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Sue sighed importantly. There were only seven hours left. Seven hours in which to pack the new trunk standing under the window; the portmanteau of yellow pigskin with its checked blue and white lining at the foot of the bed; the hat box by the wardrobe and the little handbag shaped like a sausage that lay open on the table.

They were very shiny and very new and all of them bore her initials, S. E. F. W., painted in bold black letters. There was a faint odor, too, of fresh varnish about them and to each was tied a luggage tag. For about the millionth time Sue bent down and read the address:

Sue sighed again. So much to do and only seven hours left. She had thought the trunk very large the day she and Vicky had bought it in Edinburgh. But when she looked at the bed heaped with underwear, at the chairs and dressers covered with neat piles of clothes, at the rows of shoes, she wondered how she could ever get so many things into a trunk so small.

She examined it again. It had a curved top and underneath a tray with a special compartment for hankies and gloves. Pasted inside the lid was a picture of a lovely lady wearing a blue hat covered with ostrich plumes. Sue counted them. There were five, and, where the brim turned up at the side, there was a large blue bow with a buckle.

“When I am grown up,” Sue planned busily, “I shall have a hat just like that, only where the bow is I shall have another feather and that will be six. I shall be very elegant.” She preened a bit as she turned back to the bed. Pinned to the counterpane was a long printed list.

“Suggested Clothing for Girls Attending Arundel Abbey,” she read. Unpinning the list she checked it with the piles of clothing on the big bed.

Behind her a little clock chimed! Only six and a half hours left.

Only six and a half hours left before the big grey horses would clatter across the courtyard to the great door of Glentoch Castle to take her to Edinburgh and the train for England.

Sue opened the window and leaned far out. Below her on the stone terrace she could see Vicky and Monty walking in the pale February sun. Beyond them lay Glentoch Park and the sea, cold and grey. To the south the moors stretched away to the hills and all of the land was Monty’s.

Sue took a long breath. It was an exciting business to be living in a castle in Scotland with more rooms in it than you could ever use, and more exciting still to see men wearing kilts, to hear the bagpipes being played and to listen to the soft voices of the Scotch.

Behind her the little clock sounded the quarter hour. Sue shut the window hastily and turned back into the room. It was the largest bedroom Sue had ever seen, larger than the whole of their house in the Yukon, larger even than the entire downstairs of the Commissioner’s house in Regina on the Canadian prairies. With its narrow leaded windows set deeply in the stone wall, its great fireplace and high poster bed with faded brocade hangings, it reminded Sue of the Sleeping Beauty’s bedroom. It was called the Tower Room and once a Queen had slept there.

List in hand, Sue turned back to the bed again. Not even Vicky’s trousseau, fresh from its wrappings and all the way from London town, had spread itself so far over everything. And her own outfit for the Yukon, packed in Uncle Dennis’s house in the North West Mounted Police Barracks in Regina hadn’t crowded her room as this outfit did this morning.

Vicky’s trousseau had been shiny and soft and happy; the outfit for the Yukon strange and exciting and full of promises of new adventures, but these clothes! Sue eyed them with suspicion. “Too much wool,” she said. “They’ll think I’m a sheep!” She continued her reading.

The little clock chimed again. Only six hours now.

“Janet,” Sue called. The door into the corridor opened and a tall woman in blue cotton dress and white apron came in, her arms piled high with clothes.

“What is it, Miss Sue?” she asked.

Sue pointed to the clock. “Janet, we’ll never get packed in time!”

“Oh, yes, we will,” said Janet soothingly. “All your things are here now and when we’ve counted them we’ll start sorting them into your boxes.”

“Boxes” seemed a funny word for trunks but that was what they called them in England and Scotland. Sue waved her list at Janet. “There is a cloud written down here,” she said. “What ever is a cloud?”

“A cloud,” answered Janet, “is that pink woolie shawl at your hand there. It’s to wrap around your head and throat when you go out into the night air. It’s a newfangled word for a shawl and it’s almost as warm.”

“But, Janet,” continued Sue, “it can’t be as cold in England as it is in the Yukon. Why do I need to take so many woolies?”

“Ah, England’s not much of a place,” Janet answered, tossing her head. “It’s cold and damp and full of fog; not a bit like Scotland. You’ll need plenty of good Scotch wool to keep you warm there, Miss Sue!”

Sue giggled. Janet looked a bit like a horse, she thought. A Scotch horse, big and thin and bony and, like a Scotch horse, apt to snap at unexpected things.

“Tell me,” Sue teased, “why does wool which is soft when you buy it, become scratchy and prickly when it’s turned into combinations?”

“I know the answer to that,” said Janet, looking at her severely. “Too much skittering around overheats you. When you’ve learned to behave like a young lady instead of one of those wild buffalo that you have in Canada, your combinations won’t scratch.”

“I’m never going to be a lady,” muttered Sue. “They have to sit still all the time and do fancy work. I don’t like sewing and I hate sitting still.”

“Well, you’ll soon have to learn,” said Janet, “and meanwhile you can sit up there in the window while I sew these labels on your petticoats.”

That was another strange thing about going to school. Every garment had to be clearly marked “with the owner’s name in full,” and everything Sue owned, even to her gloves and stockings, bore her name, Sue Winston, written in red embroidery on white tapes.

Sitting up in the high window, Sue told Janet again of the long trip down from the Yukon to Seattle, Seattle to New York, New York to London and finally to Scotland and Monty.

It had been an exciting trip all the way and in London, Sir Donald Smith, who was now Lord Strathcona, had not only liked Sue’s father’s paintings of the Rockies and the Yukon, but had sent him abroad to collect pictures for his private gallery in Montreal. She told her, too, of Matilda, who was now Mrs. Hawkins of Dawson City, Yukon Territory, and of Bomby, her favorite husky that she had brought back from the Yukon and who was in Ireland with Grandpapa Winston.

“Lady Charlotte grew very uppish over Bomby,” explained Sue. “She said he was as wild as a buffalo and as strong as an ox, and that he made our whole party conspicuous by fighting everything he saw. I didn’t mind the fights for Bomby always won,” said Sue, “but Lady Charlotte was very difficult over him and Daddy said the only thing to do was to send him to Grandpapa Winston.”

“Ireland’s a good place for fighters,” said Janet dryly. “Man or beast, the Irish enjoy trouble!”

“And then,” continued Sue, “Lady Charlotte chose this school for me. She said it was near enough London for her to keep an eye on me.”

Janet shook her head. “I’m thinking you’ll need more than one eye kept on you,” she said. “Tell me more.”

“Well,” continued Sue, “Daddy and Mummy went to Paris and I came here and here I’ve been ever since.”

“Why didn’t you go straight to school from London?” asked Janet, sorting stockings busily.

“Because Lady Charlotte said I was underweight and exhausted from too much traveling.”

“Mercy on us!” exclaimed Janet. “I’d not like to have charge of you when you’re feeling entirely well. I’m almost worn out with your antics!”

“Ah,” said Sue proudly, “you should see a good strong healthy Canadian, one that’s bigger than me and older. You should see a Mountie.”

“I don’t want to,” said Janet. “You’re sample enough, and as for your Mounties, well, the Gordon Highlanders are good enough for me.”

“Still you think Monty looks wonderful in his photograph as a Mountie,” protested Sue.

“I think his lordship looks wonderful in everything,” said Janet, “but, Miss Sue, you should have seen him when he was little and wore sailor suits! I was nursemaid then, and he was just plain Master Monty. It’s difficult to think of him as the Earl of Falkney and Dunleith.”

Sue nodded. It was difficult, too, to think of Vicky as a Countess, and sometimes difficult to find your way alone to your own room in this lovely old castle. At times Sue thought there must be miles of rooms in it.

Janet put away her scissors and took off her thimble. “Now, Miss Sue,” she said, “we’ll begin!”

For the next hour Sue carried clothes to Janet and soon the room was empty, and the trunk and portmanteau, the hat box and little bag shaped like a sausage, full to overflowing. On the chair by the fire hung the blue coat and dress, the Glengarry bonnet, the wool-lined gloves and soft knitted scarf that she was to wear traveling. A heavy plaid rug was folded beside them.

Five hours left.

“It’s time for my dinner, Miss Sue,” Janet said, “but if you’ll just stand still a moment, I’ll give your hair a good brush. There’s an hour before your luncheon,” she continued. “Why not sit down and write a little letter to your Mother? She will be thinking of you today, what with your starting off to boarding school and leaving us all.”

Sue nodded. She had something much more important to do than write letters, something that her mother would understand, but something that Janet knew nothing about. She had to pack her treasure trunk.

Far back in the corner of the great wardrobe, there was a little nail-studded leather trunk. It was old and faded but in it Sue kept her treasures. One by one she lifted them out. The bunch of furry gopher tails, souvenirs of that first morning on the prairies when Little Chief had taught her to catch gophers. Sue fingered them. She remembered the hot sun on her back, the distant sound of the bugles from the barracks, the call of the prairie lark . . . the little Indian suit of soft, bead-embroidered leather . . . the feather head-dress which Laughing Cloud had given her . . . her precious red coat with the golden crest of the Mounties and its motto “Maintain the Right” . . . the shabby little bag of leather which held the pemmican her Father had carried all that dreadful time he had been lost on the Yukon. Sue sniffed it cautiously. It still smelt pretty strong. Her dried rattlesnake skin and ladybird beetle that Consy had given her . . . the first nugget from Bombardier Mine . . . Minnie-Pooh-Pooh, the Indian doll . . . her catapult. Sue stretched the elastic. It was a bit weak. She must have it mended before she left for Arundel Abbey. She might need it there. One never knew. Her little knitted purse with its shining silver quarter that her Father had given her so long ago when she was little and had taken her first journey to Regina.

From behind the dictionary on the bookshelf. Sue drew out a small twist of butterscotch. Old Donald, the gamekeeper, had given it to her the day before with warnings not to let Janet see it. He had called the butterscotch a sweetmeat. “I’m thinking it’ll be a wee comfort on the journey,” he said, twinkling at her, “but I’d keep it to yirself. There’s no telling what that woman Janet’ll do, if she finds out that I’ve given it to you.”

Sue sampled the sweetmeat. “Janet would say it would spoil my appetite,” she said to herself. “As if anything could spoil my appetite.” She tucked it away under the pillow so that it would be handy when she started to repack her treasures.

There was a little tin box marked “camphorated ice” in the washstand drawer. Sue opened it. Four cakes of shortbread lay there. The cook, miles away in the big stone kitchen, had given it to her yesterday, when she had dropped in for a chat. “But don’t tell Janet,” the cook had said. “She doesn’t approve of sweets for children. Just hide it away, Miss Sue, and eat it by yirself sometimes when yir hungry.” Sue pushed it in beside the sweetmeat.

From the potpourri jar on the mantel, she took out a small bottle. A label on it said it was

which Sue knew meant “Parma Violet Perfume for Elegant Ladies.” Vicky’s maid had given it to her. “There’s only a wee drop left, Miss Sue,” she said, “and since you like it so much, you can have it!” Sue unscrewed the stopper. It had a lovely smell, just like Vicky and a little like Mother. She had tried some on her hankie one day but Janet had been very tiresome over that. “Perfume is not for children,” she had said sternly and had given Sue a fresh handkerchief, smelling of nothing but cleanness. So Sue had hidden the bottle in the potpourri jar for fear Janet should tidy it away. It, too, went under the pillow.

And from the dressing table drawer and hidden under the lining paper, Sue brought out her last treasure. A pink celluloid comb! The barber on board the ship had given it to her as a parting gift. He told her it was very good for combing moustachios. A moustachio, Sue thought, had sounded much more important than a moustache, but her father had told her that they were both the same nuisance to keep in order. It was a lovely, rich pink comb, but when she had tried to use it on her hair, it had caught in her curls and produced such a tangle that she had laid it away against the day when perhaps her hair would be straight.

The chimes of the little clock sounded.

Four hours left and Monty’s voice calling up the great stairs.

“Sue! Susie! Susannah!”

“Coming,” called Sue, and closing the door behind her on her treasures, she ran along the hall and skittered down the stairs to where Vicky and Monty were waiting for her in front of the huge fireplace in the Great Hall. Tapestries hung on the stone walls and here and there an ancient sword or breastplate glimmered dimly. Around the fireplace a high leather screen kept off draughts. Rugs covered the stone floor and great bowls of daffodils stood on the oak tables and chests. Low chairs were pushed close to the fire. It was, Sue thought, the most pleasant place in the whole castle.

They had luncheon, the three of them, in the little dining-room, looking out towards the sea, and there were all her favorite things to eat. Codfish cakes, with a rich brown crust on the outside and creamy and soft inside. Carrots and fat baked potatoes with large lumps of fresh butter melting away where they had been broken open. Sue loved the fresh Scotch butter. There was no salt in it, like Canadian butter, and it was velvety and smooth. There was a Savoy pudding, too, with a fluffy meringue on top and strawberry jam underneath, and all through luncheon Monty and Vicky told her of the good times they had had at boarding school.

“Well, if it’s as much fun as that,” asked Sue, “why did you ever leave it?”

“I grew up,” said Monty.

Sue laughed. “I know, and you ran away from home and were a bad boy!”

“Yes,” said Monty, looking at Vicky, “and if I hadn’t run away from home, I would never have known my wife!”

“Nor me,” said Sue.

“Nor you,” said Vicky and Monty together. “Are you all ready, Sue?” Monty asked. “Packing finished and all that?”

“All but my treasure trunk,” said Sue, “but it will only take me two jiffs to finish it.”

“Run along then,” said Vicky, “and then we’ll go and say goodbye to the horses.”

Sue hurried up the stairs. If there was one thing she loved it was horses, and Monty had such beauties. There was one little horse in particular that reminded her of her own pony, Beppo. Perhaps if she hinted strongly enough, he would let her ride him around the paddock a couple of times.

She opened the Tower Room door. Save for the little bag shaped like a sausage, her trunks were gone. The bed which she had left covered with all her precious treasures was smooth and empty. There was no sign of the little leather trunk. In the window, Janet sat sewing.

“Where are my treasures?” cried Sue fearfully.

“What treasures?” asked Janet.

“My treasures. I left them on the bed!”

“Oh, those bits of things,” said Janet. “I put them all away!”

“Bits of things!” cried Sue stormily. “They were my treasures! Where are they?”

“Now, now, Miss Sue,” said Janet. “There’s no use getting into a tantrum! Your things are safe. I packed them away myself when I was tidying up.”

“But where are they?” demanded Sue.

“In that wee trunk in the wardrobe,” answered Janet tartly, “and you’ll be leaving them just where they are. I don’t want to tidy that bed again today.”

But Sue hastily lifted out the little trunk. It was so full that the lid wouldn’t close. Helter skelter, she pulled things out, in terror that something might be missing. Everything was safe and in the pocket of her Indian suit, she found her mouth organ. She had forgotten all about it. She tried a few notes.

“What a terrible noise,” said Janet crossly.

“It’s as good a noise as the bagpipes,” observed Sue.

“We’ll not start that argument,” Janet replied firmly. “And what ever are you doing with all those things pulled out again?”

“I’m packing them to take to school.”

