? The next afternoon there would be hockey practice—Irene Scott, the captain of the hockey team, was horribly strict, it was true—but Bobby was so often kept in for neglected work of some sort, it was just possible that Irene would not inquire about her.

She would hire a bicycle from the village shop—they only charged sixpence an hour—and ride to Broadford, sell her brooch, and be back in time for tea.

It was an extremely risky thing to do, and she shivered a little at the thought of it; but all adventurers must take risks, as she had pointed out to the League the day before.

She sought out the members at once.

‘I have thought of an adventure for to-morrow!’

‘Hurrah! Do tell us,’ they all cried.

‘I’m going to miss hockey practice and ride over to Broadford to do a little shopping.’

‘Oh, are you? and what else?’ said Brigit.

‘On my way back I shall stop at that gipsy camp we saw in the copse the other day, and have my fortune told.’

Bobby had only, that moment, thought of this picturesque touch to add to her adventure.

‘Robina—you will never dare!’ Even the venturesome Brigit and Cherry were impressed.

‘Shan’t I? You’ll see. You can’t be named Dare and not do things.’

‘Suppose Foxy and the Sugar Plum go shopping too!’ said the timid Dilys.

‘I can invite them to the caravan,’ said Bobby.

‘Oh, do—and bribe the gipsies to tell them that they will both marry millionaires if they leave Yorkshire at once,’ cried Brigit.

‘Very well—but don’t breathe a single word. I’ll bring you some toffee from Broadford, as a proof that I have really been.’ Bobby imagined golden horseshoe brooches to be extremely valuable.

The next afternoon she went out with the others, successfully dodged Irene, and made for the village by a field path seldom frequented in wet weather.

Higgins, the bicycle man, looked doubtful. He was not often patronised by the young ladies from Northwold Manor School, and he felt that there was something he called ‘fishy’ about it.

‘It’s a lad’s bicycle, miss.’

‘Well, I don’t care,’ cried Bobby impatiently; and she certainly didn’t care, for she had never ridden any other but Mike’s.

‘Well, you didn’t ought to ride her far, miss. She isn’t what she was, and the roads is rare and slimy.’

Higgins tenderly stroked the tyres of the invalid bicycle.

‘I shan’t go far—but I must start. Here is the sixpence,’ and Bobby wheeled off the shabby, groaning machine before Higgins could remonstrate further.

She had not gone a mile before the rain began to fall: not a drizzle, but heavy, soaking rain, with a strong wind against her to make matters worse. The roads were certainly ‘rare and slimy,’ and Bobby, wet, panting, and miserable, decided she would visit the gipsy camp—now not far away—before she went to the town, hoping that the rain would then cease.

She pushed the heavy bicycle, now groaning and squeaking terribly, up the lane leading to the tiny copse, where, during a school walk, she had seen the gipsies encamped.

Gipsies had always fascinated the liberty-loving Bobby, and it had always been one of her great ambitions to join them.

It was an old green caravan, with dilapidated chimneys, and lace curtains at the windows, that were not so clean as they might be. There was a tent outside, pinned amongst the thorn-trees gipsy-way, and from its doorway smoke was curling in blue wreaths.

The door of the caravan was open too, and inside Bobby could see a fascinating array of bright copper mugs and gay gipsy crockery. She approached the tent timidly. There was an old woman sitting inside by the smoky wood fire, and at the sight of her Bobby almost fled, for she was remarkably like the description Billy had so often given of the old witch under the Vicarage staircase.

Her face was so wrinkled that her bright black eyes were almost hidden, and her skin was like very old brown leather. She wore a rusty old black skirt, and a faded purple cloth jacket stretched across her chest and fastened with many pins and brooches.

Her brown old fingers were covered with silver rings, and on her head there perched a rusty bonnet. She was puffing at an ancient black pipe when Bobby peeped in.

There was a young woman in the tent too—a black-eyed young person, with long gilt ear-rings. Near her there was a basket containing a baby asleep on an old red blanket, and a little brown gipsy girl of about six years old was playing on the floor with a pile of clothes-pegs, which her mother had evidently just made.

The old woman saw Bobby approach, and as she was a cunning old lady she began to stare into the fire, mysteriously muttering to herself. ‘This,’ thought she, ‘is a young lady from the grand school up yonder, run off to see the gipsies and have her fortune told, I’ll be bound; and if the little dear’s got a bit of siller she shall have it, too—and if she brings a few more lassies before the caravan moves on, all the better for old Rebecca.’

‘Mother, here be a little lady asking shelter from t’ rain.’

Old Rebecca continued to rock and mutter, and Bobby, rather awestruck, crept into the dirty tent.

‘Sit ye down, do, my little lady.’

Bobby sat down fearfully on a stool near the fire, and suddenly the old crone stooped forward and peered at her with her bright black eyes.

‘Ay—ye’ve got eyes like my grandmother, my little lady—and she was a Lee, and spoke never another word but the Romany. Her eyes had shadows in ’em too. She travelled down dark paths many a time, she did—the poor creature! And she had the light in ’em as bright as the luck that came to her, and will come to you, my little lady, before the years get much older on ye!’

The old Rebecca’s voice turned into a whine, ‘Now what will ye give me for telling ye that, little missy? We’re poor creatures, but real travellers, and tell ye true—not like them dirty mumpers camping on the moor, and calling theirselves gipsy folk!’

Bobby turned scarlet.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry—but I haven’t anything till I’ve been to the town, and then I shall have heaps.’ She still thought her gold horseshoe brooch worth a fortune.

‘Ay—that’s a pity, but we’re not beggars. It’s only the poor babby that makes us ask—he’s dyin’, and that’s the truth!’

‘Dying!’ Bobby gave a shudder. The fat baby in the cradle reminded her of Humpty Dumpty in the nursery at home. The naughty, fat, adorable Humpty whom she would have given anything to hug once more.

‘Ay. He’s dyin’—with the brown kitis—all becos’ his poor mammy and old granny ain’t got a bit of flannil to wrap him in. You ain’t got a bit o’ flannil about yer now, have ye, dearie?’

Bobby shook her head in despair. She was dressed for hockey, and Nannie’s warm, flannel petticoats were a thing of the past.

‘Not a scrap—but I’ll go now, and when I come back I’ll bring some flannel if I can get it.’

‘Bless you, my little lady, but you’ll never get to town in this rain, coming down like cats and dogs it is.’

‘But I must go.’ Bobby was getting desperate. She had never meant that her adventures should not be over before the school tea at five. She seized the dilapidated bicycle from under the dripping tree where she had left it, and set off once more in the pouring rain.

The wind was blowing in such fierce gusts she could hardly keep her seat, and the rain soaked through hat, coat, and skirt in no time. But she set her teeth and kept on until a fearful explosion told her that Mr Higgins had spoken the truth when he said the groaning bicycle ‘was not what she was.’

Bobby dismounted and surveyed her deflated back tyre dismally. It was as flat as a pancake, and it was perfectly certain that she could neither leave it in the middle of the road, nor walk it into Broadford.

All she could do was to turn back to school, confess her failure to the Adventure League, and the beggarly state of her purse to the supercilious Christine.

As she passed the gipsy caravan remorse shot through her heart too. She had promised ‘a bit of flannil’ for the baby dying in all his fat beauty of that terrible ‘brown kitis.’

Well—all she could do was to offer her gold horseshoe brooch—the young woman could sell it herself, and perhaps save the baby’s life after all.

‘Bless you, lovey—and it’s not your luck you’ve given away, my little lady—for I see luck walking behind ye as ye came along the wood path, and that’s the truth. Soon good luck will be in front of ye, and bad luck behind. Ye’ll remember the gipsy folk then, my little lady!’

Good luck in front of her! Bobby, soaking wet, adventureless and miserable, smiled in her hard little way as she marched doggedly onwards. Good luck certainly was not going in front of her to-day!

First, Mr Higgins expressed strong disapproval of the state of the bicycle, and threatened to ‘write to the schoolmistress about it.’

Then the church clock struck half-past five, and she knew that all hope of reaching school undiscovered was lost.

She crept in through a side door leading to the dressing rooms, and the first person she saw was the pale, foxy-looking Miss Fox.

‘Robina! How dare you absent yourself without leave? Where have you been?’

‘I’ve been for a bicycle ride,’ Bobby answered defiantly. She was tired of Miss Fox, and saw no reason why she should account to her for her actions.

‘Oh! I see that you mean to be impertinent as well as to break rules. Go to Miss Bellamy’s room at once.’ Miss Fox was white with anger.

‘Oh, all right then, and I shall tell her you wouldn’t let me change my muddy boots.’

She marched off again, hungry, wet, cold, and despairing, but determined not to show anybody she cared a button about rules.

Brigit was hanging over the stairs.

‘I say, Bobby, what on earth’s happened?’ she whispered breathlessly.

Bobby immediately adopted a jaunty, don’t-care air.

‘Oh, I muffed things rather. The rain was so beastly and the bicycle burst. I had my fortune told though, and it was awfully jolly sitting in the gipsy tent.’

‘Is there going to be a row?’ Brigit looked rather scared.

‘Rather. Foxy scented me, but I don’t care.’

She marched onwards with just one upward glance at the jolly old gentleman in the scarlet coat, who looked as though he might feel sorry for Ragged Robins!

Miss Bellamy was sitting by her writing-table again, just as Bobby had seen her on her first day at school; but this time she looked very stern and never smiled at all.

‘Where have you been, Robina?’ she said gravely.

‘Out.’

‘Come here,’ more gravely still.

Robina came nearer.

‘What is my name, Robina?’

‘Miss Bellamy,’ unwillingly.

‘Then kindly remember that when you speak to me. Now, where have you been?’

‘I can’t tell you—Miss Bellamy.’

Miss Bellamy looked at her quietly. ‘You mean you intend to disobey me, as well as break all the rules of the school.’

‘I say I can’t tell you.’ Bobby’s face was set.

‘Very well, Robina. You evidently intend to go on as badly as you began, but I do not intend to be troubled with a girl who is not to be trusted. You said to me when you came here, “You can send me away if you want to,”—well, after your behaviour to-day I certainly do want to—and unless you come to me before to-morrow evening with the truth about your absence to-day, and a full apology for the trouble and anxiety you have caused, I shall write to your father to send for you; though naturally I do not wish to take such a course, for I happen to know that it would cause your father and mother real grief and disappointment. Have you anything to say to me now?’

‘No—Miss Bellamy.’

‘Very well. Go and change at once, and ask matron to give you some tea. Remember I shall be here at this time to-morrow if you have anything to say to me. Shut the door, please.’

Bobby jerked herself out of the room.

The big hall was cold and cheerless; but not so cold as her heart. To-morrow she was to be sent away—back to Anne and Tim, and Billy and Humpty, and Anne and mother—and father!

What would he say? and what would Aunt Emilia say? School was over! She would have to go back to lessons with Rhubarb Pie again, and Anne would cry over her grammar, and everything would be deadly dull as usual.

Christine would never know she hadn’t five shillings in the world; but her mother’s heart would be broken. Mothers hate their children to be expelled.

Two scalding tears dropped on to the cold stones of the empty hall.

Poor Ragged Robin! Everything ‘all wrong’ as usual!

HUMBLE PIE

The next morning Bobby’s head was as heavy as her heart, for she had kept awake half the night thinking of Miss Bellamy’s words. How lovely it would be to be at home again; but her father’s anger would spoil it, and her mother’s eyes would go all gray and misty and sad, like the moors rolling round Northwold.

Miss Pye would look shocked, and slightly triumphant too; for she was always anxious to prove that nobody in the world could manage the wilful Bobby. Nannie would say, ‘Shame on ye for a wicked, moitherin’ child. Hadn’t ye it in ye to behave dacent for a week even, and get some sinse in ye? No wonder yer poor mamma’s all wore out with the worry ye give her.’

Mike would grin, of course, and say, ‘I told you they’d never stick savages at a decent school.’

Anne would be glad, naturally; because she hated going to bed alone, with a witch living under the staircase!

But try as she would, she could not imagine a very pleasant home-coming. The post brought her a letter; a precious home letter, which came like a sunbeam into a gray world. On opening it she found there were two inside, one from her mother, and one from Anne. She seized her mother’s first,—

It was lucky that Bobby had returned to the empty schoolroom to read this, for it is not easy to look jaunty and don’t-careish when there is a lump in your throat as big as an apple.

‘Father and I have the greatest confidence in you’—and in a few hours she was going to be expelled!

She drew out Anne’s letter slowly. It was elaborately sealed, and decorated with portraits of the whole family:—

Bobby looked out on to the moors. In a few minutes a bell would ring, and for the rest of the day there would be little time for thinking.

‘Father is orfly upset and so is mum.’ And how much more would they be upset if Bobby arrived back home like a bad penny, with all Aunt Emilia’s wonderful chances thrown to the winds? She simply couldn’t; and yet if she didn’t it meant she would have to stifle her pride—Bobby set her teeth—and tell Miss Bellamy all about the horseshoe brooch, and say that she was sorry.

Well, now that dear old Sorrel was dead and everything was ‘all wrong’ as usual, she would simply have to do it, though it would be hateful. Christine and the others would have to know that she had no pocket money, too—everything would have to be faced, and she would show Mike that she could ‘stick it.’ To prove it she would confess her beggarly condition to the Anti-Christine League that very moment!

She met Brigit in the corridor.

‘I say, Bobby, we’ve been hunting for you for ages. Do tell us about the gipsies.’

‘Wait till the others come,’ Bobby felt a coward as the time of humiliation drew near, but Cherry, Pamela, and Dilys now joined Brigit, and they would have no delay.

‘Well, there was a gipsy there just like an old witch, muttering and smoking her pipe. She said I had eyes like her grandmother, and that she’d seen good luck walking behind me in the wood.’

‘No! I say, how thrilling! Didn’t you feel creepy?’ cried Cherry.

‘No,’ contemptuously. ‘It was all rot of course, and, as a matter of fact, I’m the unluckiest girl alive.’

‘I don’t see why,’ said Dilys Vaughan, who was timid herself, and thought the daring Bobby rather wonderful.

‘Well, I am; it’s jolly unlucky not to have any money.’

‘No money!’

‘Not a cent. We’re awfully poor at home, and I don’t care there, but it’s beastly here. I did have some when I came, but it’s all gone, so Christine needn’t come worrying me about her hateful guild, and I’m jolly glad too, because I hate sewing.’

The Anti-Christine League looked at each other. They felt uncomfortable, and desperately sorry for Bobby, and yet sympathy seemed out of place.

‘As if money mattered!’ said Cherry at last.

‘It jolly well does,’ said Bobby, feeling that these girls could never know the bitterness she had suffered.

‘Dad says that all the nicest people are poor, now,’ said Brigit, ‘so I don’t see why you should mind, and as for the worshipful Christine, let’s all strike at stumping up five shillings for her. We’ll find a protégée of our own. I’m sure all Christine’s are smug little brats with thousands of flannel petticoats.’

‘If we’re going to strike against the Needlework Guild we might as well strike against all the rest,’ said Pamela boldly. ‘I wish I hadn’t fished out two bob for the Magazine. I’m frightfully hard up, like Bobby.’

‘Very well!’ cried Brigit. ‘We’ll all strike in a body, and tell Christine we prefer to work for the poor in our own way. All agree?’

‘Rather!’

A bell began to clang, and Bobby was able to go to morning lessons thankful that part at least of her ordeal was over.

The day seemed all too short, in spite of a rumpus with Mademoiselle, and as six o’clock approached Bobby felt almost inclined to face her father’s anger and her mother’s disappointment, and risk being expelled after all, rather than surrender.

Miss Bellamy had treated her as usual all day, in no way influencing her to make or not to make her confession—a method to which Bobby—accustomed to old Nannie’s threats and persuasions and Miss Pye’s constant arguments—was quite unused, and made her feel uncomfortably responsible for her own actions.

The jolly old gentleman hanging in the big hall looked down on her in an approving sort of way as she passed him, just as though he were saying, ‘That’s right, my dear. Go ahead and show your pluck.’

Miss Bellamy was reading when Bobby entered her room, and though she looked up she said nothing.

Bobby jerked out, ‘I say—I mean Miss Bellamy—I’ve come to tell you I hired a bicycle from Mr Higgins yesterday, and tried to ride it to Broadford.’

‘Why did you do that, Robina?’

‘Because I wanted to sell something.’

‘To sell something! Why?’

‘Because I’ve spent all my pocket money.’

Miss Bellamy glanced at her shrewdly. She knew that Robina was not so well endowed with worldly possessions as the other girls in her school, and she was wise enough to realise what a trial that might be to such a sensitive child.

‘That’s a pity; but I suppose you have been asked to subscribe to all these wonderful clubs and guilds and literary societies we have here,’ she smiled, ‘and that soon runs away with money, doesn’t it? It was very disagreeable for you I am sure, but no excuse to break rules and sell your possessions. What was it you wanted to sell?’

‘My horseshoe brooch.’

‘And where is it now?’

Bobby went scarlet. She had not expected this question.

‘I gave it away,’ she said in a low voice.

‘To whom, Robina?’

‘To the gipsies. I asked for shelter, and there was a baby—a fat one you know, rather like ours at home—and the gipsy woman told me it was dying because she had no flannel to put on it, so I gave them the brooch to sell.’

Miss Bellamy’s face changed.

‘I’m sorry you did that, Robina, for somehow I do not think the baby was dying at all, though it was kind of you to be sorry and try to help it. To-morrow we will inquire about it and try to get your brooch back for you if we can; but you must understand that though we mean to be lenient with you now, absenting yourself without leave, selling your things, and visiting gipsy camps alone are things that I cannot possibly allow. It makes me very happy to know that I need not now write to your father, and we will say no more about all this foolishness if you will promise me you will never run away again.’

‘I won’t, of course, though I hate school just the same, and it’s only because of mother and father that I want to stay.’

Miss Bellamy looked straight at her.

‘Try to play the game right through, Robina. Give school a chance, and come and tell me if you still hate it in six months. We like your pluck, and we want to like you, too; but how can we, when you frown and rebel against every most simple and necessary rule. There, go away now, and think about that, for we want you to be happy with us, my dear child.’

Robina had always thought of Miss Bellamy as a person only interested in examinations, and lectures, and rules, and discipline; but when she said, ‘My dear child,’ she looked so remarkably like the nice old gentleman hanging in the hall that Bobby began to think that she had a heart hidden comfortably away somewhere after all. As she climbed the stairs slowly she thought of what Miss Bellamy had said too, and deep down in her heart she realised the truth of it. She had not given school a chance, and she had gained nothing by rebellion.

She hated the rules and getting up in the mornings, and physical drill and class singing. She bitterly resented the superior airs of the senior girls, and the patronising ways of Monica and a great many of the others; but she confessed to herself that being chums with the members of the Anti-Christine League was jolly; and her active and inventive brain was already busy making plans for the thrilling future which she was determined should be the lot of the Adventure Society.

Lessons were interesting, too, if one cared to listen to them, and it would certainly be dull to return to the prosy Piecrust!

She met Miss Hudson in the corridor, who looked at her disapprovingly.

‘Slouching again, Robina? We shall have to put you on the backboard. Here is a letter for you.’

Bobby took it wonderingly, she had not expected another letter. It was written on thick, satiny paper with an enchanting lavender scent upon it, and it was from Aunt Emilia.

A pound note dropped out of the envelope, and Bobby gave a gasp. A pound, all her very own, and she need never have told the Anti-Christine League that she was penniless, nor ventured the unlucky journey to Broadford on Higgins’s bicycle! And a writing-case coming too! She would be able to keep it on the shelf near her bed, just as the other girls did theirs. That would be another snub for the sneering Monica, if the one Aunt Emilia sent was better than hers, and somehow Bobby felt sure it would be. Perhaps the old gipsy woman was right, and good luck was walking behind her all the time!

She went to her preparation in spirits which even Mademoiselle’s persistent and annoying way of wanting every one to speak her own language could not quench, and as she worked—Bobby could work when she liked—she decided she would apply herself vigorously to her lessons, and get away from the despised Third Form as soon as possible; for only that very morning she had heard Monica refer to her contemptuously as ‘one of the kids in the Third.’

It would be more convenient too for her plots and plans to be in the same form as the Adventure Club.

She sought out Brigit and the rest, in the recreation hour before bedtime, and announced the arrival of her fortune.

‘I’m frightfully rich now. My aunt’s sent me a pound.’

‘How ripping! Shall you join Christine’s Guild now?’

‘Not if you’ll all strike with me. Let’s find a protégée of our own, and spend the money not on flannel petticoats and overalls and things, but on white party dresses and pretty pinafores, and hats that will spoil in the rain. There are heaps of poor kids who have ugly warm things all right, but never anything pretty, and it will be new to have a Lace Petticoat Guild.’ Bobby was warming to her idea, and felt she would be willing even to sit at the hated sewing for an hour to carry it out successfully.

‘Christine will be frightfully mad,’ said Dilys hesitatingly.

‘Let her,’ said Brigit. ‘The Needlework Guild isn’t compulsory, it’s all done in recreation.’

‘One thing,’ said Pamela, ‘I don’t quite see how we’re going to find a protégée who wants party frocks.’

‘Oh, she’ll turn up all right,’ said Bobby.

‘Here is Christine coming with that silly little violet book. I bet she’s collecting, girls.’

Christine glided amongst them with a saintly smile.

‘You bad children! not one of you has paid her subscription to the Guild, and we must have our first meeting next week.’

Bobby spoke up boldly.

‘I’ve been thinking it over, and after all I don’t think I’ll join, thank you.’

‘May I ask why?’ Christine put on her pained expression.

‘I’m not in sympathy with flannel petticoats; they’re beastly things, and I don’t believe poor children want them.’

‘Oh, I suppose you would object, though, if you were not warmly clad, and may I ask if you prefer to sit and twiddle your thumbs,’ said Christine, losing a little of her dignity, ‘while all of us work for the poor?’

‘No, we’re going to start a Guild of our own. We’re going to make pretty things for poor little kids that never have any.’

‘We?’

‘Yes,’ Brigit joined in. ‘We all think Bobby’s idea rather ripping, and we are going to join it. There will still be lots left to work for your Guild.’

‘Fortunately there will, but personally I think you are all extremely selfish, but of course I shall not attempt to force you. I suppose I ought to ask Miss Bellamy to talk to you, but before I do that, I hope you will all change your minds.’

Christine sailed away with a dignified air.

‘I knew she’d be mad,’ said Dilys.

‘Who cares?’ cried Brigit. ‘I wish we’d kicked at the Dramatic Society, too.’

‘But we’re going to have an awful time. Christine and Margaret Wells have written some stuffy Greek play, and of course all the poor juniors have to go posing round the stage balancing idiotic jars on their heads, or kneeling in artistic groups with pins and needles in their feet round the beautiful Christine.’

It was Cherry who volunteered this information.

‘What a bore! Who told you?’

‘Dorothy. She wants me to borrow a Greek dress mums had once for a fancy ball.’

‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ Bobby became animated once more. ‘We’ll have a play too. Not a stuffy one, but something really ripping and original.’ Bobby was determined to enliven the school by new and bold ideas. ‘We’ll all have a jolly part each, and rehearse secretly, and then let it be a surprise for Miss Bellamy, and a snub for the seniors!’

‘It sounds nice, but who’s got the brains to write a play? and those things you buy are so idiotic.’

‘Bobby and I will do it,’ said Brigit firmly, ‘and it shall be absolutely ripping, for, as leaders of the famous Anti-Christine League and the wonderful Adventure Club, I think we ought to claim to have our share of brains. There’s that beastly bell! Bobby, why aren’t you in the South Dormitory so that we could have a secret rehearsal at once?’

‘Because good luck is still behind me, I’m afraid!’ said Bobby, with a sigh.

THE ADVENTURE CLUB

Bobby began to make plots and plans that very night; for though she meant to keep her word to Miss Bellamy and not attempt to run away to the gipsies, and had even decided to be industrious until she could escape from the dullness of the Third Form, she had no intention of becoming what she called ‘a saint.’ The exciting thought of getting up Adventure Clubs, plays, and rival Needlework Guilds, filled her with pleasant anticipations, and before she fell asleep she had drawn up a list of rules in her mind for the Club, and thought out the first escapade.

The next day she found time to make a thorough investigation of the halls and passages of Northwold Manor. To her regret it was too modern for secret chambers; but at the end of a long stone passage, she found a dark room, almost packed to the roof with the pupils’ empty travelling trunks, the very place for the secret meetings of the Adventure Club!

She conducted Brigit and the other conspirators to it the very first moment she could escape from Miss Fox’s sharp eyes.

‘Why on earth have you brought us here?’ said Cherry. ‘It looks beastly and spidery.’

‘Matron might pop in any moment, too,’ said Dilys, looking round uneasily.

‘Are you going to fill the seniors’ trunks with bombs? I’ll help,’ Brigit grinned.

‘Oh, don’t be silly. This is the secret chamber of the Adventure Club. I want to know if you approve of the rules. Oh, don’t giggle, do be serious,’ said Bobby.

‘Well, fire away then!’ said the Adventurers.

Bobby pulled out a large piece of exercise paper, decorated very boldly with red ink, and read out proudly,—

‘Rules of the Northwold Adventure Club.

‘Rule I.—All members to keep secret the doings of the Club, and vow they will never divulge the Password.

‘Rule II.—Meetings to be held in the Cave, known to the uninitiated as the Box-room.

‘Rule III.—New members can be admitted only after passing the Bravery Test; this test to be decided upon by all the members of the Club.

‘Rule IV.—No member shall plan any silly adventure. All adventures must be dangerous if possible, and give each member a chance to prove she isn’t a silly ass.

‘Rule V.—In case of discovery during the adventure the Leader of the same to take the consequences.

‘Rule VI.—The Password—This shall consist of the words “Ecce Signum,” to be uttered with one eye shut.’

‘Well, it sounds jolly decent,’ said Brigit, ‘and it looks as if Northwold Nunnery is going to be a lot livelier this term.’

‘I don’t think it will be very lively being expelled,’ said Dilys rather fearfully. ‘And we all know that with Bobby, adventures is only another word for scrapes.’

‘Well, there’s one thing, I’ve always been in the “Scrape Club” at school,’ said Cherry, ‘so I’m willing to join.’

Pamela looked thoughtful, and said, ‘I can’t think what real adventure we can have in a place full of seniors interfering, and Miss Fox always creeping round corners.’

‘Well, we can then,’ said Bobby decidedly, ‘that is, if we like to use our brains. As a matter of fact, I’ve already thought out a small adventure to begin with if you all approve.’

‘Tell us what it is first,’ cried Dilys and Pamela.

‘Well, you know Cherry and I are sick of the Long Dormitory. They’re such a dull set in it. I propose that we leave it one night at midnight, and sleep in the South Dormitory for a change.’

‘Oh, do you?’ said Pamela.

‘And whose beds do you propose sleeping in when you get there?’ asked Brigit.

‘And how can the members of the Adventure Club keep their doings secret if you go to bed somewhere else? Catch Monica not spotting you!’ added Pamela.

‘And, besides, I don’t see why you and Cherry should be the only ones to have an adventure,’ Brigit looked indignant.

‘We shan’t. You and Pamela, or you and Dilys, of course, take our places, and sleep in our dormitory; so that if Dora takes a fancy to a middle-of-the-night prowl, all the beds will be full. Of course, it’s a drawback having to tell the others, but we can’t help that, and though they’re dull they know better than to sneak.’

‘Pamela can go, if she’s so keen on it,’ said the timid Dilys. ‘I can’t say I am.’

‘When shall we do it? Might as well have a go to-night,’ cried Brigit.

Bobby pulled a little almanac out of her pocket, and consulted it seriously. ‘No,’ she said mysteriously, ‘we must consult the moon. It is very important to have dark nights for an adventure of this kind. It makes it more dangerous and more thrilling. There will be no moon next week. That will give us a full week to prepare.’

‘Prepare!’ they all cried.

‘Of course. We don’t mean to muff it this time. Once was enough! First of all we must practise walking blindfold from our dormitory to yours, and you must do the same,’ to Brigit and Pamela, ‘We can’t have a light, and there are two corners to turn, as well as the staircase. We ought to practise walking round the dormitory in the dark, too, so that we learn not to yell out if we bang our toes against bedposts.’

‘My electric torch will be jolly useful,’ said Cherry.

‘We mustn’t show a single light,’ said Bobby sternly, ‘until we get to the South Dormitory. Then, when we’re safely inside, we will flash it on the beds, and that will be the signal for Brigit and Pam to start.’

Brigit announced her intention of wearing her long blue cloak.

‘It wraps round me in a sort of villainy way,’ she said. ‘I do wish I had a black mask.’

‘Well, we can easily get black masks this afternoon,’ said Dilys. ‘The Sugar Plum’s going to take us shopping in town, to buy flannel and things for the Guild.’

‘Flannel! Lace, you mean. I say, we shall have to begin to hunt for our protégée,’ cried Brigit.

‘Hush! I’m sure I can hear matron,’ whispered Dilys nervously. ‘Do let’s go now.’

Fortunately for Bobby’s plans the next few days were wet, and there was ample opportunity for practising walking blindfold!

Pamela had a lump as big as an egg on her forehead, through coming into contact with a cupboard while walking in the dark dormitory, and Cherry was black and blue. But Bobby cheerfully told her band that it was the part of the adventure that was most good for them, because walking in the dark would be a useful accomplishment when they undertook any really daring deed in the future. She and Brigit fared better, and at the end of the week they could walk from the Long Dormitory to the South—a journey which involved a long passage, two corners, and a staircase—without even touching the wall.

Masks had been made, and light garments were to be covered with dark cloaks. Wednesday was chosen for the deed, as Dora Woods and Dorothy Venner were so indefatigable at hockey they were always dead tired at night. Those in the dormitory not in the secret were to be told nothing until the time came, and if none of the girls in the Long Dormitory heard the departure of Bobby and Cherry, they were not to be told at all; only to have the surprise of finding their beds occupied by Brigit and Pamela in the morning.

‘I wish we could go before midnight,’ said Cherry. ‘I’m horribly sleepy after hockey myself.’

‘We might say eleven,’ Bobby replied dubiously, ‘but it is much more dangerous. Anyway, we’ll risk it.’

Keeping awake from eight to eleven after strenuous playing in the keen moorland air all afternoon, was not very easy for growing girls, and Cherry succumbed to her sleepiness in less than an hour. But Bobby sat up in bed, and pinched herself vigorously, and repeated as many French verbs as she could remember, negatively, interrogatively, and affirmatively, in what Anne described as ‘the beastly way the Piecrust loves so.’

When the hall clock struck a quarter to eleven at last, she gave Cherry a vigorous nudge.

‘What is the matter?’ the sleeper murmured.

‘It’s time!’

‘Oh, bother! Let’s do it to-morrow instead,’ yawned Cherry.

‘The Adventure must be dangerous if possible, and give every member an opportunity to prove that she is not a silly ass,’ quoted Bobby scornfully.

Cherry rose at once, and they both fished out their cloaks and masks from under their pillows, slipped them on, and their slippers, and then began to make their way cautiously to the door.

‘Twelve paces, remember,’ whispered Bobby.

Cherry banged her toe against the leg of a bed, and gave a stifled yell.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ Monica murmured crossly.

‘Oh, nothing. Can’t I get a drink of water without every one having a fit?’ whispered Cherry.

They stood silent and shivering until gentle snores were again heard proceeding from Monica’s bed.

The door was reached in safety, and gently opened and closed again, leaving them standing in the corridor which was as dark as Egypt. Cherry caught her foot in the matting and would have fallen if Bobby had not clutched at her wildly.

‘Oh, do be careful. Now remember. Twenty-two paces, then a corner, eight stairs, six paces, and the first door on the right. Have you got the torch?’

‘Oh, yes. Don’t let go my arm. It’s worse than the Black Hole of Calcutta.’

The corridor and the two corners were navigated safely, though great caution was necessary to mount the short flight of stairs without creaking. But once at the top Bobby breathed more freely, and they walked the last six paces almost boldly.

‘Here it is,’ Bobby found a round door-knob on the right. ‘Now, remember, we mustn’t flash the torch till we are well inside and the door is shut. Didn’t I say we could do it?’

‘I’m glad I’m not Brigit and Pam. I wouldn’t go along that creepy passage again for a fortune!’ was Cherry’s answer.

‘I think it is most thrilling!’

Bobby turned the door-knob softly, and they both slid noiselessly into the room, closing the door after them.

‘Five paces,’ whispered Bobby. ‘Now, flash the torch.’

They stood perfectly upright, two masked and cloaked figures, hoping to give the inmates of the South Dormitory ‘a jolly good turn.’

Cherry flashed her electric torch dramatically, but it was she and Bobby who had ‘the turn,’ in fact, the sight before them almost paralysed them with alarm.

Instead of the South Dormitory they were standing in a small square room, where a very much beflounced dressing-table was covered with silver brushes and little china pots, and knick-knacks of all descriptions. In front of them was a little white bed, and in it lay Mademoiselle in an extremely ‘chic’ nightgown, peacefully sleeping!

Transfixed with horror, Cherry still held the light aloft, and in a moment Mademoiselle arose shrieking.

‘Les voleurs! les voleurs! Mon Dieu, c’est un apparition terrible! Au secours! au secours!’

Bobby seized the torch from Cherry’s paralysed hand, and they fled round corners and down stairs and passages regardless of bumps, to the safety of the Long Dormitory. Mademoiselle’s cries becoming louder and louder as they went.

They tore off masks and cloaks, and hid them under their mattresses, only a moment before the indignant and sleepy Dora opened the door and appeared with a light.

‘What on earth’s the matter? Who’s shrieking?’

Eight flushed sleepy girls were sitting bolt upright in bed listening intently.

‘Nobody here. Oh, I say, it’s Mademoiselle. She must have a fit. She nearly had one this morning over Molly’s French accent.’

‘Aie! äie!’ The shrieks rose higher and higher.

‘She must have seen a ghost,’ said Monica breathlessly.

‘Well, all I hope is that she doesn’t get over it before Wednesday. I forgot all about that beastly French comp. she gave me,’ said Brigit.

‘Oh, do be quiet!’ Dora opened the door softly.

Footsteps were hurrying along the corridor. Bobby and Cherry shook with fear. If Mademoiselle had recognised ‘l’apparition terrible,’ all was lost!

In the South Dormitory excitement reigned also; and the members of the Adventure Club guessed that Mademoiselle’s shrieks were in some way connected with their midnight plans, and they too shook with the fear of discovery.

‘Mees Bellamy, I shake all over as you see. Nevare ’ave I seen an apparition so terrible. The two dark figures with a light so ghostly. It is a warning, I know it, Mees Bellamy. It is two—tree weeks since I did ’ear from my parents.’

The door was shut with a bang, and the listening girls could hear no more.

‘Here’s Foxy coming. I can hear her slink.’

Every one dived under the bedclothes. Miss Fox entered primly. She was clad in an unbecoming dressing-gown, and her face showed plainly that she had no sympathy with the foolish French way of indulging in hysterics at midnight.

‘Dora, why are you out of bed? Lie down, all of you, at once, and go to sleep. Mademoiselle is a little indisposed,’ she looked scornful, ‘but that is no reason why every one else should be disturbed. Put out the light, Dora, immediately.’

She went out to visit the other dormitories, and Bobby and Cherry sank back on their pillows with relief. Thanks to Mademoiselle’s emotional temperament they were unsuspected; and though the great adventure had not turned out as they planned, it had certainly been thrilling enough!

The next day the Adventure Club held a meeting in the Cave.

‘How on earth did you make such a mess of things?’ demanded Brigit. ‘Pam and I got none of the fun.’

‘Through my usual ill-luck, of course, and Cherry falling over the matting when we started,’ said Bobby ruefully. ‘I must have turned round when I grabbed her, and started off in the wrong direction; there were exactly the same number of paces, two corners, and eight stairs to the next wing too. I counted this morning.’

‘Pity you didn’t count them before,’ said Brigit disgustedly. ‘I can’t say Pam and I had much excitement.’

‘It was jolly exciting hearing Mademoiselle rave about apparitions, and seeing Foxy in her night robes! Did you see her dressing-gown trimmed with braid? She looked like a foxhound,’ cried Cherry.

For a whole week Mademoiselle suffered with a ‘crise des nerfs,’ and every one enjoyed a pleasant holiday from enforced French conversation, ‘which proves the value of an Adventure Club if you’ll only be bold enough,’ said Bobby triumphantly.

‘Thanks to the Adventure Club we haven’t had any French worth speaking of for a week, and thanks to the Adventure Club, we have learnt how to walk in the dark, which is frightfully good for the nerves when you mean to do really daring things.’

‘It was jolly bad for Mademoiselle’s nerves though!’ said Brigit, with a grin.

THE HERMIT’S GHOST

From the very first moment they met, Monica and Bobby had been enemies. Monica tried to patronise Bobby, and looked upon her clothes and possessions with a contempt that made poor Bobby furious.

‘Aren’t you cold without an eiderdown?’ Monica would ask, with a pitying smile. All the girls in the dormitory were supplied with these extra, cosy bed-coverings except Bobby; but though she was cold, and hated to be the only one without the luxury, she had no intention of adding to the anxiety which she knew existed at home, by writing to ask for more than her mother’s efforts had been able to give her, and neither could she beg fresh favours from Aunt Emilia.

‘No, I’m not, thank you,’ she said, with cold politeness, ‘and if I am, perhaps you’ll let me warm my hands on your nose, it always looks so jolly and red.’

Monica flushed with rage. The colour of her nose in the cold weather was a great trial to her; and Bobby’s impolite reference to it did not improve matters between them. She revenged herself by always audibly referring to Bobby as ‘that dowdy kid, Bobbina, in the Third,’ which made Bobby set her teeth and work with such industry that at the end of three weeks at school Miss Bellamy sent for her.

‘I am glad to hear you are working so hard, Robina,’ she smiled graciously. ‘I do not usually send a pupil into a higher form until the end of the term; but I think that in your case I shall make an exception to the rule, as I am inclined to think you were wrongly placed through everything being so strange at first, and I do not wish you to be kept back in your work.’

‘Thanks awfully.’

Bobby had achieved her aim and was triumphant.

‘I hope you will work hard, especially with your French. Mademoiselle tells me your accent is good, but your written work careless; and there is another thing, why are you so obstinate about singing?’

‘I hate singing in class. Such a lot of them sing out of tune.’

‘Miss Swete and Signor Nessi will judge that. In any case, please remember I do not permit the word “hate” in connection with your work, and I expect a better report of your class-singing very soon.’

Bobby departed gleefully. She was no longer ‘a kid in the Third,’ and that she would be able to hold her own successfully without that handicap she felt assured; and also she would find it easier to make plans with the other members of the Adventure Club.

By some means the inquisitive Monica had ferreted out the existence of the club; and even the fact that the despised Bobbina was its President did not prevent her from aching to become a member too; for she had always wanted to be chums with Brigit and Cherry, the two brightest girls in the school until Bobby came.

She gave Pamela no peace until she had promised to propose her as a member at the next meeting in the Cave.

‘Monica!’ screamed Brigit. ‘That little toad! Not for a fortune!’

‘I’d like to see Monica keeping the doings of the Society secret,’ said Cherry.

Dilys was not so much against the idea. She felt that Monica was an even less daring adventurer than herself, which might prove useful.

But Bobby smiled sardonically and said, ‘She can join if she likes.’

‘Are you mad? She’d spoil everything.’

‘I said she could join if she likes.’

‘She’ll jolly well like if she gets the chance,’ cried Brigit.

‘Very well, then, let her pass the Bravery Test according to Rule III.,’ said Bobby, with a wink.

The beauty of this idea dawned on the others slowly; and they put their heads together at once.

The result was that Monica was solemnly summoned to a meeting in the Cave the following day, and to give the proceedings the picturesque touch that Bobby loved, the members of the Club were bidden to come masked and cloaked.

A dark lantern was placed in the middle of the floor, and Brigit had adorned the walls with charts and maps of places which certainly only existed in Adventure Land—although Monica was not likely to know it! She advanced with an air of great boldness; though to tell the truth she was inwardly quaking; for the mysteriousness of the scene made her feel sure that Bobby meant to take the opportunity to play some trick upon her. All the same, she thought it distinctly thrilling, and ‘just the sort of thing you read about in books,’ and she longed to write and describe ‘what fun they had at school’ to her long-suffering friends and relations.

Bobby stood in the middle of the room with folded arms, and the others were grouped about her, two on each side.

‘Advance, stranger!’ uttered Bobby in deep tones.

Monica giggled nervously, and advanced a few paces.

‘What is thy name?’

‘Oh, don’t be a silly idiot, Bobbina Dare. You know very well what it is.’

Bobby frowned horribly, and the others gave deep groans.

‘What is thy name? Answer or withdraw.’

‘Well then, it’s Monica Eunice Langford.’

‘Is it thy wish to become a member of this great Society?’

‘Of course it is. I wish you’d get at it, and not be so idiotic.’

‘Then, Monica Eunice Langford, before you become one of the initiated, and learn the secrets and password of the Society, you must submit yourself to Rule III.’

‘Well, you might tell me what it is, without all this silly rot.’

Bobby unfolded a long scroll, and read out impressively:—

‘Rule III.—New members can be admitted only after passing the Bravery Test; this test to be decided upon by all the members of the Club.’

The would-be member cried out pettishly, ‘Oh, I say, I knew you meant to play some idiotic trick, Robina Dare, and I’m not going to get into a row to please you, so there!’

The masked Adventurers gave sepulchral groans.

‘I don’t see what you’ve all got to grunt about,’ said Monica uneasily. ‘Anyhow, what is this silly Bravery Test? Tell me and perhaps I’ll do it if you have to, and it isn’t just one of Bobbina’s stupid tricks.’

‘The Bravery Test, O Monica Eunice Langford, is to prove to the sisterhood that thou hast spunk, for without it never canst thou bear a part in their great schemes,’ Bobby spoke calmly, and Monica felt impressed in spite of her scorn.

‘Well, tell me what it is I say, or how can I know if I’ll do it?’

‘Dost know the little house at the end of the shrubbery, known as the Hermitage?’

Monica gave a subdued shriek. ‘Yes, I should think I do. That horrible creepy, crawly place? I’m not going there, so that’s all about it, Bobbina Dare!’

The five members of the Adventure Club gave deep groans, and rolled their eyes behind their masks at the unfortunate Monica. It was well known in the school that she was afflicted with three big fears, and that they were what she called ‘creepy-crawlies,’ ghosts, and being found out.

She spoke desperately, ‘what do you want me to do there?’

‘Wrap thy cloak around thee and depart into the darkness, and walk with slow footsteps to the Hermitage. Long, long ago a holy man dwelt there on the wild moors, and,’ here, Bobby, always happy when relating weird tales to a timid audience, leaned forward and said in a low whisper, ‘it is said that his spirit still haunts the place,’ but Monica gave such a shriek that all the Adventurers flew to the door and listened in dismay.

But as nothing happened they came back and Bobby continued, ‘His spirit still haunts the place on dark nights such as this. We would know if this be true, O Monica Eunice Langford; therefore it behoves thee to prove thy spunk by departing and sitting within the Hermitage until the Tower Clock strike seven. Then return, bringing with thee the sealed scroll thou wilt find on the Hermit’s seat there, as a proof of thy undaunted courage. When this is delivered into our hands, then will we welcome thee as a brave and adventurous sister.’

‘Well, I just shan’t then,’ cried Monica defiantly, ‘and you need not think I’m frightened, Bobbina; it’s just because I’m not going to get into a row to please you.’

The Adventurers gave still deeper groans, and Bobby turned to them sadly.

‘It is as I said, my sisters, she has no spunk, therefore she must depart without taking the vow.’

This was too much! Monica was dying to hear the secrets of the Society, and it was extremely galling to be thought a coward by a girl she had always done her best to patronise.

‘It’s just a mean trick, I know,’ she said, ‘but you’ll soon see if I have any pluck or not—the very idea!—and how do you suppose I’m going to get out of doors, and perhaps meet Miss Bellamy in the drive too?’

‘Come!’ said Brigit solemnly. ‘Now is the time for you to learn of the secret entrance to our Cave.’ She moved a big basket trunk and held up the lantern. Behind the trunk was a tiny door, which, to tell the truth, had only been discovered by the Adventurers themselves the day before. She unbolted it quietly, and led Monica down a short stone passage which opened into the shrubbery a short distance from the haunted Hermitage.

‘Go!’ whispered the masked figures together. ‘We will await thee in the Cave. Knock five times as a signal that all is well.’

Before the unfortunate Monica knew where she was, she was hustled out into the cold, dark shrubbery. Her first intention was not to enter the Hermitage at all, as her standard of honour was not so high as it might have been; but remembering that the sealed scroll must be brought back as a proof of her brave spirit, she saw there was nothing to do but to make a dash for it. She was almost as frightened of the earwigs as of the ghost of the old hermit; and if it had not been for the thought of that ‘hateful kid Bobbina’s’ face if she returned empty-handed, she would have run back there and then.

It was bitterly cold, too; for though the Adventurers had bidden her to ‘wrap her cloak around her,’ they had not provided her with one, and she was clad only in her house frock and slippers.

The shadows among the thick shrubbery terrified her, for there were only a few stars overhead. At last she reached the tiny, ivy-clad building always called the Hermitage, and with a mighty effort of will she crept through the open door. She felt cautiously along the seat for the scroll, almost shrieking with the awful fear that ‘something’ would creep up her arm.

At last she touched a roll of paper, and seizing it would have fled again, if she had not suddenly remembered the command of the Adventurers that she should sit in the haunted Hermitage until the Tower clock struck seven.

Suppose that hateful Bobbina should follow her to see if she did; it was certainly what Monica herself would have done in her place!

She sat down on the cold seat gingerly, and tried to think of anything in the world but old hermits. There was a furtive movement somewhere outside, and she began to shake again. She got up quickly, as softly as her trembling legs would carry her, and went to the open door, and in a moment she was clutching at the overhanging ivy in horror.

Coming slowly towards her there was a Face; two glowing eyes of fire, a nose, and a fearful grinning mouth.

With an awful shriek Monica dashed through the shrubbery, calling out, ‘The Hermit! Oh, the Hermit!’ In her fright she turned towards the long drive instead of the little side path that led to the door of the Cave, and, as she flew along still sobbing, she saw a tall dark figure coming out of the shadow. She hurried along, but it was too late. Foxy’s martial voice rang out of the darkness, ‘Stand still at once!’

Monica stood still; there was no help for it and Foxy strode angrily towards her.

‘Monica! What are you doing here at this hour of the evening, and with your thin shoes on, too, and no coat? How dare you?’

Trembling with cold and fright and the thought of getting into a row, Monica could only murmur, ‘I had to fetch something I left in the Hermitage.’ She longed to blurt out the whole story and make Robina pay for her misfortunes, but she was wise enough to know she could never hope to be one of the Adventurers if she ‘sneaked’ now.

‘To fetch something; the idea of your doing such a thing! I shall give you a conduct mark, and you may go in at once and write me fifty lines before bedtime, and fifty more in the morning before prayers.’

The unfortunate Monica departed weeping bitterly, furiously angry, and determined to ‘pay out’ Bobbina if she could.

In the meantime the Adventurers sat round the dark lantern on the floor of the Cave, and waited patiently. It had certainly been a surprise that the cowardly Monica had consented to the Test, and they had so many doubts about her really ‘playing the game’ that they had almost decided to follow her silently; but voted to give up the idea as ‘mean.’

However, when the Tower clock struck seven and nobody appeared they began to feel anxious, as supper was at half-past and they had not yet changed.

‘Where on earth is she?’ said Cherry uneasily.

‘If she’s had a fit we shall be in a nice scrape,’ said Dilys.

‘Well, we can’t wait any longer. Bolt the door, Brigit. We’ll have to find out if she’s in the house anywhere.’ Bobby cast her cloak from her; as chief plotter in the night’s proceedings she was beginning to feel a little anxious about Monica’s fate.

She was not in the big schoolroom, where the girls were usually to be found before supper, talking round the fire.

‘I say, have you seen Monica, Joan?’

‘Yes. She’s gone upstairs. She’s got into a row with Foxy, and has got a conduct mark and a hundred lines. She’s piping her eye horribly,’ answered Joan cheerfully.

‘Serve her jolly well right!’ said Bobby cruelly; but all the same her conscience pricked her.

She met Miss Fox in the corridor after supper, and marched up to her boldly. ‘Oh, Miss Fox, I thought you’d like to know that it was me sent Monica to get something I’d left in the Hermitage.’

‘Oh, indeed, did you? I might have known that you were the one responsible for breaking a rule. You may take a conduct mark instead of Monica, and as you are so fond of giving other people tasks, perhaps you will enjoy writing out the “Ten Labours of Hercules,” for me to-morrow in your recreation time, and I should like the last ten lines to be in Latin, if you please.’

‘Oh, would you?’ said Bobby scornfully to herself. ‘What an idiot I was to let myself in for Monica’s impots. Anyhow, she can’t say now that I haven’t played up about it,’ and she marched into the dormitory prepared to have no nonsense from her foe. There was at least the comfort of knowing that she could no longer demand entrance to the Adventure Club!

In the gardener’s cottage not two hundred yards from the Hermitage, Joe, the gardener’s boy, was sitting in the middle of the kitchen on a wooden chair, having his red head tenderly bathed by his anxious mother.

At her feet was cast a ‘turnip ghost,’ the candle in it extinguished, its hollow eyes and grinning mouth no longer flaring with ghostly light.

‘I seen it as plain as yon kettle, mither—look at the sweat on me! It wur’ a dark figure standing in the ’ermitage, and it started out screechin’ ’orrible!’

‘Hush, lad! It were an owl—you ask feyther when he comes. You didn’t ought to have bin out playing ghosties yourself, with that old turnip—a nice turn it give me too!’

‘I promised the lads I’d make it—ready for Guy Fox night—but you won’t catch me round the ’ermitage again—not for a fortune, you won’t, without me feyther. Golly, it did let out a screech! Mak’ us a drop o’ tay, mither, I’m all of a sweat like.’

The next morning Sally, the little tweeny maid who made up the schoolroom fires, was full of the ghost Joe had seen in the Hermitage the night before.

‘And serve ’im right, that’s what I say,’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s rare and fond o’ freetenin’ folk himself with that nasty lighted turnip on a stick, and now he’s ’ad a turn himself—the silly loon!’

‘Turnip!’ said Bobby contemptuously, ‘so that’s your ghost, is it?’

And Monica, who had been quite a heroine the night before as the beholder of ghostly hermits, was successfully snubbed once more!

THE LACE PETTICOAT GUILD

The shrubberies round Northwold Manor, although rather ugly and uninteresting, afforded a splendid playground for the junior girls. The numerous little paths and thick undergrowth were ideal for hide-and-seek, and this was the favourite game during the short recreation time out of doors before morning lessons began, until Bobby arrived at school.

‘Let’s do something more thrilling,’ she exclaimed, ‘something like follow my leader.’

‘I don’t call that thrilling,’ said Monica scornfully.

‘It will be if I lead,’ said Bobby pointedly; and after a little experience of her leadership her followers certainly found out this was true. She would race along at a terrific speed, dodging down paths and round trees until they were giddy; then she would swarm up on to the roof of the Hermitage and jump down from it with a wild leap on to the deep grass below, until it was a miracle that there were no broken bones as well as spoilt clothes. There was always a good deal of secret mending to be done by Sally, who was not above taking bribes—when Bobby had been leader.

But when—for ever seeking fresh thrills—she scaled the high ivy-clad wall on the north side and dropped into the public highway, it was only the boldest dare follow her. She would run fifty yards along the road like a hunted hare, swarm up the big chestnut tree, and drop into the garden again, amidst the wildest applause.

The excitement of accomplishing this deed was immense, for you never knew if you would drop into the arms of the curate—who was as proper as Miss Fox—on his way back from early service, and there was always the risk of being seen by Miss Hudson too, for she was fond of taking a morning bicycle ride before lessons began.

But it was during one of these wild escapades that the Lace Petticoat Guild discovered its protégée.

Bobby, Brigit, Cherry, and Pamela dropped from the wall almost on to a little girl. She was an odd little creature, about nine years old, with stiff fair plaits and china-blue eyes red with weeping. She wore a thick black coat that might have fitted her mother, over a faded little tartan dress. Her boots were strong, and nailed like a ploughboy’s, and there was a woollen scarf twisted round her thin neck. A gray tam-o’-shanter was pulled well down over her cold ears, and she dabbed at her poor little crimson nose with a damp rag. There was a slate and a bag under her arm, and she was evidently on her way to school.

There was something about this forlorn little figure that made Bobby suddenly homesick; for she looked strangely like Anne on grammar mornings, when the Piecrust contained rhubarb!

It was a misty morning. The milkman had just passed and been watched out of sight, and there wasn’t a sign of the curate nor of Miss Hudson.

‘What an odd little kid!’ Brigit exclaimed. ‘Just been spanked, I should say.’

‘What are you crying for?’ Bobby demanded.

‘I ain’t cryin’.’

‘You mustn’t tell fibs, it’s wicked. Has your mother been whacking you?’ asked Cherry.

‘Naw, she ain’t,’ indignantly.

‘Well, what is the matter?’ said Bobby impatiently, for she knew danger might be round the corner.

The forlorn one dabbed at her red eyes fiercely, and then burst out, ‘It’s becos’—it’s becos’ I ain’t goin’ to the Treat.’

‘What a shame—poor kid!’ said Brigit sympathetically, ‘why aren’t you going?’

‘Becos’ I ain’t got no dress,’ in a burst.

‘Where is the Treat?’

‘Up yonder——’

‘Won’t your mother buy you a dress?’ asked Bobby, thinking of her own bitter experiences of ‘party frocks.’

‘Naw, she can’t, and that’s all abaht it.’ She began to move away, still dabbing at her red nose.

‘Oh, do come along, Bobby. There’s somebody coming!’

‘Do wait a minute. What’s your name, you poor little kid?’

‘Meggie Rudd.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Down yonder.’ She pointed to a group of cottages below the moor.

‘Oh, come along! Do come along! I’m sure it’s Miss Hudson.’

There was a wild rush up the chestnut tree, and a drop into safety. Brigit was the first to recover. ‘I say, girls, we’ve found her at last!’

‘Found who?’ they all cried.

‘The protégée, of course—now we can spend our pennies and begin the Lace Petticoat Guild at once. What a snub for Christine!’

‘Do you mean that red-nosed brat?’ Bobby’s eyes shone. ‘I say, Brigit, how brilliant you are! What a ripping idea! I’d love her to go to the Treat “up yonder.” ’

‘We’ll have to see her mother first, though. She does all the mangling for the school, I know, and if we let the Sugar-Plum gush a lot about the autumn colours on the moor when we go to Northwold this afternoon, I’ll bet she’ll let us call in and see Mrs Rudd,’ said Brigit.

‘Then we’ll let her gush herself into fits.’

‘There’s the bell!’

Miss Swete took ten of the girls across the moor that afternoon to the village of Northwold to buy stationery and post cards, and she was immensely flattered by the enthusiastic way in which Bobby and her satellites hung on her words as she tried to improve the occasion by a few well-chosen sentences about the beauty of the sunset colours around them. When they were about half a mile from the Rudd’s cottage Brigit said sweetly,—

‘Miss Swete, will you be perfectly lovely and let me and Robina, and Cherry and Pamela go on first and speak to that nice Mrs Rudd?’

Miss Swete looked distressed. She hated spoiling a nice afternoon with attentive appreciative pupils by saying ‘No.’ She temporised. ‘But, my dear child, why?’

‘We want to give her little girl a present, and we must ask her about it first.’

‘Very well, but remember you must be ready as soon as I come.’

‘Thanks most awfully, Miss Swete, you are decent.’ The four rushed off.

There were four cottages, and the Rudd one was the cleanest of all. The muslin blinds were like snow, and the doorstep was scrubbed into a hollow. Bobby knocked at the door, and it was opened by a tall, thin woman, wrapped in a shawl.

‘Are you Mrs Rudd, please?’

‘Yes, miss. Will you kindly step inside. It’s rare and cold from the moor, and I’m not over well.’

They were delighted to enter the kitchen, which was as spotless as the doorstep, with floor, table, and dresser scoured to snow-whiteness. Four little white-haired boys, with eyes as china-blue and round as the woe-begone Meggie’s, were sitting at the table eating large, sticky slices of bread and syrup.

There was a wooden cradle drawn close up to the fire, and lines of clean clothes hung all round the kitchen.

Brigit was the spokeswoman. ‘We met your little girl this morning, Mrs Rudd.’

‘Did you, indeed, miss?’

‘She was crying like anything,’ said Brigit, not knowing quite how to go on.

‘She ain’t no call to do that, miss. She’s got her stomach full and warm clothes on her, and that’s what a-many hasn’t in these days. We can’t do more for her than that.’

Brigit was terribly afraid she had offended Meggie’s mother. ‘Oh, she wasn’t crying because she was hungry,’ she said quickly, ‘it was about some treat she wanted to go to.’

Mrs Rudd’s face changed.

‘She didn’t ought to have complained to you about that, miss. She ain’t got a frock suitable, and I won’t ’ave ’er goin’ different from the rest and crying her eyes out about it afterwards. With seven of ’em under nine, her feyther and me can’t do much more than get ’em warm clothes and good vittles. She must learn not to be a babby and cry for what she can’t have—there are too many of ’em in the hoose already.’ She smiled wearily, and looked across at the cradle before the fire.

Bobby peeped into it. ‘Is there a baby in it?’ she said.

‘Two of ’em, miss,’ Mrs Rudd said proudly.

‘Two! Oh, I say, how ripping!’

The Lace Petticoat Guild pressed forward eagerly.

‘What are they?’

‘Little gels, and three weeks old to-day.’ She drew back an old woollen shawl, and displayed two downy-haired heads proudly.

‘What perfect little ducks! What are their names?’ asked Cherry.

‘They’re not called yet, miss. There’s Meggie, she wants Rosie May or Dorothy Violet—she’s all for something grand—and the district lady thinks Faith and Hope would be beautiful, and them’s pretty comfortin’ names enough, but feyther won’t hear of it. He says Sarah and Ann, after ’is old mither, good names for little wenches that’ll have to go to service some day. But I’m silly, like Meggie, and I’d dearly love summat pretty.’

‘Of course you would, when they’re such ducks!’

The Guild hung over the cradle.

‘Oh, Mrs Rudd, do let them be Rosemary and Daphne!’

‘Oh, no, Pamela. Violette’s lovely, and so is Marianne,’ said Dilys.

‘Why not Brigit? That’s my name, and it’s nice and plain too—and then I’ll be godmother!’ Brigit loved to have a finger in every pie!

Bobby thought deeply. ‘Why not have Elizabeth and Catherine? They’re queen’s names, and sound lovely too.’

‘So they do, miss. I’ll think about it,’ said the overwhelmed mother. ‘And I’m real sorry aboot Meggie complainin’ in that way. She’d no call to do it.’

‘Oh, but she didn’t—at least we made her, Mrs Rudd,’ said Bobby eagerly. ‘You see, we’ve got a sort of Needlework Club, but we only want to make pretty things in it. Do, do let us make Meggie a white frock for the Treat she wants to go to so badly.’

‘It’s very kind of you, miss, I’m sure, but there’s no call for that.’

‘But we’d love to, and we haven’t got anybody else to make things for. Do let us, please,’ pleaded all of them.

‘It’s very kind——’ The Lace Petticoat Guild looked so eager that Mrs Rudd began to feel doubtful.

‘When is the Treat?’

‘At the end of next week, miss. Down at the chapel yonder.’ At that moment there was a loud knock at the door. Miss Swete, bitterly regretting her indulgence, and with wild thoughts of the Rudd family down with scarlet fever or mumps, stood on the step.

‘Come along at once, girls. We shall be late. Good afternoon, Mrs Rudd. How are the little ones?’

‘Fine, thank you, miss.’

The Guild reluctantly filed out past her, but they were resolved not to go without making sure of their protégée, and Brigit said sweetly, ‘Well, good-bye, Mrs Rudd. Please send Meggie with an old frock for us to measure, by to-morrow, and don’t forget to name the babies something really pretty.’

‘Thank you kindly, young ladies. Meggie will be rare and set up, I can answer for her,’ said the protégée’s grateful parent.

On the way home they confided their plans to the sympathetic Sugar Plum, who gushed over it so sweetly that they were able to pluck up enough courage to ask her to go shopping for them the very next afternoon. Five shillings each was subscribed by the whole Guild, and Miss Swete was entreated to get ‘something really pretty.’

She did her best, and came back from town with some fine white muslin with a tiny spot, some narrow Valenciennes lace, a skein of pale blue silk, and some needlework for a petticoat.

That night when the working party met in the library to get out their work and take their places before Miss Bellamy appeared, the hitherto idle five no longer ‘twiddled their thumbs’ and endured the reproachful glances of the virtuous Christine, but arrived gleefully with work-boxes, long strips of dainty muslin, and yards and yards of pretty lace.

‘Oh, so you’ve come to your senses at last, you bad children. I’m so glad,’ said Christine patronisingly, gliding up to them. ‘But what on earth are you going to make?’ seeing the lace and muslin.

‘A party frock for Meggie Rudd,’ said Bobby innocently.

‘How ridiculous! I should think a warm petticoat would please her much more in this weather,’ scornfully.

‘No, it wouldn’t—she’s got one,’ answered Bobby wickedly.

‘It’s too absurd for words!’ Christine left the black sheep and glided encouragingly among the good ones of her own working party, who looked with disgust at their uninteresting flannel and thick calico garments, and enviously at the lucky five.

Miss Bellamy was reading Our Village aloud that night, and had reached the part about little Hannah Bint begging a pasture for her cow.

‘There!’ cried Robina, who had read all about Hannah before, ‘wouldn’t Hannah have loved a Lace Petticoat Guild? I suppose every one gave her thick woollen stockings, and mittens, and flannel petticoats, and never, never anything pretty.’

‘What’s all that about, Robina?’ said Miss Bellamy.

‘I was thinking of Meggie Rudd, Miss Bellamy. She’s a bit like the picture of Hannah, and we’re making her a party frock,’ said Bobby, looking rather red.

Miss Bellamy wanted to know all about it, and listened to the tale with the greatest interest; though, needless to say, the meeting with Meggie was not explained!

‘Don’t you think it rather absurd, Miss Bellamy?’ Christine still looked pained.

‘Not a bit, Christine. I agree with Robina that the Hannah Bints and Meggie Rudds of the world are all the better for a few pretty things sometimes. In fact, I think the Lace Petticoat Guild quite a charming idea.

The industrious five swelled with pride. It was refreshing to see Christine snubbed!

Miss Swete cut out the frock—a little thing with a high waist and quaint sleeves. Bobby set her teeth and frowned horribly over the button-holes, and Brigit groaned audibly over sewing on the yards of fine lace. Cherry and Dilys made the petticoat, and Pamela sewed little pale-blue French knots round the neck and sleeves. When the ribbon was run through the waist, and the tacking threads taken out, the whole school was lost in admiration, and even Monica said ‘it was sickening of Christine to make them sew such ugly things when they might just as well do pretty ones.’

The ‘Treat’ was on a Saturday afternoon, and as there was no hockey match that day, to the envy of their rivals Miss Bellamy gave permission to the Guild to go and dress their protégée.

She looked like a little china doll after her bath before the kitchen fire—with plenty of yellow soap plastered on to her shining cheeks—and there was a bitter quarrel amongst her patrons as to who should undo her tight little plaits, and make her round head beautiful with blue ribbon. Pamela and Brigit won, and their victim, though awestruck at her finery, was forced to yell and protest that ‘they wor’ hurting her crool.’

The frock was put over her head by Cherry, fastened by Bobby, and pulled straight by Dilys.

The four white-headed little boys stood in a row and sucked their thumbs, and Mrs Rudd nursed the twins and gave gasps of admiration. She was denounced roundly by the Guild for insisting on wrapping many shawls and mufflers over Meggie’s splendid toilet; but she was firm and said, ‘It won’t be no treat for me nor her, miss, if she gets a quinsy sore throat.’

Meggie departed in a state of bliss, and the Guild accompanied her to the gate, threatening terrible penalties if she walked in puddles, or sneezed the hook off her rather tight neckband.

‘We’ll have a rest now,’ said Bobby, as they walked home. She loathed button-hole making. ‘But after a bit we’ll make her some nice unserviceable overalls. You know that blue that doesn’t last.’

‘I’ll embroider the collars,’ said Pamela.

‘We ought to make something pretty for Rosemary and Daphne!’ exclaimed Pamela.

‘You mean Violette and Marianne!’ said Dilys.

‘No—Pauline and Brigit!’ cried Brigit.

Bobby walked on firmly. ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘Elizabeth and Catherine must have really pretty short frocks as soon as they can wear them. I’ve made up my mind that for the future the Rudd girls shall be really smart.’

ALL HALLOWS’ EVE

There were several Scotch girls at Northwold Manor, and partly to please them, and partly because Miss Bellamy believed in keeping up old customs, there was always a little celebration on All Hallows’ Eve, in which mistresses, maids, and pupils all took part.

‘It’s jolly, of course,’ said Pamela, who was a Scotch lassie herself, ‘but not so jolly as dear old Hallowe’en at home. Didn’t we have ripping times just—especially when the boys were there.’

‘What did you do?’ asked the others, with great interest.

‘Oh, all sorts of jolly, weird things,’ said Pamela.

‘Do tell us some of them.’

‘Well, I remember once my brother Jock dressing up as an old witch, and turning up at the drawing-room window just as we were all going off to bed. He tapped with the handle of the broomstick on the window pane, and when we looked out we nearly died with fright.’

‘How lovely!’ said Cherry, ‘do go on.’