Janet shook her head. “But you can’t take that trunk to school,” she said. “The rules state very plainly that only one trunk is allowed, and,” Janet added grimly, “ ‘treasure trunks’ are not on the list!”

“I will take it,” Sue insisted obstinately.

Janet went back to her sewing. She didn’t even speak. She just sewed and looked grim. Sue re-sorted her treasures. She was tired of Janet treating her as if she were a baby. Why couldn’t Janet understand that anyone who was big enough to go to boarding school was also big enough to know what she wanted to take with her?

There was a rap on the door and Monty entered. “Ready, Sue?” Sue shook her head.

“What ever’s the matter?” Monty asked, looking down at the silent Sue and then over to Janet by the window. There was no answer.

“Will you leave this to me, please, Janet?” said Monty, quietly. Janet moved away through the dressing room door.

Monty sat down on the footstool beside the bed. “What’s the matter, Susie?” he said gently.

“I feel squiggly,” said Sue.

“Frow-up squiggly?” asked Monty.

Sue shook her head. “Just squiggly!”

Monty nodded. “I know, Sue,” he said. “I felt like that once myself. It was the afternoon before I left for Eton, and suddenly I felt as if I were going to cry. Well, I didn’t cry, but I felt squiggly all the same. Is that all’s the matter?”

“No,” said Sue, feeling, if possible, worse than ever. “Janet says I can’t take my treasure trunk to school, that the rules won’t let me.”

“There’s no such word in the dictionary as can’t,” said Monty briskly. “Where are the rules?” Sue scrambled to her feet. The hateful things lay on the dressing table. Monty read the list out loud.

“This is a poser,” said Monty. “It looks as if Janet was right.” He walked up and down the room a few times and stopped by the chair where her traveling things lay, and picked up her rug.

“I’ve got it, Sue,” he said. “I know what we can do. Did you ever hear of a shawl strap?” Sue shook her head.

“It has two long straps attached to a handle. It’s a great convenience,” continued Monty, with a twinkle. “All the things you’ve forgotten can be rolled up inside a rug, the straps tied around it . . .”

“Oh, Monty,” broke in Sue, “I see what you mean!”

“I thought you would,” said Monty, “but let’s hurry, Sue!”

Rapidly they sorted away the treasures that were to go to Arundel Abbey. Her red coat and feathered head-dress, her Indian suit, pemmican bag and nugget, Monty advised her to leave behind. “They are too precious to risk losing,” he said. “I’d leave them here. We’ll put them along with my uniform where they’ll be safe.”

“I’m going to take my crest,” said Sue, polishing it on her sleeve again. “I couldn’t go anywhere without it.”

Monty hesitated a moment. “It would be safer here, Sue,” he said. “Things have a way of getting lost at school.”

But Sue clasped it tight. She couldn’t bear to part with it to anyone. When she held it tight it seemed to drive away the squiggly feeling.

Closing the lid, Monty rolled the treasure trunk in first one rug and then another, and then one more. It took quite a bit of management, for in spite of the curved top the corners seemed to show in a very knobbly squarish fashion. It was, Monty said, “a square roll.” “Let’s take it down ourselves,” he said. “It would never do to have Janet see it.”

Sue nodded. “She’d say it was untidy and . . .”

“Open it to roll it straighter,” whispered Monty, and the two of them stole out into the corridor. Coming towards them was Vicky.

“What are you two doing?” she asked smiling.

“We’re conniving,” said Monty, looking down at Sue.

“Conniving?” repeated Sue. “What a lovely word,” and the three of them hid the shawl strap in Monty’s dressing room.

It was cold and windy in the paddock but Monty let her try out the little horse. Sue noticed that everyone but Janet was being especially nice to her today. This going to school business she felt was not too bad. MacTavish, the head groom, let her feed the hunters with sugar, and usually he was like a snapping turtle. He showed her the new beagle puppies, too, and let her hold one.

The stable clock struck. Two hours left.

“Come along, Sue,” said Monty, “We’ve got to hurry now. I’ll race you back.” Monty won, but then who wouldn’t with legs as long as his, thought Sue, as she tore up the stairs, two steps at a time.

Janet was waiting for her. She seemed to have forgotten all about the treasure trunk and helped Sue change into her traveling clothes and brushed her hair again with a gentle hand.

“There,” she said. “You’ll do. Where is your clean handkerchief and your gloves?” Sue showed her both.

“Run along down to your tea then,” she said. “I’ll bring your coat and bag later. And see, Miss Sue, don’t tell anyone, for the others mightn’t understand, but I’ve tucked away in your bag here a wee bit of butterscotch. It’ll be a comfort to you perhaps when you haven’t Janet around to take care of you.”

Janet showed her a little packet with a tartan wrapper around it and a picture of a Scotchman in kilts on the front.

“Oh, Janet,” cried Sue, “you’re the kindest person. I’m sorry I was rude to you this afternoon.”

“You weren’t rude,” said Janet.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly polite,” Sue insisted.

“Never mind that, my lamb,” said Janet.

“Lamb?” giggled Sue. “With all the wool I’m carrying I’m more like a sheep.”

“Lamb is a Scotch word meaning treasured child,” said Janet, smiling again. “And now be off with you.”

“Treasured child,” said Sue to herself. “I like that. But I wonder if anyone will call me that at school.” She doubted it.

There was hot cocoa in front of the fire and then a soft sort of bustle in the hall; the sound of horses’ feet crossing the courtyard; Vicky in her velvet tea gown, crushing a Glengarry bonnet down over Sue’s curls, adjusting her scarf; Monty helping her into the heavy blue coat. The great doors swung open. Sue could see the grey horses and, inside the carriage, Janet in her traveling clothes, the little bag shaped like a sausage beside her . . . a young moon hanging high over the sea . . . the rush of cold air on her face . . . Monty whispering to her that the shawl strap was with the rest of her things . . . the slam of the carriage door . . . the clip-clop of the horses’ feet . . . the Tower clock striking five. Not any hours left.

Another of Sue’s adventures had begun.

“What ever is it?” asked Sue. “There are two cows, two cupids, a crown and a lot of leaves! What can it be?”

“Surely it reminds you of something, Susannah,” Lady Charlotte answered in her booming voice. “Look again!”

Sue looked.

Across the luncheon table, between Lady Charlotte and herself, stood the most enormous silver dish Sue had ever seen. It was so high that even Lady Charlotte was partly hidden behind it. Sue could only see her eyes and iron grey hair.

“Think hard,” Lady Charlotte said encouragingly.

Sue thought hard. Two cows . . . Lady Charlotte and a cow!

“I know,” she cried. “I know! It reminds me of you and the cow in Dawson City.”

“Well done, Susannah. Well done!” exclaimed Lady Charlotte. “You’re right! It is the cow and Dawson City . . . but, it is also a soup tureen.”

“A soup tureen!” repeated Sue.

“Precisely.” Lady Charlotte’s head bobbed energetically over the top of the tureen. “If there is one thing in the world that I detest, it is tepid soup! Several times a year I entertain the whole family connection,” she continued, “and mine is the only house where the soup is hot. If it isn’t hot, there are wigs on the green!”

“What are wigs on the green?” asked Sue. “I never heard of them.”

“Ask Stole,” Lady Charlotte answered. Sue looked at the old butler standing by Lady Charlotte’s chair. He smiled and shook his head.

“Wigs on the green is an expression from my great-grandfather’s time. If you got into an argument and wished to settle it by fisticuffs, you pulled your wig off, threw it down upon the village green, and blacked your opponent’s eye!”

“Mercy me!” said Sue. “Have you ever blacked Stole’s eye?”

“No,” Lady Charlotte answered, “but there have been times when I could cheerfully have blacked both his eyes. Couldn’t I, Stole? You remember the time the Princess dined with me and the mock turtle was tepid?” Lady Charlotte’s voice dropped. “And mock turtle, Susannah, was Her Royal Highness’s favorite soup.” Stole disappeared into the pantry.

“So,” continued Lady Charlotte, “I decided to do something about it and when I returned from the Yukon I had this tureen made. It serves two purposes. It keeps the soup hot and it recalls my second visit to Canada.”

“It would hold enough soup to feed all the Mounties at once,” said Sue, admiringly. “However did you think of it?”

“I’m glad you asked that, child,” Lady Charlotte answered, “for it shows intelligence. When I was your age the men of the family were always bringing home big game trophies . . . elephants’ tusks, lion skins, tigers’ heads, nasty snarling things with teeth showing . . . Tibetan bears. Ugly things all of them and difficult to keep in order. Moths would get into the bears, spread to the lions and finish up on the tigers. I resolved then to commemorate my traveling in something that neither moths nor rust should destroy.” Lady Charlotte coughed impressively. “So I have had my Canadian trip commemorated in this tureen. The cows recall my trip up the Yukon River with the first cow ever to enter Dawson City. The wheat recalls the prairie wheat fields around Regina. On the lid you will notice maple leaves and two prairie chickens; the crest is that of my family.”

“But who are the cupids?” asked Sue.

“I had a little trouble over them,” Lady Charlotte answered, “I wanted you at one end of the stand and Consy at the other, representing Canadian youth, but the silversmith proved very tiresome. He insisted upon mythological figures. If you look closely, however, you can see that one head is curlier than the other. That is you, Susannah.”

Sue examined the curly-headed figure. “I haven’t enough clothes on for the Yukon,” she giggled. “The mosquitoes would eat me alive.”

“That was another difficulty,” Lady Charlotte explained. “I wanted the flies and mosquitoes represented and that tiresome creature refused to put them on the cows’ backs. He said it was not fair to perpetuate the worst features of any of the colonies.”

Stole lifted the lid of the tureen. A cloud of steam arose and behind it Sue could now see half of Lady Charlotte’s nose.

“Turkey soup,” said Sue sniffing. “How lovely!”

“Yes,” said Lady Charlotte, rattling the big silver ladle. “I had turkey soup as a treat because you are going to school.”

“Have you any more silver trophies?” asked Sue.

Lady Charlotte nodded. “Stole, get the nutcrackers.” Stole laid the strangest piece of silver beside Sue’s plate. It was a nutcracker! The place where you cracked the nuts was a tiger’s head and when you closed it, the tiger’s silver teeth broke the shell. “I had these made after my first trip to India, in memory of my first tiger.”

“You never killed a tiger yourself!” exclaimed Sue.

“Certainly I did,” said Lady Charlotte, “and some day, Susannah, you will go to India and shoot one yourself.”

“I’d rather shoot tigers now than go to school,” said Sue.

“Nonsense, child, school is a most delightful place. You have such fun there.”

“What school did you go to?” Sue asked.

“I never went to school,” Lady Charlotte answered, helping herself to the omelet.

“Then how do you know about the fun?”

Lady Charlotte tossed her head. “All the boys of the family went to school,” she said, “and all of them loved it!”

“Are girls’ schools like boys’ schools?” Sue asked. She was beginning to be suspicious about all this fun at school. Everyone was so vague about it.

“Not at all, my dear,” Lady Charlotte answered. “Boys play rough and noisy games. Girls are taught to embroider, play tennis gracefully, speak French, write a charming note and to conduct themselves like young ladies.” Sue shivered. It didn’t sound a bit like fun.

But a few minutes later they were driving through the grey London streets together; old Parkins in his plum-colored livery handling the reins of the two fat grey horses, young Parkins on the box beside him.

“We are going to see The Mikado as a treat because you are going to school tomorrow,” Lady Charlotte said. Every time school was mentioned, Sue noticed, it was to point out the fun she would have. And yet they were all giving her treats, as if she weren’t going to have fun for a long time again. It was too puzzling.

She and Janet had arrived from Scotland that morning and had gone straight to Lady Charlotte’s London house. There had been a large package all the way from Paris waiting for her in her bedroom. Janet had wanted to untie the knots of the cord that bound it, but Sue shook her head. “I couldn’t wait that long, Janet,” she said. “I must see what Mummy’s sent me quickly,” and she snipped the cords with scissors. Inside there were folds of tissue paper, blue and soft, and then two lovely dresses of Indian mull with rows and rows of tucks and insertions of Valenciennes lace . . . blue ribbons in one, white ribbons in the other.

the card had read. There were blue silk stockings, too. Sue hid them hastily. If Janet ever saw them, she knew she would growl that they were not Scotch wool and therefore not warm enough. There was a little navy blue purse of corded silk, too, and inside it a half crown.

The purse just matched the color of her coat.

Picking up her presents, Sue carried them down to Lady Charlotte’s dressing room where she tried her dresses on, told all the news from Glentoch Castle and watched Beamish “do” her mistress’s hair. That had been quite a business. Sue stood beside Beamish and handed the hairpins. Sixty-seven of them were needed, large and small, before the elaborate loops and puffs were arranged and the hair net adjusted. Then it was time for luncheon and the matinée.

It was Sue’s first visit to a theatre, the first time she had ever heard an orchestra. It was quite different from a band. No one wore a uniform. There were few drums and no bugles. The music was softer, and while it didn’t make you want to march head up, shoulders back and chin in, it did give you an exciting feeling, as if something were going to happen.

And something did happen, for the great golden curtain slowly rose and before her eyes lay the courtyard of a Japanese palace, cherry trees in blossom showering their petals on the lovely scene.

“Oh!” said Sue. “Oh-h-h-h-h! Lady Charlotte!”

Perched on the edge of her seat, feet softly tapping the rhythm, she followed the story of Yum-Yum and Nanki-Pooh through to the end of the first act.

“It isn’t over, is it?” she asked anxiously.

Lady Charlotte smiled. “No,” she said. “There’s another act. What do you think of it, Susannah?”

“It’s wonderful,” Sue answered. “I didn’t know there was anything in the world like this. And it’s so marvelous the way everybody comes in on time and never forgets his part. Do you remember how we would always forget our parts in the Yukon?”

“I do, indeed,” said Lady Charlotte grimly.

The curtain rose again on a garden, and there were more cherry blossoms and even lovelier ladies in beautiful flowered kimonos, fluttering little fans. And finally with everyone on the stage singing and dancing together, the curtain fell for the last time. Around Sue voices called “Encore, Bravo, Encore!”, and gloved hands clapped gently. Sue clapped and clapped, but it seemed as if she couldn’t make enough noise to satisfy her desire to tell them how wonderful they all were. Pulling off her gloves, she had just put two fingers in her mouth to give her best whistle when Lady Charlotte caught her arm.

“None of that, Sue,” she said sharply. “You’re not in the Yukon now. You’re in London, and you must never make yourself conspicuous!” Her words were sharp but her eyes were smiling, and as they went out of the theatre together, Lady Charlotte, like Sue and everyone else, was humming to herself,

“For he’s gone and married Yum-yum, Yum-yum”

in her soft, cracked voice.

They had to wait in the lobby for the carriage. Sue clung to Lady Charlotte’s arm. It was difficult for her to believe that she was not in Japan. She needed to feel the warm fur under her hands and hear the booming voice of Lady Charlotte greeting friends to realize that she was in London town, that the magic curtain had fallen, and that through the open door the smoky swirls of fog were drifting.

      *      *      *      *      *      

Parkins tucked the rugs around them in the carriage. Sue looked up at Lady Charlotte. “I know now,” she said, “why everyone in Regina and the Yukon was always wanting to get back to London. It’s so lively here, so exciting. I wish I were grown up and could go to the theatre every night!”

“You’ll grow up soon enough,” Lady Charlotte answered, tucking Sue’s scarf more tightly around her throat, “but each time you come to London from school I’ll take you to a matinée.”

“School!” The word reminded Sue of tomorrow and spoiled the enchantment of the hour. She wondered if there was anything she could do about remaining in London instead of going to school. That message of her Father’s came back to her again. “Try to like your school.” If school were “such fun,” why should she “try to like it”?

Through the dusky light they drove back to the great grey house to tea in the drawing room before a crackling fire.

“Why can’t I have a governess instead of going to boarding school?” asked Sue, helping herself to another cake.

“Don’t you want to go to school?” Lady Charlotte asked.

Sue shook her head. “Not much!”

“Why not?” asked Lady Charlotte.

“Girls are so sissy,” Sue answered. “They think of nothing but keeping clean and tidy. None of the girls I’ve known except Jane can put a worm on a hook, they’re afraid of mice, they like sewing and none of them are fun.”

“Fun or not,” Lady Charlotte said sharply, “you’re going to school in the morning, Susannah, and don’t try to get out of it.”

Sue sighed. Things weren’t coming out the way she had hoped. She took another cake and bit into it, wishing that the cook would make them larger.

“Wouldn’t you like to have me here with you all winter?” she asked. “I’d be company for you, and I’d be very good.”

“Good . . .” grunted Lady Charlotte. “You don’t know the meaning of the word ‘good.’ I’m hoping that boarding school will teach you.”

The coals fell apart, sending great fingers of dancing light across the hearth, making Lady Charlotte seem very tall and stern, but her fingers were gentle as she touched Sue’s curls.

“Your train leaves Paddington for Windsor at ten,” she said, “and I don’t know whether to send Janet with you or Beamish. Which would you prefer, Susannah?”

“Neither,” said Sue.

“Neither! What do you mean, child?” asked Lady Charlotte.

“I’d like to go alone,” Sue answered. “Janet says the train journey is only an hour, and if I’m big enough to go to boarding school, I’m big enough to go alone! Besides, I don’t want to arrive at school looking like a baby with a nurse!”

“SO!” said Lady Charlotte in her deepest voice. “So! We’re beginning to grow up, are we? And we want to travel alone, do we?” She paused. “Well, we’ll talk about it later.”

She rang for Beamish then and when the stern-faced maid arrived, told her to lay out Sue’s mull frock with its blue ribbons. “Miss Sue will dine with me tonight,” she said. “Tell Janet I said so.”

She ruffled Sue’s curls with her ringed fingers. “This is a special treat for you tonight, Susannah,” she said, “because you are going to school in the morning.”

Another treat?

Sue wondered what could be wrong with boarding school to bring so many treats.

Sue wondered if the train would ever move. There had been so much fussiness. Even over so simple a matter as packing her two new dresses there had been argument. Janet declared that they weren’t warm enough for her to wear in a drafty school, that Sue would catch her “death of cold” the first time she wore them. Beamish felt they were too “fussy.”

“They will never let her wear them at school,” she said sourly. “They’re suitable for a French child, perhaps, but not for an English school girl,” and she tossed her head and sniffed in a superior fashion.

“Pack the dresses,” Lady Charlotte ordered. “Sue’s Mother sent them to her and Sue’s Head Mistress will determine whether she wears them!”

And all the blue tissue paper had been brought out again and laid between the folds of mull and lace.

Sue had worn the blue silk stockings and blue-ribboned mull dress the night before, for she had dined with Lady Charlotte in the great paneled dining-room that overlooked the park.

It had all been very elegant, with Stole, the old butler, and two footmen waiting on just the two of them. Sue had never dined at half past eight before and never had she seen such lovely decorations. Candles and bowls of flowers and in the center of the table a silver dish called an epergne, much prettier than the soup tureen, with branches holding smaller dishes spreading out like silver leaves over the table.

The little dishes held nuts, preserved ginger and figs; glacé fruit, chocolates, raisins and peppermints. The center dish was crowned with luscious hothouse grapes, each one as large as a walnut. If there was one thing Sue loved more than another, it was hothouse grapes. She planned not to eat much dinner so that there would be plenty of room for a lot of grapes, but everything was so delicious that she had only room for two, which was most disappointing.

Lady Charlotte had looked very grand, too, in her black dress and pearls. She told Sue all over again how the boys in the family had gone to school and loved it. They had had so much fun. She wondered again about the fun but not for very long, for they were hardly through dinner before Lady Charlotte had taken her up to bed.

Janet and Beamish had been waiting for her in her room and Lady Charlotte discussed with them the problem of letting Sue travel alone.

Both had been against it.

“She’s very young,” said Janet.

“She’s not very big,” said Beamish.

“She’s got to begin,” said Lady Charlotte, “and she shall begin tomorrow.” The two maids sighed as if the end of the world had come, and in the midst of all the argument, Sue had suddenly fallen asleep.

The morning had been gloomy and there were times when Sue feared Lady Charlotte might change her mind.

“Perfect nonsense, Beamish,” Sue heard her say. “We will put her in her carriage at Paddington, and there she stays until she reaches Windsor. There will be a governess to meet the train. What possible harm can there be to it?”

Sue had heard Beamish mention something about “not being done.”

“Then I’ll do it, Beamish,” said Lady Charlotte, “and that’ll be that. Now, go about your business!”

Janet had been gloomy, too, and had kept warning Sue not to speak to anyone on the train, which was foolish considering how many interesting people, there were on trains.

They had put her into her traveling clothes hours before it was time to leave and brought her down to Paddington so early that they had to walk up and down the platform until the coaches were open. And then, before she was allowed into the compartment marked “Windsor, First Class,” Lady Charlotte had insisted on the Guard putting a foot warmer in it for her. It was a long tin thing with hot water in it and her feet rested on it now. But if the train ever did leave, Sue meant to kick it aside. Between her cashmere stockings and her woolen bloomers, her serge dress and heavy coat and scarf, she thought she might explode at any moment.

The Guard came to the door. “Everything all right in here, Missy?” he asked.

Sue smiled. Everything would be all right if they would only get under way. Everyone had told her what fun boarding school was going to be and now these three women were standing looking at her as if they might burst into tears. It was all beyond Sue’s understanding. She often wished herself back on the prairies or in the Yukon where everything was simple and easily understood. Here you were either too little or too big to do the things you wanted to do, such as travel alone or slide down the banisters.

“All Aboard!” a voice cried. “All . . . . ll Aboard!” A bell rang. A whistle blew. “Goodbye, goodbye!” they called. With a tiny bump the train pulled slowly out.

“I’m away,” said Sue, “and I don’t need to cook any longer.” She loosened the scarf, opened her coat and kicked the foot warmer aside. All this fuss about her traveling alone. It was just too silly. She was only going to be on the train for an hour and from the commotion you would have thought she was going around the world. She who had traveled all the way to Regina and climbed the Chilkoot Pass and shot rapids in the Yukon, being fussed over as if she were a baby.

The country looked very different from other train journeys she had taken. There were rows and rows of dreary little houses, untidy back yards, with laundry hanging out, chimney pots, drab, narrow roads . . . no crocuses or waving prairie grass, no pines lifting their heads to the sun . . . just dreariness.

Sue reconsidered the train. It was a funny little thing with its coaches separated into compartments and no corridor; no way of walking the length of the train as you could on the Canadian Pacific Railway. There was really nothing to do on an English train.

She rummaged in her bag for a bit of butterscotch and wondered again what school would be like. Except for Jane, she had never had girls to play with, and quite suddenly she realized that, apart from Consy, most of her life had been spent playing with grown-ups. She bit off a larger piece of butterscotch. Girls her own age should be fun, she thought, that is if they were venturesome like Jane. Sue bounced in her seat when she remembered the morning they had skunked the two dogs. She wondered if anyone had a dog at school.

The train drew to a stop. The Guard opened the door. “Are you all right, Missy?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” said Sue politely.

She wondered what she would do if the girls weren’t fun and she hoped there wouldn’t be too many lessons. There would be midnight suppers, of course. All the books she had read had told of midnight suppers where everyone was caught.

The train stopped again. There were such short distances between stations here, not a bit like the prairies, where you could ride for hours without seeing a station.

“Are you all right, Missy?” asked the Guard.

“Yes, thank you,” said Sue. He was just like a parrot, she thought. He always asked the same question and she answered just the same way.

The next time the Guard came to the door, Sue thanked him and told him he needn’t bother coming every time. “It must be quite a trouble for you,” she said, “and I’ve traveled a great deal and can look after myself.”

The Guard smiled. “The lady that gave you into my charge didn’t think so, Missy,” he said. “She told me I wasn’t to lose sight of you at each stop, for fear you might disappear. She seemed to think you quite a wanderer.” He laughed. “I wouldn’t mind looking after you every day. Look what her ladyship gave me!” He held out a sovereign.

“My gracious,” murmured Sue, “there’s no escaping Lady Charlotte when she makes up her mind.”

“And her two maids,” the Guard continued. “They warned me about you, too. You must be quite a case!”

The train was off again. Sue remembered the grapes and wished she had had room for one more. The packet of butterscotch in the little bag shaped like a sausage was gone.

The Guard warned her. “Next station Windsor, Missy!”

Sue kicked the foot warmer back into position, put on her scarf, buttoned her coat and pulled on her gloves. Her fingers were a bit sticky but her gloves would cover that. She looked at herself in the mirror overhead. It was a funny mirror that made her look a bit lopsided, but she thought she would do.

“Windsor,” called the Guard and helped her out. There were so many people getting off that Sue wondered if everyone in the train was coming to Windsor. She stood beside her bags in the way she had promised Lady Charlotte to do and waited. She was to wait until a Miss Mills claimed her, “just as if I were a trunk,” thought Sue.

It was quite interesting watching the people and wondering which of them was going to claim her. She had just decided that a nice looking lady in a green coat and skirt and fur tippet would be Miss Mills, when she heard her name being called.

“Miss Susannah Winston! Miss Susannah Winston!” It was the porter and behind him was the tallest woman Sue had ever seen.

“My goodness,” said Sue to herself, “what a big moose of a woman!” The tall woman smiled and bore down upon her. She flashed her teeth at Sue. “Ah,” she said, “aren’t you our little Canadian . . . our little Susannah Winston?”

If there was one thing on earth that Sue detested more than another it was being called little, but if this was Miss Mills she thought she had better make the best of it.

“I’m Sue,” she said.

“I’m Miss Mills,” the tall woman replied. “Miss Templar sent me down to fetch you.”

“Fetch” was another word Sue disliked. It had an ugly sound. While Miss Mills directed the porter, Sue noticed she wore a heavy dark grey frieze coat and skirt, a flannel blouse and fur tippet. Her blue felt hat was tilted down over her nose and held in position by a long and dangerous looking hatpin. At the back her mousey colored hair was twisted into a sort of teapot handle. She wore high laced boots. Sue wondered how anyone could manage to get together so many funny clothes.

“Come along, my dear,” Miss Mills said brightly, and started off at a great pace across the platform. Sue trotted along beside her.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“We’re taking the station fly,” answered Miss Mills.

“A fly?” repeated Sue. “A fly? What kind of a fly?” she asked cautiously, for fear of giving herself away. These English often had queer ways.

Miss Mills laughed. “The station fly, my dear.” And then Miss Mills laughed more than ever. “Haven’t you ever heard of a fly, dear child, or do you think it is something that goes buzz buzz?” Sue definitely decided that she didn’t like Miss Mills. She was too silly to be bothered about.

Miss Mills laughed again. “A fly in England, dear child, is a four wheeler, and here we are.”

At the back of the station there was a shabby old four wheeled cab like they had in Montreal, only larger. An old driver stood beside his older horse. He seemed to be waiting for Miss Mills and helped the porter to stow away Sue’s bags and boxes.

“Now, Susannah,” said Miss Mills cheerfully, “we’ll run along. Hop in!” Sue hopped into the gloomy interior of the fly. It smelt a bit stablish and Miss Mills had to double herself like a jack-knife to get in but finally the old cabby mounted the box and they moved off at a slow trot.

“Our drive is not very long,” continued Miss Mills, “but it will give us a chance to become friends.” That, Sue thought, it would need a very long ride to do, but she listened quietly while Miss Mills pointed out the various places of interest on the road.

“Over there,” she said, “you can see Windsor Castle, over here is Eton, that river is the Thames. We shall cross it presently. I hope,” she continued, “that you are going to be obedient, kind and punctual.”

“Yes, Miss Mills,” said Sue.

“And what are your favorite studies?” inquired Miss Mills.

“I haven’t any,” said Sue softly.

Miss Mills’s round blue eyes looked at her in astonishment. “No favorite studies,” she repeated shrilly. “What do you like?”

“Riding,” said Sue, “playing with the dogs, swimming, canoeing . . . I like talking, too.”

“Indeed,” said Miss Mills, in a cold voice. “I doubt if you will find much opportunity for any of your favorite pastimes at Arundel Abbey. Tell me, are you fond of music?”

“I like whistling,” said Sue, “and I can play the harmonica.”

quoted Miss Mills severely. “Have you ever heard that before, Susannah?”

“Often,” nodded Sue.

Miss Mills blinked. “I’m afraid you’re rather like another Canadian I knew,” she said. “Her name was Daisy McKay and she came from Montreal. She was not as amenable as I could have wished . . . But you are younger and I have no doubt that we shall work wonders with you.”

Sue doubted it.

“Yes,” Miss Mills continued. “Daisy was a very fine mathematical scholar.”

“I’m not bad myself,” said Sue. “I can add and divide in my head up to thirteen times.”

Miss Mills’s blue eyes opened wider than ever. “Thirteen times nine,” she said. “Quickly now!”

“A hundred and seventeen,” said Sue, just as fast.

“Well done, Susannah, bravo!” cried Miss Mills, which Sue thought very silly. “Can’t English girls add and divide in their heads?” she asked, astonished at such enthusiasm.

“Yes,” said Miss Mills, “but not so quickly. Twelve times seven!”

“Eighty-four!”

“Splendid,” said Miss Mills approvingly. “I can see you have a distinct flair for mathematics. But wait, little Susannah, until you meet geometry and algebra.”

“What’s algebra?” asked Sue.

“Don’t say algeburra,” said Miss Mills. “In England we pronounce it algebra.”

“That’s what I said,” objected Sue.

Miss Mills shook her head. “I’m afraid we shall have quite a time with your accent. You’re very Canadian!”

“Of course I am!” answered Sue. She couldn’t understand what Miss Mills meant by saying she was “very” Canadian. Sue wasn’t sure but she didn’t think she liked it.

They were driving down a pleasant country road now, with here and there a house set far back among the trees. The old horse was trotting along as if he knew his journey was nearly over. They turned into a little driveway shaped like a half moon and drew up in front of a grey stone building. Wide shallow steps led up to a great door set in a stone archway.

“Here we are,” said Miss Mills, getting out of the fly. “Welcome to Arundel Abbey, Sue. I hope you will be very happy here.”

The great door opened slowly. Sue wondered what lay within.