‘Well, we hadn’t the faintest idea it was Jock, of course. He’d made himself look such an awful old hag that we nearly fainted with terror when he got in. But we all stuck it out and got him into the kitchen, and he smoked a black pipe over a cauldron, and mixed some frightfully disgusting stuff in it that he made us taste to keep off the Evil Eye, he said.’

‘What else did he do?’ asked Monica, who loved thrills.

‘Oh, he told our fortunes—the most awful fibs too; and cook fainted because he told her a red-haired man would force her to marry him, and our baker was sweet on her, and he had a head like a geranium, and cook loathed him.’

‘We used to have splendiferous times, too,’ said Jean Macdonald. ‘Dad’s got a witch’s ball.’

‘A witch’s ball—what’s that?’ asked Bobby.

‘The rummiest thing. It’s all colours, and you hang it up outside over the doorway on All Hallows’ Eve, and it keeps away the witches.’

‘Do you hang up yours?’

‘Rather—and have a ripping party too, with a black cat on the top of the cake, which is frightfully spiced and curranty——’

‘Like our barmbrack in dear ould Oireland,’ interrupted Brigit. ‘Don’t I wish I were there to-night, tucking some of it in!’

‘Then we have potato-pie too, and baked apples and roasted chestnuts,’ went on Jean, ‘and do really exciting things in the dark. It’s rather tame, I call it, ducking for apples with the Sugary Plum, and eating potato next to Foxy.’

Bobby stored up the witch tales for the benefit of Anne and Billy, and then demanded why they couldn’t have an exciting time too.

‘Because we must be good little schoolgirls now, and “witch talk” is “all nonsense!” ’ said Brigit. ‘Anyhow the seniors mean to have a jolly time right enough.’

‘Oh, do they? How do you know?’

‘Well, it isn’t my fault if they all come and sit under the music-room window when I’m doing my theory,’ answered Brigit. ‘Saint Christine’s dying to know if any one is ever going to fall in love with her—it really wasn’t the sort of talk for a nice little girl like me to listen to.’ She folded her hands demurely.

‘Oh, do go on. What are they going to do?’

‘They’re going to eat innocent potato-pie and search anxiously for the ring and the thimble, and they’re going to duck for apples and throw nuts into the fire for wishes, and then, when all the little juniors are tucked safely away into bed, and Foxy’s ridden off on her broomstick to meet the witches on the moor—she’s a witch herself, you know—and Miss Hudson and the Sugar Plum are having their fortunes told by Mademoiselle—they’re both dying to get married, you bet—St Christine and the rest of them mean to shut themselves within their own room and have a Time!’

‘Go on. What are they going to do?’

‘Dora and Frances are going to eat an apple each, in a dark room before the looking-glass while they comb their hair. If you do this, my children, on All Hallows’ Eve, your fate will obligingly peep over your shoulder!’ said Brigit, with a grin.

‘Won’t they yell?’ asked Dilys rather fearfully.

‘They daren’t. Miss Bellamy wouldn’t approve of saints trying to tell their fortunes,’ chuckled Brigit.

‘Do tell us what St Christine is going to do,’ said Cherry.

‘She’s going to unwind a ball of worsted slowly out of the window, my loves; and if anybody below winds it up—she will meet her fate before the end of the year!’

‘Oh, is she? How thrilling!’

Brigit looked round and said dramatically, ‘Who’ll wind it up?’

Bobby saw a prospect of some fun.

There was immediately a chorus of ‘You can’t—though it would be gorgeous fun. . . . Bet you’d be sure to muff it. . . . Fancy having to cross the hall in your nightie! . . .’

‘You’d get a jolly cold, and serve you right!’ said Monica bitterly, dabbing at her own red nose; for she was still suffering from the results of her adventure with the Hermit’s ghost, and longed to see Bobbina with a red nose too.

‘Oh,’ said Bobby, ‘but don’t any of you know that the little balcony on the landing is exactly under Christine’s window, and at the end of our corridor.’

‘You’ll never dare, Robina,’ said Jean.

‘You’ll see—I want to know if saints can yell.’

‘I’ll come too,’ announced Brigit and Cherry together.

‘No, you won’t. I mean to creep along like a snake, and hide in the cupboard by the window. When I hear Christine open hers I shall slip out on to the balcony, and she’ll jolly well see if she’s got a Fate waiting for her!’ said Bobby, with gleeful anticipation, and then the discussion had to end.

When All Hallows’ Eve came it was just as Bobby imagined it should be, with the gray mist creeping across the moors like shadows from another world. She loved the mystery of it all, and in every twisted tree and low-built cottage she saw some odd and fantastic figure from the fairy world.

At first the moors had made her homesick; so wide, and rolling, and lonely were they, and so far away from her own garden village in gentle Surrey. But now she loved them, and often longed to run for miles on the deep brown heather, away to where the moor dipped down to the trees as deeply glowing as the sunset.

Soon the sad, lean figure of November would creep across the moor, putting out October’s golden fires with her cold, unkind hand; and then Bobby would be homesick again, for November’s breath is as icy and relentless as her fingers, and the big dormitory at Northwold Manor was not so cosy as the little room she and Anne had shared near the warm nursery.

On the afternoon of All Hallows’ Eve, Miss Fox took the girls two miles across the moors to Southwold, a tiny village tucked cosily below the brow of the moor, and sheltered from the bleak winds that swept Northwold.

Here lived Jenny Sikes, an old Yorkshire woman famous for her girdle-cakes and apple-trees. It was one of the school treats to be taken to Jenny’s in apple-blossom time, and sit in her mossy orchard, where a long table was spread with the famous cakes and pots of yellow honey from Jenny’s own bees.

Jenny always supplied the rosy apples for the Hallowe’en celebrations too; and each girl carried a basket to be filled. The kitchen was as warm as an oven after the cold misty moor; and the girls crowded into the room, and sat on the clean floor when chairs and sofa were full, and admired the novel wallpaper, which consisted almost entirely of postage-stamps sent by Jenny’s nine stalwart sons in distant parts of the world, far away from the moorland cottage.

Where there were no stamps there were photographs of the nine sons with their wives and families, all framed in sticky pine-cone frames made by the industrious Jenny herself on winter evenings.

The old woman brought out the rosy apples from the cupboard under her staircase.

‘There’s nowt so bonny in all Yorkshire,’ she said complacently. ‘Look, miss,’ to the unconscious Miss Fox, ‘here be a rare one as red as my petticoat. Eat that afore tha’ lookin’ glass to-neet, and if thee’st ever to get a mon to plague t’ life oot of tha’, he’ll be lookin’ over tha’ shoulder, as sure as I’m a wise woman, and tha’ must comb tha’ hairs, hinny, afore tha’ dost set tooth in apple.’

The whole school exchanged delighted glances. The thought of Foxy in the braid-trimmed dressing-gown, munching the rosy apple before her looking-glass while she combed out her meagre locks, and waited for her Fate to peep over her shoulder, was almost ‘too, too thrilling,’ as Brigit murmured; and the suspicious and guilty behaviour of the seniors when old Jenny made her suggestion proved beyond a doubt that they intended to carry out their frivolous venture.

Miss Fox flushed indignantly. She knew very well that she was an object of mirth, and she could have boxed Jenny’s ears with pleasure, but all she could do was to say primly, ‘I’m afraid I’m too busy for that sort of nonsense, Jenny. Come, girls!’ and every one was obliged to leave the cheerful, cosy kitchen, and follow her like sheep across the chilly moor.

At six o’clock they all went down into the big kitchen—a real Yorkshire kitchen with comfortable fires and settles cushioned with gay chintz each side of the fireplace. The pots and pans shone like silver and gold, and the scoured wooden floor was as white as snow.

A bright fire was glowing on the hearth, and cook, and the maids, and Sally were all waiting to join the fun. A long table at the end of the room was laid for supper, and decorated gaily with the bright hips and haws and autumn berries that the girls had brought back from their afternoon walk across the moors.

Ducking for apples in a big tub in the middle of the kitchen floor came first, and when the little curls so becomingly arranged round Mademoiselle’s ears were as lank as rat’s tails, the happiness of the Fourth Form was complete.

‘I will not do it again, no, nevare, Miss Bellamy, if you will be so good as excuse me. Tiens! c’est dangereux pour les nerfs thus to dip the ’ead in the so icy water, and I ’ave already un rhume de cerveau.’

She returned to the settle, and tried surreptitiously to arrange once more a fascinating little row of ‘crotchets and quavers,’ as Brigit described them, round her elegant head.

Revenged on Mademoiselle, the Fourth turned its attention to the harmless Sugar Plum and the prim and disapproving Miss Fox.

By means of a great deal of elbowing and crowding round the tub they succeeded in their efforts beyond their wildest imagination.

The Sugar Plum and Foxy both made a dash for the same apple, and banged their noses so fiercely that the Sugar Plum burst into tears, and Miss Fox angrily denounced the whole proceedings as ‘absurd nonsense.’ To smooth matters, Miss Bellamy hastily suggested a change of amusement, and as every girl had secured a rosy apple to munch, as well as having the satisfaction of seeing the battlefield well-strewn with their victims—for Miss Hudson had just dropped her eyeglasses into the tub—they obligingly agreed, and the tub being removed, the roasting of chestnuts began.

This, too, proved exciting, for Foxy burnt her mouth, and Mademoiselle her fingers, and the chestnut that burst and flew out of the fire burnt a hole in the gay hearth-rug, for which Sally was roundly trounced by cook.

Bobby enjoyed every moment of it, for All Hallows’ Eve had never been kept up at the Vicarage, and to her it seemed wildly exciting.

But the best part was when cook brought in an old iron spoon, and every one in turn was invited to melt a little lump of lead in it over the clean red fire. The boiling, hissing lead was then poured into a basin of cold water, and formed itself into some mysterious shape which was to play a part in the destiny of the person who poured it. A great deal of imagination was needed to make this game a success. The worshippers of Christine were perfectly convinced that her lead took the shape of a tiny wreath of laurels, while the Anti-Christine League vowed it was a hoop from a beer barrel and probably meant that the poetical maiden would marry an inn-keeper!

Artists’ palettes, fiddles, spades, bird-cages, ships fully rigged, pens, and a perfect model of a little revolver, were all fished out of the cold water by their excited owners. Monica got the revolver, which gave the Adventurers an excellent opportunity to make her blood creep by their horrid prophecies of its meaning.

Brigit declared her own fortune to be an aeroplane, and as she had always meant to go round the world in one as soon as she could, she was quite satisfied.

There was no doubt as to Bobby’s being a perfect little silver horseshoe, which made the situation rather awkward for her and Miss Bellamy, as it naturally suggested to them both gipsies and gold horseshoes.

Miss Fox fished out something remarkably like a cat.

‘Of course,’ whispered Brigit, ‘it will be a sandy one, too—old maids always have them. What fun if she gets the thimble as well!’

Mademoiselle lifted her lead from the fire to the water with many little shrieks of fear as to what might be her fate.

The lead descended into the cold water in two heavy flops, and every one crowded round to see Mademoiselle’s fortune.

‘Voilà!’ she cried. ‘C’est vilain! Moi, je n’ai pas de chance du tout.’ Two dark blobs of lead lay at the bottom of the bowl.

‘They look rather like tombstones,’ said Cherry wickedly.

Mademoiselle shuddered.

‘No,’ said Bobby, considering them gravely, ‘they are two dark figures wrapped in cloaks, with their faces hidden.’

Mademoiselle gave a shriek. ‘Mees Bellamy, she is right. It is the warning once more. Oh, it is my dear parents!’

‘Oh, don’t be foolish, Mademoiselle,’ said Miss Bellamy briskly. ‘Come, girls, we’ll see who’s to be the old maid. Bring out the pies, cook, please.’

Cook and Sally brought out the huge potato-pies, nicely browned from the big oven, and the whole party sat round the table to be served with a plateful each.

Monica was the first to choke. ‘Oh, look!’ she cried, holding up a silver coin.

‘Riches for you. What a lucky girl!’ said Miss Bellamy; and Monica looked more ‘horribly swanky’ than ever—according to Bobby.

To the silent delight of the whole school, Foxy and Mademoiselle simultaneously fished out old maids’ thimbles, and the blushing Sally found the ring. Another silver horseshoe appeared in the very middle of the mound of potato on Bobby’s plate, and she began to wonder with delight if gipsy words could really come true.

‘You have all the luck!’ grumbled Brigit. ‘Just look at this rotten little squirt I’ve got. I suppose it means I’m going to drive a water-cart in the next Great War!’

Before the last mouthfuls of the big pies were finished, other girls were promised riches by finding silver coins too; and lucky pigs were quite plentiful. Spiced currant cakes, baked apples, and cocoa came next, and when the hall clock struck half-past eight Miss Bellamy announced that the Hallowe’en festivities must end, and bed was the next item on the programme for the younger girls. Then voices from the frosty air outside came floating down the kitchen stairs,—

‘What on earth’s that?’ cried Bobby, who was not yet used to the customs of the north.

‘It’s the village kids souling,’ said Brigit.

Christine looked round the table where cook had piled up the remainder of the apples and nuts and cake, and then said sweetly, ‘Miss Bellamy, may we—I know you all want to, don’t you, girls?—They have such sweet little voices, haven’t they?’

‘Oh, bother!’ grumbled Cherry in an undertone. ‘They’re simply choked with cake by this time, you bet, and they’ve got gardens full of apples, heaps more than we have, but I suppose we’ll have to play up to St Christine.’

Christine filled a basket with apples, and Margaret collected the nuts and cake, and they all trooped into the big hall, and there the door was flung open wide, and a group of shrill-voiced youngsters backed into the darkness. Meggie Rudd was there, so swathed in mufflers that there was not much of her to be seen except a pair of bright eyes, which followed her patronesses with great devotion.

She was dragged in by the Lace Petticoat Guild, and plied with the rosiest apple and the biggest piece of cake.

‘Did you enjoy the Treat, Meggie?’ asked Cherry, feeling virtuous.

‘Ay, it war’ fine, miss,’ then choking down a large crumb of cake, she volunteered, ‘There were a wench there with lace fair all over her body.’

‘The little wretch! Did she look better than you?’

‘Ay, she war’ fine,’ said Meggie, with benign ingratitude.

‘Never mind; your next body shall be simply plastered with lace; you see!’ said Brigit.

The Guild adjusted Meggie’s garments as though she were some favourite doll, and filled the pockets of her voluminous skirts with rosy apples for the white-haired boys at home; then the souling party departed, and the juniors marched off to their different dormitories, after a neat speech of thanks from Christine to Miss Bellamy on behalf of all.

Bobby did not attempt to undress. She calmly put on her nightgown over her clothes, and got into bed until the coast should be clear for scouting.

‘What will you do if Christine catches you on the landing?’ was the question asked on all sides.

‘I shall say I want Dora, as Monica seems a bit queer after all that potato pie,’ said Bobby, with enjoyment, for her enemy, muttering protests about the whole affair, and vowing that she ‘would tell Christine,’ was anointing her long-suffering nose—still showing the effects of the adventure cold—with dabs of vaseline.

‘You’ll just leave me alone, Bobbina, if you please. What an awful cheek—queer, indeed!’ she said indignantly.

‘Well, aren’t you queer? You must be to think of sneaking.’

When everything was quiet outside, Bobby put on her dressing-gown and slippers and departed to the top landing to see how things were progressing in Christine’s sanctum. She found walking in the dark a useful accomplishment on this quest.

In a few minutes she came back to find a candle burning, and every one eager with curiosity.

‘Well! What are they doing? What ages you’ve been!’

‘They’re giving a tea-party to the witches, I should say, by the noise. There’s an awful clatter of cups, and I heard Frances say, “I put the cream-horns in the tin box under the sofa.” Fancy food-hogging like that after tucking into the potato-pie so in the kitchen!’

‘Christine hardly ate a thing! I just watched!’ cried the outraged Monica, her faithful slave.

‘Well, she’s eating now, and drinking too. I could hear the condensed milk tin being opened.’

‘When are they going to begin to comb their hair and munch apples?’

‘I haven’t a notion. Anyhow, in five minutes I’m going to camp out in the cupboard, and when Christine opens the window, I shall hear in a jiffy.’

‘Suppose she has hysterics, like Maddy,’ said Dilys.

‘All the better to snub her, my child!’ Bobby then retired to her retreat after a hair-breadth escape from the matron, who passed her so close that she had to hang on to the wall like a fly. It wasn’t very warm in the cupboard, and the fact of its being All Hallows’ Eve made things feel a little creepy. Before Bobby had been there five minutes, she wished St Christine and her Fate at Jericho!

It seemed ages before the window above opened softly, and she pushed open the landing casement and stepped out on to the balcony. The stars were as faint as the cottage lights away over the moor at Northwold, and the air had a sharp sting of frost.

Bobby gazed upwards with rapt attention. Something was descending slowly, and the moment it was within reach she grabbed it firmly and began to wind it up. There was a piercing scream from above, and a big ball of worsted fell at Bobby’s feet.

The Anti-Christine Society had scored. Saints could yell with a vengeance!

Bobby crept back to the window, and a shiver like an icy hand went down her spine. Somebody had closed it. Matron, probably, as she passed down the corridor again on her nightly rounds. What an awful fix! If she banged at the window and the matron came, it was pretty certain she would be hauled off to Miss Bellamy, and the only way she could explain her escapade was by sneaking on the seniors. She looked down over the balcony with a shiver. There was a big pipe running down the wall, which was covered with tough, old ivy, and about six feet below it there was another window. She did not hesitate a moment, but swung herself over the rail of the balcony in the starlight, and began to climb cautiously down the pipe, holding on to the strong roots of the ivy as she went. It seemed miles before she reached the broad window-sill of the room below, and she had no idea of what would befall her when she did arrive there!

The blinds were up, and there was a dim light burning. It was somebody’s bedroom, that was plain—but whose? Bobby had no notion. It might be Foxy’s den—horrible thought! But there was no help for it, for to get into the corridor from this room was Bobby’s only hope of escape.

The window was open, and she squeezed herself through boldly; though her heart was thumping so that she could hardly breathe. She crossed the carpet softly, and made for the closed door with bated breath. Horrors! It opened with paralysing quickness, and Foxy, in the braid-trimmed dressing-gown, with two meagre plaits dangling over her ears, advanced into the room, evidently just returning from the bathroom.

‘Robina! What are you doing here at this time of night?’

Miss Fox, furious at being discovered in her unbecoming attire, looked as though she would have liked to quote the history books, and demand, ‘who would rid her of this turbulent Robina!’

Fortunately she did not notice the wide-open window, nor the blue appearance of Bobby’s nose, and merely suspected that this law-breaking pupil had been dared to enter her room in her absence at the risk of discovery and punishment.

‘Oh,’ said Robina, thinking frantically, ‘I wonder if you could give me some camphor, please—I feel rather like a cold—I——’ She ended her sentence hurriedly with a convincing sneeze, which Foxy disregarded with cold contempt.

‘No, I have not any camphor. Matron usually supplies all that, I believe. All I can give you is a conduct mark and a page of your Latin author to do for me in to-morrow’s recreation hour before supper. Now kindly leave the room, and go to bed at once; and you may consider yourself fortunate that I do not mean to trouble Miss Bellamy with your disobedience and impertinence.’

Bobby departed, but not to the matron for the camphor—it was too late for that, for she sneezed so violently all the way back to the dormitory that it was certain her nose would rival Monica’s in brilliancy the next day.

She would say nothing about her adventure until she was alone with her special cronies, to the great disgust of her enemy. The whole of the next day, as well as the miseries of a bad cold in the head, she had to endure cold antagonism from Miss Fox, who would evidently never forgive the invasion of her privacy. St Christine looked pale and languishing, and started violently when spoken to, and refused her favourite raspberry tart at dinner in a way that caused her worshippers acute distress. Even Bobby felt guilty. It must be horrible for Christine, not knowing who might turn up at any moment and insist upon marrying her! So one day she said to Dora, ‘I say, is Christine feeling stuffy about her Fate pulling the string the other night? What awful rot!’

Dora looked at her in cold amazement, longing to haul her up before the monitors at once, but knowing that if she did so the saintly seniors’ own crimes would have to be investigated too. So all she said was, ‘No, Christine does not feel stuffy about anything at all; though it is certainly queer that she doesn’t, having always to be looking after and worrying about impertinent little girls! Brigit and Cherry have been much worse too, since you came, and if we have much more of it you can all attend a seniors’ meeting and hear how we propose to deal with you.’

Then, feeling she had successfully dealt with this particular culprit for the moment, she flew up to Christine’s sanctum. ‘I say, Christine, do buck up, there’s an angel! You’re not going to be drowned before the year is out, nor forced to marry that awful bald-headed curate. That awful kid, Robina Dare wound up the worsted—she’s just confessed it in the calmest way. She’s a perfect little terror!’

‘Robina!’ Christine wished at that moment that she were not a saint. She would so much have enjoyed boxing Bobby’s ears! It was bad enough losing her appetite for a week, but that the juniors should know of her foolish behaviour was really unbearable. In fact, it was a long time before St Christine could enjoy raspberry tart again, or smile sweetly and forgivingly, as saints should, on the critical and tiresome Robina.

GREEK TRAGEDY

A month before the Christmas holidays Christine and Margaret Welland called up the Dramatic Society, to begin the rehearsals of what Brigit described as their ‘stuffy Greek play.’

It was extremely tragic, and Christine, of course, was the heroine; and it was certainly true that she made a remarkably pretty one, with her pale hair bound with a golden fillet, and her flowing Grecian draperies. The rôles of stern fathers, soothsayers, and beautiful maidens were allotted to the seniors as usual; and the disgusted juniors were given the parts of cup-bearers, slaves, and flower-girls.

‘Not a single word to say, of course,’ grumbled Brigit. ‘It’s the worst sell yet. We’re just a background for Christine and the others, and if I have to kneel down and waft a fan about, I’ll jolly well see that I make a breeze strong enough to make their noses red.’

‘Anyway, Margaret is letting you wear a colour that suits you,’ said Cherry. ‘She says I must wear blue. I look hideous in it—and it’s just because she wants pink herself, and we both have to stand together in the first scene.’

‘Anyhow, you must own it’s absolutely thrilling when Christine stabs herself in the last act,’ cried the faithful Monica.

‘Thrilling! She makes a noise as though she had found a caterpillar in her cabbage. I just wish I’d got the chance of a stabbing stunt—I bet I’d stop the audience yawning,’ said Brigit, who had great dramatic ambitions.

Until Monica and other special adorers of Christine had disappeared, Bobby said nothing. Then she announced that she had thought of another plan to snub the uppish seniors.

‘Well, what is it? I want to be sure the snubbing is worth getting conduct marks for,’ said Cherry.

‘Well, I don’t think stabbing scenes are very gay for a Christmas play,’ said Bobby thoughtfully. ‘Let’s get up something ourselves secretly, and have it after Christine’s. Something to make everybody jolly to end up.’

Nearly all of the junior girls agreed that this was ‘a ripping idea,’ and Bobby and Brigit were commanded to write something ‘really decent,’ at once. Bobby had often acted with the other children in little mystery plays written by her father, and given in the village schoolroom at Christmas time at home, and she had quite caught the spirit of them—and as Brigit certainly was not lacking in brains when she cared to use them, between them both they managed to evolve a little masque called The Bells of Noël.

Rehearsals had to take place in any odd corner, and it was very hard to squeeze them in at all; for lessons, examinations, practising hockey, and Greek tragedy made Northwold Manor a busy place just before Christmas. Fortunately there were few properties to prepare, and a few walks on the moor and a visit to town with Miss Swete procured everything that was necessary.

The Greek dresses were made at home. Alison Langdon, the artist of the school, made a sketch for each girl, and commanded her to send it home and have it copied exactly in colour and design. Bobby sent hers reluctantly, knowing that British boots were wanted more than Greek dresses at the Vicarage. Her mother took the design of pale lemon colour into town; but pale shades were expensive, so in despair, she bought an unbecoming saffron instead, and Nannie made it up according to her own ideas. Instead of the graceful clinging folds of Alison’s design Nannie gave what she called ‘a bit of fullness’ to the garment, and the plain neck and flowing sleeves were feather-stitched with a skein of green silk which had been in the nursery work-basket for years and years, that Nannie thought it an excellent opportunity for ‘using up.’ ‘She’ll be fine and set up when she sees that,’ she said to the admiring Anne. But far from being ‘set up’ poor Ragged Robin was ‘set down’ when the creation arrived. Monica was openly contemptuous, and made audible allusions to the shortcomings of Bobby’s wardrobe in general. Christine shuddered and shut her eyes, and Alison was indignant.

‘I can’t think why you muddled it so, Robina,’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s all wrong, in colour, design, and everything, and I’m sure I don’t know how we’re ever going to find time to alter it.’

The unlucky dress was passed round and round, and Bobby was requested to stand upon a chair for many a weary quarter of an hour when she was dying to rehearse her own Dramatic Club; while Dora groaned, and cut large pieces from her voluminous saffron skirts.

Everybody else’s dresses arrived daintily correct; and though Bobby affected a don’t-careish attitude about the saffron monstrosity, her disappointment and grief at finding herself an object of contempt or pity was so intense that she plunged into an orgy of wilfulness, which ended in her getting into such bad odour with Miss Fox, that she spent most of the precious time that she needed for rehearsing her own play in doing pages of imposition.

Christine’s tragedy was to be acted on the Saturday evening before the breaking-up, and the afternoon holiday was to be given to preparation and a final dress rehearsal. The school staff, the maids, and their friends, the vicar, the curate, and a few of Miss Bellamy’s friends were to make up the audience, and at the end of the entertainment a collection was to be made in aid of Christine’s Needlework Guild. The seniors, anxious to impress the bald-headed curate, worked feverishly in their efforts to be really artistic, and Alison designed a very elaborate programme which the already overworked juniors were requested to copy for the good of the cause.

A few days before the performance Brigit and Bobby boldly interviewed Miss Bellamy, and asked permission to give a tiny play of their own after Christine’s production.

‘Why, of course you may. I had no idea we had so much literary genius in the school! But you mustn’t let it be too long—it won’t do to weary people, and the vicar is looking forward to a few Christmas carols before he leaves, I know.’

‘Oh, no. It’s just the tiniest play, Miss Bellamy,’ said Brigit, and thanking her politely they departed with alacrity.

When certain programmes were handed in to Alison, she was amazed to find a little elaboration of her own design. A tiny bunch of holly leaves among some golden bells, over the words, ‘The Bells of Noël—A Christmas Masque,’ appeared at the end of the page.

‘What on earth does it mean?’ she cried, and the culprits were called to give an account of themselves.

‘It’s our play,’ announced Bobby. ‘Miss Bellamy knows all about it, so you needn’t look as though you are going to have a fit, Margaret.’

But Margaret was not the only one of the seniors to look as though she would have a fit when the news spread; for they knew Bobby so well they felt convinced that the beautiful impression made on the audience by the Greek tragedy, was to be utterly spoilt by some silly nonsense of the juniors. But there was nothing to be done if Miss Bellamy had given her consent to the school being disgraced, and preparations went on more ardently than ever.

The entertainment was to be given in the recreation hall, a large room which had been admirably fitted up for use as a small theatre or concert-hall years before by Miss Bellamy’s father, the jolly old gentleman in the scarlet coat of the portrait. An old pupil of the school, who was making a name for herself in art, had painted frescoes round the walls of scenes from Shakespeare, and there was a small stage, a curtain, and two retiring rooms at the end of the hall.

On the Saturday the whole garden was raided for holly and laurel leaves, and every one not engaged in important rehearsing was requested to help to make the hall beautiful.

‘It’s all very well for Christine,’ grumbled Cherry. ‘Doing the stabbing scene all morning, while we stab ourselves with holly prickles and get no applause.’

In the afternoon a dress rehearsal took place, and Bobby spent a miserable two hours in the saffron robe trying vainly to hide herself, as well as Nannie’s crimes. Monica, in lovely flowing skirts of pale mauve crêpe de chine, considered that Bobby was quite ‘paid out’ for the hermit’s ghost trick.

Christine got bad stage fright, and also a panic that the bald-headed curate would think her great tragedy ‘idiotic,’ and no longer admire her work in the school magazine. She insisted upon going over the last scene so many times that the juniors openly rebelled, and said they were ‘jolly well sick of lamenting over a stabbed Christine.’

Nothing could satisfy Frances—who was stage-manager—either. She was ‘nervy’ too, and made the mistake of aiming at perfection at the last moment. ‘It’s absolutely no good,’ she announced in despair. ‘You all look more like a row of Tommy Atkinses waiting for plates of Irish stew, than grief-stricken Grecian maidens. Do stop jerking yourself behind Pamela, Robina.’

‘I jolly well wish we were waiting for some Irish stew,’ said Brigit. ‘I’m starving. Do let Sally bring tea.’

Sally was in the secret, and obligingly brought large trays of cocoa and bread and jam, and so much comforting admiration of the Greek maidens, heroines, hero et cetera, that a more peaceful atmosphere prevailed while they munched.

Then Margaret, who had to take off her dress for some slight alteration, and had been to the dormitory for her work-basket, burst in with the bombshell, ‘Girls! What do you think? I’ve just seen Miss Bellamy. Mrs Saunders has sent down to know if she may bring a friend staying with her to-night, and who do you think it is?’

‘Oh, we don’t know—do be quick!’

‘John Riddell!’

Christine collapsed on to her chair. Margaret retired to one of the Greek maidens’ stools suddenly. ‘It can’t be.’

‘Yes, it is, and he’s coming!’

‘Well, who is John Riddell?’ cried the juniors. ‘A Bolshevist or a what?’

‘It’s a pity none of you ever read anything,’ said Margaret with contempt. ‘John Riddell is not a Bolshevist. He is a poet, and a playwright, and a critic, and it isn’t very pleasant for Christine and me to have our play murdered by plaster dummies! Come, Christine, we simply must do the stabbing scene again!’

The juniors gave a Greek chorus of groans!

‘THE BELLS OF NOËL’

With the help of the matron and Sally, who was enjoying her importance to the full, and carrying wonderful tales to the kitchen of the splendours to come, the chairs were all placed in readiness for the guests in the hall by six o’clock.

Christine, in the last throes of stage fright, and with the cares of authorship heavy upon her shoulders, announced that she would enjoy entering a den of lions in preference to facing Mr John Riddell when the curtain went up on her production. In fact, that she had exactly the same awful tremblings as when she failed in her first musical examination!

This news, received half an hour before the curtain rose, caused the utmost consternation; for if St Christine failed, all was lost, and Sally was requested to go to cook at once and fetch strong coffee to ‘buck up’ the sufferer.

‘If only the juniors weren’t such idiots I shouldn’t dread it half so much,’ said Margaret bitterly. ‘I don’t believe the play is so bad.’

‘And what about this poet or whatever he is, seeing our play?’ asked Brigit. ‘I think Bobby and I ought to have cushions at our backs and strong coffee, too.

‘Your play,’ cried Frances indignantly. ‘You’ve no business to be having a play at all. I suppose you are going to let us down with some silly nonsense or other.’

‘Wait and see!’ said Brigit mysteriously.

The ‘nervy’ condition of the seniors became even more alarming when Molly Tracy, who was renowned for being able to see through a brick wall, announced from her place near a slit in the curtain, that cook, Emma, Kate, Jane, Susan and the boots’ boy, had just arrived in the back seats; and a moment later a tornado of creaky boots brought the tidings that Creadle the gardener, his wife, Joe, the maker of the turnip ghost, and five more very fat and very much muffled-up children, had also arrived.

Creadle did not look at all the sort of person who would appreciate Greek tragedy; but he had supplied himself with a plentiful supply of white peppermint lozenges, and seemed to be in a witty mood, judging from cook’s ejaculations.

Sally was selling programmes with an important air of having written the play, stage-managed and produced it herself, in fact her own importance made her quite forget the careful instructions she had received to get all she could for the elaborately painted programmes. She picked out the best designs and sold them for a penny each to the back row, which caused more agony of mind for St Christine when Molly cheerfully reported it to her.

Matron came next, and turned up the lights ‘to make the place look more cheerful,’ quite spoiling the dim, mysterious effect which the girls had thought so artistic. Dorothy volunteered to cover up her Greek robes with a cloak, and put things right again before the chief guests arrived, and she had the satisfaction of hearing Sally inform the Creadle family impressively that ‘bare legs and sandals were rare and fashionable in Greek, and that that was the one,’ pointing to Dorothy, ‘that screeched the finest when the other young lady done ’erself in with a knife like.’

Miss Swete then arrived at the piano, and Mademoiselle came in in a very ‘chic’ pink blouse with a little lace jacket over it which was quite ravishing. Molly whispered that Creadle had offered her the peppermints, and Mademoiselle had shuddered most becomingly. Miss Fox, looking almost amiable, came in with old Signor Nessi, and Miss Hudson arrived in time to prevent Sally from selling Joe two more of the very best programmes for a penny.

‘Perhaps he’s not coming,’ said Margaret hopefully.