“This is your room,” said Miss Smith, opening the door, “and your bed is the one beside the window.”

Sue looked in. It was a large airy room with three beds down one wall, a chair beside each bed. The wall paper was flowered, the carpet just a little worn and faded. Three chests of drawers with tiny mirrors and three washstands, gay with flowered china, completed the furnishings. It was a cheerful room and through the window Sue could see across the meadows the towers of Eton and Windsor Castle.

There was a bumping noise in the hall. Two men were carrying in her trunk. Sue put the little bag shaped like a sausage on the chair and took off her coat. She hadn’t met the Head Mistress yet, but she had met her assistant, Miss Hill, who seemed quite a nice sort of person and who had told her that Miss Templar was interviewing the Bishop and would see her just before luncheon.

Miss Hill had called a Miss Smith then, and suggested to her that she show Sue to her room and help her unpack. Miss Smith wasn’t much of a person, Sue thought. She wore a blue alpaca dress and rustled a bit when she walked. Her fine blond hair was pushed neatly back from her forehead and she wore eye-glasses. Her nose was thin and red at the end like a bunny’s. She had a funny way of twitching her nostrils, too, that Sue had never noticed before. She tried it herself when Miss Smith’s back was turned but without success. Sue decided that your nose had to be thin and pink to twitch properly. Hers was too snub.

The men finished loosening the straps. Miss Smith unlocked the trunk and they started unpacking.

“Every girl,” said Miss Smith, “must be neat and tidy always.” She paused impressively. “I inspect the drawers and cupboards regularly and report to Miss Templar the names of those who are negligent in this duty.”

“Yes, Miss Smith,” said Sue politely, thinking Miss Smith sounded a bit as if she were preaching a sermon.

“I will show you the order in which things are arranged,” said Miss Smith, “and I hope I shall always find them like this.”

“Yes, Miss Smith,” said Sue again.

But once Miss Smith got into action, Sue found she worked like lightning. Things just whizzed out of the trunk and into their appointed places. The trunk was empty now and the portmanteau. From the hat box came Sue’s school tam, her plain blue hat for daily wear, her Sunday hat with its soft quilled ribbons and rosette at the side. There was only the little bag shaped like a sausage now and the shawl strap around the treasure trunk. She wished Miss Smith would go away and let her finish unpacking by herself. She took out the photograph of her Father and Mother in the silver frame. “Where shall I put this?” she asked.

Miss Smith smiled in a watery fashion. “See how the other girls have arranged their chests of drawers and you may like to do the same,” she answered.

Sue examined them. The pictures of their people looked very nice but her Mother was the prettiest and none of the Fathers had the dashing air of Monty or her Father. She took out all her photographs. On the wall above her bed hung the pictures of Beppo and Bomby, of Vicky in her wedding dress.

Behind her she heard Miss Smith’s voice, “What a number of rugs, Susannah, and what else is here?”

Sue turned. Miss Smith had unrolled the last rug there lay the little treasure trunk.

“Not another box!” exclaimed Miss Smith. “This will never do! There is a specified list of equipment. You can’t possibly have another box!”

Sue couldn’t speak. If they took away her treasure trunk, she didn’t think she could stay. Everyone suddenly seemed so far away from her. There was a tickle in her throat, too, and the back of her eyes felt hot.

“It’s my treasure trunk,” Sue explained in a husky voice, “and I cannot be separated from it!”

Miss Smith shook her head. “Rules are rules,” she said firmly. “I’m afraid I can’t make an exception.”

“Please,” Sue whispered shakily, “please let me have it for just a little while. You don’t know how I feel about my treasure trunk.”

Miss Smith looked up. Her eyes had a softer look in them and her nose twitched more than ever.

“It’s against the rules, Susannah,” she said, “but I think I know how you feel about it. I can’t leave this with you indefinitely, but if I put it here in the window behind this curtain for a day or two . . .”

“I shall feel so much better,” said Sue, “and I’ll be very quiet about it.”

Miss Smith smiled faintly and placed the little trunk behind the curtain where no one could see it.

“I’ll call the porter now, Sue,” she said, “to take your boxes away. Meanwhile, wash your hands and brush your hair. I’m to take you down to see Miss Templar.”

Sue drew a long breath. That had been a pretty near thing. She had been desperately afraid she was going to cry. Miss Smith was a nice old thing, she decided, and her nose wasn’t exactly red . . . more pinkish than a real red.

Hair brushed and hands and face washed, Sue followed Miss Smith down the wide stairs that led to Miss Templar’s sitting room. Save for an occasional table, the halls were bare, with shining polished floors from which came a faint odor of beeswax and turpentine. Everything was very quiet. There were no voices and Sue began to wonder if there were any other girls in the school but herself when Miss Smith stopped in front of a door next the Abbey entrance.

“Rap twice,” she said, “and then wait!” Sue rapped firmly, waited and then rapped again. It was all very solemn in spite of the way Miss Smith’s nose twitched.

“Come!” said a voice. Miss Smith nodded violently and disappeared rapidly down the hall. Sue opened the door.

In front of the fire stood a pleasant, blue-eyed woman in a blue coat and skirt and white silk blouse. Her hair was soft and shiny, Sue noticed, and two little curls at the back of her neck had escaped from the net she wore.

“Come in, Sue,” she said cheerfully. “I am Miss Templar.”

Sue gave her very best curtsey and Miss Templar smiled approvingly. “I didn’t think you’d be such a little girl,” she said. “I thought all Canadians were very tall.”

“You are thinking of the Mounties,” said Sue. “Except for them, Canadians are just ordinary-sized people.”

“Who are the Mounties?” asked Miss Templar.

Well, for goodness’ sake, thought Sue, doesn’t she know anything? And yet she’s Head Mistress and is going to teach me!

“Don’t you know anything about the Mounties?” Sue asked, in a surprised voice.

Miss Templar shook her head. “Would you like to tell me about them?” she asked. “Only I’m afraid you’ll have to be brief, for there is very little time before dinner.”

“You couldn’t be brief about the Mounties,” said Sue, “but I’ll come back some other time and tell you about them, if you like.”

Miss Templar smiled. “I’m afraid you won’t have time to pay me many visits, Sue,” she said. “You are going to be quite a busy child with lessons, exercise and music. Your Mother tells me you speak very good French and has asked me to pay particular attention to this branch of your education.”

Sue’s heart sank. “I’m not really very good at French,” she said. “I think I’d rather study something else.”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Templar. “French is the language of grace and diplomacy. How about your Latin, Sue?”

Sue shook her curly head. “I don’t speak a word of it,” she said, “and I can’t read or write it.” She hoped this would discourage Miss Templar, but not at all. The less Sue knew, the cheerfuller Miss Templar became. Not silly cheerful like Miss Mills, but firm cheerful. Sue had an idea that Miss Templar might be difficult to manage.

A bell sounded in the hall. “That is the Form dismissal bell,” explained Miss Templar, “and now, Sue, let me talk to you about Arundel Abbey.”

Sue sat in front of the fire, and Miss Templar talked to her of something called her “place in the school life.”

“It is not usual to allow girls to enter before mid-term,” she said, “but we have made an exception in your case and I want you to do your utmost to fall into line with our school rules and life. It may be difficult at first, but we will do all we can to help you find your feet.”

“Yes, Miss Templar,” said Sue.

“And, Sue, if at any time you are unhappy or in doubt about anything and would like advice, you can always come to me.”

Miss Templar’s room was rather like Lady Charlotte’s morning room, bright with chintzes, books and flowers and photographs of school classes and a great untidy desk. Miss Templar’s voice was pretty, too, and she clipped her words so that no one could ever possibly misunderstand her. Another bell sounded.

“There goes the warning bell,” said Miss Templar, rising and moving towards the door. “There are fifteen minutes left before dinner.”

Sue held the door open and followed Miss Templar into the hall. There was a cheerful din there, as if all the girls in the world were talking at once, and the sound of feet and laughter grew nearer. “What a lovely noise!” said Sue.

“Do you think so?” said Miss Templar in a chilly fashion. The door at the end of the Hall opened, and in streamed the girls. For a moment they didn’t notice Miss Templar, but when they did they walked more quietly and their voices were hushed.

“Geraldine,” called Miss Templar. A tall girl came towards them, very, very solemn and, with the exception of a bit of ragged ribbon pinned to her shoulder, very, very neat. She wore a dark skirt and a flannel blouse with a stiff linen collar and school tie.

“This is our new girl, Susannah Winston, our little Canadian. Will you show her over the school until dinner time and then take charge of her?”

“Yes, indeed, Miss Templar,” said Geraldine, smiling a toothy smile. “Come along, Susannah!”

Sue curtsied and followed Geraldine, who had a high sing-song sort of voice and a preepsy way of speaking.

“This,” she said, opening a door opposite Miss Templar’s room, “is the drawing room. We only use it at night after prep.” Sue wondered what prep was, but Geraldine closed the door so quickly that she almost had her nose snapped off in an attempt to look inside.

Rapidly Geraldine showed her the Junior Library, the dining-room and cloakrooms. “This portion of the building,” she said, “belonged to the old Monastery which was destroyed by fire in the eighteenth century. It was restored and forms the main part of the school. The Forge,” she explained, skimming along a passage way, “is, as you see, our common room, and forms a link between the Abbey itself and Cavendish House.”

“I thought a forge was where horses were shod,” interrupted Sue.

“Exactly,” said Geraldine. “This was the forge in the old Abbey grounds. We have retained the name, but, of course,” she added with a whinnying laugh, “we no longer have the horse.” Sue caught a glimpse of the Forge. Desks, a globe, a map, a blackboard, windows, a fireplace, more windows!

Cavendish House was an old-fashioned building at the end of the long passageway connecting the Forge and the Abbey. Here, Sue found, were the bedrooms, the infirmary, the Mistresses’ rooms, more classrooms.

A third bell sounded.

“Dinner,” said Geraldine. She sped along the passage and back to the Abbey. “Here we are,” she said brightly, “and because you’re a new girl, I shall let you sit beside me at dinner.”

Sue couldn’t see how that could be any great treat, but the way Geraldine said it, you would have thought she was the Queen.

In the dining-room they sat at tables holding eight, with Miss Templar’s table set in a large recessed window. It was a pleasant room, with apple green walls and curtains, and very cheerful with its laughter and conversation.

At Geraldine’s table there were five other girls besides Sue, all of them, like Geraldine, serious and full of talk of things called “trig” and “math” and “stinks.” Sue wondered vaguely what kind of things they could be. Beyond nodding to her, the girls at the table paid no attention to her, but Sue didn’t care. She was busy watching everything around her and remembering all she had just seen. She didn’t think much of the school. The rooms had too many desks in them and not enough furniture; the floors were bare, too, and there was nothing soft or pretty. It was almost like a barracks, yet without the delightful things of a barracks, such as bugles and red coats and horses.

The younger girls in the dining-room looked very nice, Sue thought, but the older ones seemed terribly serious about everything. She turned her attention back to her own table and wondered why Geraldine wore that queer looking piece of frayed ribbon on her shoulder.

“What do you wear that thing for?” Sue finally asked.

“What thing?” said Geraldine, in a frozen sort of voice.

“That old pin with bits of ribbon on it. It’s all worn out,” Sue replied.

The girl next to Sue, called Phyllis, gave a queer gasp like a fish. “That,” she said, “is the badge of honor of Arundel Abbey. It is worn only by the Head Girl!”

“My goodness,” said Sue, “if I were a Head Girl I’d ask for a new ribbon. That’s very old and shabby!”

A girl across the table interrupted sharply. “Its age and shabbiness symbolize tradition,” she said, “but I suppose you’re too young to know about that!”

“Oh, no, I’m not,” said Sue. “I know all about tradition. We had it in the Force. It means you keep yourself and your equipment bright and shining all the time, so that you are ready for anything.”

“It means more than that,” Phyllis said gently. “Tradition also means the carrying forward of the splendid things that those who were here before us accomplished . . . and adding to them, Sue. A bright new ribbon is easy to find anywhere. That ribbon has been worn by eleven Head Girls. Eleven girls, all of whom contributed something fine to Arundel Abbey. Do you understand?”

“I think, so,” said Sue.

“And just think,” said Geraldine hopefully. “You, too, may be Head Girl some day!”

Sue doubted it.

“Pssst!”

It was a familiar sound and meant caution. Sue closed the door behind her softly. Standing by her bed were two girls, a little bigger than herself and about the same age.

“Did you bring anything to eat?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

Sue pulled out the little trunk and opened the box marked “camphorated ice.” The two girls crowded closer.

“Shortcake,” they said, helping themselves, “how scrummy!” Sue bit into a piece herself.

“What else?” Sue rummaged into the trunk again. The butterscotch came forth.

“Anything more?”

“No,” said Sue, her mouth full of a delicious mixture of shortcake and butterscotch, “I ate the rest on the train this morning.” The three of them sat munching busily, just as if they hadn’t finished their dinner only fifteen minutes before.

There were footsteps in the hall outside; a sharp rap on the door. Before Sue could turn around the two girls had flung themselves on their beds and closed their eyes.

The door opened. Miss Hill stood there. For a moment Sue thought she saw a smile on her face, but only for a moment.

“Ah, Sue,” said Miss Hill, “you should be lying down, too. This is the Juniors’ hour of rest. Has no one told you?” and, without waiting for a reply, “Pamela,” she said, “you and Blanche had better instruct Sue about the Juniors’ hours and rules. Bring her down to me at exercise time.”

“Yes, Miss Hill,” both girls said together.

The door closed. “That was a near thing,” observed the dark girl. “Old Hilly-Billy almost caught us!”

“Caught you where?” asked Sue.

“Caught us up, stupid!”

“Do you mean you have to lie down,” asked Sue, “whether you want to or not?”

“Of course. Haven’t you ever been to boarding school before?” Sue shook her head.

“Are you sure you haven’t anything more to eat?”

“Pop sure!”

“Pop sure,” the two girls repeated, delightedly. “What a lovely expression! Pop sure! Tell us some more like that.”

“You tell me something,” demanded Sue. “What’s your name?”

“Pamela St. George,” answered the dark girl. “I come from Belfast County . . .”

“I’m Blanche Drummond-Hay,” said the fair girl. “I live in Sussex.”

Pamela was the loveliest girl Sue had ever seen. Masses of dark shining hair fell to her waist. Across her forehead she had bangs, almost touching her finely arched brows. Grey eyes and curly lashes and a creamy skin made her a delight to look upon. Blanche was as fair as Pamela was dark, with blue eyes and dimples. She was chubby and had a lovely giggle.

“Show us your clothes,” said Blanche. “Where’s your Sunday hat?” Without waiting, they pulled out Sue’s things and looked them over critically. “I like your hat,” said Pamela, trying it on, “and I think your things are frightfully smart. Do you play hockey?” Sue shook her head. “Well, we’ll teach you, but now we must tell you all about the school.”

“The food is dreadful,” said Blanche. “No one ever gets enough to eat!” This seemed to Sue to be awfully bad news.

“You’re going to room with us,” said Pamela, “and you’re going to sit at our table in the dining-room. In the daytime,” she continued, “there is a Mistress at the head of each table, but at supper we have a senior and all the Mistresses sit with Miss Templar.”

“Breakfast is at eight; dinner at a quarter past one; tea, half past four; supper at seven,” explained Blanche, “and you have to have your hair brushed and clean hands for each meal. At night you have to change into a light dress and be extra clean. We Juniors have to be in bed with lights out by nine.”

“Yes, and we’re not supposed to talk after lights out, or during our rest period after luncheon,” said Pam.

“Tell me about the Mistresses,” said Sue. “What are they like?”

Turn about, the two girls told her.

“Miss Templar’s very stern.”

“Miss Ironsides we call Easysides, because if you cry she always gives in to you.” Sue wondered if this was something she should remember.

“Miss Mills . . .”

“Oh, I’ve met her,” said Sue. “She whinnies like a horse when she laughs!”

Pam giggled. “Wait until you’ve met Miss Violet Cramp,” she said. “She teaches English and History, and if you don’t know your dates she looks at you in the meanest way and makes remarks about the size of your head.” Pam shivered a little. “We call her the Violent Cramp.” Sue bounced on her bed. She felt sure that she and Pam were going to be great friends and together they might even find some use for her catapult.

“Then there’s Miss White. She teaches Science and Botany.”

“But wait!” said both girls together. “Wait until you’ve seen Mademoiselle Marguerite Labouchère!”

“French?” enquired Sue. “Oui, oui, Mademoiselle,” mimicked the two girls. But Sue wanted to hear more about the food. “What kind of desserts do you have?” she asked.

“Well,” said Blanche,

“What ever in the world are they?” Sue wondered anxiously.

“They’re all blanc-mange,” explained Blanche, “only each day they’re a different color.”

“And each day they’re worse,” sighed Pam.

“What do you have on Tuesday and Thursday?” asked Sue, fearfully.

“Tuesday,” Blanche went on, enthusiastically, “we have molasses pie. You have no idea, Sue,” she said, “how good molasses pie can be. It is an American dish,” she added, “and Miss Templar found out all about it from an American.”

“And on Thursday we have fishes’ eyes and glue!” Pamela broke in mournfully.

“Fishes’ eyes!” Sue shuddered.

“It’s tapioca,” Pam explained, “but Saturday isn’t too bad. We’ve roly-poly with black currant jam.”

Far away a bell sounded. Taking Sue with them, the two girls raced downstairs to the basement cloakroom where boots and galoshes, heavy coats and jerseys hung in lockers. Miss Hill showed Sue her locker with her name on it, and the order in which she was to hang her clothes. Hats were placed on low, open shelves nearby. Across the passage was a smaller room with pegs from which hung their Sunday coats. These clothes, Miss Hill explained, were only worn on Sundays or when “one’s people” came to take one out. Sue discovered that relatives were called “one’s people” at school.

“Miss Mills is taking the walk this afternoon,” Miss Hill continued. “When you return and have had your tea, come to the Junior Library. I shall be waiting for you.”

“Taking a walk,” Sue found, meant walking two and two in line along a country road. Pam told her the line of girls was called the “Crocodile” but she couldn’t explain why, unless it was because they never walked quite straight.

“The lead girls always walk too fast and the end girls straggle and that means we wobble a bit in the middle. Just like a crocodile does in the swamps. At least,” Pam added, “that’s what I was told when I was a new girl.”

“Shoulders back, heads up, chins in,” cried Miss Mills breathlessly, as she swung past to the head of the line. “And take your hands out of your pockets, Susannah!”

What a fuss, thought Sue, and what a dull walk! The country road was empty. Hedges, low stone walls, houses set far back from the road, grey skies and grey-brown earth. No snow or ice. Not a horse or a dog, not a carriage or a cart passed them. The air was cold and raw. If it hadn’t been for Pam teaching her to talk without moving her lips, she couldn’t have born it. Pam, however, told her you couldn’t possibly live in the school if you didn’t know how to talk without moving your lips.

“In ‘prep,’ ” she said, “you have to know how. They won’t let you talk and yet there are things you simply must say, so you do it this way.” Pam parted her lips slightly and then without moving them at all, said, “This is how you do it.”

Sue tried but at first nothing came but a hoarse sound. Pam shook her head. “You sound as if you were choking!”

“How did you learn?” asked Sue anxiously.

“It’s just like a frog,” said Pam. “You first practise croaking away back in your throat, and after a while you’ll find the croaks turning into words.” Sue croaked a bit. What luck to have a roommate with the great gift of talking like a frog! Not even Consy had been able to do this.

Sue practised and before the walk was over was beginning to croak quite clearly.

After tea, Pam and Blanche disappeared for “prep” which, Blanche explained, meant preparation of your lessons, and was a very tiresome business.

Sue went to the Junior Library then for something called a “viva voce” which she discovered was Latin for finding out what was in your head. When Miss Hill looked at you and said, “Name the King who signed the Magna Carta,” it was just as if she had bored a gimlet into your head and let out all you knew.

At the end of a very uncomfortable hour, Sue learned that she was bad in writing, good in mental arithmetic, poor in spelling, fair in English and history, excellent in French and geography.

“Not too bad at all, everything considered,” said Miss Hill cheerily, “but you will need to work hard, Sue, to catch up with your classes. We will give you a little extra tutoring and I have no doubt that you will be a credit to us all.”

“Yes, Miss Hill,” said Sue meekly.

“And now, Sue, you may go to your room and finish your unpacking and rest until supper.” Miss Hill gathered up her notes and rustled away towards the Abbey.

Sue climbed the stairs slowly. So many lessons and no sign of Blanche or Pam and everything so quiet. Where was all the fun of boarding school of which she had heard so often?

She opened the door of her bedroom. The gas had been lit and flickered palely from a single jet. The top of her chest of drawers seemed very empty, in spite of her photographs. From her treasure trunk Sue took out her catapult, the furry gopher tails, Minnie-Pooh-Pooh, the little Indian doll, and her Mountie Crest. The Crest she fastened by a hook to the top of the mirror, the gopher tails and catapult on either side. They would be having tea in front of the fire in Glentoch Castle now. She wrapped Minnie-Pooh-Pooh’s blanket more closely around her. She didn’t quite know what to do about her. She felt she was too big for dolls now, but Minnie-Pooh-Pooh was an old friend and Sue was beginning to feel a bit squiggly. She pushed the treasure trunk back behind the curtains and hid Minnie-Pooh-Pooh underneath a pile of woolies in the chest of drawers. It seemed a long time since she had said goodbye to Lady Charlotte and Janet. She wondered when Blanche and Pam would be through prep and practised a little at croaking like a frog.

A bell sounded and suddenly there were voices in the hall, the sound of running feet, an older voice saying, “More quietly girls, please.”

Pam and Blanche burst in at the door. “You’ve only twenty minutes to change!” they cried and there was a delightful bustle as the three of them put on their crêpon frocks and joined the girls streaming towards the dining-room.

They all looked very nice, Sue thought, in their light-colored dresses. Pam told her there were fifty-four girls in the school, twenty juniors and thirty-four seniors, with eight resident Mistresses. She placed Sue between Blanche and herself at the table. There were eight girls to a table and each stood by her chair until Miss Templar came in, wearing evening dress and looking quite grand, with all her Mistresses behind her. Everyone waited silently until Miss Templar sat down and then supper began.

There was Hunter’s Pie which Sue discovered was just another name for Canadian Hash, only it was served in a big dish with fluffy mashed potatoes on top. Sue thought it delicious, until Blanche told her that no one knew what was in it, probably just scraps, but Sue noticed that Blanche took a second helping, in spite of what she said. There were stewed apricots, too, and plates piled high with bread and butter; cocoa and milk and small pieces of plain cake.

Phyllis sat at the head of the table and it was the duty of the girls who sat on either side of her to see that she never had to ask for anything. “It is a disgrace to your table if the Senior has to ask you to pass her the butter, or anything like that,” Blanche explained. “The Seniors eat so much,” she continued with a gusty sigh, “that the girls who sit on either side of them never have time to get properly fed. They would probably starve to death if it wasn’t that we move up two places every night. It will be my turn tomorrow, so I’d better eat a good supper tonight.”

Sue was hungry, too, and paid little attention to anything until she had had a second helping of apricots. As she put down her spoon, a girl at the end of the table, called Iris, leaned towards her.

“Is it true,” she asked, “that in Canada you all wear feathers?”

“Who ever told you such a thing?” asked Sue in astonishment.

“My brother.”

“Who told him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where does he go to school?”

“Eton.”

“Don’t they know anything about Canada at Eton?”

“I don’t know,” said Iris. “You’re the first Canadian I’ve ever seen, and when I told him you were coming, he said I was to be sure and ask you about the feathers.”

“Well,” said Sue, “you tell him that only birds and Indians wear feathers in Canada!”

“Indians?” said Iris. “Not wild Indians?”

Sue nodded.

“Tell us about them.” And all the girls, even Phyllis, leaned forward and listened breathlessly while Sue told them of the prairies and the Indian chiefs, of the high feathered head-dresses they wore, with long ends that fell over their shoulders. It was great fun to hear their frightened “Ohs” and “Ahs” as she described the wild horses thundering down to the corrals.

“Tell us some more,” they coaxed.

Sue began again when suddenly the girl opposite her laughed. Sue had noticed her particularly when they sat down to supper. Her name was Clare and she had red hair, a sallow skin and small green eyes. She had a superior way of smiling. Sue hesitated. Clare made her feel uncomfortable, but she went on with her story of how pemmican was made until Clare laughed again.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Sue suddenly.

“At the funny way you talk,” answered Clare.

“What’s wrong with the way I talk?” demanded Sue.

“Well, you’re so Canadian,” said Clare smugly, as if being a Canadian were something to be ashamed of.

“Of course I am,” replied Sue, stoutly. “And what’s wrong with the way Canadians talk?”

Phyllis interrupted. “It’s not the way you talk, Sue, it’s the way you pronounce your words, your accent, that Clare means.”

“What’s wrong with my accent?” Sue fiercely insisted.

Clare smiled. “It’s not an English accent,” she said, “and it sounds quite odd!”

“Who says so?” demanded Sue.

“I do,” said Clare, and smiled again in the same aggravating way.

“And who are you?” stormed Sue, rudely. “You don’t know everything in the world and anyway, you talk as if your mouth was full of marbles!”

“Clare! Sue! Stop!” called Phyllis. “You are both being very rude!”

Sue felt as if she would burst. Here she had been telling her best stories to please these English girls and now one of them criticized the way she spoke. Pam kicked her shins gently.

“Don’t answer Clare,” she whispered. “She’s only ragging you.”

Just then Miss Templar rose. The girls stood until she and her Mistresses had left the dining-room together.

“Clare always rags the new girls,” explained Blanche, as they went along the hall to the Forge. “The whole trouble tonight was because we were listening to you instead of to her. If I were you, Sue, I’d pretend she isn’t alive. She hates not being noticed.”

“She’s horrid,” broke in Sue in a choked voice. “You can’t help noticing anyone as horrid as she is. I don’t like her and I never will.”

“Well, don’t let her know it,” advised Pam, “because she’s an awful bully!”

“I thought a bully was a big boy who kicked about smaller boys,” said Sue.

“Girl bullies are different from boys,” said Iris. “They’re just mean. They don’t go around hitting smaller girls but they’re bullies all the same.”

Iris seemed very wise but as Sue looked across the Forge to where Clare sat reading, she choked up with anger again. No one had ever laughed at her meanly before. “I’d like to pull her hair right out of her head,” she said angrily.

Pam shook her head. “You’d only be gated if you did.”

“Gated? What’s that?” asked Sue.

“It means that you can’t go out with your people when they come to see you.”

“Do you mean that if Monty and Vicky came to take me out I couldn’t go?”

“Not if you’d been gated,” said Pam.

“Who’d say so?”

“Miss Templar, Stupid.”

What next, wondered Sue. Everything was upside down. Monty and Vicky sent her to school, but unless she obeyed the rules they couldn’t take her out . . . If what Pam said was true, she couldn’t go out by herself. A girl was mean to her and nobody minded. There was no one to help her like Monty or Consy. No one even cared what happened to her. Everything seemed very muddled, and very difficult to understand.

She looked around the room. With the heavy red curtains drawn, the fire burning brightly and the desks pushed back against the wall, the Forge was a pleasant place at night. Hyacinths in pots stood along the tops of the bookcases and lifted their lovely purple blooms against the walls. Four girls and a Mistress, Miss White, were playing animal grab at a table in front of the fire. In the corner of the room, Clare was now sitting at the piano playing accompaniments for a group of girls who were singing. Sue would have liked to join them but she wouldn’t go near Clare, and the girls at the table didn’t need another in their game. Pam and Blanche had left her to join the singing. They were glad enough to be with her, she thought, when she had shortcake and butterscotch, glad enough to listen to her Indian stories, but they seemed to think she was stupid to bother so much about Clare. She wondered if Clare had ever tried to bully them.

Her eyes suddenly felt hot and swollen. For the first time in her life, Sue wanted to go to bed of her own free will.

The card game in front of the fire broke up and the girls there joined the others at the piano. Miss White beckoned to Sue.

“What would you like to do, Susannah? Sing or play dominoes?”

“I’d like to go to bed,” Sue answered.

“Bed,” said Miss White, in astonishment. “Bed? Oh, but you can’t do that,” and looking at her watch, “it lacks five and twenty minutes of bedtime.”

“Why do you say five and twenty for twenty-five?” asked Sue curiously.

“Because it’s the way we speak in England,” said Miss White primly. “How would you say it?”

“I’d say it was twenty-five minutes to nine,” said Sue, “and I’d like to go to bed.”

Miss White shook her head again. “It’s against the rules, Sue,” she said.

“Do you mean I can’t go to bed when I want to?” asked Sue.

Miss White nodded.

“Do you mean I have to go to bed by rules?”

“Precisely,” said Miss White.

“Why?” asked Sue.

“Never mind why,” said Miss White, in a disagreeable way, “just do what you’re told, Susannah, and you’ll keep out of trouble.”

You can’t keep out of trouble at school, thought Sue. You never know what is trouble and what isn’t. It was all so difficult. When the Mounties gave you an order they told you why. Here if you asked someone to explain anything, they bit your head off.

Sue sat down by the fire. All her life someone had been trying to get her to go to bed early. This was the first time she had ever offered to go to bed by herself, and now she couldn’t go because of rules. What a muddled business it all was.

The girls sang on. Miss White talked and Sue wondered if bedtime would ever come. A bell rang in the hall, the piano lid came down with a bang, desks were pushed back into place, and Blanche and Pam with their arms around Sue, were running along the hall.

“Do they have pillow fights in Canada?” asked Pam. Sue laughed. She felt quite wide awake again.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because,” said Pam, “we have a pillow fight every night and whoever loses has to get up first in the morning to close the window.”

Pam showed Sue how to fold her clothes neatly on the chair beside the bed and then the three of them stood up with pillows in hand and flung themselves wildly on each other. Sue had had plenty of practice with her father but these girls were like wild cats and in two jiffs she found herself without a pillow, her sheets and blankets on the floor and all three of them breathless and happy. Another bell rang. Hastily the two girls helped her straighten her bed. “Now, remember, Sue, when you hear the rising bell, you’re to get up and close the window.” Sue nodded and hopped into bed as a rap came on the door. It was Miss Mills.