‘I can hear the vicar,’ cried Molly. ‘He’s sucking those throat lozenges, I can tell by his voice—and here’s Mr Perkes too, and I say, girls, he’s had his five hairs bobbed, and looks ripping.’

There was a rush to the slit in the curtain which was sternly checked by the moody seniors, for bald-headed curates, even with their few hairs freshly bobbed, were nothing now that a real author and critic was shortly to appear.

A cheerful bustle at the end of the hall brought fresh heartbeats to the watchers behind the curtain; and they listened breathlessly to the voices coming nearer and nearer to the front seats.

‘It’s so kind of you all to come,’ that was Miss Bellamy. ‘But you mustn’t blame me, you know, if you are bored. This is quite an unaided effort of the girls themselves, you must understand.’

‘But that is just what is so charming, if I may say so, Miss Bellamy. The grown-up touch so often makes young people unnatural. Allow me. This very gorgeous velvet chair is evidently the place of honour for the Lady of the Manor.’ The vicar, beaming and amiable, looked remarkably like an old-fashioned Christmas parson, as he gallantly led Miss Bellamy to her seat. Mr Perkes followed meekly. He had left a comfortable arm-chair and his pipe, after a hard day of visiting the sick across the cold moors; for he was a kind little man and liked to encourage literary talent.

Another commotion at the door, and Molly reported that the two Miss Reddings, the Lawrence family, and Mr and Mrs Saunders were coming in a crowd.

‘Is he there?’ hissed Christine.

‘I don’t know—there is a man there, and it isn’t fat enough for Mr Saunders. I——’ But at this critical point Margaret could no longer allow Molly the monopoly of the slit, and became a Peeping Tom herself.

‘Well——?’ breathlessly.

‘Yes—it must be he. He looks ripping, very tall and distinguished, and Miss Bellamy is gushing over him no end. Oh, horrors! she’s bringing him to the very front, and he’s putting on an eyeglass ready to enjoy himself!’

‘Is there time just to go through the last scene once more?’ wailed Christine. But Frances was firm and commanded all maidens, flower-girls, and soothsayers to arrange themselves at once; for Miss Bellamy had particularly requested that the curtain should go up punctually. Bobby, feeling like a saffron sack tied in the middle, once more tried to jerk herself behind the Greek perfection of Pamela. It was horrible to be ‘all wrong’ before so many critical eyes, and she was feeling miserably apprehensive about the fate of her own dramatic effort.

As the curtain rose the youngest Creadle child cried out, ‘My, mither! Aren’t they clemmed with nowt on their arms and legs?’ and the miserable Bobby heard one of the Miss Reddings whisper, ‘How odd the child in deep yellow looks—so lumpy, and the colour is all wrong among those pale shades.’ And poor Ragged Robin’s heart was torn with woe.

The poet was sitting in the front row, between the vicar and Miss Bellamy, who beamed upon him with delight, for she was fond of entertaining literary stars. He wore what Mike would have described as a ‘fed-up’ expression, and it was easy to see that he also had been dragged from some cosy corner to witness the ‘unaided efforts’ of a few dozen schoolgirls. As the play progressed, he still sat with folded arms, in a bored, tired way; but he frequently gave a delighted smile, for the tragedy was so tragic, the words so high-flown and poetical, the actors so deliciously serious and solemn, that it was hard to remain uninterested in their ambitious attempt.

He looked happy, too, when during an impassioned speech by the hero, Joe Creadle said audibly, ‘I dunnot like it, mither, and that’s straight. Ye said there war’ a wench goin’ to play the fiddle. Let’s go whoam.’

And Mrs Creadle answered in a stage whisper, ‘Keep tha’ tongue still, do—or I’ll lace yer proper afore bedtime, that I will. Here—tak’ a sweetie, and stop tha’ noise.’

The famous dagger scene went off without a hitch, and the back row pronounced the ‘screechin’ ’ of the Greek maidens to be ‘foine,’ and all that Sally had led them to expect. There was a great deal of applause when the curtain descended for the last time, though Christine and Margaret fell on each other’s necks in consternation, when cries of ‘Author! Author!’ came repeatedly through the sounds of clapping.

‘He’s calling!’ cried Christine. ‘Heavens!’ and she straightway forgot she was a saint, and a shining example to the juniors and vanished to the Green Room to powder her nose. She and Margaret were then pushed vigorously before the curtain, and another round of applause and a hearty ‘Bravo!’ from the good vicar completed their bliss.

It was now the turn of Bobby and Brigit to become pale and trembling, and the seniors, flushed with success, could afford to be kind and sympathetic.

‘You’ll be all right when you once begin,’ said Frances comfortingly. ‘Here, Robina, I’ll undo your frock.’

But Bobby, pale and bright-eyed, denied she had any nerves, and Brigit said she ‘jolly well wished every one would leave them alone, and get on with their piano-thumping and violin-squeaking while they got a chance of getting ready for their own stunt.’

So the curtain rose once more, and the interval was devoted very creditably to music, while Bobby’s secret Dramatic Society flew round like bees, and dressed themselves for their Christmas Masque.

Very little was expected from the juniors’ ‘unaided effort’; in fact, Miss Bellamy was distinctly heard apologising to the audience for it appearing on the programme, ‘but she had not liked to discourage their efforts, etc. . . .’ The vicar said politely that ‘The Bells of Noël’ sounded charming, and Mr Perkes looked at his watch furtively, wondering if he would be home in time to finish his sermon before midnight.

As the last strains of Joyce’s violin solo died away the curtain went down, and only rose again when the hall was almost dark. On the stage appeared two figures: Joan Travers, big-eyed, pale, and in tattered garments; Ursula Brett, as a slender boy, also pale and ragged.

Cold and Misery in a dark, lonely world!

Suddenly from all sides came the snowflakes—dancing figures in snowy white—for other dresses besides Grecian ones had been demanded of indulgent mothers—whirling, fluttering in enchanting abandonment round the two forlorn figures; for there were some graceful dancers at Northwold Manor. Cold and Misery struggled through the snowflakes to the back of the stage—a winter wood full of fir boughs and holly berries. The snowflakes danced more and more slowly, and then sank white and still on the ground, and out of the fir-trees came a brown figure with bright eyes and a scarlet breast—Ragged Robin—in a lumpy saffron dress no longer, but a Christmas Robin come to cheer two wanderers with her song.

Out it came from her round little throat, and never was the Bird Carol sung more sweetly.

The vicar closed his eyes, and tired little Mr Perkes sat bolt upright. The poet unfolded his arms and leaned forward listening intently. The whole Creadle family left off shuffling their feet and the peppermint sweeties were totally neglected. Cook sniffed audibly, and Mademoiselle wept. When the last words died away there was dead silence for a moment—then such a thunder of applause that Bobby was bewildered. What on earth were they clapping for before the play was ended?

‘Encore! Encore!’ came from the back row, and the Creadle family banged their feet down noisily.

‘Sing again—sing again!’ whispered Margaret from the wings, and then at last Bobby understood. They liked the Bird Carol and were asking her to sing it again. She shook her head—robins only sing when they feel like singing; besides, the Masque must go on.

She disappeared among the holly berries, and Brigit, as the Spirit of Christmas, flitted to the centre of the stage, beckoning the two figures of Cold and Misery to follow her. Then a screen was drawn back and a bright light shone out, and from behind the curtain came the Christmas fairies bringing the good things of the season.

Fire, in flaming garments, brought warmth near to the frozen little ones, and then came holly-decked children carrying bright fruits and berries to their hungry lips. But slowly the snowflakes rose again and began to flutter round little Cold and Misery. Then once more from the wood crept the Spirit of Christmas, and stooping over the little ones she covered them with her warm mantle. The Christmas fairies joined hands with the snowflakes, and in the distance coming nearer and nearer was heard the soft chime of bells.

On they came—‘the Bells of Noël’—decked with holly, and each ringing a little golden bell; they danced on to the stage and grouped themselves round the Christmas Spirit protecting Cold and Misery.

Then from the wood again fluttered the robin, and in a moment the Golden Carol rang through the hall. Bobby’s voice rang out clear and golden:—

Then Spirit, fairies, snowflakes, children, and robin danced away with the little golden bells ringing merrily, and the curtain descended.

There was a storm of applause, for nobody had expected anything so pretty and so full of artistic feeling from the troublesome wild juniors.

Bobby and Brigit had no time to powder their noses before they were dragged before the curtain; and the whole of the little company had to make their bow, too.

‘Now, Miss Bellamy!’ cried the vicar. ‘It’s no good looking serious and talking about examinations and holidays, I insist upon The Bells of Noël being played in the Village Hall next Wednesday afternoon, for the benefit of the poor little Colds and Miseries of this village. We’ll get a potful of money to get good things for them, you’ll see! And now introduce me at once to the singing bird.’

Bobby was bewildered with attentions and found it extremely embarrassing when the poet insisted upon getting her a plate of jelly, and sitting and watching her while she ate it.

It was such a sell for the seniors, too, after all their snubbing!

‘Who taught you to sing, Robin Redbreast?’

‘Nobody—I just sing.’

‘I see; it was a fairy gift from your fairy godmother; she was a nice old lady, and thought a little golden throat would be nicer than an ordinary plain one. But golden throats have to work awfully hard, Robin Redbreast, and you mustn’t fight with that queer old gentleman, over there, when he wants you to sing scales, it won’t do.’ He had a twinkle in his eye, and looked across at old Signor Nessi, who was beaming with happiness, for he insisted that he had always said, ‘the little one was a singing bird.’

The poet said charming things to Christine and Margaret, too, and completed their happiness by writing some original lines in their autograph books.

The Creadle family ate a great deal of jelly, and then the floor was cleared for ‘Sir Roger,’ and Bobby danced with the poet, who was more amusing than poetical.

The evening ended by every one singing a Christmas Carol, and then the vicar made a nice speech in which he paid many compliments to the talents of the school.

After a great deal of persuasion, Miss Bellamy at last gave way, and The Bells of Noël was given in the Village Hall the following Wednesday. The vicar was right; there was a potful of money collected for Christmas comforts for the poor of the moor. The poet wasn’t there, because he had had to return to town; but he didn’t forget them. He sent five pounds for the little Colds and Miseries and an elegant packet of sweets for every girl in the school.

Only Bobby’s was different; and hers was a box decorated with holly and golden bells, and in the centre of it a robin sat singing its little heart out.

AUNT EMILIA

As the breaking-up day drew near Bobby’s excitement grew so intense that she could scarcely eat or sleep. It was very trying to have to sit down to endless examinations while her thoughts were all with Anne and the boys, Humpty, Nannie, and her precious mother. It would be nice to see father, too; even if he fidgeted when they played circus in the hall, and wanted every one to sit like a Quakers’ meeting at breakfast time. But just before the day arrived there came a letter from her mother and also a disappointment for Bobby.

Bobby shed a few secret tears when she received this news. Aunt Emilia and Uncle Timothy were almost strangers to her, and she had been counting the hours until she arrived at the vicarage; but she fought down her disappointment and wrote the cheerful letter to her mother for which she knew she was hoping.

When the breaking-up day came, she travelled to London with Miss Hudson and the girls with whom she had come to Northwold three months before; but the journey was not the terrible ordeal it had been on that unlucky day. The girls were now used to her dowdy coat and unbecoming hat—although poor Bobby herself was not—and besides that, she was now a match for the sleek-haired Monica.

She shared Cherry’s rug comfortably, which was nicer than holding herself rigidly aloof from Miss Hudson, and matron had supplied sandwiches for the whole party.

She had chocolates, too, the poet’s splendid holly-decked box, with the robin on it; though she ate none herself, for she longed to keep as many of the delicious rows untouched as possible, for Anne and the boys to enjoy.

Bobby felt immensely proud of Aunt Emilia when she met her at the station, she was so tall and distinguished looking, and her voice was so low and beautiful; in fact, it was quite thrilling, as Cherry said, to have an aunt who looked remarkably like an Italian princess.

But if Bobby was thrilled by Aunt Emilia’s appearance, her aunt could not return the compliment.

‘What an odd little atom!’ she thought. ‘Her eyes and hair are beautiful, and she ought to sing with a throat like that; but what an awful little dowdy. Poor Nell never could dress her children.’ She carried Bobby off to a wonderful place, very, very different from the restaurant where she had lunched miserably with her father on her last visit to London. That was gorgeous, and this was quiet and dim and restful, with cosy, gray velvet corners where fragrant tea, hot scones, and tiny sugary cakes were served on flower-decked tables.

Aunt Emilia did all the talking at first, for Bobby was always shy with grown-up people, and felt painfully conscious that her aunt thought her hat hideous. But before they left the little gray corner, Aunt Emilia had worked wonders in Bobby’s appearance. She took off the stiff hat, turned it down, and pulled it into a shape which was quite becoming. A few twists and pulls to the long blue coat which Miss Simms had made roomy with so much virtuous ardour, also did much to hide its failings.

‘You must learn how to put your things on properly, you bad child,’ she said, with a smile. ‘That’s an art that every poor little maiden without any fortune must be clever in. Now we must go, or your uncle will be getting fidgety.’

They took a taxi to Hampstead, and Bobby was thrilled again by her first sight of the big rolling Heath, where bold Dick Turpin rode long ago.

Aunt Emilia’s house was old and quaint, and the scarlet berries on the holly-trees round it were silver-capped in the frosty moonlight when they reached the gate. Kezia opened the door, a severe-looking person in a gray dress and white apron, who had made Uncle Timothy and Aunt Emilia do whatever she told them for years and years. She didn’t approve of schoolgirl visits, that was plain, and when Aunt Emilia said cheerfully, ‘Well, Kezia, how’s the master?’ she answered severely, ‘Very bad, and scolding something awful about the draught in the drawing-room. You didn’t ought to have visitors with him in this state, as I’ve told you before, ma’am.’

‘Well, we’re not. You are not a visitor are you, Robin? Come upstairs now, and then we’ll have supper with your uncle, and you shall help me to cheer him up.’

The room up to which her aunt led her was quite the prettiest Bobby had ever seen. The walls were papered with the palest lavender, and the bed-curtains, window-curtains, and bed hangings were sprigged with lavender too. The floor was polished oak and shining like ebony, and in the centre of it there was a carpet as softly gray-green as lavender leaves. There was a little oak book-shelf, too, close to the bed containing many of the books that Bobby had been longing to read for years, but had never been able to get because of having to wait until the famous ship came home! Then, when she had taken off her hat and coat, and washed off the travelling dust with lavender soap in the pretty chinaware, she was ready to go down and be introduced to Uncle Timothy.

He was very thin and pale, and wrapped in so many rugs and shawls that there was really not very much of him to be seen. His nose was rather like a hawk’s, Bobby thought, and altogether she did not admire him so much as she did her Aunt Emilia.

‘Well, how have you been, dear?’ asked her aunt, beginning to fuss over the shawls and rugs at once.

‘Like an iceberg! The draughts in this room are strong enough to blow us back to Ireland.’

‘Poor dear! but never mind, I’ve such a lovely plan about this room. We’ll unpack all your old Persian rugs and hang them round like a drawing-room in the Middle Ages. It will be cosy and beautiful, too, and Bobby shall help me. Here she is, dear.’

‘Well, youngster, aren’t you going to give me a kiss? How many prizes have you brought home?’

Bobby kissed him obediently, although the hawk nose was decidedly alarming. ‘None, uncle. We don’t have prizes at Christmas, but I shouldn’t have won any if we did.’

‘Tut, tut! Then you’re a lazy little monkey, are you?’

‘Of course she’s not. Don’t tease, Tim. She’s a hungry little robin, and wants her supper. We’ll pull the table up near the fireplace, please, Kezia.’

An oval table, softly glowing with a silky lamp shade of tawny red, and deep, golden chrysanthemums, was drawn up to the log fire; and there Uncle Timothy grumbled over his soup, while Aunt Emilia and Bobby ate delicate fish and creamy pudding which seemed delicious after so many months of school fare.

Bobby answered her uncle’s many questions about school politely, refraining from telling him that she still hated a great many things there.

After supper, when Kezia had removed the table with disapproving looks, ‘she didn’t hold with coddling children over the fire,’ Aunt Emilia said, ‘We are going to have a little music now, dear. It always soothes your uncle, and helps him to sleep. Sit on the humpty and nurse Pussyfoot.’

Pussyfoot was a charming blue Persian kitten with eyes like orange moons, who drank nothing but creamy milk and ate all that he could either steal or wheedle his slaves into giving him, and Bobby loved him at first sight.

Then Aunt Emilia sang, and it was as though fairies crooned lullabies on the hill-side. Bobby sat very still hugging the purring Pussyfoot, for a beautiful voice always carried her to a land of enchanting dreams. Her aunt turned round at last, after singing a murmuring song that reminded Bobby of the brook that wandered among the gray boulders on Northwold Moor.

‘Now, Bobby, it is your turn.’

Robina turned scarlet and shook her head.

‘But that is too bad. Can’t you sing us one little Christmas Carol? You love them, don’t you, dear?’ She turned to Uncle Timothy.

‘Only if they are well sung. Don’t bother the child, Emilia.’ He bent over the fire and began to rub his thin hands. Bobby felt a sudden rush of pity for him, he looked so tired and pale, and if Christmas Carols could make him happy it was plainly her duty to sing one.

She got up shyly and put the sleepy kitten on a cushion.

‘I’ll sing a carol if you like, Aunt Emilia.’

‘That’s a dear. Will you sing it without music?’

‘Oh, yes, please.’ She stood still for a moment, then from her full little round throat came notes like a silver flute,—

There was absolute silence for a moment when the quaint ‘Cherry-Tree Carol’ ended, then Aunt Emilia sprang up and kissed Robin.

‘You are a perfect darling, and I knew you would be on the very first day I saw you when you were three weeks old and wore a long-tailed gown, and had a head as downy as some delicious chick. And you never yelled like other babies. When your father christened you, you cried musically and never went flat once; didn’t I say so, Tim?’

‘Don’t be absurd, Emmy. You’ll turn the child’s head, and then she’ll be a little horror! You’ve inherited your aunt’s voice, child, as well as her name, and you’ve got a fortune in your throat, only you’ll have to work like the very dickens!’

A fortune in her throat! Bobby was beginning to be bewildered.

‘And she means to, don’t you, darling? The worst of it is I always meant to be a real fairy godmother to you, but through the war and your poor uncle being so ill, I’m only a poor aunt instead of a rich one. But never mind. We must find a way to have you well trained somehow, and if you work as uncle says, some day we shall all be proud of our Ragged Robin!’

‘Well, her mother won’t be proud of her if she goes home with a yellow face through sitting up late,’ Uncle Timothy answered.

‘Say good-night, dear. Kezia is going to bring you your cocoa in bed, and don’t spill it on her clean sheets, if you love me! Sleep like a top, and to-morrow we will go and do some Christmas shopping.’

Bobby did sleep like a top between lavender-scented sheets, after taking two or three peeps under the blind at the shadowy heath so still and beautiful in the moonlight.

But in the morning came a disappointment. Uncle Timothy had ‘one of his attacks,’ and Aunt Emilia could not leave him. Kezia was to act as cicerone, and take Bobby for a Christmas shopping expedition. ‘She’s a nice old thing, really,’ said Aunt Emilia. ‘Only she’s very proper, and expects every one else to be proper, too, so don’t disgrace me by using too much schoolgirl slang! She loves shopping, and you’ll see how amiable she’ll be after she’s found a few bargains! Now I’m going to lend you my granny muff, to keep your fingers warm, and if you lose it, never let me see your face again.’

Bobby went in to say good-bye to her uncle, who looked old and tired after his bad night.

‘Well, Robina, so you’re going to lose your voice in the fog, as well as your aunt’s sables. Now I’m going to give you my Christmas present at once, because you might find it useful when you get to the shops. Have you a safe purse?’

Bobby brought out the little purse, Nannie’s keepsake before she went to school. Meggie Rudd’s wardrobe and school subscriptions had been so expensive that she had been able to save only one shilling and sixpence out of the pound her uncle had sent her at the beginning of the term, and she had spent a sleepless hour the night before wondering how so little money could be made to buy presents for so many people.

Uncle Timothy took the purse out of her hand and put three crisp, new pound notes into it carefully. ‘There, all that has to be spent to-day, but on one condition; a sixth must be spent on charity, and a sixth entirely on yourself.’

‘Oh, uncle. Thanks most awfully. But it’s such an awful lot!’

‘You won’t think so, young lady, in a few hours! Now off you go, and remember I shall want to see all the rubbish you buy this evening.’

‘And choose what you like for lunch,’ said Aunt Emilia, twisting Bobby’s dowdy coat round once more. ‘Tell Kezia I said you might. I’m too cowardly to tell her so myself, and of course she’ll want you to have mutton and rice pudding, nasty things!’

Kezia was waiting in the hall in a very severe looking black coat and skirt and a jet-trimmed toque. She met all Aunt Emilia’s cheerful remarks with a stony stare; for Kezia did not believe in letting people know she was enjoying herself. She was too fond of the rôle of martyr for that.

On the way to town, Bobby, hoping to cheer her up, cried, ‘Doesn’t every one look gay?’

‘There’s some as does, and some as don’t, miss,’ she answered with severity. ‘Them with nothing to do but gad about and spend money feels cheerful, no doubt, but for my part it’s no easy matter to be light-’earted when I’ve had to leave my kitchen all mucked up so that we could catch the early train,’ and Bobby, feeling desperately guilty, promised to help her tidy up when they reached home.

She cheered up wonderfully after they had reached the shops, and she had what she called ‘purchased’ a pink flannelette petticoat trimmed with lace for her sister-in-law, and a much be-ribboned bonnet for her cousin’s new baby.

Bobby, devoured with anxiety about the ten shillings to be spent on charity, longed to buy just such bonnets for the Rudd twins—for she had made up her mind that the money should be used for the children of the moorland home far away—but the pity of it was that if Catherine and Elizabeth had the bonnets, it was certain that Meggie and her white-haired little brothers would get nothing at all!

She appealed to Kezia, who suggested nice new clean pocket handkerchiefs for the whole Rudd family, as she pointed out that the lack of these articles among cottage children always made her ‘fair sick.’ But Bobby scorned this idea, and at the same instant, passing the cracker counter in the big shop they were visiting, made her remember that she was a reckless member of ‘The Lace Petticoat Guild.’ ‘We’ll buy them crackers!’ she cried. ‘They’re sure to like that!’ and marching up boldly to the counter, she bought a gorgeous box filled with crackers, with red frills and pictures of Father Christmas on every one of them; and for this wonderful gift, which was so to entrance the little Rudds, she gave only four of the ten shillings.

Then, regardless of Kezia’s gloomy warnings, she visited the confectionery counter, and by this time grown reckless, she bought a fruit cake with ‘A Merry Xmas’ in pink and white ice on the top, for five shillings.

For once the Rudds should know what it was to have luxuries! The last shilling bought a pink rattle for Elizabeth and a blue one for Catherine, and Robin was triumphantly content and Kezia snorting with indignation. The next thing was a white satin handkerchief case for her mother, embroidered and scented with violets, and the same for Aunt Emilia, only scented with roses.

‘They’ll soil in a week, and that smell will never last,’ protested Kezia fiercely, but Bobby had her own way, and paid ten shillings for the two ‘unserviceable’ presents with magnificent recklessness. Shakespearean calendars for her father and Uncle Timothy came next; then a china baby in long clothes, which was really a pincushion, for Nannie, and a pink hatpin for Janet. She couldn’t resist a feathery duck that quacked for Humpty, although it cost the large sum of seven shillings and sixpence, and, as Kezia seemed so keen on pocket handkerchiefs she secretly bought her three, with ‘K’ embroidered in the corners. For ten and sixpence she bought Billy and Tim a Red Indian tent between them; then again she couldn’t resist a fascinating Indian dress for Anne—she longed to have it herself—which cost another three half-crowns! Then in a terrible panic she suddenly realised that she had not fulfilled Uncle Timothy’s condition of spending a sixth of the money on herself; nor bought Christmas cards or anything for the members of the Adventure League, all of whom would be perfectly sure to remember her!

‘Well, it’s no good taking on like that!’ said Kezia. ‘You shouldn’t have bought them rubbishy sachays. We’d best get a bit of lunch now. You look fair peeked.’

When they were seated at a table in the crowded restaurant, Kezia drew off her black woollen glove and began to talk about mutton and rice pudding.

‘But Aunt Emilia said I could choose,’ Bobby protested. Kezia looked reproachful. ‘She didn’t ought to have done that, miss. A kinder lady never drew breath than your aunt, but she’s no better than a babby about proper food and drink. You’ll want to be filling your stomach with pastry, I suppose?’

‘No,’ said Bobby, who was beginning to be fond of the gloomy Kezia, and wanted her to enjoy her day. ‘You choose, Kezia, please, but I won’t eat mutton and rice pudding—it’s so schooly.’ So Kezia ordered roast beef and bread-and-butter pudding, and Bobby ate it meekly, trying not to look at the holly-decked mince-pies on the other tables.

Afterwards the remaining five and sixpence was spent on little black velvet cat mascots for the Adventure League, and Christmas cards for the whole school. Here Kezia became obstreperous, for she liked cards with verses on them all about hand-claspings and friends across the sea, and Bobby liked the gay ones.

‘Please yourself, miss,’ said Kezia, buttoning up her lips, ‘but what I say is that there’s many that feels grief as well as joys at Christmas time, and a few solemn words seems suitable.’

When they reached home Uncle Timothy was downstairs and better. He was sitting by an enormous fire with Pussyfoot snoring on his knee, and Aunt Emilia had got tea all ready, and produced a dish of such rich mince-pies that Kezia kept her lips tightly closed in disapproval for at least two hours. Then, after all the parcels were undone, and Aunt Emilia had gone into raptures over her scented ‘sachay,’ and promised a box to send the cake and crackers to the Rudd family, and when Uncle Timothy had undone every single parcel and teased Pussyfoot with the four black velvet cats, he demanded fiercely, ‘and now where’s your parcel, Robina Emilia?’ And Bobby, blushing scarlet, confessed she had forgotten all about it until too late.

‘Don’t tease her, Tim,’ said Aunt Emilia. ‘She can’t help being exactly like her mother, and she always forgot to buy anything for herself.’

‘All the same,’ said Uncle Timothy, even more fiercely, ‘she must be punished. Now I shall give her a present she won’t like. Now sing me a carol, and then be off to bed!’

HOLIDAYS

The whole family met Bobby at the station in Gibbons’ wagon, gaily decorated for the occasion with holly and mistletoe. There were flags over the porch, too, and a long white streamer bearing the words ‘Welcome Home,’ rather crookedly painted in scarlet letters by Billy and Anne.

The nursery was a masterpiece too, for Nannie and the children had been busy for a week, and certainly must have used up all the coloured paper in the village shop. Nannie’s ‘kissing-bush’—two hoops intertwined and covered gorgeously with every colour of the rainbow—hung above the tea-table, and from it dangled gay red and green candles, rosy apples from the orchard, and muslin bags of sweets. A big paper lantern in the shape of a Christmas bell swung from the bottom of it, and as soon as they all sat down, Nannie lit the whole kissing-bush up with a most entrancing effect. The vicar had tea upstairs in honour of the occasion, and never scolded once; even when Humpty dipped a sticky bun in his tea. They feasted on strawberry jam and curranty biscuits from Moffats; and after tea the whole family conducted Bobby in a body to look at the grand Christmas cake Nannie had made, with a robin cheerfully perched on its smooth white ice.

‘Bless you, lovey!’ cried old Nannie, hugging Bobby like some nice cuddly hen. ‘If ye’ve grown in sinse as you have in inches, it’ll be a rale trate to have you round again. Look at the skirts on her! Up to her knays. It’s lucky Miss Simms had the sinse in her to give her some room in them!’

It was splendid to be at home again, and Bobby found herself jumping into the very middle of the faded roses on the stair-carpet, and on to the white tiles in the hall, for fear the witch under the staircase would cast a spell! just as though she had never been away at all. And how delightful it was, too, to warm one’s toes in the nursery after bathing, and eat a ginger-nut from Nannie’s tin off the top nursery shelf. Then to snuggle into bed with Anne and hear all about the crustiness of Rhubarb Pie, and suck the sweet Nannie always popped into their mouths when she tucked them up. She told Anne tales, too, mostly about the thrilling exploits of the Adventure League, which so fascinated Anne that she began to lament because she couldn’t go to school herself.

‘It’s jolly beastly though, in lots of ways,’ said Bobby. ‘The cold’s awful, and Foxy’s worse than the Piecrust even—only she knows more—and it’s hateful wearing such awful clothes, when all the girls have such lovely things. But all the same it’s jolly being chums with Brigit.’

When Bobby’s report came her father sent for her to his study, and demanded to know why she had so many bad marks; for it was easy to see that she had by no means been a saint during her first term at school.

‘It’s all those silly rules,’ said Robin calmly. ‘School’s exactly like Brockley Woods—full of notice-boards—and if you kept on looking at them all you’d never have any fun.’

‘Fun!’ cried the scandalised vicar. ‘Your aunt doesn’t pay big fees in order that you may have fun! She’ll be sadly disappointed, I fear, when I send this on to her.’

All the same he was secretly rather elated about the report of Bobby’s work—for every one of the mistresses had spoken most highly of her ability to work excellently if she pleased—and Miss Bellamy had written a charming letter in praise of the talent Robina had shown in the Christmas Masque, The Bells of Noël. But the vicar was a stern father, and he gave Robin more scoldings than praises.

The Christmas holidays passed with incredible swiftness, for early in the New Year a sharp frost set in and snow fell thickly, so that the vicarage children enjoyed the raptures of winter sports, and spent most of their day tobogganing boldly down the hill at the back of the house, or skating and sliding on the pond. They were invited to the Grays’ annual party. The Grays were rich, pampered children, who must have had a ship come in every day judging by the things they possessed. They enjoyed patronising the vicarage children, so that Bobby longed more than ever to be fashionable, and the owner of a beautiful party frock, instead of the dowdy affairs that Miss Simms had created for her and Anne, amidst Nannie’s cries of admiration and entreaties to ‘give a sight of room, or the crayturs would have ’em burst on her before she could turn round!’

They went to Miss Pye’s tea-party, too, a dull affair given every year in the queer little brown house at the end of the village where she lived with her mother and sister. There was only one other guest present, a niece of Miss Pye’s, a fat, uninteresting child who wore spectacles and had a passion for reciting.

‘If Pies didn’t make such ripping tarts I’m hanged if I’d go,’ said Mike, with greedy schoolboy candour, ‘and I’m not sure if even the cakes and that cream jelly stuff they always have is worth stuffing into Etons for; especially if that beastly kid in the specs. is going to spout assish poetry.’

But they did go, and did full justice to old Mrs Pye’s cakes and tarts too, and then politely played Ludo and Snap, and endured the ‘fat kid’s spouting’ until seven o’clock. Afterwards they forgot all promises to come straight home, and joined a party of village children on a magnificent slide, and the ‘stuffy Etons’ and Anne’s best hat were practically ruined before the vicar came along from choir practice and found his rowdy children at the height of their enjoyment. The Christmas holidays always brought a few more gray hairs round the vicar’s temples!

Then came a letter from Aunt Emilia. Uncle Timothy was better, and they wanted Robin and Anne to spend a few days with them at Hampstead before Bobby returned to school.

‘I feel such a guilty thoughtless person,’ she wrote. ‘Imagine my sending Robin to an expensive school and leaving you all the worry of the outfit. She grows so fast she must be wanting a great many more things again, so send her up to me. I always loved dressing dolls and little girls, as you know. Let Anne come too; it’s a shame to part them the last few days, and we both want to see her.’

At first Anne was transported with joy at the thought of going to London, for she had never been farther than Greenford, nor attended anything more exciting than the annual school-treat. Then, as the time drew nearer, she vowed she would never spend a night away from her dear Nannie. It was only the scorn of her brothers that made her consent in the end.

‘I jolly well wish I had the chance!’ said Billy.

‘And don’t I just,’ joined in Mike. ‘It’s just my luck to have a godfather that hangs out in China. I believe he hurried off there in purpose, directly I was born, so that he needn’t invite me for the hols.’

So Robin and Anne departed—Robin red-eyed and miserable at the thought of leaving home again, Anne in the red coat which she had written to describe to Bobby, which certainly did ‘look orful!’

She was rather like a pale water forget-me-not, this demure, flaxen-haired Anne, with her wondering china-blue eyes, and quiet ways, and she needed pale colours to set off her delicate prettiness, not crude reds with stiff buttons and stitchings.

‘The odd little creature!’ said Aunt Emilia, when she had put her nieces to bed that night in the lavender room. ‘You must make me out an enormous cheque at once, Tim—never mind if we are ruined. I simply can’t have a red fairy in the house, it gets on my nerves, and they are both such little ducks I want to make them really pretty. I always longed for little girls to dress up, you know,’ she added wistfully, and Uncle Timothy grunted, and made out the enormous cheque without a word.