“Everything all right in here?” she said cheerfully, and without waiting for a reply, pulled back the curtains and opened the window. Sue watched her lift a little stick to the gas. It had a hook on the end and Miss Mills used it to turn out the light.

“Goodnight, girls,” she called.

“Goodnight, Miss Mills,” they answered.

When the door closed, Pam whispered, “Sue, don’t forget about the window!”

“Why do you have to whisper?” asked Sue.

“Because it’s against the rules to talk after lights out, you big ninny!”

“All right,” whispered Sue. The three wriggled and bounced a bit in their beds, and then quite suddenly there was silence in the room, silence everywhere, cold air blowing across their beds, darkness around them. But Sue couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned. It had been a bewildering day. One moment a Mistress was very nice to her and the next, without any reason that Sue could see, chilly.

Pam and Blanche had been sympathetic and understanding one moment over Clare, and the next had told her not to be stupid.

She had wanted to go to bed and couldn’t because the rules said you could only go to bed at nine. Everything she had ever known seemed to be upside down. She thought of Clare again and her heart swelled. If she could only have talked to Monty about Clare. There didn’t seem to be anyone to help her any longer. No one but herself. Sue buried her head in the pillow and wept a little for she knew now that baby days were over and that in this strange new world of school she would have to fight her own battles, with no help from anyone but herself. It seemed a very empty world and, in spite of her brave words to girls and Mistresses, she felt very small and forlorn.

She remembered Minnie-Pooh-Pooh then, and thought how nice it would be to hold her close. Slipping out of bed, she crept across to the chest of drawers and quietly lifted out the little Indian doll. As she pushed the drawer back into place a ray of moonlight touched the top of her mirror and outlined the Mountie Crest. Sue caught her breath. Reaching up, she loosened the Crest and pinned it on her night-dress. Stealthily she crept back into bed. “I don’t care,” she said, cuddling Minnie-Pooh-Pooh close, “I don’t care. Clare Barr can say anything she likes. I’ll fight the whole world if I have to.”

Her fingers closed around the Mountie Crest. She wondered what the Mounties would have done about Clare. “They wouldn’t care,” she said to herself. “They wouldn’t care what anyone said to them or about them, and I don’t care either.”

“Finish your pudding, Susannah,” said Miss Ironsides.

Sue looked down at her plate. It was covered with “Fishes’ Eyes and Glue” which was the girls’ name for tapioca pudding. It looked like fishes’ eyes and glue and it tasted like fishes’ eyes and glue. Sue shuddered as she remembered the first mouthful, sticky and lumpy!

“I don’t like it,” Sue repeated. “It’s horrid!”

“Why did you take it if you didn’t like it?” Miss Ironsides asked.

“I was talking and didn’t notice what kind of pudding it was.”

“That’s no excuse,” Miss Ironsides answered in the nastiest possible way, “and besides, Susannah, you talk far too much. The school rule is clear. ‘You may refuse any dish offered you, but if you take it, you have to finish it.’ ”

Sue shook her head. “I don’t like it,” she said, “and besides, how was I to know whether I’d like it when I’d never had it before?”

“That will do, Susannah!” Miss Ironsides flushed deeply. “I don’t want to hear any more argument. Finish your pudding!”

Pam kicked Sue’s ankle. “You’d better finish it,” she whispered.

“I won’t,” said Sue. “I don’t like it and I won’t eat it.”

“I beg your pardon,” Miss Ironsides said sharply. “I didn’t quite hear what you said.”

“I was talking to Pam,” Sue answered sulkily.

“So I observed. Repeat what you said.”

“I said I didn’t like it and that I wouldn’t eat it,” answered Sue defiantly.

A little gasp, part admiration, part dismay, ran around the table.

“You must choose for yourself what you will do,” Miss Ironsides answered coldly, “but I suggest that you eat it now, while it is hot.” She turned to Clare who was sitting beside her and started talking about hockey.

“She’s right. Go on, Sue, eat it,” said Blanche softly.

“I won’t,” Sue answered stubbornly.

“Three gulps and it’ll be all gone,” Pam whispered.

“Pretend it’s castor oil,” advised Iris, “and get it down quick!”

“I won’t eat it,” Sue replied. “It’s a dreadful pudding and you know it is!”

“Cry a bit,” whispered Iris. “Old Ironsides turns into Easysides if you cry.”

“I won’t cry,” Sue answered. “I’m not a baby!”

Miss Templar rose and left the dining-room. Dinner was over. Table by table the girls filed out, commencing with the Seniors and ending with the Juniors. Miss Ironsides looked down the table.

“Have you finished your pudding, Susannah?”

“No, Miss Ironsides.”

“Then you will remain seated at the table until you do. Lead out, Clare, please.”

Sue sat down. Clare Barr tossed her head in a superior way as she followed Miss Ironsides out. Sue didn’t care. She knew that Clare would act in quite a different way when she realized that there was one girl in the school who wouldn’t be bullied by a lot of silly rules. She pushed the plate with its sticky pudding away from her.

Barnes, the parlor maid, who waited on Miss Templar’s table, came over to her. Sue thought she looked like a poker dressed up in maid’s clothes.

“Now, Miss Sue,” she said tartly, “there’s no need for any nonsense and there’s no good pushing your plate away. Rules are rules. Your table can’t be cleared until you’ve finished your pudding and I can’t go off duty until the dining-room is set up for supper, so just eat up your pudding.”

“I won’t,” said Sue.

“Don’t you mind that I’ll have to sit in that pantry until you do?”

“No,” said Sue rudely. “I don’t care where you sit.”

“Well,” said Barnes, tossing her head. “Well, I never,” and disappeared into the pantry.

It was sunny in the dining-room and from the pantry there was a pleasant clatter of voices and dishes. The maids came to and fro, re-setting the tables for supper, sweeping and dusting. Some of them looked at Sue with amusement and others seemed sorry for her.

Every little while Barnes would come in and glare at her and then flounce away with a snort. Sue rather liked that, for she would imitate Barnes’s snort and the other maids would laugh. But after a while, they, too, disappeared. Barnes didn’t return and there was silence everywhere.

Sue counted the chairs, the pictures, the numbers of knives and forks on the tables. She tried balancing a spoon on her nose but she had to give that up almost at once. She found a snub nose was of no use whatever when it came to balancing tricks. She looked again at her plate. The sticky stuff was in a ball now. She whacked it with the back of her spoon. It quivered. With the help of her fork, she turned it over. It was just the same on both sides. Dreadful! Whoever had named it “Fishes’ Eyes and Glue” was right. She tried teetering her chair to and fro to see how far she could balance without falling. She tipped backwards almost at once and fell with a noisy bang.

Barnes came in, then, flushed and with her cap off. Her hair was in a little screw knot on top of her head and she looked very comic.

“Now, Miss Sue,” she said, “it’s bad enough that you should keep me in the pantry all afternoon, but there’s no need to disturb my nap as well.” Sue giggled, which seemed to annoy Barnes even more.

“You don’t know how upset Cook is over your refusal to eat her nice pudding,” she said crossly.

“Tell Cook to eat her own nice pudding and see how she likes it,” said Sue rudely.

“Well!” snapped Barnes. “Well, I never! If all Canadians are like you, I don’t ever want to see any more!” The pantry door flapped behind her and all was quiet again.

Sue stretched. This English school would soon know they couldn’t bully a Canadian. She pulled her curls around and braided them into tiny pigtails so that they stuck out all over her head. Barnes came flouncing in, just as she finished, but when she saw Sue’s head she gave an angry squeak and scurried away like a rabbit. Sue knew why. Barnes had to help brush the Juniors’ long hair every night and she knew what a tangle Sue’s curls would be in after all these little pigtails were unfastened.

Sue looked down at her plate. The horrible stuff was still there. The dining-room door opened. “Pssst!” It was Blanche and Pam.

“Swallow it, quick,” said Pam. “We’re going to play hockey this afternoon. Come on, Sue, hurry up!”

“No,” said Sue firmly. “I said I wouldn’t eat it and I’m not going to!”

Blanche looked at her admiringly. “I think you’re very brave,” she said. “I could never be so brave.”

“I shall never give in,” Sue answered. It was quite thrilling to be called brave by your own roommate.

“Oh, come on, Sue,” Pam coaxed. “Miss Tottie and Miss Dottie are here to coach us in ground hockey. And we’re to drive down to the field in their pony carriage, because we’re the smallest girls in the school. Go on, Sue. Hold your nose and finish it!”

“Never,” said Sue stanchly.

A bell rang upstairs and the two girls raced away. Sue could hear busy running feet and voices. The rest hour was over. She wondered what Miss Tottie and Miss Dottie were like. They had such silly names and she would have liked to have seen the pony carriage. Perhaps they would have even let her drive. She fidgeted in her chair. There, between her and the hockey, lay that awful lump of pudding. She tried playing Yankee Doodle on the edge of her plate with her fork and spoon. But the plate had no ring to it like glasses had. There seemed to be nothing in the world but a large expanse of table cloth and a lump of pudding. Sue gave it an angry bang. It was quite cold now and with her fork and spoon she broke it apart into smaller lumps and then into very small ones. She tried to separate the “fishes’ eyes” from the “glue” and soon had her plate covered with a mixture that looked even worse than it had in the beginning.

She sighed. She could never remember an afternoon pass so slowly, and she couldn’t think why anyone had ever called Miss Ironsides “Easysides.” Her instructions to Sue, that she was to remain seated at the table, had been very firm. The dining-room door opened. Miss Hill stood there.

“What ever are you doing here, Sue?” she asked. “And what has happened to your hair?”

Sue explained about the pudding but found it more difficult to explain about her hair. Miss Hill’s blue eyes were so very cold.

“Take your hair out of those ridiculous plaits, at once,” she said, “and as for the pudding, Sue, don’t you think you are being very stupid?”

What a mean question, thought Sue.

“Do you prefer sulking in a dining-room to a good game of hockey?” Sue didn’t answer. “I hope you will come to your senses soon,” Miss Hill continued. “You must remain here until you’ve finished your dessert.” The door closed behind her.

“Dessert,” exclaimed Sue angrily as she pulled her hair out of the braids, “as if anyone could call that stuff dessert!”

There wasn’t a sound anywhere. Not even the canary in the window moved. He had tucked his silly head under his wing and was asleep. Sue counted. She had been at school twelve days now and not once had she seen any of the “fun” everyone had told her she would find in boarding school. Nothing exciting ever happened. Just lessons and lessons and bells and bells. You got up by a bell and you went to bed by a bell. It was a horrid world.

Outside in the hall, Sue heard the front door bang, a gay rush of voices and then silence. She tried counting backwards from a hundred but had only reached forty-six when the door flew open and a laughing voice cried, “Barnes! Barnes!” Standing in the doorway was Sue’s dream of a lovely lady. Her hair was tawny brown, her eyes blue. She had the smallest waist in the world and cheeks like apple blossoms. She wore a royal purple coat and skirt with an ermine tippet, and carried a muff. A toque of purple pansies nestled close to her hair and two violet feathers curled softly around one ear. Beneath her skirt, black patent leather boots with white buttoned uppers showed.

“Hello, Touzle-Head,” she cried, as she ran past Sue towards the pantry. There was a lovely fragrance in the air. Sue sniffed knowingly. “Violette de Parme,” she said.

“Oh, Miss Rosemary, my dear Miss Rosemary,” she heard Barnes cry, and there was laughter and gaiety at the end of the dining-room.

“Rosemary,” thought Sue rapturously. “What a delicious name!”

“What are you doing here, Red Head?” the gay voice cried. Sue looked up. Rosemary was standing beside her. Sue pointed to her plate and wrinkled her nose.

“Fishes’ eyes? Oh, poor baby!”

Somehow being called a poor baby by Rosemary sounded like a compliment. “Yes,” said Sue, “and I cannot eat them!”

“Oh, but you must,” the laughing voice cried. “You really must. They’re awful, I know, but hold your nose and shut your eyes and it’s soon over . . . and you need never take them again!”

Sue felt she could do anything with such a lovely creature beside her and was just on the point of lifting her spoon when Pam and Blanche peeped in. With shrieks of delight they flung themselves on Rosemary, and Sue learned that she was an old Arundel Abbey girl and had just returned from Paris that morning. Rosemary told them she was to be presented to the Queen in May and would be staying at the school until then. “My frocks are heavenly,” she said. “Would you three like to help me unpack?”

“Yes,” said Sue, grabbing her spoon and scraping some of the pudding together. But just then Barnes appeared, carrying a tray with tea and buttered toast and little sponge cakes, her wooden face all broken up into smiles, her cap perched at a rakish angle on her head.

“Oh, Barnsie, I’ll carry it,” cried Rosemary.

“No, indeed, Miss,” said Barnes beaming. “It’s my pleasure. Where will you have it?”

“Could I have it in my room?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Barnes, and then looking at Sue, she sniffed. “Giving in at last, are you, Miss Sue, and about time, too!”

Sue dropped her spoon with a clatter. “I’m not giving in,” she said stormily. “I’ll never give in!” The three girls followed Barnes, leaving Sue alone in the empty dining-room, angry and envious.

Dusk was coming on now. There was still a faint odor of Violette de Parme. It made Sue remember her pretty Mother.

“Sue!”

It was Rosemary back again. “Here’s a cake, and finish your pudding quickly, and come and help me unpack.” There was a pat on her head and Sue was alone again. She nibbled the cake slowly. She didn’t enjoy it very much. Pam and Blanche would be seeing all Rosemary’s clothes now. Silks and satins and perhaps a feather boa. Sue seized her spoon, scooped up the pudding, held her nose and swallowed. It was worse than she had thought possible. She choked and gulped, but she got it down in four spoonfuls. Opening the door, she raced along the hall, intent on reaching the lovely Rosemary as fast as her legs would carry her.

“Sue!”

It was Miss Hill. She was sitting at the head of the stairs correcting exercise books. “You are to go to Miss Templar now.” What next, Sue thought, but she turned down the stairs and knocked on Miss Templar’s door. Mademoiselle Labouchère answered the knock.

“It is Susannah Winston,” the French Mistress said, turning back into the room.

“Tell Sue to wait. I shall see her presently,” Miss Templar answered.

Sue could feel her heart sink right down to her boots. There, in full view of everybody passing, she had to wait, standing on the rug outside the Head Mistress’s door, known to everyone at Arundel Abbey as the “Awful Door.” Already Sue knew this meant a lecture and she felt she had been through enough for one day.

It seemed like an hour before Mademoiselle came out and Sue was called in. Miss Templar was at her desk.

“Have you finished your pudding, Susannah?”

“Yes, Miss Templar.”

“I have sent for you, Susannah, because I am thoroughly dissatisfied with the way in which you are settling down into school life. We have all tried to help you but you have consistently questioned every rule. No matter what you are told to do, your answer is ‘why.’ We all know that you have traveled widely and have seen far more of the world than we have, but evidently it is impossible for you to realize that you are only one of fifty-four girls here, and there isn’t time to explain every rule to you. You are discontented, and even in the Forge at night you don’t join in the games or the music. What is wrong?”

“There’s no fun here,” Sue answered.

“You were not sent to school for fun,” Miss Templar replied. “You came to be educated and you cannot expect us to explain to you every rule we make.”

“The Mounties did,” said Sue.

“I am not interested in what the Mounties did,” Miss Templar said sharply, “but I doubt if any recruit questions orders. He takes orders, doesn’t he, Susannah, and learns the reasons afterwards?”

Sue nodded.

“I thought so. Now, what else is wrong?”

“It’s not lively,” complained Sue.

“This is not a police barracks,” continued Miss Templar, in cutting tones. “It is a school where we are trying to teach you to behave like a lady. And I wonder, Susannah, if it has occurred to you that behind all the liveliness you so greatly admire, there were long hours of discipline and study before the recruit went out to administer law and order.”

Sue felt as if she were being skinned alive.

“I don’t like your attitude,” continued Miss Templar. Sue wondered if Miss Templar was ever going to stop.

“You are boastful and conceited and none of us can see anything about you that justifies your conceit.”

There was a long pause. “If she says another word,” thought Sue, biting her tongue hard, “I’ll cry, and I mustn’t cry—I mustn’t cry.”

“You may go now,” said Miss Templar. “I hope I shall never have to speak to you like this again.”

Sue tried to say, “Yes, Miss Templar,” but couldn’t. She could only curtsey and close the door softly behind her.

There was no one in the hall and Sue stood on the rug for a moment taking deep breaths, but her eyes were wet. She fished into her pockets for a handkerchief but only found a bit of chalk and an elastic. She rubbed her eyes on her sleeve and started up the stairs to Rosemary’s room.

Rosemary opened the door when Sue knocked. She was alone. All her trunks were unpacked. Pam and Blanche had gone down to be measured for new gym suits.

“Did you eat your pudding?” asked Rosemary.

Sue nodded. She felt very shaky and not too sure of her voice. “Good baby.” Rosemary offered her a chocolate. “Eat this. It’ll take the taste away.”

She held out a large fat chocolate and while Sue ate the delicious thing slowly, Rosemary told her that she had been at Arundel Abbey for four years. “And I’m almost a Canadian, Sue,” she said. “My Grandfather lives in Ottawa, and I go out every other year to visit him. I’m really through school now,” she added, “but Father and Mother are in South Africa and won’t be home until May, when Mother is to present me at Court, so I am paying visits and between visits I come back here to roost. I love the school and Miss Templar.”

“Do you?” said Sue in a surprised voice. She couldn’t see how anyone could love a Head Mistress.

“Don’t you love Miss Templar?” asked Rosemary.

“No,” said Sue. “She’s a horrid old woman. I hate her. She said awful things to me.” Sue put her head down on the bed and cried.

It seemed only a moment before Rosemary was bathing her head and eyes with a cool sponge that smelt faintly of toilet vinegar.

“Tell me all about it, Baby,” said Rosemary.

Sue sat up. “I’m used to fun,” she said. “I hate sitting at a desk all day. I want to be out of doors and running around. I hate boarding school. There’s no fun. Everyone told me there would be fun. There’s no fun at all,” and Sue began to cry all over again.

“Stop it, Sue,” said Rosemary in quite a different voice. “I called you baby because I thought you looked like a rumpled, sweet little girl, but I can’t stand cry-babies. You are being sorry for yourself and that’s stupid.”

“I’m sure Miss Templar never said anything half as horrid to you as she did to me,” wailed Sue.

“Just didn’t she!” exclaimed Rosemary. “You don’t suppose any Head Girl ever wore the red ribbon without having to take a good many lectures on the way.”

“Were you ever Head Girl?” asked Sue in astonishment.

Rosemary nodded.

Sue sat looking at her. She had thought all Head Girls must be plain and preepsy like Geraldine. Perhaps she was wrong. Rosemary could never have been plain.

Sue suddenly put her hand to her chest. “I have a pain here,” she said, “where the pudding is sticking.”

“Would a chocolate help?” asked Rosemary.

Sue nodded slowly, then they both laughed and had a large chocolate each.

“I know just how you feel,” said Rosemary. “I felt the same way once myself.”

“How did you get over it?” asked Sue doubtfully.

Rosemary laughed. “Supposing you try making fun for other people instead of expecting others to make it for you. You might be surprised at what you’d discover, Sue, for school is exactly what you make it.”

Sue wondered. This was a new idea. It might be worth trying. “School is what you make it,” she repeated, as she ran along the hall to her room.

“If I have to put on any more clothes,” protested Sue, “I won’t be able to walk at all. You’ll have to roll me along!”

“I feel like a duck,” said Pam, as she waddled over to where Sue was trying to button her gaiters.

Pam looked very quaint. “What have you got on?” Sue asked.

Pam chanted:

“Golly Molly!” exclaimed Sue. “Shall I have to wear as many?”

Pam nodded. “Yes, and on top of them your overcoat and a mackintosh with the hood pulled over your tam!”

“Mercy me, I shall burst!”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” interrupted Miss Smith. “Tuck your curls inside your tam, Susannah. I don’t want any wet hair to dry when you return from your walk.”

There was a funny choking sound from Iris.

“What’s that?” asked Miss Smith sharply.

“It’s me,” answered Iris. “I was sneezing.”

“You don’t sneeze in your throat,” said Miss Smith tartly, “and I’m not going to excuse you from this walk, Iris, so don’t try any tricks with me.”

“I don’t think my Mother would like me to go out on a day like this,” whispered Blanche. “Daddy would say it wasn’t fit weather for a dog.”

“We’ll all catch our death of colds,” said Pansy Fetherstonhaugh mournfully. “I don’t think my people would like me to go out at all.”

“It’s getting worse,” Ann Tempest called from the window. Ann was called “Easy Annie” by her friends because it was so easy to wheedle her. If Ann had a new library book, you could get it away from her quickly, with just a little badgering. Sue knew. She had tried it.

It was getting worse out. The rain was coming down heavily. There was fog over the meadows and occasionally a gust of sleet. The windows rattled in the cloakroom.

Marjorie King-Westcott joined them. She was thin and pale but could run like a hare and led the class in spelling.

“Do you think,” she said in a low voice, “that Miss Templar knows we are being sent out into that awful storm?”

There was a little gasp from the girls around the window. “Because I don’t,” continued Marjorie. “I think it’s just Smithie trying to get rid of us. She’s crazy about what she calls ‘fresh air.’ ” Marjorie coughed. Sue coughed. Pam coughed. They all coughed.

“Galoshes and umbrellas, girls, please,” Miss Smith called. “I am going upstairs to get my mackintosh.” The door closed behind her. The little group around the window shivered. Slowly they gathered umbrellas and galoshes.

“We’d better line up,” said Marjorie. “Smithie will have all her clothes on when she comes down and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Two by two the line of funny, bunchy figures ranged themselves in front of the cloakroom door.

“I’m so hot,” Sue complained, “I could burst!”

“I still think we oughtn’t to go,” repeated Marjorie.

“Less talking, girls, please.” It was Miss Smith again but without her outdoor clothes. Sue wondered who could be “taking the walk.”

“I have just seen Miss Templar,” Smithie announced, “and she agrees with me that the weather is too inclement for you to venture outside this afternoon. You are to take off your things and spend the afternoon in the Forge. Miss Mills will arrange some games for those who want exercise, and for those who prefer a good book, there is the Junior Library.”

“Well, of all things!” exclaimed Iris, as Miss Smith closed the cloakroom door behind her. “Here we are all ready for our walk and now we’re not allowed to go on it!”

“It’s dreadful,” said Marjorie angrily. “I spent hours getting into these things and now I have to take them off!”

“You should be thankful you haven’t long hair like I have,” wailed Pam. “First I had to plait it to go out and now I have to unplait it to stay in . . . and that means going upstairs to comb it.”

“My brother says they have to go out every day at Eton,” broke in Blanche, “no matter what the weather is. He says that’s why they’re so healthy.”

“I still think we should have gone out,” announced Marjorie loudly.

“Do you, Marjorie?” said Miss Smith tartly. She was standing in the doorway again. “There is no satisfying you children,” she continued. “First you grumble because you have to go out and then you grumble because you have to stay in! I have no patience with you. Upstairs, every one of you, quickly!”

Hastily they hung their coats in the lockers, pulled off the layers of woolies, the galoshes and extra stockings, and hustled up the stairs to the Forge, where Miss Mills sat waiting for them.

“Now,” said Miss Mills brightly, “I have a splendid idea for a rainy afternoon. The new girls and the old will divide into two teams and each will entertain the other. Both sides will choose a captain and I will give you ten minutes to make your decision as to the kind of entertainment. But remember, girls, I must approve of your choice.”

“Yes, Miss Mills,” they chorused.

The girls divided and across the room from each other commenced their whispered discussions.

“Who’ll we have as Captain?” asked Marjorie.

“Pam,” said Iris, and hastily they all agreed.

“All right,” said Pam, in a husky whisper. “Let’s play games, new girls against the old. Everybody try to think of something exciting.”

In a little huddled group they stood there thinking hard, but as Sue said, the harder she thought the less she seemed to have in her head, and Pansy and Marjorie started laughing again so that when Miss Mills opened the door with a “Ready, girls?” they hadn’t come to any decision. Clare was captain of the old girls. Her team was lined against the wall in order of height.

“Now, Clare,” said Miss Mills. “Let us hear your choice.”

“We would like to give you a little concert,” Clare said.

Miss Mills clapped her hands lightly.

“Very nice, I’m sure,” she cried. “Music is always a pleasure.”

“Pam, what is your choice?”

Pam shook her head. “We don’t know yet,” she said. “We hadn’t quite decided when the time was up.”

Miss Mills frowned. “I’ll give you another ten minutes,” she said. “Only this time be ready, please!”

“Yes, Miss Mills.” They scuttled out into the hall again.

“We would like to give you a little concert!” repeated Blanche angrily. “I know what that means. Clare will play a solo, slow and long. She will sing a duet with Dorothy, and there will be a few part songs, as well as Three Blind Mice, and Miss Mills will thank her and say what a pleasure her music always is.”

“How awful,” said Sue.

“But the music’s not the worst,” said Pansy. “It’s the sitting still. You get stitches and twitches and your toes go to sleep!”

“But can’t you give a good wriggle now and then?” asked Sue.

“If you only give half a wriggle,” Pansy answered, “Miss Mills glares at you and afterwards gives you a lecture on How to Listen to Music Like a Lady. Oh, I wish I’d gone out in the rain. I’d rather have drowned than have to listen to Clare all afternoon!”

“She only knows four tunes,” complained Blanche, “and we’re sick of them.”

“And she plays them all with the loud pedal on,” stormed Iris.

“Let’s choose a game,” said Pam, “that will take the wriggles out of us after the concert!”

“How about Musical Chairs?” asked Pansy.

“Lovely,” they all cried. “Just the thing!”

“We can knock over a few chairs, too, while we’re playing it,” said Marjorie, “and if Clare is on one of them I won’t mind!”

Giggling and happy, they lined up in front of the door.

“Everybody line up, I’ll lead you in,” said Pam. “Ready now, left, right—left, right!” Pam’s hand was on the door, the girls behind her marking time, when suddenly Easy Annie rushed up to Pam.

“Don’t,” she cried. “Don’t! Everything’s terrible! We can’t play Musical Chairs!”

“Who says we can’t?” cried Pam.

“We’ve no one to play the piano,” answered Easy Annie.

There was a gasp of dismay from the girls. “And you know what Clare’ll do,” continued Easy Annie.

Blanche groaned. “She’ll say, ‘Would you like me to play for you, girls’?” Blanche imitated Clare’s mincing voice.

“Yes,” Marjorie wailed, “and we’ll have to let her.”

“Why?” asked Sue.

“Because we’ve no one to play for us, Stupid, and that means that the whole afternoon will be just a show-off for Clare!”

“Can’t anybody play anything?” Sue asked.

They shook their heads.

Sue looked at them. She couldn’t believe that any group of girls who could spell as easily, who knew as many history dates, collects and lines of Shakespeare, should be so helpless over a bit of music. Her mouth organ was upstairs, but she didn’t like to suggest bringing it down. It was just a fortnight since Miss Templar had told her she was “boastful and conceited” and the lovely Rosemary had called her a “cry-baby.”

It had been a rather dreadful fortnight. Everything she had learned to do Outside of school, Sue found wasn’t any good Inside school. She was behind in many of the classes and led in only one. Nobody seemed to think her wonderful. Nobody seemed to think about her at all. She was only one of the Junior School, and the seniors treated the juniors as if they weren’t there!

Every time she suggested a new way of doing things, she was sat on. She was far ahead of her class in arithmetic, but she had to stay in the class and listen to the others’ mistakes just as if she knew nothing. She had suggested to Miss White that, as she knew all the answers, she would like to use the period for a little outdoor sport. Miss White had only said, “We don’t do things that way, Susannah. Go back to your desk.” “Just as if I were part of a herd of buffaloes!” Sue said to Pam later.

“Well, you’re in England now,” Pam had answered, “and this is the way we do things here.”

Sue thought it very stupid of these English girls to be always satisfied with the way the things were done in England, but their tongues were as sharp as hers and she had grown more cautious in suggesting new ways. She wondered if they would think her conceited and boastful if she offered to play for them now. She had fretted at missing the singing every night, but she didn’t want to join in anything in which Clare had a part. Not a single girl in the school had said anything to her about the “Fishes’ Eyes and Glue” except Clare. “I hear you finished your pudding after all,” she had said that night at supper. “Do all Canadians like their puddings cold?” Sue’s heart burned at the memory.

She looked at the gloomy faces before her. Anything was better than seeing them so unhappy. “I can play the mouth organ,” she said, and added quickly, “if you’d like me to!”

“Oh, Sue, can you? Have you one? Where is it?” they cried. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Quick, Sue, run!” cried Pam. “Get it! We’ve only two minutes left,” and with delighted squeaks sounding in her ears, Sue raced up the stairs to her treasure trunk. She lifted the lid. There it lay. A full-sized mouth organ, the one that Jocko had given her that Christmas in the Yukon. She tried a scale and ran down the stairs.

The girls were waiting for her outside the Forge door.

“Show us!” they clamored. Sue held out the yellow and red mouth organ with its silver trimmings. There was a delighted gasp from them all.

“Hide it,” said Iris. “Hide it in your pocket. Don’t let anyone see it!”

Pam grabbed Sue’s arm. “We’re going to tell Miss Mills that we’ve chosen Musical Chairs, and when Clare says ‘Would you like me to play for you?’, I will say ‘Thank you very much, we have our own music.’ ”

“And just watch Clare’s face,” interrupted Pansy. “Won’t she squirm!”

“And when we set the chairs up,” continued Pam, “they’ll all be looking for our music, but don’t you start until I call ‘music’!”

“Don’t even let them see the mouth organ till Pam calls,” warned Marjorie.

“It’ll knock ’em over like ninepins,” Easy Annie whispered, as Pam led them in.

“Well, Pam,” said Miss Mills. “You all seem very pleased with yourselves. I hope you’ve chosen a nice game!”

“Yes, Miss Mills,” they chorused.