The next day they went shopping, and Anne’s forget-me-not eyes grew bigger and bigger as she was whirled about in lifts through rooms containing garments of dazzling beauty. Before two hours had passed she was no longer a red Anne, but a little maiden in softest powder-blue, with a fluffy black hat just trimmed with a knot of silver and powder-blue to show off her flowery blue eyes.

Bobby had a fluffy hat, too, and a coat which made her look slim instead of lumpy, and trim shoes in place of country-made boots. She had an evening frock, too, a dazzlingly pretty pink garment, with knots of pink rosebuds on the sleeves. She looked upon it with rapture; for, apart from her desire to look beautiful, she knew that now her victory would be complete over the contemptuous Monica.

In the afternoon they went to the Zoo, but soon had to come away for Anne could not bear to see anything alive shut up; and the tigers so like giant Pussyfoots, pacing behind their bars, almost broke her heart.

‘Never mind,’ promised Aunt Emilia tenderly, ‘to-morrow we’ll go and see fairies instead of tigers.’ And the next afternoon they sat in rapturous excitement at the theatre for the first time, watching Fairyland, as that charming play, Where the Rainbow Ends, shows it to us.

True, Anne shook rather in the Dragon scenes, but she was so enchanted by the Magic Carpet she determined to be brave, and ask Uncle Timothy to take down the old Persian one that he had told her was hundreds and hundreds of years old, and see if that too did not possess a genie.

As for Robin, she sat perfectly still, biting her lips and watching the stage with such intensity that once her Aunt Emilia gently touched her and said, ‘Come back to earth, dear, just for a moment, and have a chocolate.’ But Robin only shook her head. She was in another world, the fairy world below, where a little Will o’ the Wisp danced with shadowy grace near the lakeside. She had quite changed her mind about her future, she no longer meant to be a land girl when she grew up. It would be perfect to be dressed as a boy, of course, and delicious to be in the open fields all day; but there was not a doubt that turnips smelt horrid, and pig-sties were dirty things to touch. She now fully intended to be an actress; a Will o’ the Wisp for preference, enchanting hundreds of people with her grace; or perhaps she would sing—she gripped the red velvet cushion in front of her, such an overwhelming desire suddenly came upon her to sing like a bird down there among the fairies. Anyhow, the world was before her, and she must do something wonderful in it!

All the way home it was Anne who was the chatterbox, and Robin was almost silent and not at all hungry, even for chocolate éclairs. Anne asked Uncle Timothy about the Persian carpet; but he said it was so useful for keeping off the draught from his old head that he feared he couldn’t spare it for a trip to Fairyland. He promised though to leave it to Anne in his will, so that she could then summon the genie herself—if the carpet had one—and take all her children on it for an original holiday.

When they were safely tucked up in bed, and Aunt Emilia, terrified lest Kezia should find her out, had surreptitiously put some indigestible sweets under their pillows, she came downstairs and sat on the humpty near her husband. ‘Tim, isn’t Anne delicious?’

‘So it’s Anne now, is it?’

‘No, of course not; but she is delicious, and I’d like to keep her always and eat a little bit of her occasionally, she’s so sweet. And Robin—she’s so different—I’ve been watching them to-day. She’s a born artist, Tim, turning to everything that is beautiful instinctively, and hating dull and ugly things. But she’s a fighter too. Watch her throw back her little firm chin and face anything disagreeable. Anne will be beautiful, and every one will love her because they can’t help it, but I believe our Robin is going to be famous.’

Uncle Timothy grunted and said nothing. His tired nerves had just been soothed and rested by the bird-like sweetness of a child’s song.

Upstairs in the lavender room Anne dreamed of dragons and fairies, and Robin lay still watching the stars over the dark heath.

THE HOUSE OF THE HOBGOBLIN

Before the school had been assembled a week Christine had sent to every Form a tiny, type-written slip, on which each pupil was bidden to meet her and her colleagues in the recreation hall on the following Saturday evening, ‘to discuss the best way of celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Founding of Northwold Manor School,’ which would take place in the autumn.

‘She’s going to make us fork out another five bob,’ said Brigit disgustedly.

‘No, she isn’t,’ said Cherry. ‘She’s mad on making us all “keen” at present,’ here she put on Christine’s sweetest expression, ‘Don’t you agree with me, girls, that we should all make a real effort to be keen, keen in work, keen in games, and keen in everything?’

‘But above all things be keen on Christine!’ said Brigit. ‘Well, she’s not going to work me to death, even if it were Northwold’s Diamond Jubilee. I don’t mind swotting a bit at games, it was sickening that Highbury lot beating us again last term, but I’m not going to be keen on working, my brains feel addled already after the beastly extra maths. fad Foxy’s got.’

‘Let’s suggest that Northwold Manor can celebrate its twenty-fifth birthday by giving us an extra week’s holiday,’ said Bobby, with a grin. ‘We are all keen on that.’

There was a chorus of ‘Hear, hear! Jolly good idea!’ which would have horrified their saintly leader.

The meeting was held on the following Saturday with Christine in the chair, and the rest of the seniors sitting round her in a semicircle, looking immensely serious and taking notes of the words of wisdom that fell from their idol’s lips.

The Fourth Form took notes, too; Brigit with eyeglasses balanced on her nose, scrutinising her notebook so closely that the juniors giggled instead of attending to the oracular utterances from the platform, and were loudly called to order several times.

‘I feel sure, girls,’ said Christine, glancing at the violet book in which she always wrote her notes, ‘that every one of us present here to-night is resolved that this year shall be a great one in the annals of Northwold Manor; bringing honour to Miss Bellamy, honour to ourselves, and, above all, honour to the school we all love so much.’

Robin gave a grunt, but fortunately Monica drowned it with a vigorous ‘Hear, hear!’

‘You see, girls, it is such a wonderful year—the school’s silver birthday—and if silver is to be really beautiful it must shine, mustn’t it?’ Christine paused a moment for there was a loud clapping and cries of applause from her worshippers in the back rows. ‘If we are to make this year a shining one in the annals of the school we must be keen; keen in work as well as in play; and it is the duty of all of us to see that the names written on the roll-call this year bring honour to Northwold.’

‘Hear, hear!’

‘Of course,’ went on Christine, ‘we can’t possibly all win definite honours—that would be an absurd ambition. Margaret and I are working frightfully hard for our scholarships, as you know; and there are a great many of you going in for musical exams this term, and we all know the value of hard work in that direction.’

‘What about the Institute Silver Medal for the best water-colour?’ asked Margaret. ‘It is open to outsiders, and Miss Bellamy is fearfully keen on art.’

‘That would be splendid, of course, and I think we all know the most likely candidate for that,’ and Christine smiled sweetly across at Alison Langdon, a pale, reddish-haired girl of the Rossetti type, and the best art student at Northwold Manor. Alison made several ineffectual protests which were loudly hissed.

‘It will be the most difficult for those who have no special talents at all,’ continued Christine. ‘That is why I think it would be an excellent idea if we appointed a Committee—a Committee of Good Works, you know—which will keep every one up to the mark so that we get splendid results all round. Do you all agree to that? If so we had better elect the Committee at once. The fairest thing will be to have a representative of each Form.’

A great show of hands and vigorous clapping proclaimed agreement to this plan, and voting began at once.

Christine represented the Sixth, of course, and Irene the Fifth, as it was unanimously agreed that Northwold must buck up in games, and Irene, as the captain of the hockey team had great gifts as a ‘bucker-up.’

‘And remember, extra hockey practice has to have time found for it somehow,’ she announced. ‘Fancy letting those Highburyites beat us to a jelly after my slaving myself to skin and bone! Brigit, you can play a good game if you like, and ought to be in the Eleven if you were not so unreliable, and always in some silly scrape with Robina. Anyway, you’ve both got to play up this term!’

Greatly to her astonishment, every one in the Fourth except Monica voted for Bobby, but she hastily declined the honour.

‘May we ask why?’ inquired Christine politely.

‘Because I might feel slack this term, and any one on a Committee ought to be a very proper, school-marmy sort of person. Besides, I think “Good Works” sounds horrid, as bad as flannel petticoats,’ declared Robina calmly.

‘In other words, you are too idle to want to take any responsibility,’ said Christine. ‘Very well, the Fourth must vote again.’

The result was that Brigit and Pamela had equal votes, greatly to Monica’s disgust; for she longed to be chosen and write home grandly about ‘Committee Meetings.’

‘Thanks awfully, but I also decline the honour,’ said Brigit briefly. ‘I think it’s a stuffy idea, and I never could stand having to preach. I should perhaps get so good at it that Miss Bellamy would fish me out for the Fifth before my time. No, thank you!’

‘We never heard anything like it,’ exclaimed the seniors, with such disgust that Pamela had not enough pluck to refuse when she in her turn was invited to keep the Fourth up to its Good Works!

After this meeting industry became the fashion at Northwold Manor; and the constant pounding of pianos by the ambitious ones determined to win musical honours, quite got on the nerves of the literary and artistic pupils also virtuously inclined.

‘If we don’t have a bust-up soon,’ cried Brigit one day after three weeks of this ardour, ‘I shall die or run away. Just listen! That’s the tenth time Doris has played that beastly study with the arpeggios in it to-day! I don’t see that it’s going to bring much honour to the school if we’re all going to be driven into lunatic asylums!’

‘Well, you are going to have a bust-up on Saturday,’ announced Cherry. ‘Miss Hudson says we can have “Hare and Hounds” if it’s fit for a run, instead of hockey practice. Irene’s furious, and serve her right. I’m sick of her snubbings!’

Robin heard this news with delight. The weather had been cold and wet, and school discipline was beginning to pall again, and she longed to run wild upon the moors like a young colt.

Saturday arrived dry and frosty, and the spirits of the juniors, who were distinctly tired of being virtuous, rose with a bound.

The two hares, Dorothy Venner and Irene, left the big stone gates at two o’clock and were to be allowed ten minutes start by the hounds. The scent, which they carried in sacks on their backs, consisted of dead copper beech leaves, for Miss Bellamy objected to the ugly way of scattering torn paper over the countryside.

The hounds, dressed in extremely short skirts, strong boots, and scarlet tam-o’-shanters, waited impatiently with Miss Hudson—also suitably clad for a brisk run across country—for the signal to be off. When it was given, the members of the Adventure Club were the first to leap away, and discover that the scent lay on the moor itself for about a quarter of a mile. Then it trailed off on to the high road, and took a zig-zag course across fields, marshes, five-barred gates, and thickets, which certainly gave more delight to the hounds than to poor Miss Hudson; for, although she was an extremely sporting person herself, and as keen as even Christine could have wished in games and all kinds of physical exercise, she disliked having her hair pulled down in a thorny thicket and her boots made heavy with mud, just before leaving the fields and finding the scent on the road again, where the hounds also tracked Mr Perkes, the bald-headed curate, on his mild way to Broadford.

Miss Hudson, with her usual tact, made the best of the situation, and so did the Adventurers; for they took this opportunity to dodge the Mistress of the Hounds and once more plunge blissfully ankle-deep into a bog, which led into a pine-wood, where Bobby vowed she could detect traces of scent.

‘It’s just the dead beech leaves blown among the pines from that coppice down there,’ pointed out Pamela conscientiously, remembering her duties as mentor.

‘Oh, shut up!’

‘You’re jolly well as bad as a senior!’

‘You’re not at a Committee Meeting now, remember!’

‘It’s ages since we had any fun at all.’

These protests came from all sides, and Pamela, glad to be relieved from her responsibilities for a while, admitted that it would be fun to escape from the other hounds for a few moments and explore the pine-wood.

‘It’s just like Grimms’ fairy tales,’ cried Robin, ‘and do look down there. It’s a darling little gingerbread house, I do believe!’

In the distance there was a cottage, looking like some monster toadstool, for it was heavily thatched and shaped like an old-fashioned beehive.

‘I don’t like the look of it,’ announced Brigit with decision. ‘Standing all among those dark trees it’s just like one of those big, wicked-looking, coloured toadstools you see under trees in the autumn. Our old nurse, Norah, used to frighten us into fits by telling us they were hobgoblins’ houses. Let’s go by the other path.’

‘What a donkey you are, Brigit. It’s a good thing Miss Hudson can’t hear you talking about hobgoblins like that.’

But Robin, her imagination delightfully stirred by this mysterious wood, suggested they should approach the tiny house in Red Indian fashion, and find out if the hobgoblin were at home!

With Brigit still protesting, at the tail end of the file, they started on the trail, and reached the round house in exciting silence.

There were five windows all round it, and each one had its green blind drawn.

‘What a sell!’ said Pamela; but Cherry was the one to find out a sixth window under the ivy which had no blind at all.

‘Give me a back, somebody,’ whispered Bobby, ‘and I’ll hoist myself up and tell you what the hobgoblin looks like!’

Half a dozen backs were immediately presented, and Bobby swarmed up cautiously; and she peeped so long that whispered protests came from the back-benders at last. Then she jumped down looking rather queer, and said under her breath, ‘Come along, let’s do a bunk. The hobgoblin’s horrid!’

They all made a wild rush down the little path, and once out of the wood Robin was commanded to explain matters instantly.

‘It was the queerest little room, all round like the house, and there was a bed in one corner of it. The hobgoblin looked rather like Higgins, the bicycle man, but he wasn’t, because he had red hair and a beard, and sort of gardener’s clothes on.’

‘Well, do go on. What was he doing?’

‘Smoking a pipe and staring at a cupboard—no, it wasn’t exactly a cupboard—more like a sliding place in the wall, and it was full of silver.’

‘Silver!’

‘Yes, the most ripping things. Cups, and bowls, and horns and candle-sticks shining like anything.’

‘How rummy! I say, there’s the Hudson simply overflowing with wrath. Do come along,’ cried Pamela anxiously.

‘Where have you been?’ demanded the indignant Miss Hudson. ‘We’ve had to come back for you.’

‘We’re most awfully sorry, Miss Hudson, but we lost the scent for a short time. There it is crossing to the woods again!’

Nobody could say the hares were timid; they had trespassed boldly in all directions, and the chase was becoming almost too exacting for Miss Hudson. She gave a sigh of relief when Dorothy and Irene were seen leaping through a wood, and were pounced upon by the exhausted hounds.

Pursued and pursuers collapsed on to the mossy ground, fanning themselves vigorously; but they did not rest for long; for a white-haired old gentleman with a fierce expression, a gun, and a spaniel at his heels, emerged suddenly from among the trees.

‘Sorry, ladies, but this is trespassing, you know.’

Miss Hudson rose at once. ‘Oh, I’m so fearfully sorry. Please forgive us; come along, girls.’

At the sight of so many exhausted beauties the old gentleman seemed to repent, and he waved his hands towards the mossy seats, and cried, ‘No hurry, no hurry at all.’

‘Thank you, but we must be going, I’m afraid.’ Miss Hudson seized Joan’s hand, who was panting rather alarmingly.

The old gentleman looked more uncomfortable still.

‘Hare and Hounds, eh?’

‘Yes, we usually have one run a term; but we don’t always trespass, and we’re so sorry.’

‘Not another word, if you please, young lady. Come far?’

‘About three miles, I think. Come, girls.’

‘Better come up to the house and have a cup of tea, eh?’

‘What! Twenty-five of us?’

‘Certainly. I had a grandmother who collected cups and saucers, so that’ll be all right. And Mrs Wiggins, my housekeeper, hoards jam atrociously, so march along, young ladies, please.’

All protests from Miss Hudson were pooh-poohed away with, ‘Nonsense, every one likes tea, and hounds are always hungry.’

So in the end Miss Hudson walked beside the old gentleman meekly, and the young ladies skipped along behind in the greatest glee, for the prospect of seeing the old gentleman’s house and helping to eat his jam hoard, made a delightful ending to an exciting afternoon.

‘That’s my home,’ said the old gentleman—whom Miss Hudson now guessed to be Colonel Welby, an old bachelor who had spent most of his life in India. ‘Hideous, isn’t it? and why the dickens they ever called it “Mulberry House” beats me. There isn’t a mulberry-tree within a hundred miles that I know of. My grandfather built it, and he was madder than the hatter.’

They emerged on to an immense lawn where a big, square, rather ugly house stood exposed to all the winds except the north, where it was screened by a thick hedge of dark pine-trees. The colonel led the way across the lawn into the deep stone porch and flung open the great oak door, built to stand firm and strong against the moorland winds.

The guests gasped. The dark interior before them was a little alarming, for the big hall was oak-panelled, shining and black, and on every inch of it, floor and walls, huge beasts of the jungle were stretched, ferociously open-mouthed and snarling. The colonel’s big game trophies were certainly rather terrifying when one came upon them suddenly unawares; but the great wood fire leaping and dancing in the huge fireplace was a cheery sight on such a cold afternoon.

‘Come in, come in!’ cried the colonel hospitably. ‘Sandy!’ to a man like an old soldier, too, who was replenishing the fire, ‘go and give my compliments to Mrs Wiggins, and tell her I shall be obliged if she will serve tea for twenty-six in the dining-room as soon as possible.’

Sandy departed in horror on his errand, and the hospitable colonel pushed chairs and sofas and cushions to the fire and bade his guests be seated; but the hall was too full of treasures for that. Every girl wanted to stroke the great tigers and leopards, and hear the story of their undoing. There were wonderful old Japanese prints, too, for Alison and the other artistic ones to rave over. Christine hung over the bookcases; for there were books as well as pictures, china, and big trophies from the jungle in the hall of Mulberry House.

Christine could not help regretting that her dress was so unbecoming, for she knew saints never look so interesting clad in short skirts and tam-o’-shanters, but she sighed over the exquisite volumes of Keats so rapturously that the old colonel was touched.

‘So you like poetry, eh? I’m hanged if I’ve ever been able to find out what it’s all about.’

St Christine very kindly told him what some of it was about, and she told him other things too, in her pretty, gushing way, and how they were all going to do something wonderful in honour of Northwold Manor’s silver birthday.

‘So you’re Miss Bellamy’s girls, are you? I used to know her father, old Peter Bellamy. I’ve hunted with him many a time when I was a lad. I must walk over and see Miss Bellamy one of these days and talk about old times.’

At last tea was announced by Sandy, who looked as though he had been through a rather disturbing interview with the distracted Mrs Wiggins. They trooped into the dining-room, where the big, shining, polished oak table was loaded with a real Yorkshire tea.

Mrs Wiggins had done her duty, and had shown no signs of the ‘turn’ she had got when Sandy appeared and announced that ‘the Colonel was off ’is ’ead again, and had been and gone and invited twenty-six young women to tea, and Mrs Wiggins was to get the best out, and lose no time about it.’

Mrs Wiggins knew her place, and ‘the best was out,’ four different kinds of jam, honey, and marmalade, currant bread, brown and white bread and butter, hot scones, raisin cake, and thin slices of real Yorkshire ham and hot, strong creamy tea.

Mrs Wiggins herself poured out, after first offering the post of honour to Miss Hudson with such deadly politeness that she hastily declined it. Sandy passed round hot cups of tea, and the Colonel skipped backwards and forwards, recklessly scooping out jam pots on to everybody’s plates.

‘If you had come last week we could have given you a better show,’ he exclaimed. ‘ ’Pon me word, Mrs Wiggins, we don’t often have to serve our guests out of china tea-pots, do we?’

Mrs Wiggins began to sniff dolefully. ‘I’d be obliged if you wouldn’t speak of it, sir. It makes me all of a trembling perspiration, though,’ turning politely to Miss Hudson, ‘I ’ope you’ll excuse me, miss, for mentioning such a thing.’

‘I don’t see why china tea-pots should make the old girl tremble,’ said Brigit, in such a loud whisper that the whole table heard her.

‘It’s not china tea-pots that make her tremble, young lady, but silver ones,’ roared the Colonel, then, getting up from the table, he strode to the big oak sideboard and flung open the doors, ‘Do you see inside there?’

The guests all said that they did.

‘Empty, ain’t it? Well, this time last week it was chock full of the finest old silver in Yorkshire. Why we kept it there only the dickens and Sandy knows, and how anybody got into the house beats me, but they did, and walked off with the whole lot—melted down by this time, I suppose. The police at Broadford don’t seem to be able to do anything but take notes, and keep me dancing all day at the telephone.’

‘Burglars!’ Monica gave a shriek.

‘Yes, young lady, burglars. But you needn’t be afraid, Sandy’s going to see you safely through the wood.’

The five Adventurers silently put down the raisin cake they were enjoying so intensely on to their plates, and looked at each other in dismay. ‘Burglars!’ Brigit gave Bobby a kick under the table and whispered, ‘I say, what about the hobgoblin?’ Bobby nodded, ‘We’ll have to tell, of course.’

‘Who’ll tell? I’m frightened to death of him.’ Pamela looked anxious. Bobby set her lips.

‘I will, of course. I saw him.’ She couldn’t eat another single crumb. Grown-up people were so alarming!

After tea she said in a very small voice, ‘Please, Colonel Welby, I want to tell you something, and Miss Hudson, too.’

Miss Hudson looked astonished, and the Colonel gazed down upon her as though she had been some curious little fly.

‘Oh, do you, young lady? Want to confess that you’re the burglar, or ask me for fifty pounds for your something-or-other League, I suppose. Come along then.’ He marched Miss Hudson and the trembling Bobby off to his study, and when he had heard every word Bobby had to tell about the hobgoblin’s house in the wood, he gave a long whistle.

‘Joe Spalding! By Jingo! and I’d have trusted him with all my fortune!’

‘But, Colonel Welby, what does it all mean? Who was this man the girls saw?’ Miss Hudson was becoming alarmed, and had terrible visions of police courts.

‘Joe Spalding! He’s been a gardener here for two years, the sly beggar, and knows every inch of the place, I suppose. He lives alone in the old gamekeepers’ cottage, and by Jove! thanks to these youngsters, I’ll have him out of it before another hour’s passed! Sandy!’

Sandy appeared.

‘Take these young ladies and put them safely on the road, and then come back like blazes. Excuse me, my dear young lady, I must get off to that blessèd telephone!’

The bewildered Miss Hudson and the wondering girls were hurried off the premises, but because hedges have ears the secret of the hobgoblin was not divulged until they were all gathered round the big schoolroom fire after supper; and although even Christine was impressed by the thrilling nature of the story, she did not forget her duties as a senior and allow the members of the Adventure League to pose as heroines!

After ten days had passed the old Colonel paid a visit to Miss Bellamy, and informed her, with many chuckles, that his family silver now once more reposed in the oak sideboard, and that Joe Spalding was enjoying two years as the king’s guest.

‘Jolly fine youngsters of yours!’ he remarked.

Miss Bellamy felt it her duty to remonstrate. ‘I am not sure if they are not very disobedient and curious.’

‘Come now, don’t say that. They have the sense to put two and two together, and I’m jolly grateful to them, by Jingo, I am. What’s that tale the pretty little fair-haired girl that was so dead set on poetry was telling me about the school’s silver birthday, eh?’

Miss Bellamy explained carefully.

‘Well, by Jove, I’d like to give the school a silver present as it has been the means of my getting my own collection back. What do you say to a silver shield? The little fair girl spoke of great deeds and all that, and, ’pon me word, they’ll want something to write ’em all down on, what?’

‘I think it would be splendid of you, Colonel, and the girls will be mad with delight.’

The girls were mad with delight, and the Committee of Good Works held a meeting to discuss the question.

‘Of course it’s all because I told him about our Silver Year,’ said Christine complacently. ‘I always think it’s so wise to let every one see how keen we are. In this case it has been the means of giving us a silver shield.’

‘That’s all you know about it then,’ cried Brigit indignantly. ‘What really did the trick was Bobby being so keen on seeing a hobgoblin!’

GOOD LUCK STILL WALKS BEHIND

The cold winter winds blew long at Northwold, and Robin searched the lanes in vain for those golden-clad messengers of Spring, the celandines, which she and Anne would have found long before in mild Surrey. It was a trying term, and Robin hated the long bleak walks on the moor where the north wind flayed her skin, the constant hockey practice under the indomitable Irene, and the early morning practisings in the music-room with fingers stiff with chilblains. She grew very homesick again for comfortable Nannie, dressing-gown suppers before the nursery fire, and all the delicious spoiling of home life.

The Easter examinations began early; and as good works were the fashion at Northwold, competition for the highest marks was unusually keen. As a rule, Robin worked fairly well because of her hatred of being considered stupid, and she was always first in English History—simply because she was intensely interested in anything connected with the exciting past. Strange to say, Monica came next in this subject, and rivalry between the two grew almost fierce as the term drew to a close.

Northwold Manor made a strong point of history; Miss Bellamy herself taught it in all the forms, and her examination papers were always considered to be ‘stiff’ by her pupils. Robin and Monica studied for the paper with feverish intensity. Robin because she knew how enormously it would please her father if she won the history prize, and Monica because her dearest ambition was to ‘pay out’ Bobbina. They had been studying the difficult reign of Henry VIII. during the term, and had also been attending weekly lectures given by Miss Bellamy to the whole school on ‘Famous Parliaments.’ Monica found it easy to ‘mug up,’ as she put it, any amount of Henry VIII., even to the characters of his six wives from Lives of the Queens of England, in the school library; but she loathed the parliamentary lessons, and had got her notes on the subject hopelessly muddled.

Robina was in the same difficulty; she had an excellent memory, and seldom forgot anything that really interested her, but she had such a habit of dreaming that half the lectures on parliaments had gone in at one ear and out of the other! But she was so anxious to carry home the coveted prize that she read up industriously even in the play hour, and set herself the hateful and monotonous task of learning columns of dates.

The day before the examination Miss Bellamy sent for her, which was rather puzzling, and a little alarming, too; for Robin had an uncomfortable feeling that she was still considered a very black sheep. She went down the big, stone staircase on her way to the head-mistress’s room very slowly, stopping at the bottom as she always did to look up at the portrait of old Peter Bellamy. Wherever she went his eyes seemed to follow her with jolly encouragement, just as they had done that first lonely day when she had entered school ‘all wrong,’ and stood cold and homesick in the big hall; and again on that awful evening when Miss Bellamy had talked so gravely about expelling a girl who ran away to the gipsies.

‘It’s all right, buck up, Bobby. Go in and win!’ old Peter Bellamy’s eyes said once more as plainly as possible, and Bobby ‘bucked up’ and knocked boldly at the closed door. There was no answer, although she knocked three times; and at last she softly turned the handle and walked in. The room was empty, Miss Bellamy had evidently just been called away, leaving her big writing-table scattered with papers. Robin stood still and looked round. Outside in the gathering dusk the moors rolled in cold mistiness, and within, on the dark walls, were the pictures she loved of the blue, burning skies of Italy. The window was open a little, and the heavy curtains were moving gently in the draught; for as usual Bobby had left the door open.

Suddenly a loose sheet of paper on the writing-table slipped down to the floor, and fluttered along in the draught to Robin’s feet. She looked at it unseeingly at first, then all at once the writing on it burnt itself into her brain: ‘History Paper.—Fourth Form. Question III.—What was the effect of the Dissolution of the Monasteries on the people generally?’ Robin stared down at it fascinated for a moment; then she went burning hot all over. It was the Fourth Form History Paper, and she had seen one of the questions! She stooped down quietly and picked it up; then carried it across the room as though it had been some dangerous bomb, and placed it upon the pile under the blotting pad from which it had fallen. Then she crossed the room again and stood like a statue by the fire.

Miss Bellamy came in hurriedly. ‘Well, Robina, how long have you been waiting?’

‘Only a very few minutes, Miss Bellamy.’

Bobby spoke in such a small voice that Miss Bellamy looked at her curiously.

‘Well, bring that chair over here by me. I want to talk to you. There, that’s right. Now, have you remembered that it is nearly six months since you came to school?’

Robin shook her head. In some ways it had seemed like six years since she had come to Northwold, and in other ways the time had flown.

‘Well, are you happy with us now?’

Robin thought for a moment. She could never be untruthful, but she hated to acknowledge that in some ways school was nice.

‘I like being at school for some things. It’s jolly being with the girls and getting up plays, and it’s lovely learning to paint, but I hate rules and Latin, and arithmetic, and singing in class, and walking two and two, and——’

‘Stop! Stop! I think I told you once before that I do not want to hear what you hate. All I want to know is that you are happy with us; and to tell you that I am pleased to see that your work is good, and sorry to hear that you have so many order marks. Don’t you think it rather silly to give yourself so many impositions just because you won’t remember to be tidy?’

‘Tidy rooms are so ugly, and tidy people are so uninteresting——’

‘But not so uninteresting as little girls who say silly things to try to be clever. Now run away to your practising.’

Robin got up and looked at Miss Bellamy miserably. ‘Miss Bellamy, I want to tell you something, please.’

‘Yes, Robina, I am listening.’

‘When you were out of the room just now, the History Paper for my Form blew off the table at my feet, and—and—I couldn’t help seeing the third question. I say—I mean I’m awfully sorry.’

Miss Bellamy looked shrewdly into the pale, distressed face.

‘Thank you for telling me, Robina. Do you mean you saw nothing on the paper except that one question?’

‘Only “History Paper—Fourth Form,” and just that question.’

Miss Bellamy lifted her blotting pad and glanced over the history paper; then she said slowly, ‘It was a pity it happened, but as it cannot be helped, I shall be satisfied if you tell me now what effect you think the dissolution of the monasteries had on the people. I can then make a note of your answer, and compare it with the one you write to-morrow.’

Robin thought for a moment, and then gave her answer rather breathlessly, and Miss Bellamy wrote it down without speaking.

‘That will do, Robina. We can both now forget about such an unlucky accident.’

Robin went away rather miserably. She had meant to read up history in all her spare time before to-morrow; but with that wretched third question dancing before her eyes, she was afraid to open a book, in case she chanced upon fresh information about the dissolution of the monasteries, which would not be playing the game at all in Bobby’s estimation. It was decidedly annoying, though, to return to the schoolroom and find Monica ‘mugging up’ as industriously as if she were president of the Committee of Good Works.

‘I say, Bobs, shall I hear you some of those beastly dates?’ asked Brigit. She was hopeless as to history herself, and felt only ambitious for Bobby’s success.

‘Thanks awfully, but I’m going to laze to-night. Let’s finish that ripping puzzle.’

Nobody in the world could have guessed that Bobby was aching to read history, and Monica smiled to herself with satisfaction.

The papers were given out the next morning in one of the smaller classrooms, with Miss Fox in charge for two hours and a half. Robin took her paper and saw with dismay that it was the very one of last night’s adventure, she could tell it by a small red blot under the word Fourth.

‘I suppose it will bring me ill-luck,’ she thought dolefully. ‘What rot that all is about horseshoes being lucky.’

The paper was stiff; but Bobby could have answered most of the questions on it quite well if it had not been for the unfortunate incident of the night before. No sooner did she begin to write what she knew to be good answers to the questions, than doubts would rush upon her. Suppose Miss Bellamy should believe that she had seen more than one thing! How dreadful it would be! The agonising part of it was that the questions on the paper all seemed to be on the very things she knew best, and yet all the other girls were sitting biting their pencils and looking absolutely distracted. She began to get nervous and confused; and lost time in puzzling over the date of a battle that didn’t matter in the least.

Monica suddenly began to write with such speed that the very sight of her industry and evident knowledge of the subject before her seemed to send all she knew out of Robin’s head, and she felt hopelessly dense even about Henry’s six unfortunate wives! Brigit, without the faintest glimmering of light on most of the questions before her, had given up the struggle long ago; and being lucky enough to be the farthest away from Foxy, she was employing her leisure by writing long letters to her family. Monica became thoughtful again, and played with her handkerchief and made dabs at her nose, which was always cold. Dilys Vaughan, also a keen history student, was the only one who seemed to be writing steadily.

Bobby, in a sort of confused dream of despair, cudgelled her brains to think of something brilliant to say about the Mad Parliament, and yet only the day before she had thought she knew all there was to know about it. Monica was writing industriously once more, and five minutes before the clock struck half-past twelve, she signed her name with a satisfied air, wiped her pen virtuously, folded up her finished paper, and whispered annoyingly, ‘I say, haven’t you finished yet? I’ve done all mine except that beastly bit about the monasteries.’

As the clock struck, Robin folded her own half-finished paper in despair, and Miss Fox came round and collected them all with her usual air of disapproval. She then dismissed the girls, and once outside the door every one began to talk at the same time, and to vow Miss Bellamy was ‘a toad’ to set such a stiff paper. But before they had reached the end of the corridor, Miss Fox had flung open the class-room door again, and called them all in peremptory tones to come back at once. They filed back into the room, wondering why Foxy was in such a wax now.

She was standing at the end of the long table, and her frown was decidedly alarming. ‘To whom does this handkerchief belong?’

She held up a handkerchief rolled up into a tight ball; though every one could see it had a pale pink border. Monica turned perfectly white, and fixed her eyes on Miss Fox with a strained look of fear.

Every other girl answered promptly, ‘It’s not mine, Miss Fox.’

Miss Fox examined the corner of the handkerchief, and then glanced at Monica with cold contempt.

‘I see it is yours, Monica. Kindly come here. The rest of you may go.’

They filed out again rather awestruck. Monica was a little beast, but she was evidently in for it now with Foxy for something; though what on earth the handkerchief had to do with it nobody could guess. Left alone to her fate, Monica still stared at Miss Fox with the same strained look of fear.

‘Come here.’ Monica crossed the room with lagging footsteps. ‘Did you write these?’

Miss Fox unrolled the tightly wrapped handkerchief which the unfortunate Monica had dropped from her blouse, where she had stuffed it, as she thought, so carefully, and pointed to a long line of dates and minute writing on the smooth white surface.

Monica cast herself on a chair and burst into a passion of tears.

‘Answer me at once,’ said Miss Fox severely.

‘Yes, yes; but I looked at hardly anything. Really and truly I didn’t, Miss Fox.’

The door opened softly and Miss Bellamy swept in.

‘Miss Fox, I wonder if you would mind—— Why, what’s the matter?’

‘This is the matter, Miss Bellamy. If you examine it, it will not be necessary to tell you anything further. I will leave that to Monica.’

Miss Fox passed the fateful handkerchief on to Miss Bellamy, who looked at the tell-tale marks with rising colour.

‘Can this be true, Monica?’

‘Oh, yes; but I looked at hardly anything, really——’

‘Kindly give me Monica’s history paper, Miss Fox, please.’

Miss Fox sorted it out from among the rest, and passed it gravely to the head-mistress, who deliberately tore it across and flung it into the waste-paper basket. Then she turned to the weeping Monica, who was now in the last stage of abject fear. Another picture rose before her—the figure of a little girl with gray eyes, and a mop of silky black hair and a little set pale face saying, ‘I couldn’t help seeing the third question. I say—I mean—I’m awfully sorry——’

‘Come into my room, Monica, please.’

Nobody ever knew what passed between them during the next half-hour—only a very quiet and chastened Monica emerged from the room and did not appear at the school dinner.

On consideration, Miss Bellamy decided that it would be best for Monica’s discarded paper to be judged with the rest; for she wished to drive her lesson home by every means possible.

The result of the history examination, which had been the cause of so many heart-burnings, was pinned up in the big hall the following evening:—

Brigit was indignant, and Dilys apologetic—for she knew that Bobby’s paper ought to have been better than her own, and guessed some unlucky happening. The ominous word by Monica’s name showed that some mystery not of a creditable nature surrounded the incident of the handkerchief; and consequently she was treated with cold politeness on all sides.

Robin adopted her usual don’t-careish attitude about the whole affair. But she did care very much; for it seemed as though the old gipsy woman’s words would never come true, and that Good Luck would walk behind her for ever and ever.

WILD WALES

It was as though Bobby’s troubles never came alone; for on the morning following the disappointment about the history examination there was a letter from her mother, containing the doleful news that all the vicarage children were down with measles.

Not to go home! This was the last straw for Ragged Robin! She retired to the Cave, and indulged in what Anne called ‘a real howl.’ But in the very middle of it Cherry came in, to put some crumbs down for the mouse that the Adventure Club had wickedly made a pet of for some weeks past.

‘I say, Bobs, what on earth’s the matter?’ she said in consternation.

‘Can’t I have a beastly cold if I like?’ sniffing miserably.

‘Don’t talk rot! You’re piping your eye. I don’t want to be a curious little toad like Monica, but after all, we’re chums, so you might tell me if anything awful has happened?’

Bobby liked Cherry, and she never forgot that she had been her only comforter on that first miserable day at school; so she dabbed her eyes fiercely and said: ‘Wouldn’t you call it awful if all your family went and had measles two days before the breaking-up, and you were told you had to stay at school?’

‘I say! What ghastly luck! Poor old Bobs! But do stop howling, because you needn’t stay at school.’

‘Where else can I go to? Home with Foxy?’

‘Don’t be a silly ass! As a matter of fact, I ought to be bellowing too.’ She took a fat letter out of her pocket. ‘My family hasn’t got measles, it’s got whooping cough, which is worse, because it lasts longer. Mum says I can’t go home either, and nor can Terence, my brother. Sickening luck, I call it. But we’ve got a cottage in Wales, a duck of a place, and we’re going there with Aunt Meg, and mum says I can invite a school friend if I like—so do be a sport and come, Bobs.’

Wales! The country of mountains and castles and battles, where the people were dressed in tall hats, like the doll Janet had given Anne long ago, and told them it was Welsh costume. Janet was Welsh herself, and proud of it too, according to her it was a wonderful country, where everybody could bake a loaf fit for a king, as well as sing like a nightingale! And the mountains! Bobby longed to see real mountains more than anything in the world.

‘Do you really and truly mean it?’ she said incredulously.

‘Mean it? Of course I do. I’d love you to come, and I wouldn’t ask every one, I can tell you. Terry’s such a quiz about my friends.’

Bobby became panic-stricken and cried, ‘I say, will he quiz me?’

‘Of course he won’t. You’re a sport. Very well, it’s settled, remember, and I’m going to write to mums at once.’

Robin wrote home too, and her mother replied immediately, giving her consent to the visit to Wales; for she was delighted to find such a delightful way out of her difficulty.

Going to Wales would be wonderful, of course; but Robin felt terribly homesick when she realised that she would not see her family until the summer holidays—another whole term to go through first—and if it had not been for the excitement of the breaking-up, prize-giving, and the last hockey match of the season, which brought a glorious victory to the Northwold team and therefore much rapture to Irene and the Committee of Good Works, she would have had to retire to the solitude of the Cave more than once to indulge herself in a private weep.

Cherry and Robin, with half a dozen of the girls, including the sedate Margaret Wells, who were travelling in the same direction, were put in charge of the guard, and the journey certainly proved more exciting than the hours spent with Miss Hudson’s party, because Brigit was also travelling westwards for some distance. Cherry’s Aunt Meg met them about fifty miles from their destination, and Robin, with the remembrance of once being sent on a seaside holiday in charge of Miss Pye, asked a great many searching questions about this lady.

‘She’s the sort of person that forgets you’re there two minutes after she has spoken to you,’ said Cherry. ‘Mummy must have been desperate to leave us to Aunt Meg’s mercies for a month, especially as Hannah can’t come too. Hannah is our old housemaid, and always comes to the cottage with us and does everything, but she’s gone to nurse her mother, and mummy can’t spare any one else, so Maggie Evans-Jones, from the grocer’s shop, is coming in every morning. Aunt Meg won’t know whether she comes or not. She writes books—the rummiest things—and she goes mooning out into the fields when everybody wants to go to bed, and goes to bed when every one else wants to get up. If you said to Aunt Meg, “Shall I skin the cat for lunch?” she say, “That would be charming, dear,” and then she’d make some rummy note about something she’d just seen out of the window.’

Robin began to look forward to seeing such an original person.

‘I don’t suppose Maggie Evans-Jones can cook for nuts, and Aunt Meg is sure to forget all about it. I expect you and I will have to do all the cooking.’

‘What fun! I can make rock cakes and baked custard,’ said Bobby gleefully.

‘Terry loathes baked custard. He likes messy things out of tins, and so does Aunt Meg. We always have a kind of picnic in the cottage.’

Aunt Meg was waiting at the station where they made their last change; but she never appeared when the train ran in.

‘She’s forgotten what she’s come for,’ said Cherry. ‘It’s a good thing we’re sensible kids. If we were kidnapped a hundred times over, Aunt Meg wouldn’t notice. There she is, over there by the bookstall of course!’

She marched across the platform to the bookstall, where a tall lady stood in a fluffy cream travelling-coat, and rather a floppy, picturesque hat perched all awry on quantities of fair hair. She was peering at a row of books with short-sighted blue eyes.

‘Hallo, Aunt Meg!’

The lady gave a start. ‘Oh, so you’ve come, Cherry. I couldn’t find your train, and the porters are so stupid. I was just wondering, dear, if I should buy some of those Nature books. They look so charming.’

‘You’ve got swarms already, Aunt Meg, and we shall miss the train,’ said Cherry uncompromisingly. ‘This is Bobby Dare, who’s come to stay with us.’

Aunt Meg turned from the Nature books reluctantly, and held out her hand to Robin. ‘I’m glad you’ve come, dear. Do you know, Cherry, the bluebells are out by the lakeside. I was there all morning. Terence wouldn’t come. He said some one had to see that Maggie aired the beds. He’s such a strange boy, I always think, don’t you, dear? What about your luggage? That porter over there has got such a nice face, I think. Do call him, dear.’

The nice-faced porter was summoned, and obligingly piloted them to a comfortable carriage all to themselves.

‘In ten minutes we shall be in Wales!’ said Cherry, ‘and then you’ll see how gorgeous it is!’

But at first Bobby found Wales a little disappointing—the fields were so flat, and the faint purple lines which Cherry said were the Welsh mountains, were only pigmies. Then suddenly it all became beautiful, and instead of flat fields there were golden sands where the sea lay cupped in big silver pools; and the sails of distant ships flashed white as the wings of the screaming sea-gulls overhead.

On this wild sea-land stood a ruined castle, which had once held prisoner a broken-hearted king. As the train flashed by its gaunt walls, Robin craned her neck eagerly. Castles, and kings, and queens fascinated her, and she wanted to have some thrilling tales to write to poor measles-stricken Anne. It was hard to know which window to choose. On one side was the sea, tumbling and curling in its silver loveliness over sun-washed stones; and on the other, the baby hills were growing into mountains, becoming higher and higher as they travelled, until their frowning grandeur was almost terrifying, and Bobby felt rather like some poor little ant waiting to be crushed. Then came another great castle; but its old gray walls, now cradled wild flowers instead of princes, and the blue sky roofed the bower where good Queen Eleanor had sat with her maidens. From side to side Robin jumped; first to the mountains and then to the river, that was as beautiful and shining as the pearls for which it was once famous.

During the whole time that Cherry had been showing Bobby the sights from the carriage windows, her aunt had been sitting with a far-away expression in her blue eyes, and writing rapidly in a black notebook very much the worse for wear, and she gave a terrible jump when Cherry asked suddenly, ‘Aunt Meg, did you tell Maggie Evans-Jones’s father to bring the coals?’

‘My dear, I do wish you wouldn’t. What do you want coals for on a day like this?’

Cherry gave a groan, and at the same moment the train drew up with a jerk, and Bobby was informed they were ‘there.’

A huge mountain, rising like some guardian giant behind the town; the sound of Welsh on all sides, and the total absence of high hats, white aprons, and check dresses were the first things that struck Robin as she stepped into Wales.

‘Aunt Meg! Aunt Meg! There’s John Davies. Do ask him to take up the luggage. He won’t do it for me, because Terry told him his toffee was disgusting.’

Aunt Meg wrung her hands, but secured John Davies’s services and they started to walk down the little hilly street. At the very end of it they turned down a sandy lane, and half-way down there was a whitewashed cottage standing in a garden ablaze with yellow wall-flowers. The front door was wide open, and on the strip of lawn lay a pile of pillows, mattresses, and blankets. On the top of them reposed at full length a long-legged schoolboy reading a magazine.

‘Hallo! What on earth are you doing?’ Cherry shouted, as they reached the gate.

The long-legged boy sat up. His hair was full of feathers and down, and he spoke with a slight drawl.

‘Airing the blessèd mattresses.’

‘Airing them? What for?’

‘Because they’re “simply squelchin’,” and Maggie Evans-Jones’s cousin, Emma Jane, died of “pewmonia” through lying on a “squelchin’ ” mattress.’

‘Where is Maggie?’ demanded Cherry.

‘Gone home. She says she’s fair sick of heaving over beds, but what she’s really after is a cup of strong tea.’

‘Well, isn’t there any tea here?’

Terence gave a grin. ‘No tea, no butter, no lard, no bacon, no cake, and no marge; and no shops open either. Aunt Meg, you are a rotter!’

Aunt Meg woke up at once. ‘You are a horrid boy, you mean, always wanting things to eat and worrying about beds, like some silly old maid! Come along, Cherry. We’ll make some cocoa for tea. It will be much better for you. How stupid it is that the shops always close on the most inconvenient day.’

‘Cocoa and bread and syrup. Oh, lor’!’ Terence slid off the mattresses with a groan.

‘Here is Robina Dare, Terry.’

Terry held out a languid hand, saying, ‘Awfully glad you’ve come, you know, and all that; though it’ll be pretty rotten luck for you getting “pewmonia” on a “squelchin’ ” mattress and living on cocoa and syrup.’

Turning to Cherry he said in a rapid aside, ‘What an awful kid! Why didn’t you bring that stunning Christine person?’

‘Christine! I should like to see Christine in the pig-sty!’

Cherry marched after Aunt Meg, followed by Robin, who was beginning to think that Terry’s aunt was not the only peculiar one in the family.

It was only too true! While Aunt Meg had been dreaming among the bluebells and Terence and Maggie making hay with the ‘squelchin’ ’ beds, the cupboard had been left as bare almost as Old Mother Hubbard’s.

Half a tin of syrup, part of a loaf, and some cocoa were the only things available for the hungry travellers, and the cocoa had to be boiled over the spirit lamp, because Maggie had let the kitchen fire out. Before the feast was eaten, heavy rain-drops began to fall on Terence’s mountains of beds, and the whole party was obliged to rush out and drag them in.

‘They’ll be more squelchin’ than ever,’ said Terence cheerfully. ‘I say, Robina, I’d sleep on a mackintosh if I were you. It would be beastly awkward for us if you got pewmonia like Maggie’s cousin, Emma Jane.’

‘Oh, don’t be absurd,’ cried his aunt, now wide awake, and walking aimlessly about from room to room, hoping nobody would notice she was looking for the key of the blanket chest. ‘If you’re such a silly old woman you can have my hot water bottle, and we’ll wrap you in a blanket.’

‘Anyhow the next thing to do is to rout Maggie out, and make Mrs Evans-Jones give us some bacon and tea for breakfast,’ said Cherry briskly, after she and Bobby had washed the cocoa cups and wiped them on a clean handkerchief. ‘Come along, Bobby.’

The rain had stopped, and the sea was as darkly blue as the bluebells fringing the little lake under the mountain. Away on the yellow sands the black, seaweed-strewn rocks were covered with pink seathrift. It was as though Robin looked at a world through rose-coloured spectacles, for behind the island that lay out at sea the sun was setting in clouds of trailing red and gold. The sweetness of the air raised her spirits too, for there is nothing like the winds that blow from the Welsh mountains for making hearts sing. The thought of Terence’s critical eyes, and the promised ‘squelchin’ ’ beds to lie on had made her a little homesick again, but now she skipped along by Cherry’s side to the grocer’s shop at the end of the village. There they routed out the reluctant Maggie, and induced Mrs Evans-Jones to cut bacon for them for to-morrow’s breakfast. Eggs for supper were secured too, and Terence, slouching in after them, filled his pockets till they bulged with tinned foods.

‘Always best to keep a tin of lobster or two under our pillows when Aunt Meg runs the show,’ he explained; and adding two pounds of biscuits to his hoard, he told Mrs Evans-Jones with a lordly air to put them all down in the bill.

Aunt Meg had found the key of the blanket chest in her pocket, and Maggie had made the beds, and altogether things looked more promising when they returned to the cottage. They had a rather uproarious supper of eggs and sardines in the tiny front parlour, and afterwards they walked round the little lake in the dusk and Aunt Meg told them some creepy tales of Welsh folklore. They slept peacefully on the much-discussed beds, and nobody had Aunt Meg’s hot water bottle, because she discovered she had come away without the stopper. Anyhow, Terence’s dismal prophecies were unfulfilled, for there were no cases of ‘pewmonia’ in the morning.

The weather was glorious, and Bobby was too much interested in her surroundings all day to be very homesick. The tiny Welsh village had been discovered by English visitors only recently, and life there was still very primitive. A handful of low cottages chained down to the shore to keep them from being hurled away by winter gales, had once housed smugglers and wreckers, and often on stormy nights the lifeboat was called out from its resting place in the big tarred shed on the beach.

Terence and the two girls paddled, prawned, and went fishing in David Evans-Jones’s old boat. They scrambled over the rocks until Robin was more ragged than she had ever been in the old tree-climbing days, and as sunburnt as an Indian. They managed to get cut off by the tide one morning, and were perched at the top of a slippery rock for six hours, with nothing to eat but half a dozen maize biscuits and a stick of chocolate. Then desperate, they walked through the channel up to their necks, and arrived home in a state that would have sent most maiden aunts into violent hysterics. But not Aunt Meg. She merely said, ‘Aren’t you rather wet, dearies?’ and went on writing her masterpieces.

Sometimes they came home to gorgeous dinners. Aunt Meg occasionally became aware of her duties, and hot joints, vegetables, pudding, and even Maggie’s way of serving them, were primly correct. But such banquets were rare, and on most days they dined on tinned salmon, pastry, and ginger-beer and other unwholesome viands, which would have made Nannie, still nobly wrestling with the measles victims so far away, simply writhe with horror! But nobody died of indigestion, and they were all as happy as sandboys, for Terence condescended to approve of Robin as ‘not a bad kid for her age.’

Then the weather suddenly changed. Black clouds came scudding up from the west, and the wind blew in such gusts that the cottage in the lane shook like a beaten hound, and the sand drifted in through keyholes and under doors with such annoying persistency that even the food was uncomfortably gritty.

Cherry and Robin lay wide awake in their bedroom facing the beach, sitting up every time the moon looked out for a moment from the masses of black, racing clouds, to watch the great, mountainous waves foaming and seething round the rocks. Robin was miserable. There were ships on that roaring sea, and her imagination began to dwell on wrecks and the cries of poor drowning sailors. Suddenly a rocket flew up in the darkness, and then another. Robin and Cherry sprang up, as a shrill whistle sounded ominously through the storm.

‘There is a wreck!’ cried Cherry. ‘They are calling out the lifeboat!’

Two doors burst open simultaneously, and Aunt Meg and Terence arrived on the landing with candles at the same moment as the shivering girls.

‘It’s the lifeboat!’ cried Terence. ‘I’m off!’ and, forgetting to be languid and indifferent, he jerked an overcoat over his night-suit and disappeared into the night.

‘Then I shall go too,’ said Cherry, with decision, and she made a rush for her clothes, followed by Robin.

‘We’ll all go,’ said Aunt Meg calmly, ‘but not until we’ve lighted the kitchen fire, put water on to boil, and brought down the blankets to warm. This house is the nearest to the sea, and who knows what poor creature will be welcomed in it to-night.’

The three dressed like lightning, every now and then taking a peep out of the tiny landing window at the big tarred shed on the beach, where brave men were working with all their strength. Lanterns flashed all round it. Bobby prayed that the wrecked sailors could see them too, and the sudden thud of hoofs thundering down the village street told them that the great cart horses from the mill were being hurried along to help to drag the lifeboat along the shore.

Fortunately, Maggie, who believed in making her work easy, had left a big pile of dry wood ready for the morning, and a roaring fire was soon lighted and the big kettles put on to boil. The blankets were arranged round the fire, and all the food the house contained placed on the table. Then Aunt Meg, still showing practical common sense in an amazing way, commanded the two girls to pile on every wrap they possessed, and turning down the lamp, they went out into the storm.

Robin never forgot the weirdness of the scene. There was no rain; but the wind was booming like great guns, and every now and then a fitful gleam of cold moonlight showed the wet, gleaming shore, and the quivering lines of creamy-brown sea foam scudding along as though driven by the spirit of the storm. The flickering lanterns lit up the faces of the men and women gathered round the great boat which the miller’s horses were going to pull down to the sea. There every hand was lent to drag her from the big tarred shed, and then began the journey to the waves, the horses floundering and panting through the wet, heavy sand, coaxed and encouraged by the miller himself. There was a wild cheer as she was launched, and then came the anxious time, when the dark speck on the waves could be no longer seen, and the wild booming of the sea made one shiver to think of more men launched upon it. Thrice the two girls returned to the cottage, and made up the fire and filled up the kettles, before a loud cheer proclaimed that the lifeboat was returning.

A hundred hands were outstretched to draw the wrecked ones ashore—five half-drowned sailors—the crew of a small smack carrying slate from Caernarvon and overtaken by the storm. Two of them had friends on the shore, and were taken in by them; but the other three were marched off to the cottage by Aunt Meg; and there they cast off their dripping clothes in Maggie’s clean scullery, and sat sheepishly, wrapped in blankets, before the huge kitchen fire—English did not come readily to their tongues—while Terry and the girls hospitably plied them with tinned lobster, jam, cocoa, chocolate biscuits, cold bacon and rhubarb tart.—Terence had eaten the last of the loaf at supper time.—The men ate their way through these dainties with stolid satisfaction, while their hostess hung their wet clothes on lines across the kitchen, and then every one went back to bed, leaving the guests to camp out in front of the blazing fire.

In the morning they were enough recovered to leave, after further raids on the cold bacon. They did not know in the least how to express their thanks, but they showed the gratitude they felt by the hearty grip of their horny hands when they said good-bye. The day was calm and clear, and only the wreckage on the shore told that the Storm King had ridden by in the night. The village was fairly full of visitors, and a great many of them were gathered round the lifeboat shed, where the men were still busy with ropes and tarpaulins. Terence was there too, and Robin and Cherry, watching the lifeboat men with new eyes: there was old Taffy Ellis, the lobster catcher, who was so remarkably like a lobster himself that he had been an object of mirth to them ever since they arrived. There were others, too, men they had regarded as stolid ‘natives,’ with no ideas beyond their pipes and lobster catching. Now they were heroes—men who had left their beds to rescue their fellows from a black, treacherous sea.

A thin little woman in a black bonnet suddenly stood up before the crowd. She was a Miss Golding, who lived in a tiny cottage by the lakeside, doing all her own work, and denying herself every comfort that she might give a little help to those poorer than herself. She had a small box in her hand, and she shook it timidly:—

‘Ladies and gentlemen, will you help the lifeboat? Last night you all heard the storm; perhaps, too, you heard the cheers for rescued men, and they lifted your hearts to sympathy with a great cause. For it is the lifeboat that saves the lives of our splendid fishermen and sailors—the backbone of our sea power. It is the lifeboat that maintains the finest characteristics of our race—courage, endurance, and humanity. The men who man the lifeboat represent the very spirit of heroic sacrifice, for they go out on perilous seas when all other boats seek refuge from the storm.

‘They risk their health, they risk their very lives, for love—they are all volunteers, as you know. But clothes and all these things that we see here cannot be bought for nothing, and the Lifeboat Fund in this village is very low. Will you help it, please? Here, in this tiny place there is nobody to give concerts for us, nobody to play for us, nobody to sing for us. We must plead for ourselves if the lifeboat is to be supported, and brave men are to be rescued from the cruel sea. Therefore, I ask you once more: will you help?’

These few halting words were spoken so nervously that the poor little body was trembling all over when she had said them, and the crowd, alas, as crowds will! began to melt away at the sight of a collecting box.

Bobby sat on the sand with her hands clasped. She had no money to give, but a wild idea was surging through her brain. ‘Nobody to sing for us——’ Suppose she sang! Would it fill the collecting box in the timid little lady’s hand?

With her heart beating wildly she got up quickly and crossed over to Miss Golding. ‘If you like, I’ll sing.’

Miss Golding looked at her in amazement. ‘Sing, my dear! Do you mean here—now?’

‘Yes, for the lifeboat, you know. I can sing.’

‘Thank you, my dear.’

Cherry, dumbfounded, followed Robin, and Terence, with true British horror of publicity, cried, ‘Grab hold of her, Cherry. We can’t be made to look silly asses like this.’

But it was too late. Robin stood quite still, thinking rapidly. She was going to sing for sailors, therefore it must be something about the sea. She threw back her head, and out came the bird-like notes:—

The crowd that had been melting away so quietly crept back again, and the rough fishermen in the big tarred shed put down their ropes noiselessly.

When the song was over Robin paused, then, before the silence was broken, she burst once more into music:—

There was such a burst of applause that Bobby became as scarlet as the winter breast of any robin. Miss Golding touched her softly. Her eyes were full of tears as she said gently, ‘Here is the box, my dear. Take it round now.’

Robin took it, and with scarlet cheeks, and skirts as ragged and disreputable as they were sure to be after three weeks of scrambling among rocks with no Nannie to mend them, she went shyly among the crowd with the empty box.

But it wasn’t empty long—it was soon so heavy she could hardly stagger back with it to Miss Golding.

She took it with glistening eyes, and kissed Bobby with trembling lips. ‘Thank you, my dear child. If I had a gift like yours in my old throat, I should never have to weary people with my silly speeches.’

As they left the shed the lifeboat men gave three rousing cheers for Bobby, and three for kind little Miss Golding.

Cherry was delighted, and Bobby wanted to hide herself. Terence was gruffly disapproving of the whole affair.

‘Not that you can’t pipe all right,’ he said, ‘I don’t say that, but the next time you want to do it in a crowd, let me know, and I’ll jolly well stay at home.’

But however much Terence disapproved, it was nice to think that the lifeboat box was full!

APPLE PIES

When they returned to Northwold, Cherry told the whole school how Robin had sung on the sea-shore for the Lifeboat Fund, for she was unselfishly proud of her friend’s talent.

Miss Bellamy heard about it too, and although she was not at all sure if Robina’s father would approve of his daughter standing up and singing to a seaside crowd, she was convinced that her troublesome pupil’s talent must be seriously discussed with her parents. Robin’s success at the Christmas play; the applause with which her songs had been received at the Easter concert; Signor Nessi’s enthusiasm over his pupil’s wonderful gift, and his boundless despair over her idleness; and now the story of fresh laurels in musical Wales, showed that Robin really did possess an unusual voice, even if Miss Bellamy had not had her own heart uplifted by the sound of the sweet, piping, bird-like notes.

She wrote to the vicar at length, telling him that she believed his daughter was the possessor of a very remarkable voice, and that every possible effort should be made to have it cultivated under the best masters if he wished her to have the brilliant career that her present teachers anticipated. It was early to think of serious voice training at present; but in Miss Bellamy’s opinion, Robina ought to begin to give more time to her musical studies generally, and should have extra lessons from Signor Nessi.

This letter caused great distress at the quiet vicarage. Robin’s mother was proudly happy but despairing too, for she had no idea how Bobby was to be given an expensive musical training after schooldays were ended. The vicar was gloomily depressed. He did not want a brilliant daughter—he wanted a useful one, who would take burdens off her mother’s shoulders in the house, and be his right hand in parish work. But Bobby was always troublesome and unexpected: she would probably want to go on the stage, now that everybody had turned her head about her singing, which was certainly worse even than being a land girl! If she had to be brilliant at all, he would have much preferred her to be a Blue-stocking, or to paint pictures, or even to write books.

Miss Bellamy’s letter was sent on to Aunt Emilia, who replied in her usual emphatic style. She declared she had always known Robina was a musical genius, and repeated the story about her christening, when her cries had never once fallen flat! Of course she must be trained, though unfortunately she could not see how the right training was to be given; for the vicarage would have enough to do with the boys’ education, and she and Uncle Timothy were desperately poor after the war, and so much expense with illness. All the same, she had quite made up her mind that Robina must have the extra music lessons immediately. She had meant to buy her new clothes when she came home for the summer holidays, ready for the autumn term; but perhaps it would be wiser to spend the money on the music lessons, and put all they could by for her serious training later. She would like Robin’s mother to write to the child and ask which she would prefer.

Unfortunately, Bobby disgraced her family by answering promptly that she very much preferred new clothes to new music lessons. To tell the truth, she knew that study under the old Signor instead of the Sugar Plum would mean longer and more strenuous practising, and less time to make plots and plans with the Adventurers; and besides that—though she adored singing ‘when she felt like it’—she was not yet old enough to appreciate the value of good teaching; and she could not help thinking that new hats and coats would be nicer than a musical career!

But her mother wrote so reproachfully that her heart smote her, and she replied that she would have the music lessons, as every one seemed so bent on making her miserable; and then she retired to the Cave for a weep; for it would be hateful to have to appear at school as a Ragged Robin once more; and she gathered from her mother’s letters that even a new outfit from Miss Simms’s unskilful fingers would be out of the question, and that last winter’s clumsy skirts and blouses would have to be her fate again.

The Committee of Good Works still flourished. Christine, as keen as ever, found that the juniors had returned to school after their long holiday rather slack, and forgetful of their good intentions to bring Northwold’s silver year to a wonderful close. But by earnest endeavour, and many lectures sweetly beseeching and pleading, she succeeded in fanning the flame of their enthusiasm, and soon nearly everybody was working hard for the good cause in class-room and playing-field.

Alison was painting a water-colour of Southwold village, tucked away so prettily under the moor; and as it progressed everybody was convinced that she would gain easily the silver medal offered by the Institute of Art at Broadford, and open to all students in the surrounding district. Alison herself had no hope, but her protestations were listened to without sympathy; for, as Christine said, it was well known that ‘real artists’ are hardly ever satisfied with their own work.

With the connivance of Miss Hudson the whole school paid a secret visit to Colonel Welby, and asked him not to present the silver shield until the anniversary day. He invited them all to tea in the hayfield, and it is to be feared that there remained very little of Mrs Wiggins’s ‘atrocious jam hoard’ after they had departed.

There was still another ambition to be fulfilled by the Committee of Good Works. The Mayor of Broadford—an enthusiastic cricketer himself in the past—had promised to present a small silver cup to the champion team of the six girls’ schools in and around the town. His own daughter was at Highbury, a large school in the place, and the most formidable rival of the Northwold team.

Irene, as captain, was indefatigable; and Miss Hudson, always an enthusiastic Games Mistress, threw herself into the task of training the team with such vigour that Brigit declared she would be a skeleton before the matches were over. Robin had never taken well to hockey, but cricket she began to like; or perhaps it was because cricket is played under blue skies and hockey under cold, gray, stormy ones—and singing birds love sunshine. In a very short time she was pronounced by Irene to be ‘quite good’ in fielding, catching, and throwing in, and a little later, when Jessica Bruce twisted her ankle so severely that she was ordered no more cricket that term, to the utter consternation of the team Irene chose Bobby to fill her place, and she found herself in the proud position of being in the eleven.

Altogether Northwold Manor was a much pleasanter place in summer than in winter; for chilblains disappeared with the north winds, and the gray, chilly moors were starred with summer flowers. Even the parcel her mother sent to her containing four stiff cotton dresses of crude colourings and the Miss Simms cut and style, could not make Bobby miserable while the sun was shining. She made up her mind ‘to simply loathe’ Signor Nessi’s music lessons; but even after the first one alone, she was forced to admit to Brigit that they were ‘jolly interesting.’ Music was his passion, and he composed wonderful studies for his pupils.

‘Listen!’ he would say. ‘To-day ze piano is going to tell us about the sea-shore, but I will not tell you first, little one, how he does it. No, because why? It is because you ’ave ze brain and imagination and ze notes are before you, and I ’ave shown you once—twice—is it not, all ze wonderful tings zese notes can do when we ask zem verry, verry nicely to sing to us. Now begin, little one. We are on ze sea-shore, and zere is sunshine and perhaps just a leetle, yes, a verry leetle wind.’ This was interesting and delightful too, and Robin began to interpret music and to love it. It was all so different from Miss Pye’s dreary scales and exercises, and Miss Swete’s brilliant precision, and it opened a new and fairy-like world to her.

Monica had returned to school undoubtedly a little less sure of herself; for the memory of the mysterious handkerchief of the history examination morning still rankled with most of her schoolfellows, and the Fourth—all loyal to Robin—gave her the cold shoulder. But she was determined to be a popular person by hook or by crook, and as she had now no longer any hope of ever being admitted as a member of the Adventure Club, she decided to start one of her own. Certainly she could only induce two persons to join it besides herself, Elsie and Joyce, but a great deal of whispering went on in corners, and meetings were held in the Hermitage.

If any member of the Fourth happened to saunter by when one of these important gatherings took place, all the better; and black paper was always carefully pinned over the windows as they approached and the door ostentatiously locked. But the worst of it was that not one of the three daring members of the New Adventure Club could think of a single brave deed! Certainly Elsie and Joyce made some wild suggestions, such as letting themselves down by a sheet from the dormitory window and having a moonlight picnic on the moor; or breaking bounds and visiting old Jenny Sikes at Southwold to buy apple cheese-cakes; but Monica pooh-poohed all their ideas as ‘too tame,’ though she privately thought them extremely dangerous. After many important meetings and discussions Monica made the original suggestion that they should make apple-pie beds for all the ‘stuck-up’ members of the rival Adventure Club.

‘I don’t call that very dangerous,’ cried Joyce, ‘considering they nearly all sleep in our dormitory. If you had suggested we should make Foxy or Maddy beds, there might have been something in it.’

‘And get a dozen impots added to all our other work! No, thank you,’ said Monica. ‘Besides, it is dangerous to make five apple-pie beds in different dormitories, considering how we’ll catch it if matron finds us upstairs before it’s time to change. We shall have to creep up and do it somehow, and we’d better begin to collect the things.’

‘Brigit loathes snails!’ said Elsie thoughtfully. She had quarrelled with the hot-tempered Brigit that morning over the possession of the largest atlas!

‘Then she shall have snails,’ said Monica, with satisfaction. ‘Only you two must collect them, you know how I hate creepy-crawlies.’

Monica, always feeling a special antagonism to Bobby, made herself responsible for her enemy’s bed, and spent much time in thinking out a fitting revenge. A great many nettles and thorns, a pincushion, some rusty nails, a hockey boot and a dead mouse found in the shrubbery, were collected in readiness for the following night. Elsie and Joyce also worked hard, and were ready with stones, hair-brushes, wet sponges, snails, and blackberry brambles, for the other four ‘apple-pies.’ Matron was out the following evening, which reduced the danger of the adventure almost to a minimum, greatly to the disgust of Elsie and Joyce, who undoubtedly possessed the ‘spunk’ of which the rival Adventurers so deeply deplored the lack in Monica.

‘Well, it can’t be helped!’ declared their leader, but she took care never to divulge the fact that she had laid her plans to tally with the matron’s absence. ‘Besides,’ she added, ‘there’s always the risk of meeting Foxy on the landing, or Maddy coming back from powdering her nose.’

But they met nobody as they crept along the corridors the next evening, while the other girls were enjoying their recreation in the garden, and the five beds were made without any alarms at all. But as Monica, who determined to make her apple-pie an artistic triumph, and therefore taking longer over it than the others, was quietly creeping back from the South Dormitory, she met Brigit bounding up the stairs also bent on breaking rules, though neither said anything as they passed each other. The fact was that Brigit had a large bag of toffee to dispose of, bought in Northwold that afternoon while Maddy was absorbed in sending off a parcel to her ‘chère Maman,’ and intended for private consumption in the dormitory with her special cronies that night. Toffee is uncomfortable stuff to keep tucked inside your blouse while practising bowling; so she also was paying a secret and hurried visit to the dormitory.

Once there she looked round hastily. Matron had an annoying way of opening drawers, and too much toffee-eating was forbidden. Her bed seemed the only safe place, so she turned it down hastily, and if the conspirators who had left the room only a few minutes before could have heard her stifled yell, they would have felt rewarded for their efforts. Certainly Brigit did loathe snails, and those that reposed under her sheet were particularly fat and loathesome ones! Brigit was quick-witted, and the vision of the guilty-looking Monica creeping down the corridor instantly flashed into her mind. Quick as lightning she turned down the other beds and made sure that only those always occupied by Pamela and Dilys were of the ‘apple-pie’ order.

Then she darted down the corridor to the Long Dormitory, and there, as she expected, found the same pleasant surprises prepared for Bobby and Cherry. ‘Little beast!’ she thought. ‘Not an original idea in her head as usual, and just like her to use that poor duck of a mouse for her silly jokes. Never mind. We’ll see.’ Fortunately, bowling practice was not compulsory that evening, and she sought out her four chums at once, and imparted to them her news.

‘The little wretch!’ they all cried. ‘What shall we do?’

‘Go upstairs and move every single thing, and then turn the tables, of course!’ Robin’s eyes glistened; she couldn’t bear to think of the little brown mouse. ‘And I’ll tell you how we’ll do it, girls,’ she cried, ‘with creepy-crawlies!’

‘Not enough time to catch any,’ said Brigit ruefully.

‘What about the caterpillars?’ asked Bobby gleefully.

It had been the fashion among the juniors for some months past to collect caterpillars of all descriptions; and nearly every girl had her own particular cardboard box with well-bored lids, containing the favourite feasts of the treasured specimens inside. These boxes with the names of their owners written boldly on them, were kept on the side window sill of the bicycle shed, and not for all the bribes in the world would the shuddering Monica have gone near them. There was keen competition among the collectors, and the owner of a rare specimen was regarded with the greatest envy.

‘I shall take jolly good care my Elephant Hawk Moth doesn’t sleep with Monica,’ cried Cherry.

‘Nor my duck of a Puss Moth,’ said Pamela.

‘We only want one box,’ said Bobby, ‘and we can have mine. They’re nearly all Woolly Bears, and those Loopers that make her yell so. Anyway, we shan’t let them out. Fancy letting Monica squash them! We’ll just put the box in her bed with the lid closed. After seeing them she’ll have an awful night imagining her bed’s full of them.’

‘And serve her right too!’ said Brigit disgustedly. ‘She’s in the Hermitage now, so we’d better unmake our beds and make hers as quickly as we can.’

Brigit, Dilys, and Pamela crept upstairs to remove all traces of Monica’s villainy, and Bobby and Cherry paid a roundabout visit to the bicycle shed, and returned with the box of innocent Woolly Bears. This was placed in the very middle of Monica’s bed, and the sheet was folded back again with matron-like preciseness.

When the dormitory door was shut that night, Monica and her fellow-conspirators hugged themselves with glee, wishing devoutly that they could see through two brick walls the faces of their three victims in the South Dormitory. They dawdled over their undressing on purpose to have a good view of Bobby and Cherry when they turned down their beds. Bobby and Cherry, on the other hand, made haste to get into bed, yawning prodigiously and declaring they were longing to go to sleep.

First Bobby threw back her bedclothes, straightened her undersheet carefully, and jumped into bed as though thorns and nettles and poor little dead mice had never existed. Monica and the others were thunderstruck, especially when Cherry followed Bobby’s example. What on earth had happened? If the matron had come round and found them out there would be a nice row in the morning, and Monica began to shake.

Nothing could be said, of course, and Elsie and Joyce got into bed, while Monica slowly braided her last sleek plait. Then she turned down her bed with her usual slowness and gave an ear-piercing shriek. It was getting dusk in the dormitory, which made the creeping, crawling forms of the dozens of caterpillars in the bed look all the more fearful! For they had escaped from the box after all! In her hurry Bobby must have pushed aside the lid in drawing up the bedclothes, and several ugly black and green loopers were journeying in a terrifying way across the pillow, while fluffy Woolly Bears wandered in all directions. Fortunately for every one concerned, the matron had not returned, and Miss Bellamy and her staff were enjoying the lovely evening out on the tennis lawn at the other side of the house. The senior girls were still in the garden too. Monica, sobbing with terror, leapt on to a chest of drawers, and the other girls jumped out of bed and began to catch caterpillars, with immense concentration.

‘How mean! how mean!’ screamed the victim. ‘And you needn’t think I don’t know who did it, Robina Dare. There’s your name as plain as a pike-staff on the box.’

‘Sh—sh!’ cried all the girls. ‘Do stop that awful row. Dora will be up in a minute. It’s struck nine!’

‘And I jolly well hope she does,’ stormed Monica. ‘You needn’t think I shan’t tell, Robina.’

‘Tell away!’ cried Bobby, calmly continuing her caterpillar hunt. Her treasures were now sticking to the blankets with annoying persistency, and she feared losing them far more than Dora’s wrath. At a fresh howl from Monica, Dora did appear, bursting into the room with angry impatience, for she was unusually sleepy.

‘What on earth’s the matter now?’ she cried.

‘Robina’s stuck my bed full of beastly caterpillars,’ sobbed Monica, ‘and I shan’t sleep in it, whatever you say, Dora, so that’s all about it.’

Dora surveyed the unlucky bed with cold contempt. ‘An apple-pie bed!’ she said scornfully. ‘I should have thought you’d have had more brains than that, Robina——’

‘My brains helped,’ said Cherry calmly. ‘I——’

‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ replied Dora, still scornful. ‘Well, anyhow, if you’re so fond of caterpillars, you can sleep with them, and give Monica one of your beds. You deserve to be reported for such silly behaviour, but we don’t care about your being loaded with impots when we want you in the cricket field. But you needn’t think you’re going to get off without any punishment, and everybody who’s had anything to do with this silly plot will come up to Christine’s room to-morrow at four o’clock, and she will deal with you. Now kindly put the last of those creatures into its proper place, and go to bed at once. Monica, I wouldn’t be such a cry-baby, if I were you.’

Fearing her own crimes would be discovered next, Monica was at last persuaded to get into Bobby’s bed—the farthest away from the caterpillar-ridden one—and Bobby put the last fat Woolly Bear on a nice juicy nettle leaf, and went to bed too, undisturbed by any nightmares of ‘creepy-crawlies.’

The next day the five culprits presented themselves reluctantly in Christine’s room; but as she had gone to Broadford, to the dentist, Margaret administered justice.

‘To waste your time doing silly things of that description shows plainly that you haven’t enough to occupy you,’ she said severely. ‘Anyway, as you are all so presumptuous, it will do you good to do a little fagging. You can come up here for half an hour every day for a fortnight and see how you like that!’

‘Fagging!’ said Brigit, with disgust, as they flew downstairs. ‘I suppose that means washing up their cocoa cups—they’re always swilling cocoa—and rushing up and down like errand-boys.’

‘Next time Monica makes apple-pie beds I’ll call Dora to look—just see if I don’t,’ cried Cherry.

‘Anyway, I’d rather be St Christine’s fag than be Monica,’ said Robin, and she marched away to count her Woolly Bears with complete satisfaction.

THE POETIC MUSE

But fagging for the seniors did not mean washing cocoa cups and running errands. St Christine, looking particularly pale and suffering after a painful visit to the dentist, lectured the delinquents with sweet forbearance on the iniquity of playing practical jokes; and then she set them down to copy out some of her numerous schemes for the celebration of the Anniversary Day before putting them before the Committee.

Christine had always some new scheme on hand, and to do her justice she usually carried it out and knew how to make others help her too. The latest idea was that there should be a very special number of the school magazine issued, containing only contributions from the very best talent obtainable at Northwold, to be presented to Miss Bellamy on the important day. Every Form was to compete for the honour of contributing to it, and the best essay, poem, story, and sketch, was to be published in the number. Christine suggested that the teaching staff—Miss Bellamy excepted, of course—and Mr Perkes the curate, who was by way of being literary, should be the judges of the work sent in, so that fairness should be the first aim. There was also to be a competition for the best cover design, and the artistic ones began to rack their brains for original ideas.

‘What a snub it would be for Christine and Margaret if we won the prize poem!’ cried Brigit. ‘Do let’s try, Bobby. You’ve got plenty of brains and lots of ideas.’

‘But the worst of it is there’s hardly anything that rhymes with silver,’ said Robin thoughtfully.

‘Well, let’s do it in blank verse,’ cried Brigit, not to be daunted. ‘We could make it lovely and poetical without turning our hair gray over rhymes.’

‘Remember the Sugar Plum’s going to be on the Committee,’ said Cherry. ‘She’ll hate blank verse. It isn’t gushing enough.’

‘And Foxy loves Longfellow. Oh, dear! We shall never please them all. I shan’t try,’ said Pamela.

‘And Mr Perkes adores Spenser and all the Elizabethans, and Christine’s A1 in that sort of thing, so it’s quite hopeless,’ murmured Dilys.

‘Anyway, I shall have a shot,’ announced Brigit. ‘It would be jolly to have something printed, and Christine never will accept any of the brilliant parodies and riddles I send in.’

‘If we have to please everybody we shall have to have a shot at Wordsworth too,’ said Pamela. ‘Miss Bellamy’s always quoting him.’

‘Well, that’s easy enough!’ cried Brigit. ‘Some of Wordsworth is awful rot. I read no end of him once, when I had chicken-pox at home and couldn’t find another single thing in the room. You could begin like this:—

‘My dear child,’ murmured Cherry in Christine’s dulcet tones, ‘I do hate to discourage you, as I am so anxious that you should be really keen about my idea, but it won’t do. The lines have no style and no form. In fact—I hate to say it—but it’s not poetry at all. But do try again, dear.’

‘I bet Christine’s sat up in bed every night using up simply reams of paper and gallons of ink writing something really poetical,’ said Robin.

‘Rather—she’s awfully keen on Mr Perkes thinking her clever.’

‘Anyhow, I’d jolly well like to go home with the prize poem in my pocket,’ said Cherry. ‘It would be such a splendid squash for Terence.’

‘Not such a squash as it would be for Christine,’ said Brigit wickedly. ‘We’ll simply have to stop being brilliant, and let her win, girls.’

‘I’m not going to kill myself over poetry,’ said Dilys, with decision. ‘I couldn’t rhyme to save my life. I shall try for the cover design though, now I know Alison doesn’t mean to compete.’

‘But there isn’t time!’ cried Brigit. ‘What with lessons and cricket, and cricket and lessons all day, I’ve never even had time to cuddle my Woolly Bears lately, and that duck of an Elephant Hawk Moth has escaped.’

‘Anyway, it’s gorgeous to think we’ve licked Winterton House and Bexley College,’ said Cherry. ‘Come on, Bobs. Frances wants us to field, and I don’t care, now we’re winning!’

Christine had certainly succeeded in her great ambition of making the school keen during that summer term; for the Northwold Manor team had been victorious in every match they had played, and every Form was working hard for scholastic honours. Also, when work and play were ended, so many would-be poets were to be seen sitting in corners waiting vainly for the Muse to come to their aid that Irene, who wasn’t poetical at all herself, vowed it got on her nerves, and that if she caught any of the cricket eleven being so idiotic, she would keep them at batting and bowling all day!

Artists abounded, too, now that the gifted Alison had retired modestly from the competition, and to the delight of the Adventure Club Cherry’s design was chosen for the special anniversary number of the magazine.

On thick, creamy vellum she had painted a border of deep purple heather, bound with silver ribbon. In the centre, in quaint silver letters, were the words:—

This design, representing the school colours of purple and white, and conveying so prettily the idea that the school was among the heather, was pronounced by the judges to be the most suitable, as well as being excellently painted, and although Cherry had given up hope of blossoming out as a poet, she looked forward to ‘squashing’ the languid and critical Terence with the news of her artistic success.

But the judging of the poetic efforts of the school was not so easy a task, although Mr Perkes and the teaching staff derived a great deal of amusement from the humorous, tragical, sentimental, and doggerel verses sent in for their perusal. Mr Perkes would have liked to print all of them, ‘to encourage the little dears,’ as he put it; but with that strict disciplinarian, Miss Fox, who believed in sternly discouraging the said little dears whenever possible, on the Committee, he was kept well in hand.

Robin’s poem he particularly picked out, because he argued that it showed a very pretty imagination; but Miss Fox and Miss Hudson both declared they could see nothing in it at all. They never knew that Bobby had written it on the sill of the dormitory window one night when the moonlight was flooding the moor, and her wild little heart was almost bursting with the beauty of it all. Miss Fox and Miss Hudson probably had their own blinds down that night, and could not understand what she had tried to express in her little song:—

Joan Travers had been present when Brigit had hastily made up her impromptu lines in the supposed Wordsworthian style, and, profiting by what she had heard, she began her own effort in this way:—

This was taken as personal by Miss Fox, who happened to be the grammarian of the school, and the ‘poor kid,’ Joan Travers, was stuffed with lectures as well as dates and grammar to such an extent that she declared she wished that she’d never tried to be poetical at all!

Brigit, who loved to parody, took it into her mischievous head to murder ‘A Psalm of Life,’ and incidentally to annoy Miss Fox, who had inflicted upon her a hundred lines for not knowing it. So she sent in the following verses:—

This had the desired effect on Miss Fox, who unfortunately had no sense of humour whatever, and Brigit was requested to parse and analyse the whole of the Psalm of Life, as a punishment, so that she joined Joan in the determination to have nothing more to do with the poetic Muse. Mr Perkes was secretly amused, and put the parody in his pocket with Robina’s song to show Miss Bellamy later.

The end of it all was that Christine’s rather cold, polished verses in the Elizabethan style were pronounced to be decidedly the best; and this judgment prevented any heart-burnings, as even the Anti-Christine League were unanimous in saying that Christine’s verses were really ‘spiffing.’

‘I can’t think how she does it,’ said Brigit disgustedly, still wrestling with the Psalm of Life in the recreation hour. ‘I’ve got an uncle that can write poetry, simply spouts it out, my loves, but the only thing I’ve inherited from my relations is my Aunt Jill’s absolute loathing for grammar. I’d like to see Longfellow’s face if he could see me writing out all this rot; after all the gush he wrote, too, about the Children’s Hour.’

‘Well, you know, you brought it on yourself,’ said the others unsympathetically; and they all departed to enjoy themselves except Robin, always a faithful friend, but, alas! no more good than Brigit as a grammarian!

There were few competitors for the writing of the best essay, and Margaret Wells won easily with her rather learned paper on ‘Schools—Past and Present.’

Monica, always anxious to impress her family, sent in a poem, a story, an essay, and a picture, and when all her attempts were repudiated, she announced it was no good trying, because Mr Perkes and the rest of the judges had favourites, everybody knew!

To the delight of the juniors, Ursula Brett, a clever child in the Third Form, had her story chosen, which meant that for once the Lower School was almost as well represented as the Upper in the School Magazine.

No sooner was this much-talked-about number ready for publication than the whole school was thrilled by an announcement by Miss Bellamy. She suggested that when the last match was played (loud cheers), and the term examinations over (not so many cheers), and if the weather should be absolutely fine, dry, and settled, that the whole school should spend the last three days of the term in camping out on the moors (loud and prolonged cheers). This surprise was totally unexpected by the girls; for though they always spent the mid-term holiday in picnicking out of doors and sometimes carried out their lunch when on botanising or geological expeditions, anything so delightful as camping in earnest for three whole days had never been anticipated.

Miss Hudson, intensely keen on an open-air life, scouting, and physical exercise, had suggested the idea to Miss Bellamy; and the head-mistress had given her consent because she was extremely pleased with the way in which the girls had worked during the term; and because she thought, too, that a few days of play as well as work in the moorland air would be beneficial to everybody.

‘When I say “camping” I mean that we shall live out of doors the whole day and do our own cooking and look after ourselves,’ she explained. ‘But as the time will be so short, I do not think we shall carry sleeping tents for so many. We must try to find a large comfortable barn, and house you all in that at night time.’

This was rather disappointing news for the Adventurous Five, who had anticipated sentry duty outside moonlit tents and exciting encounters with midnight thieves; but as Bobby whispered, ‘Gipsies often sleep in barns, and it would be lovely getting your hair full of straw.’

‘Not so lovely though as seeing Foxy getting hers full,’ replied Brigit wickedly. ‘Won’t it be perfect? And, of course, she’ll have to sleep in the barn, too!’

ROUND THE CAMP FIRE

As the last cricket match of the season approached, the excitement in the school grew so intense that even the delightful prospect of camping out was almost forgotten. The Highbury College girls were formidable rivals and their team possessed two fine bowlers. They had beaten Northwold more than once in the past, too, which made Irene’s team a trifle nervous. The final match was to take place at Broadford in the playing-field of Highbury. The Mayor, keenly interested in the contest, intended to preside, and altogether the match promised to be exciting. Miss Bellamy and her staff and all the girls packed themselves into wagonettes on the eventful day, and Mr Perkes, always faithful to the school, followed on his bicycle, determined to cheer Northwold to victory.

Joe Creadle and Sally, also anxious to uphold the honour of the school, tramped along the dusty road in their Sunday best, with sixpences clasped in their hot hands all ready to buy ‘sweeties’ for sucking during the entertainment. Meggie Rudd, Mrs Rudd, and the four white-haired boys stood on their doorstep and cheered wildly as the wagonettes passed; and Mrs Rudd waved the twins as though they were two fat little white flags. A black cat was sitting on the doorstep, too, a lucky sign which cheered Irene wonderfully!

The cricket ground was crowded with fathers and mothers, uncles and aunts, and other interested onlookers, and the Highburyites who were not playing in the match were sitting on the grass well in the foreground, ready to cheer their team to the echo. The Northwold Manorites sat down too, and from the moment that Irene placed her field to the exciting finish, these flushed enthusiasts kept up the spirits of their side with desperate loyalty.

There were terrible moments when all seemed lost; for there was not the least doubt that the bowlers of the rival team knew their game and bowled straight, swift, and of good length, and their batting was excellent. There was a moment when the whole field held its breath, as Brigit caught the ball with such brilliance that from that instant luck returned to the Northwold Manorites; and though their rivals still played well they showed a nervousness which proved disastrous to their side’s success. When Frances sent down a deadly ‘yorker’ the whole field joined in the cry of ‘Well bowled! Well bowled!’ and Joe Creadle waved Sally’s best hat with sticky fingers in his excitement, while Mr Perkes fairly danced. At four o’clock amidst wild cheers the match was won for Northwold by four wickets, and at five o’clock, after tea with their defeated but sporting rivals, the Mayor presented the enraptured Irene with the coveted silver trophy.

The excitement of the thrilling match over, the weather, which had been hot and dry for days, was watched with breathless anxiety; for Miss Bellamy was resolute in her determination to camp out only if it looked really settled. But each burning day was succeeded by another, and the moors were beginning to show great patches of purple heather. Each girl was to carry her own kit, consisting of a blanket, a complete change of clothes, waterproof, sponge, toothbrush, camp knife and fork, spoon, cup, and plate, water bottle, writing tablet, sketching block, pencils and paints.

The place chosen was four miles away, a moorland village called Updale, where a big farm always known by the villagers as ‘up at Turry’s,’ would supply the campers with milk, butter, and eggs, and also a huge barn to be used as a dormitory. There were bed rooms at Turry’s, too, for Miss Bellamy, who said she was too old for barns, and for Mademoiselle, who disliked straw in her hair.

‘It is because that in a barn one must wear “une robe de nuit très solide,” mes amies,’ announced Cherry. ‘Maddy likes to wear something really “chic,” like that thing she lent Bob ages ago, and she likes sleeping nice and stuffily, too, with all the windows shut tight; imagine her in a barn shrieking out about the “vilain courant d’air” and the rats all night!’

‘Rats!’ shrieked Monica.

‘Of course,’ said Brigit maliciously. ‘You surely don’t think there could be a barn without rats in it? Shouldn’t be surprised if we were all eaten at the end of three days like that rummy old chap, Bishop Hatto.’

‘It will be pretty awful having bats flying round your hair all night,’ said Bobby, also enjoying herself.

‘It’s the spiders I dread,’ shuddered Pamela. ‘They are always so horribly monstrous in barns. Besides, I’ve heard of those huge ones poisoning people with their bites. It makes me shiver to think of their hairy, thick legs.’

‘Our gardener found an adder in a barn once,’ added Dilys sweetly.

This was too much for Monica, who marched off with the intention of writing to her mother, asking her to object to the barn idea on account of Monica’s colds. Which was exactly what the Adventurers desired, as she was looked upon by them all as a ‘spoil sport.’

The weather remained perfect, and early in the morning, immediately after breakfast, Miss Hudson, who was in command of the expedition, marshalled her forces and inspected them with the military precision she loved. Miss Fox, in an amazingly unbecoming but serviceable costume, was also to be of the walking-party, but Miss Bellamy, Miss Swete, who was delicate, Mademoiselle, whose heels were too high for long walks, and a few of the younger and less sturdy girls were to drive to the camp in one of Wiggins’s wagonettes. The camp blankets were also to be carried in this way, for the weather was hot, and Miss Hudson had no wish to render first aid to fainting blanket-laden pilgrims.

This was a disappointment to Robin; she liked the idea of marching along a dusty road with all her belongings on her weary back gipsy-way; and Brigit agreed with her that when wagonettes carried Mademoiselles, pots, and pans, and blankets, everything was spoilt.

‘And Foxy’s carrying a lot more maps and things than I like to see,’ grumbled Cherry. ‘I saw her simply shovelling them into that knapsack thing she’s got. I don’t like it, girls. I believe she’s planning a “geographical walk,” or some beastly thing like that.’

‘I always get lost on a geographical walk,’ said Brigit with a grin. ‘Simply can’t help it. I’ve got my nose so close to the ground studying geology, that I simply don’t know where I am till Foxy’s disappeared. You follow me, girls, and I’ll take you to more interesting places than Foxy will find in a year with a thousand maps.’

When Miss Hudson had inspected each girl’s boots and neatly rolled knapsack, she gave the order to march in fours and they filed out of the big gates; while Joan Travers, Ursula Brett, and the few other girls considered not strong enough for the march to the camp, cheered them enviously from the balcony over the great stone porch, and bitterly regretted that they had ever rebelled so fiercely against taking cod-liver oil and other strengthening things in their nursery days.

Less than two miles had been travelled along the hot road, when Brigit remarked she saw no sense in hiring wagonettes and then letting every one fag themselves to death carrying mackintoshes, and Cherry added that it was pretty cute of some people to look pale and thin, and drive about like queens because of it. Monica declared she would faint if Miss Hudson didn’t let her drink the whole contents of her water bottle at once; and only Robin marched doggedly on without a single protest, carrying her burdens; but then Robin wasn’t a schoolgirl marching into camp at all, but a lonely gipsy girl crossing a wild moor with all her possessions on her back; and imagination is a wonderful travelling companion.

It was not until they reached a wayside stream overhung with shady trees that Miss Hudson called a halt; and then they sat on the cold stones and drank moderately from their water bottles, while Miss Fox industriously studied one of the suspected maps and told them that if they would look carefully to the west where the moor rose they would see the remains of an ancient tumulus. The Adventurers obligingly looked westwards and expressed suitable amazement, hoping secretly that Foxy would fall into a bog with her map as soon as possible. But Christine, always anxious to improve her mind, asked so many questions about the tumulus, that Miss Fox, extremely gratified, promised an expedition there as soon as they had settled in camp!

They then marched onwards once more and soon came upon the gray cottages of Updale, the square-towered church and Abel Bassett’s shop which supplied the village with bread and groceries, meat and postage stamps and all the local gossip. A little brook, as noisy as the housewives trundling mops and pails outside their cottage doors, came tumbling down from the moor right through the village; and there stolid, rosy-cheeked Yorkshire lads and lasses sailed paper boats and fished and got themselves deliciously grubby and wet. When they saw Miss Hudson and her battalion approach they ran to fetch their mothers, so that they too could enjoy the strange sight of ‘a lot o’ wenches marching along like sojers!’

Turry’s farm lay in the sunshine rich and prosperous; its hayricks like a little cluster of round, golden-thatched cottages; the roofs of its roomy old barns more vivid and beautiful than the colours on an artist’s palette. The very cocks strutting round the hayricks as gorgeously plumed as peacocks, seemed proud of Turry’s. Away beyond the farm stretched the moors, rising up and up to Windy Heights; black, heather-covered crags where all day the peewits sang their sad little song about their lost children. But round Turry’s the moors lay in the sunshine and the songs that the larks and the tumbling brooks sang were as gay as the wild flowers that grew over the old low stone walls near the farm.

‘That’s our barn,’ said Miss Hudson, pointing to a big low building standing farthest away from the farm.

‘It’s all perfectly heavenly,’ sighed the emotional Christine, and Brigit, heartily sick of looking what she described as a ‘girl scout,’ cried out, ‘Oh, Miss Hudson, can’t we break line and run?’ And Miss Hudson’s soldierly heart relented, and in spite of Miss Fox’s stony disapproval she gave her consent. Weariness and grumblings were all forgotten, and there was a wild rush to the barn, and as they reached it the wagonette party came slowly up the hill towards the farm.

Farmer Turry, an immense man, who spoke such broad Yorkshire that Robin wondered what language he was talking and admired Miss Bellamy for understanding it, conducted them to their sleeping quarters himself, proud of its clear spaciousness. There wasn’t a sign of a spider, a rat, nor a bat, only the silver flash of the swallows’ wings as they soared from their nests under the eaves through the wide open doors. The dry, clean straw heaped on the wooden floor looked more tempting even than the plump feather beds in the low-roofed bedrooms at the farm; though Mademoiselle shrieked at the thought of anything so unrestful.

Miss Hudson set everybody to work stuffing the sacks that the farmer had provided with the clean straw for bedding; and when this was done each girl placed her neatly rolled up kit on the bed allotted to her. Afterwards they were divided into five parties of six, each in charge of a senior, and made responsible for some special task. Some departed to set up the camp kitchen under the shadow of the broken wall on the moor; the athletic ones were set to dig a trench for all camp waste, for Miss Hudson was determined that things should be done properly; others went to the farm for fruit and potatoes for the midday meal, and Christine and her adorers rigged up Miss Bellamy’s tent, while the rest marched back to the village to buy stores from Abel Bassett’s shop. At one o’clock a ravenous party sat down to the cold roast beef (conveyed in Higgins’s unromantic wagonette), potatoes, and Norfolk dumplings and syrup cooked by a very hot and triumphant Margaret and her attendant kitchen maids in the camp ovens. Afterwards the sticky plates and knives and forks were washed in the brook, a task impossible to perform, it seemed, without getting one’s boots full of water, a ruse which forced Miss Hudson to consent to the wet ones going barefoot on the dry moor for the rest of the afternoon.

‘I think it would be nice,’ said Miss Fox primly, ‘if we followed the course of the brook this afternoon.’

‘Oh, bother!’ said Brigit, in an undertone, ‘she always wants to be following something; it’s the foxy instinct, I suppose. Why can’t she leave us alone and let us explore by ourselves?’ But it was impossible to squash Miss Fox, and she started off with a business-like stride to investigate the course of the brook, followed by her reluctant pupils.

Bobby, in the seventh heaven of delight at finding herself shoeless and stockingless once more, jumped from boulder to boulder in the rushing silver water with daring abandonment. She rather liked following the brook, though, of course, it would have been nicer if Miss Fox hadn’t followed it, too; but she and her special cronies kept well in the rear, and managed to avoid any learned conversation on brooks or anything else.

The brook climbed up and up until it was like a foaming torrent dashing over slippery boulders, and the wind on the moor above began to whip the water into little waves. Still they climbed, and Ursula Brett, a big-eyed, fragile child as imaginative as Anne, came and attached herself to Bobby, for she had soon found out that Robin could tell delightful tales. She clutched at her skirts as they leapt from boulder to boulder. ‘Isn’t it getting high, Robin? What’s up there, I wonder?’ She pointed to the desolate heather-crowned crags above them.

‘Oh, moors, and moors, and moors, going up and up to Windy Heights. Margaret says the crags look like some great gray face looking down into the valley.’

‘A giant’s face, Bobby?’

‘Yes. I expect it’s some giant that a witch chained to the edge of the moor thousands and thousands of years ago; and there he has to watch and watch for ever in the freezing wind, because he stole the witch’s magic stuff in her cauldron that had taken her years to mix.’

Ursula shivered. ‘Can’t we go there?’

Robin shook her head. ‘No, of course not. You never get to the very top of the mountain, or the real edge of the moor, or to the end of a river. Somebody grown-up always stops you by saying, “Come home to tea,” or “You’ve walked far enough,” or something else silly.’

It was as though Miss Fox heard these sentiments; for she turned round promptly and ordered the party to return as it was getting late and there was work for them to do in the camp.

‘I told you so,’ said Robin, with disgust, and she rushed away to join Brigit, leaving Ursula to imagine what she liked about the gray giant chained to the moor.

There was certainly plenty to do when they returned to the camp, for Mademoiselle, finding herself alone on a desolate moor—Miss Swete was resting, and Miss Bellamy had gone to the village—had become inspired with a great idea of being useful, and had spread out a cloth on the top of the stone wall and begun to prepare stacks of bread and jam for the wanderers when they returned. A passing wasp had discovered this, and, being a kind creature always anxious to do his relations a good turn, he spread the news of the feast rapidly, and before many minutes had passed the shrieking Mademoiselle was surrounded by a buzzing crowd. In her terror she upset the jam down her extremely ‘chic’ cotton dress, a feast that the marauders seemed to consider an improvement on that in the jam-pot.

When Miss Bellamy returned, poor Mademoiselle was rolling on the heather, calling all the saints to her aid, with her beautifully powdered nose stung beyond recognition. She was led in a state of great emotion to the farm, where Mrs Turry and Miss Swete administered blue-bags and words of comfort, while Miss Bellamy returned to the camp just in time to find a stray donkey eating the last of the loaves.

So there was certainly plenty to do when the brook party returned! Dry sticks to collect for the fire—Mademoiselle had quite forgotten the kettle—another visit to pay to the village for fresh bread, and another victim to conduct to the farm for the blue-bag—as Monica’s foolish behaviour soon brought the wasps in her direction and more stings were the result. Of course, these adventures made the camp all the more delightful for the girls—especially the unreformed juniors—though even St Christine acknowledged she enjoyed seeing Miss Fox crouching under an umbrella trying to take a prim bite of bread and jam before the wasps discovered her!

As soon as the moon rose over the moor, St Christine, who always liked to do things properly, said, ‘We ought to have a camp fire and tell tales round it.’

‘But they must be tales of adventure and ghost tales,’ said Brigit hastily; for she was afraid Christine might suggest something poetical.

With Miss Hudson’s permission every one rushed to collect dry sticks and turf; except the camp cooks, who were busy cocoa-making. Then came the nicest hour of the day, when the flames from the fire leapt and danced into the night sky as bewitchingly as the blue and red fires from a witch’s cauldron; when all the grown-ups strolled away to talk about the harvest to the farmer, and the seniors forgot to be dignified, and lay all round the leaping fire with their chins propped in their hands listening to Bobby’s ghost tales, until Ursula’s eyes grew bigger and bigger, and Joan asked fearfully if barns were haunted, too. Fortunately, Miss Hudson blew her bugle at that moment for prayers and bed; and moonlight and firelight had to be left to the fairies. Of the teachers only Miss Hudson was to sleep in the barn; so the Adventure Club was not to have the pleasure of seeing Foxy with straws in her hair.

To undress by moonlight and roll up one’s knapsack for a pillow was delightful to every one except Monica, who was haunted by the thought that a rat might have crept into her straw, for Miss Bellamy had refused to allow her to repose on one of the plump feather beds at the farm in such perfect weather. The straw beds were deliciously crackly and sweet, and Robin, looking long after every one else was asleep, out of the big open barn window at the stars, felt that she was really and truly a gipsy at last.

Right in front of her was the shining Big Bear, each star twinkling at her like an old friend, for all her life she remembered seeing them through the nursery windows at home. Nannie had told the children that the seven stars were seven windows in heaven, and that through each window a shining angel watched. Mike had always said that the very end window in the Bear’s tail was where his angel was, because when he grew up he meant to have tremendous North Pole adventures; and they had quarrelled about it, because Bobby wanted the North Pole window, too. Nannie had become irate, declaring as usual that she had seen much dacenter children in poor Irish cabins, for they, at least, never ‘quarrelled about the holy angels,’ as the vicarage children did. Anyhow, to-night it could be Robin’s star, and she watched it getting brighter and brighter until her eyes closed themselves and she slept as softly as the robins in the hedgerows.

WINDY HEIGHTS

The next morning it was delicious to be out on the moor at six o’clock carrying pails of water from the brook for washing, and tossing the straw beds outside the sunny barn door for an airing. Dora was chief cook that morning, and Robin was among her kitchen maids, and she and Brigit and Cherry went to the milking-sheds for new milk, and were given a bunch of ruddy cherries each by fat, comfortable Mrs Turry.

Then another of Robin’s dreams came true, for she left off her shoes and stockings without any one saying a word, and knelt on the dry heathery moor stirring porridge in a huge pot just exactly as though she were a real gipsy. Porridge and new milk, fresh eggs, and bread and marmalade was a breakfast fit for any gipsy queen; and even Miss Fox became genial while it was being eaten, and owned that an alfresco meal was pleasant when there was no wind and the tea was really hot. Mademoiselle remained indoors at the farm. She had no faith in the vilain wasps when there was marmalade in the menu.

Immediately after breakfast, Miss Bellamy suggested that the cooks should prepare the Irish stew intended for the midday meal; then leave it to take care of itself, and the whole party ascend to the hillock above Turry’s to spend the morning sketching the farm and the old barns. Miss Bellamy’s lessons were always so delightful that not even the laziest ones objected to this, and the kitchen maids set to work to peel onions and carrots and potatoes under Christine’s directions, for to tell the truth her cooking was better than her poetry.

The rest of the morning was spent on the hillock with paints and sketch books, and after Christine’s excellent lunch had been eaten the day was so hot that even Miss Fox could not find courage to face a geographical walk, and went off to her room at the farm for private siesta, and Miss Bellamy gave permission to every one to spend the afternoon as she liked, so long as they were all back at bugle call at five o’clock.

Miss Hudson, Margaret, and Frances were going for a tramp in spite of the heat. Mademoiselle still preferred the farm to the moor. Miss Swete and Miss Bellamy were resting in their rooms too; so there was nobody to prevent the junior girls from dabbling in the brook to their heart’s content.

‘Let’s dam it,’ said Brigit, with enthusiasm. She couldn’t understand why the elder girls wanted to lie about on the heather with books. The smaller girls were allowed to help with the damming of the brook, and Ursula attached herself to Robin as usual, carrying stones with unwearying industry, and making herself gloriously wet at the same time.

‘I say, Bobby, does the gray giant up on Windy Heights ever move?’

‘Of course not, silly. He’s chained up there by the witch.’

‘Are there fairies there too, do you think?’

‘There are fairies everywhere, and they all have different names. Pixies live in rocks and mountains, and so do gnomes. Trolls live in earthy caves—they’re nearly always bad fairies—and dwarfs and goblins love thick forests, and nice little brownies are in the woods and heather. Then there are the air fairies, pucks, and rain sprites, and the dear little sunshine sylphs—if they kiss you, you’ll never be ill.’

‘I wish, I wish I could see them, don’t you, Bobs?’

‘Well, you can’t—not unless you’re the seventh child of a seventh child born on a Sunday. My old Nannie’s grandmother was, and she saw heaps.’

‘Do tell me about them.’

‘Oh, bother; I can’t now,’ and Robin rushed off to help Brigit with a particularly large stone.

Just before five o’clock Christine appeared at the brook side. She looked at the damming of the water with amused superiority.

‘What babies you all are, girls. You must come back and do some work now. Where’s Ursula?’

Nobody had the least idea.

‘I saw her with Bobby last,’ said Monica officiously.

‘But that’s ages ago. I left her while I helped Brigit down here.’ Robin looked indignant.

‘Well, somebody has to find her, and quickly too. Elsie, you and Joyce go up the brook and call her.’

Christine began to look worried and scattered girls in all directions in search of the truant. But when the bugle sounded at five o’clock the little girl was still missing, and Miss Bellamy was more anxious than she cared to admit.

‘She’s such a dreamy child,’ said Miss Swete, ‘she’s probably at the farm watching something and has forgotten all about the time. We had better search the outbuildings.’

‘These moors!’ said Mademoiselle, with a shudder. ‘They are terrible. Not one little moment ’ave I slept since I came to them, Mees Bellamy, and now the little one is lost on them, and as for me, I do not like at all your Engleesh peek-neeks.’

‘Nonsense. How can she be lost?’ said Miss Hudson. ‘No, the best thing we can do is to divide ourselves into parties and search in different directions.’

To make matters worse great purple clouds were piling up in the sky that had been so blue an hour before, and it was pretty evident that the weather was changing.

‘She must be found,’ said Miss Bellamy, now pale with anxiety. ‘She cannot be very far away, and it is going to rain.’

Robin had become very thoughtful. She could not help thinking of Ursula’s persistent inquiries about the gray giant, and the fairies up at Windy Heights. The little girl, with her big eyes and slow, dreamy ways, had always reminded her of Anne, and with all Anne’s timidity she was obstinate too; and if she wanted to do anything she usually did it. Robin had a terrible thought that Ursula had gone up to Windy Heights by herself, and of course if she had, it was her fault! She began to climb up the course of the brook, calling ‘Ursula! Ursula!’ with all her might.

‘It’s no good going that way, Bobs,’ called out Brigit. ‘We’re going to the village—I feel sure she’s gone there to buy sweets.’ But Bobby went on unnoticed by every one, calling in her clear, sweet voice.

It seemed as though the whole moor had changed: the silvery song of the brook was now an angry roar, and the water came tossing and foaming over dark stones. The peewits were screaming overhead, and as Robin climbed a cold wind lifted her hair. Suddenly she came upon a circle of mossy stones by the brook side. Between each stone a slender harebell had been fixed quite lately, for they were all still fresh and blue. It was just such a fairy ring that Anne would have stopped to make on her way to the giant’s lair, and Bobby was more convinced than ever that Ursula was somewhere on Windy Heights.

She began to climb faster, for above the screaming of the peewits she seemed to hear Ursula calling her. It began to rain, not a heavy downpour, but a drizzle, bringing a mist with it that blotted out the whole of the moor below. Suddenly Robin realised that nobody knew where she was, and that she ought to have told Miss Bellamy about Ursula’s desire to climb to the top of the moor; but it was too late to return now, and the great thing was to find Ursula and bring her back as soon as possible. The gray crags of Windy Heights stood out gaunt and terrifying against the dark sky, and the moor before her was cold, bleak, and unfriendly. She wondered how Ursula had ever had the courage to face it, forgetting that less than two hours before the sun was shining and the skies clear and blue.

Up and up she climbed—she was almost up to the top now, and the brook was roaring like a waterfall in her ears; but still she seemed to hear Ursula’s voice calling faintly. She had almost reached the last crag when her foot slipped on a stone and she fell on her face with her right arm doubled beneath her. Such a sharp pain darted through it that she gave a cry, and the moor seemed to spin round her like a purple lake, and it was as though a thousand brooks roared like waterfalls in her ears. She picked herself up, and then sank down again on the heather, for she felt sick and dizzy, and the moor still went round and round in an alarming way.

‘Oh, I shall have to go back—I shall have to go back,’ she cried to herself. ‘She isn’t here, and I can’t go any farther.’

But suppose Ursula were there—alone on the rugged, lonely crags—all because Bobby had told her about the great chained giant? She stumbled to her feet and began to climb again, holding her injured arm, her eyes smarting with pain and tears. She was at the top now, bare, gray rocks scantily patched with heather, and a bleak wind screaming over them. Far, far below the rocky edge was the valley she supposed; but she was too dizzy to go near it to look.

‘Bobby! Bobby! Oh, Bobby, come!’

Her heart stood still. It was Ursula’s voice, very faint and terrified, coming from below that awful edge. She set her teeth firmly, threw back her head, and began to travel cautiously towards the edge. Below her was steep, precipitous rock, huge rugged boulders with a scanty tuft of heather here and there. About twelve feet down she could see a narrow ledge, and on it lay Ursula, her face upturned, white, and pinched, and her big eyes full of horror.

‘Ursula, it’s all right, dear. I’ve come to find you, and now I’ll run and run, and bring somebody to pull you up.’

Ursula began to scream. ‘No, no, Bobby. If you leave me here I shall die. I’m so giddy I shall fall. Oh, Bobs, don’t, don’t leave me.’

Robin was in despair. It would take her more than an hour to fetch help, and it was plain that fragile little Ursula was almost fainting, and if she lost her hold on the rocky ledge she would fall down, down into that terrible rocky depth below. She must climb down and hold her safely; but how could she, with her throbbing, injured arm, ever help her up again?

‘Oh, Bobs, don’t leave me. I’m going to fall off this minute, I know.’

‘No, you aren’t. I’m coming down as fast as I can to hold you tight. Just hold on for one moment, there’s a duck!’

Bobby swung her bare, bleeding feet over the dizzy edge, and with her left arm hung on to a tough clump of heather, letting herself down cautiously from boulder to boulder, trying with all her might to steady her dizzy senses and not to look into the fearful depths below her. When at last she reached the rocky ledge Ursula began to cry.

‘Oh, Bobby, I’ve been here hours and hours, and my foot’s all twisted, and I’ve been so frightened of the gray giant, and if I shut my eyes I shall fall down into that awful, awful place.’

Bobby crouched down on the narrow ledge and put her arm round her.

‘No, you won’t, because I’m holding you; but oh, Ursula, how did you get here?’

‘I wanted just to peep over to see the giant’s face, and then I got giddy and fell. I thought I was falling to the bottom, and it was awful, but I managed to clutch on to here. Shall we ever get up again, do you think?’

‘Of course, you silly. Somebody will come to find us, just as I did you. Let’s shout again.’

They both called and called. Ursula feebly, because she was weary and faint, and Robin despondently, because she had little hope of anybody climbing to Windy Heights in search of them. Then Ursula began to cry again, sobbing that her foot hurt her and that she was cold and dizzy. Robin, almost sick with the pain in her badly-sprained wrist, tried to be gay and to comfort Ursula by telling her wonderful tales about people who had been left for hours and hours on narrow ledges and desert islands, and had always been rescued in the end.

After a time Ursula became quiet, and Bobby thought she slept; but when she tried to move her cramped left arm, which was holding the little girl, she began to moan again, declaring she was falling, falling down to the gray giant, into awful depths.

The rain had stopped, but it was dark and cold, and when Robin let her dizzy eyes look down into the valley beneath them she saw a filmy white cloud creeping, creeping higher and higher, and as it climbed the air grew colder. Everything began to disappear, the tiny houses nestling in the valley, the bushes and the big boulders, the clumps of heather, and even the frowning black crags of Windy Heights began to loom above them like shadowy spectres through that soft, veiling cloud. It was as though the children held on to a rock in some cold, gray sea. They could scarcely see each other’s faces, and Robin’s fear of losing her hold on Ursula and letting her fall into the valley beneath increased a thousandfold. Sometimes Ursula slept, and sometimes she was half awake, crying about the pain in her hurt foot. She was a delicate, spoilt child, sent to the Yorkshire school because she needed the bracing air of the moors. She was two years younger than Robin, and of a naturally timid and dependent disposition, which made her now cling to the older girl.

But Robin never showed her pain or weariness, even when all hope of rescue had entirely forsaken her. She kept her cramped arm closely round Ursula, crouching on the ledge, terrified lest she might fall herself into the depths, while she strove to keep away the girl’s fear with endless tales. She told her all about Anne, and the games they had in the nursery at home, and about Rhubarb Pie and how they played Indians in the orchard. After long, long hours the cold, choking mist seemed to lift a little: its chilly fingers slowly moved, and although it was now night and quite dark, they felt less afraid, because surely it must be morning soon.

Suddenly Robin lifted her tired head and saw high above them a tiny twinkle, and then another, and another; and at last the friendly Big Bear himself went sprawling over the sky—seven windows of heaven—and in every window a holy angel watching them, as Nannie had told them so many times.

‘Look! look!’ cried Robin. ‘There are the stars, Ursula—now they will be able to find us.’

‘Call again—you never call now,’ said Ursula plaintively. ‘I feel so queer and floaty, Bobs. I do wish you would sing. They might hear that, and I’m tired of tales.’

Sing! A broken-winged Robin does not feel like singing in the dark, and Bobby sighed; but the coldness of the little figure she held so closely frightened her, and, making an immense effort, she began to sing—not so clearly as usual, it is true, for she was faint and weak, and the mist was still in her throat.

Out rang Ariel’s fairy song over the wild crags, and the silver notes of Robin’s voice reached the weary search party like a charm to break a witch’s nightmare spell, as they ascended the moors for the third time that night.

Miss Bellamy, worn and pale, stood still and raised her hand warningly, crying, ‘Listen!’

‘That’s Robina’s voice!’

Everybody stood still. Farmer Turry, with his stalwart farm hands, carrying lanterns, Miss Bellamy, Miss Fox, Miss Hudson, and the four senior girls, who had been allowed, after much pleading, to help in the search for the lost children.

‘It is Bobby!’ cried Christine. ‘She was singing that on the moor to-day.’

‘Hush! it’s coming from somewhere below us,’ said Miss Hudson quickly.

‘ ’Tis nowt, missus,’ said the farmer, shaking his head. ‘Not for all th’ goold in King’s chestses wud fowk clumb down theer—’tis nowt but t’calfs in valley.’

‘No, no—it is Robina,’ persisted Miss Bellamy, and she started off towards the edge of the crags with dangerous haste.

‘Cum back, wumman,’ cried the farmer. ‘Be tha’ “ravin’ ”? Hearken now—tha’ll be kilt for sartin’!’

Miss Hudson grasped Miss Bellamy firmly, ordered the girls to keep back, and the farmer and his two men cautiously swung their lanterns over the crags of Windy Heights.

The silver notes came floating up again, and at the same moment the farmer gave an exclamation.

‘They be theer, missus—twa little lassies, and we be fules not to gang t’Windy Heights afore t’mist crossed. The loike of it I niver see—twa little lassies on a shelf not big enough for a babby.’

‘Can you get them up?’ asked Miss Bellamy, trembling.

‘Ay, aw’m not freetened o’ Windy Heights; aw’m freetened o’ givin’ t’little lassies a start like, though. You mun speëak—oi be such a fule with bairnies, missus.’

‘Robina!’ called Miss Bellamy softly, fearing to startle the children. To the quivering, weary Robin the voice sounded like that of an angel. In fact, for a moment she rather thought it was the Angel at the North Pole window calling her.

‘Yes, yes!’ she cried.

‘We’re here, all come to bring you home safely. Hold tight for a few more minutes, there’s a brave child.’

‘Oh, yes, I will, but please, please be quick.’ The pain in Bobby’s arm was getting unbearable, and she was cold and sick.

‘We’re coming, dear.’

‘Whar’s roöap, Tummas?’

The farmer took a stout strong rope from one of the men, tied it firmly round his waist, and began to climb down the descent slowly, while the men held the lanterns above.

In the dim light Robin watched them coming nearer and nearer, and she held Ursula more closely, and said softly, ‘It’s all right now, dear. Didn’t I say somebody would come?’ But Ursula only moaned, and as the farmer grasped the great clump of heather on the boulder near them she seemed to lose consciousness altogether.

‘Poor little wench—’tis a straänge bed to lie in! Shall us tak’ t’little lass oöp first?’

‘Oh, yes, yes, please. I can hold on,’ but Bobby could not help giving a sob as the farmer began to ascend again slowly with Ursula. She could see the lanterns and dark figures above, and hands outstretched for his burden, and her heart leapt when he began to descend once more; and when she felt his big arms round her and they were climbing up and up to those terrible frowning black crags, the mist began to float around her again and so many bells rang she felt giddy, and then everything went dark.

      *      *      *      *      *      

When she woke up again the Big Bear was still shining overhead, and the sweet moorland air was blowing on her face. She was still in the farmer’s arms, across his shoulder, like the little lamb in the Good Shepherd picture in the night nursery at home. There were lanterns flashing behind them, and a great many people walking and talking softly. She heard St Christine’s voice say plainly, ‘I always knew she was a darling.’ Then she became giddy again, and the rest of the night was bewildering. She was put to bed in one of the plump white beds at Turry’s, and she was perfectly certain that it was Miss Bellamy who undressed her, which seemed to be extremely odd.

People had given her things to drink and things to eat, and she had no idea that birds could sing so loudly.

Then a white-haired man came and made her arm hurt worse than ever, and patted her head, and said, ‘So you’re a good plucked ’un, are you? That’s right. Now go to sleep, and sleep the clock round, young lady.’

Afterwards she was put into the white-haired man’s car with Ursula, who was very pale and cried dismally; and they were whirled away to Northwold Manor and were put to bed again. When she became less giddy, she found that all the other girls had gone home, even Ursula, and Miss Bellamy was going to take her to London herself the very next day.

That night, instead of dreaming about the black crags of Windy Heights, she dreamt of Nannie and Anne; and she thought that St Frances came out of the picture Nannie had given her on the day she came to school, and made all his little birds sing to her as sweetly as the nightingales in the hazel-wood at home.

THE ROBIN’S SONG

The first part of the summer holidays seemed quite strange to Robin. Nannie cuddled her and cuddled her, as though she had been Humpty; for the sick child was always the most precious in the nursery, and Robin’s bandaged arm and white face almost broke the old woman’s heart.

‘Starvin’ ye, they’ve been,’ she cried. ‘And the eyes in yer poor little face like big lanterns! Tell old Nannie what you’d fancy for your tay, lovey, now do, and she’ll go and get it for ye.’ Prompted by Mike and Billy, Bobby said she thought she could fancy some of Nannie’s potato-cakes with currants in them, and lavishly spread with syrup; and for a few days the nursery party feasted royally.

For a whole week Mike never teased the invalid, and even presented her with his treasured post card collection of famous ships. Billy and Tim clubbed together and bought her a box of paints from the village shop; but as she could not very well paint with her left hand, they obligingly used them up themselves one wet afternoon. As for Anne, slow and demure and blue-eyed as ever, she was Bobby’s faithful slave as usual, waiting on the injured one with unwearying patience. But it was not long before the invalid’s cheeks began to grow round again, and in a much shorter time than Nannie liked she was running wild in the orchard, bare-legged and happy, and even finding her bandaged arm no hindrance to climbing the apple-trees. And the strange part of it was that the vicar did not mind at all—in fact, in those days he seemed remarkably proud of his Ragged Robin. And before the holidays ended Uncle Timothy and Aunt Emilia came to stay at the vicarage for a long visit. Aunt Emilia hugged Robin to her over and over again, and told her that she was a born fighter as well as a perfect darling; and Uncle Timothy said, ‘Well, Lady Robina, I’m glad to hear you have not disgraced the family.’

Her mother and father and uncle and aunt used to have long talks in the drawing-room; and at these times her mother always looked misty-eyed and sad, as though she wanted very badly to do something and couldn’t, because of the famous ship never coming home. As for the vicar, he was gloomy, saying continually, ‘I tell you it can’t be done, Emmy. I’m as poor as a rat, and the boys must come first.’

‘But it must be done,’ cried Aunt Emilia again and again. ‘Think of what Miss Bellamy says, and that Signor person, who evidently knows what he’s talking about. Besides, haven’t we ourselves all heard the child sing! She must be trained. Oh, Tim, it breaks my heart to think we can’t do anything; but it’s no good, we’re so horribly poor nowadays.’

Once Aunt Emilia had said to her, ‘How would you like to go to Italy and learn how to sing, my chicken?’

Robin thought very deeply before she answered. Italy was the place with the burning blue skies, like the pictures in Miss Bellamy’s room at Northwold; and it would be nice to sing somewhere in the sunshine. Besides all this, after her term’s lessons with Signor Nessi, music was beginning to seem rather a wonderful thing to Robina, and she was sure she would like to go to Italy and work very, very hard at it, only, not for years and years yet—it was bad enough to go as far away from home as Yorkshire.

‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘I think it would be ripping, Aunt Emilia.’

‘I knew you would, but you’ll have to work like a slave, my duck, if we can only find the money to send you. What a wretched sort of fairy godmother I am, with no magic wand to wave over you, and take you there.’

Robin gathered from all these discussions that it was her singing that was bothering everybody; for it seemed you couldn’t sing properly unless you went to Italy, and had ships coming home rather frequently.

‘Say no more about it, please,’ said the vicar at last, testily; ‘the child’s got a voice and she can use it, I expect, without all this worry. She must be content to help me at home.’

‘Robin at home, singing at village concerts!’ cried Aunt Emilia. ‘With a gift like hers! Don’t talk nonsense, my dear man. If you want a curate, you’ve got Anne. She was born to be a country parson’s daughter. She’s exactly like an angel—you know she is. But Robin—she’s going to be famous, if only she could have a chance!’

The ‘angel’ and the famous prima-donna of the future rushed past the window in full Red Indian war paint, uttering awful cries, and the vicar said, ‘Tut! tut! You were always mad, Emmy,’ and retired into his study.

When Robin returned to school in September, to her delight her mother and father went with her. There had been a great deal of discussion about taking such a long and expensive journey; but Miss Bellamy seemed so anxious that they should be present at her silver anniversary that Aunt Emilia said, ‘Don’t be absurd. You haven’t had a holiday together for years, and if Nannie and I can’t pack Mike off to school and see that Humpty doesn’t fall into the rain-tub, we are “poor crayturs” and no mistake!’

So Robin travelled into Yorkshire in the seventh heaven of delight; almost unconscious of Miss Simms’s latest creation—an extremely dowdy coat ‘all wrong’ in cut and style. The whole school had assembled when they reached Northwold Manor; and to Bobby’s astonishment and embarrassment she was greeted with cheers.

‘You always were a sport, Bobs,’ cried Brigit enthusiastically, ‘but what a sell it was they wouldn’t let us see you before we left last term.’

‘What a little fiend Ursula was to get into a mess like that,’ said Cherry. ‘Foxy marched us home like a funeral procession the next day. We thought you’d broken all your legs and arms, and would never walk again, like the heroines in books—even Monica piped her eye!’

‘Do tell us what happened on Windy Heights,’ said Pamela. But that was the very thing Robin would not tell, for the night on Windy Heights was as fearful to her as the gray giant of Ursula’s imagination.

Ursula was there, still pale and fragile, and she clung to Bobby with adoring devotion.

St Christine summoned her to her sanctum, where she and all the seniors were assembled. Robin was a little alarmed; but she was relieved to find herself received with smiles instead of frowns.

‘Robina, dear, we all want to tell you how immensely proud we are of your pluck about Ursula. The accident made the term end rather dolefully, but now you’re well again, it will help to make the Anniversary Day to-morrow even better than we hoped for, now we’ve got you to be proud of as well as the silver cup, and the shield, and Alison’s silver medal. We just wanted to tell you.’

Robin stood on one leg uncomfortably. She felt suddenly that scoldings were less embarrassing than praises. ‘Thanks awfully, but I didn’t do anything. Any one would have gone down after Ursula, of course.’

Christine smiled. ‘Would they? I’m not so sure of that. I wish I could think that all the Northwold Manor girls were heroines. You’re the first one to hear the good news about Alison. Now you may run and tell the others if you like.’

Robin departed gladly, and spread the news of Alison’s success so quickly that when they all met together at tea-time, the junior girls gave three rousing cheers for the artist of the school when she appeared.

Very early next morning all the girls were busy in the recreation hall preparing for the event of the afternoon. The time of year made it easy to carry out their scheme of decorating the hall with the school colours of purple and white. In front of the stage clumps of purple heather were arranged, and behind them clusters of small white summer chrysanthemums, sent as a gift by Ursula’s mother. Above the stage hung twenty-five silver bells, each one twisted round with purple heather. Colonel Welby’s shield was placed upon the wall, and beneath it the silver trophy of the cricket field and Alison’s medal. September the 25th was always ‘Speech Day’ at Northwold Manor; but this year it was a very special occasion, and a great number of parents and friends of the pupils were expected.

At two o’clock exactly the girls filed down the big stone staircase towards the recreation hall, wearing white dresses and purple ribbons, as was the usual custom on Speech Day. This decree had caused Bobby a great deal of anguish again; for, not being allowed to wear the pretty pink frock her Aunt Emilia had bought for her last Christmas, she was forced to put on her old, very skimpy and outgrown white frock, made by Nannie long ago, and looking limp and crushed by the fresh, new dresses of the others. She felt again her old inclination to hide behind somebody else; especially when Monica, who had been quite gushing and polite for the last two days, looked at her with curious pity. As she crossed the big hall she looked up at old Peter Bellamy, and once more she had that odd feeling that he was looking at her, and nobody else. His scarlet coat and jolly face cheered her up again, and it seemed exactly as though he were saying, ‘Go in and win, Robin. What does it matter if clothes are “all wrong,” when everything else is all right?’

The girls marched on to the platform, and Robin felt thankful she was not in the front row, and squeezed herself well in between Cherry and Brigit; but here again ill-luck pursued her, for Miss Swete, for some unknown reason, insisted upon her taking the end seat, where her dowdy frock was in full view of the audience. Her one consolation was that from her new position she could look right into her mother’s eyes, and by edging a little nearer to a big clump of heather and chrysanthemums she was able to hide her skimpy skirts. The Creadle family, Sally, and Mrs Rudd and Meggie were at the back of the hall too; Meggie resplendent in the last effort of the ‘Lace Petticoat Guild’—a pale blue overall ‘fair smothered in lace.’ She gave her patrons constant and beaming smiles, and clapped and stamped vigorously at every opportunity.

The afternoon began with the singing of Christine’s verses, set to music by Signor Nessi, which were greeted with so much applause that the blushing author felt that at last she was a poet indeed.

Afterwards Miss Bellamy read her report on the year’s work—a record of such honour in school and playing-field, that the vicar, following Miss Bellamy with a neat speech, said that he was almost afraid to speak at all among so many talented young people, and that he thought the school’s name should certainly be changed to ‘Minerva House.’ He congratulated Miss Bellamy heartily on her success during the past twenty-five years, and hoped he would not be too much of an old gentleman to congratulate her again when the time came for her to celebrate her Jubilee—when he supposed that the clever daughters of the distinguished young poets, artists, musicians, and scholars now present, would be bringing more credit on the school.

After this very apt speech came the event of the day, as far as the girls knew—the presentation to Miss Bellamy of a beautiful silver bowl filled with purple and white heather—a gift from her pupils and teaching staff, and presented by the head girl, St Christine, with a few very charming words.

Then Colonel Welby rose, saying that he was delighted to hear that Miss Bellamy’s pupils were so clever at huntin’ up dates and poetry and history, and other learned thing-u-majigs; he’d known for months that they were jolly clever in huntin’ burglars; and the only thing he regretted that afternoon, after hearing of so much talent, was that he hadn’t got half a dozen granddaughters to send to Northwold Manor himself!

As soon as Mrs Rudd could persuade Meggie to leave off stamping with her sturdy boots on the floor in the applause that followed, Miss Bellamy rose again, thanking them in a graceful, witty little speech. ‘And now,’ she continued, ‘I have just one more thing to say—something that gives me a great deal of happiness, because it is an event which crowns this wonderful school year with silver laurels.

‘I think nearly all of you present this afternoon have heard of my father—“old Peter Bellamy” ’—she smiled. ‘Thirty years ago he was almost as famous in these parts as the celebrated “John Peel” himself. He was always devoted to children, especially girls, and he was immensely interested in their education. His theory was that girls are just as splendid as boys, in pluck and everything else; and when this school was founded twenty-five years ago, he endowed it with what is known as the “Bellamy Gift,” a gift of two hundred pounds a year for a period of three years, to the girl who showed true British pluck in hard conditions.

‘Now during all those twenty-five years I have had a great many girls in my school—splendid girls some of them; industrious, clever, persevering, plucky—but not once in all these years have I felt that the gift has been earned in the way that my father meant it to be—until now.’

There was intense silence in the room, and every one became curiously alert.

‘I want to ask you all what you think about it; if you will very kindly listen to me for a few minutes longer. At the end of last term we took all the girls to camp out for a few days on the moor; and on the second day one of them—she is very young—went up to Windy Heights to look for the fairies. If any of you have climbed up so far as those desolate crags, I feel sure you will agree with me that it is not the sort of place one would expect to find good fairies at all! Well, instead of finding a fairy, this little girl fell over the edge and sprained her ankle, and was only saved from falling into a depth of over four hundred feet by her very feeble hold on a narrow, rocky ledge.

‘Now comes the part of the story to which I want you to listen very carefully, please. Another girl—she is not very big either, yet—followed her, alone. There was a storm brewing over the moor, and, unfortunately for her, she fell before her journey was over, and twisted her arm so badly that she was in intense pain. Nevertheless, she reached Windy Heights, saw the other child terrified and dazed and giddy on the rocky ledge, climbed down to her, and held her safely on the ledge nearly all through a long night, comforting her, cheering her, keeping her from death itself by her indomitable pluck, until help came. This girl’s name is Robina Dare, and I want to know if you think she deserves the “Bellamy Gift”?’

There was a perfect tempest of applause and every voice cried out, ‘Yes! Yes!’ with one accord, except Brigit’s, whose ‘Rather—she jolly well does!’ was a little too loud and emphatic. The whole time Miss Bellamy had been speaking, Robin had sat like a statue, scarcely breathing with the miraculous wonder of it all.

The Bellamy Gift for her—just because she’d done a thing that any one would do! Another thought flashed through her mind too. The Bellamy Gift would mean Italy, and music, and the voice that the nice poet at Christine’s play had called golden could be trained to do all sorts of wonderful things; things even better than filling the lifeboat box right up to the top. If she worked very, very hard, as Aunt Emilia and the poet had said. How glad Aunt Emilia would be, and her father too, for now there would be no more arguments about it in the shabby old drawing-room, and she believed that he did really want her to go if it could only be managed. And her mother—perhaps some of the worried lines caused by the ship never, never, coming home, would fade away now.

She thought of the old gipsy woman—‘I see Good Luck walking behind ye,’ she had said; and now Good Luck had overtaken her at last!

Miss Bellamy was speaking again, and Robin, looking at her, could see that she was smiling almost exactly like old Peter Bellamy in the hall.

‘I thought you would say that—in fact, I knew you would—therefore, it gives me the greatest happiness to announce that the Bellamy Gift is won at last, and is awarded to Robina Emilia Dare, who not only showed great courage, but exquisite compassion on a suffering little schoolfellow.’

This announcement was greeted with renewed clapping, and then Miss Bellamy spoke once more:—

‘My father was anxious that the Gift should be spent if possible on the cultivation of any special talent the winner of it might possess. In this case I am delighted to think it will be as he wished, for Robina is the singing-bird of the school.’

At this the vicar jumped up once more. ‘Why, is it Robin Redbreast? Come now, she’s too shy to make a speech, I know, so before you send us home she must give us a song.’

Robin’s heart stood still. How could she sing before all those strange people when her voice had gone miles and miles away ever since Miss Bellamy spoke about her. She saw her father get up and come forward with wonder: perhaps he was going to scold! No, he was thanking Miss Bellamy for all the nice things she had said, and for the honour his little girl had received.

‘A year ago,’ he said, smiling, ‘we used to call her our “Ragged Robin,” and now we find she isn’t a robin at all, for she seems to have turned into a nightingale!’

He was quite sure she would sing for those who had done her so much honour. Robin gazed across the room, right into her mother’s eyes. They were all misty, like the moor rolling outside, and so full of love and pride that her heart began to swell.

She stood up and threw back her head, quite forgetting her skimpy and dowdy skirts:—

Her voice rang through the room like the silver piping of Pan’s flute, and as the last note died away every one rose up, crying,—

‘Bravo! Bravo! Three cheers for Ragged Robin!’

THE END

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

[The end of Ragged Robin by Katharine Louise Oldmeadow]