“It’s Musical Chairs,” said Pam.

“How jolly!” Miss Mills exclaimed.

“But how can you play Musical Chairs without music?” asked Clare in surprised tones.

“We have our music,” said Pam proudly, and bowed from the waist to Miss Mills. It was just as if a bomb had burst right out in front of everyone.

“Well,” said Miss Mills crossly, “I suppose you know your own business best, Pamela, but I must confess that I should like to know where your music is coming from.”

“It’s a surprise,” explained Pam.

“Oh, very well,” said Miss Mills, and turning to Clare, asked, “Are you ready?”

“Look at Clare,” whispered Iris. “She thinks we’ve another piano player.” Sue nodded. She was holding her nose. Easy Annie had told her that this was the surest way of keeping yourself from laughing out loud, and Sue felt as if she must laugh or burst. She hung on to her nose until she almost choked as Clare slowly turned a rich, ripe red.

“I am going to play Paderewski’s Minuet,” she said, in a slightly agitated tone. She sat down at the piano, put her foot on the loud pedal and began.

Sue and the whole school knew the Minuet. You had to learn it in the simplified form first, then in the less simplified, and finally without any simplicity at all. They knew it as well as their own names, and when Clare fumbled a note, the new girls nudged each other with delight. Pam put up her hand as if to smother a cough.

“She may think she’s mad now,” she whispered to Sue, “but just wait until you begin!”

Sue coughed elegantly into her handkerchief. “I’m going to play a nice lively darkey tune first,” she said.

“Is it good?” whispered Pam.

“Dandy,” said Sue.

“Dindy, dandy?”

“Dindy Dandy Double Gorgeous,” answered Sue, as they all clapped boisterously.

“We will now sing a part song, Flow Gently, Sweet Afton,” announced Clare. Miss Mills nodded and the part song began.

Sweet Afton was a dreary song, Sue thought, and the girls made such funny faces when they sang. A duet followed, another piano solo from Clare, more part songs, and finally Three Blind Mice.

“Very nice,” said Miss Mills. “Thank you, Clare, and old girls. This has been quite delightful. We have enjoyed it, haven’t we, new girls?”

“Yes, Miss Mills,” they answered, clapping this time in a ladylike fashion, which, as Pam said later, meant almost no clapping at all.

“And now for Musical Chairs!”

They all pulled out the chairs and arranged them in a long row, back to back.

“Look at Clare,” whispered Iris.

Sue looked. Clare was still seated on the piano stool. “She’s waiting to play for us!”

“Is she?” said Pam. “You wait!”

Crossing the room, she went up to Clare. “May I have the piano stool?” she asked. “We need it in our game.”

“You also need music, don’t you?” asked Clare. “I am waiting to play for you.”

“Thank you very much,” said Pam, “but we have our own musician and need the stool for her.”

“Come along, Clare,” called Miss Mills. “They told you before that they had their own music.”

Clare rose and Pam pushed the stool out in front of the row of chairs. Sue could feel the excitement rising and at Pam’s signal went out and sat on the stool facing them all, one hand in her pocket, the other in her lap.

Clare laughed shrilly. “Look!” she said. “Look at who is on the piano stool . . . Sue! And she can only play with one finger!”

“Who told you Sue was going to play the piano?” Pam cried hotly.

Sue took a long breath. It was wonderful the way Pam was keeping the mystery going. Everyone was simply goggle-eyed. Sue twirled around on the stool, and with her back to them all, took out the mouth organ and hid it in the folds of her dress. There was a gay, rollicking tune she had learned on the boat coming back to England from Canada, called A Hot Time in the Old Town To-night. She wanted to play it, but her breath was coming so fast, and you needed such a lot of breath to play the mouth organ. She hoped nothing would go wrong.

“Ready?” called Pam.

“Yes, ready,” cried everyone.

“Music!”

Sue lifted the mouth organ, twirled the stool until she faced them, and began to play. Jocko’s mouth organ had never sounded as well before. Its tones were so rich and full, and when Sue pressed the double stops it sounded like an organ going full blast.

Such a mix-up.

Sue closed her eyes. If she watched the Musical Chairs any longer, she knew she could never go on playing. The surprise of the mouth organ was too much for the old girls. Not one had moved, not even Miss Mills.

But, led by Pam, the new girls were racing around the chairs, pushing the old girls, jostling and bumping. Sue opened her eyes again. Clare’s face was crimson. Sue played louder and faster. They were all on their feet now, new and old girls, moving cautiously from chair to chair, wondering when the music would stop. Marjorie was following Clare.

Sue stopped.

Everyone gave a wild scramble, a chair upset and Clare was on the floor, with Marjorie sitting triumphantly in the chair above her. Clare was out of the game at the very first. Sue twirled the stool happily. The girls crowded around her, so anxious to examine the mouth organ that Pam had to be very bossy to get them to go back to the game. All they wanted to do was listen to Sue play. It was fun to stop suddenly and see them all scramble for chairs, to scurry them along at a quick place, or to slow them up with a tune that almost stopped but never did.

It was Easy Annie and Miss Mills who were left with a chair between them at the end. Great tall Miss Mills and tiny Easy Annie stalking each other around a single chair. Sue stopped suddenly. Miss Mills was right in front of the chair but she was so dignified and took so long to sit down that Easy Annie slid quickly in beneath her and won.

“Three cheers for the new girls,” called Miss Mills, and everybody cheered, everybody but Clare, who pretended to be reading a book on the Forge platform.

The mouth organ was passed from hand to hand. Everyone seemed happily curious and envious. “Play again, Sue,” they cried.

“What’ll I play?” asked Sue.

“Play anything, anything you like. Play us a Canadian tune.” The only Canadian song Sue could remember was the first one she had ever learned, the old song sung by the French Canadian voyageurs on their long canoe trips into the wilderness,

Sue’s back was to the door. She heard it open behind her and to her surprise someone began to sing the words of the chorus.

Sue wondered who it could be, and then she remembered. There was only one other girl in the school who knew Canada, the beauteous Rosemary.

Sue turned. It was Rosemary, just back from a visit to London. “Do you know the words?” Rosemary asked. Sue nodded. “Sing them,” she said, and sat down at the piano.

Sue sang the verses over and over again until Rosemary called, “Now, altogether!” Sue picked up her mouth organ. It made a lovely din, the piano, the mouth organ, the girls’ voices and the clapping and stamping that marked the rhythm. It reminded Sue of the train journey to Regina and the pleasant people in the immigrants’ car, of the prairies and the Barracks with the band playing in the Square . . . The band! It gave Sue an idea. “Rosemary,” she whispered, “why couldn’t we have a school band?” “Why not?” asked Rosemary, and then everything happened at once.

“We’re going to have a band,” cried Rosemary.

“How can we?” asked Miss Mills. “Where would we get the instruments?”

“But, Miss Mills, you play the violin,” answered Rosemary, “and Geraldine the viola.”

“Saucepans make the loveliest kettledrums,” broke in Sue, “and the lids are dandy cymbals.”

“Egg beaters whizzed around on tin trays make a wonderful clatter,” cried Easy Annie.

“Connie plays the banjo,” said Marjorie, “but with awful bumps and squeaks.”

“Never mind,” Sue answered busily. “She’ll help make a noise and a band must be noisy to be any good!”

“I can play the comb,”

“I can beat a drum,”

“I can play the glasses,”

“I can whistle,” different voices called.

There was a busy scurrying then for instruments. At first Cook wouldn’t part with her precious saucepans, but Rosemary coaxed them away from her and came back clanging merrily with large pans and tin trays and wooden spoons for drumsticks.

Iris began beating a tattoo on a tall brass vase. It made a delicious tinkling sound. Clare was on the platform, still pretending to read, a look of disapproval on her face.

“Come along, Clare,” called Pam. “I thought you liked music.”

“I do,” answered Clare snippily, “but I only like classical music.”

“Classical music!” they all repeated. “Clare likes classical music!”

“Well, we don’t,” said Iris. “We like Sue’s music. It’s lively and fun,” and she beat out the rhythm of Alouette on her brass jar.

“Ready, everybody,” called Rosemary, and the first rehearsal of the school band began. Miss Mills and Rosemary carried the air on the violin and piano, but they were soon drowned out by the thumping and banging, the clanking and drumming.

“Mercy me!” cried Sue. “What a lovely, lovely noise! But it doesn’t sound like a band!”

Miss Mills agreed. A lock of hair had escaped from her hair net and she was flushed and not a bit Mistressy. “Let’s try again,” she said. Using her bow as a baton she beat time and just before the dressing bell rang, they succeeded in playing Alouette through without breaking down to laugh.

“I never knew a rainy afternoon to have gone so quickly,” said Miss Mills. Arms around each other, the girls raced upstairs.

After supper the band grew and grew; the seniors came in to listen or to join in the music. Everyone who came stayed on. Miss Smith popped her head in at the door for a moment and returned not long after with Miss Ironsides, a penny whistle and the Chinese gong from the library. The high piping of the whistle and the deep bass notes of the gong gave variety and before the evening was over all the senior school and most of the Mistresses were in the Forge.

There was really no audience because those who hadn’t instruments clapped their hands in time to the music and the noise was at its height when Miss Hill opened the door.

“What ever is going on in here?” she asked, smiling.

“A band!” Miss Mills answered. “The Arundel Abbey Band.”

“What an excellent idea!” exclaimed Miss Hill. “Whoever thought of it?”

“I did,” said Clare, stepping out in front of the girls.

“Not quite, Clare,” said Miss Mills sharply. “You suggested an afternoon of music, but Sue thought of the band, and Sue and Rosemary organized it.”

“I see,” said Miss Hill, looking at Clare in her best iceberg fashion, and then turning to Sue, “it’s nice to find a new girl showing us how to turn a rainy day into a shiny one,” she said, “. . . and now, may I hear another tune?”

“That’ll keep the green-eyed cat quiet,” said Pam, glaring at Clare and banging her cymbals angrily. Miss Mills lifted her bow and the music began again. In the middle of the number Miss Hill slipped out, and just as they finished the last verse of Alouette, Barnes entered, carrying a tray of glasses and great jugs of lemonade. There was a plate heaped high with little round iced cakes, too.

“Miss Hill’s compliments,” Barnes said primly, “and these are for the band.”

Sue was standing with Pam and Iris when Clare came over to her. Clare’s face was flushed, her eyes angry.

“Show off,” she said. “Show off! That’s all you are! I said I began the music this afternoon and I did begin the music. No one calls the mouth organ music!”

“Oh, don’t they?” sputtered Iris. “Everyone in the school thinks the mouth organ is better than your old piano playing.”

Just then Miss Mills rapped on the table.

“I think we should all thank Rosemary and Sue for the delightful time we have had today, and I think the band should give a performance every Saturday evening.” There were cheers and clappings and lemonade and cakes, and in a few minutes they were on the way to bed, singing as they went.

Sue tucked her mouth organ away in her treasure trunk and bounced into bed as Miss White came in to turn out the gas and open the window.

“Goodnight, girls.”

“Goodnight, Miss White.”

For a few minutes they talked in whispers, re-living the squashing of Clare, the excitement of the mouth organ, the new song. It had been too eventful a day for them to go straight to sleep. Sue reconsidered the happenings.

She had created a band.

She had vanquished an enemy.

She had made everybody happy.

And was very happy herself.

She burrowed into her pillow. Something was missing. She remembered. It was Minnie-Pooh-Pooh but she felt too happy and cosy to get up and search for her. Besides, she really didn’t need her any longer.

What was it Rosemary had said?

“School is what you make it.”

Sue pulled the blankets around her. Today had been fun, exciting fun.

“If school is what you make it,” Sue murmured sleepily to herself, “then I’ll try to make it lively.”

Every morning at eleven o’clock there was a fifteen minute period for milk and biscuits in the Forge. At least that is how the rules read, but actually Sue had found that you only had five minutes to choke down your milk and biscuits. The rest of the period was taken up by Miss Hill who gave out the “Orders of the Day.” This was quite a business. Any changes in the school were announced, general school orders given and the names of Mistresses “taking the walk” read out. It also was a period when “Old Hilly-Billy” was given to personal criticism, so that Sue found no one ever breathed freely until “Orders of the Day” were over.

A bell rang. Miss Hill entered the Forge briskly and mounted the platform. Sue gulped down the last of her milk and waited. She never knew when some perfectly innocent act of hers would be called an “infraction of the rules.” This morning, however, she could think of nothing she had done that would bring her into the “Orders of the Day.”

“Junior Girls, attention! This afternoon Miss Cramp is taking you on the annual tour of Windsor Castle. I hope you will all remember that you are Arundel Abbey Girls and conduct yourselves accordingly.

“Dorothy Brocklehurst, take your hands off your hips! No lady ever stands in such an inelegant posture.

“Senior and Junior Girls, attention! This is most important. Someone has been feeding Spots again!” Sue wondered who in the world Spots could be. Miss Hill paused impressively. “Spots’s entire digestive system has been upset.”

“Who’s Spots?” asked Sue in a whisper.

“Hilly-Billy’s beastly poodle,” said Blanche.

“I have neither the time nor the strength,” Miss Hill continued, “to look after Spots and my duties here. Spots must not be fed. Spots must be left alone!”

“Yes, Miss Hill,” they all answered.

Miss Hill leafed over her notes.

“No one ever feeds Spots,” Blanche whispered. “He’s a fat, waddly old thing and so greedy that he steals the cat’s food. He hasn’t any tricks and he won’t go for walks.”

“Ah, here we are,” Miss Hill resumed. “I thought I had lost it. On Friday evening, the Very Rev. Tyldesley Judd, D.D., Dean of Christ Church, Oxford, and recently returned from an archaeological expedition in Egypt, has very kindly offered to address us on the subject of his recent discoveries. I think we should be very grateful to the Dean. Shall we give him a clap?” Everyone clapped feebly.

“He’s an awful old pill,” Marjorie said. “He bumbles away for hours and hours.”

“Where’s Egypt?” asked Sue. No one seemed to know.

“What’s archaeology?”

“Old bones and rocks,” answered Dorothy.

“Pam! Report to Miss Smith! Your bangs are almost in your eyes. Conspicuous hair dressing is something I will not tolerate in any Abbey girl!”

“Sue Winston!”

“Yes, Miss Hill.”

“You are to report to Miss Templar at twelve o’clock.”

“What ever can I have been doing now?” thought Sue. Miss Hill stepped down from the platform. “Orders of the Day” were over.

Sue heard very little of the next class on “Vulgar and Decimal Fractions.” She was trying to work out what she had done to draw on herself an interview with Miss Templar. The fractions came to an end. It was twelve o’clock! Sue rapped on the “Awful Door.”

“Come in!”

Sue opened the door. She didn’t see how Miss Templar could possibly have known that she and Pam and Blanche had talked after “lights out,” but then Head Mistresses seemed to know everything. Sue sighed as she closed the door behind her.

“Ah, Sue, there you are,” said Miss Templar. “I wanted to talk to you about the Queen.”

Sue’s heart rose with a bound. She knew she couldn’t possibly have done anything to the Queen.

“You already know that you are going to Windsor Castle this afternoon?”

“Yes, Miss Templar.”

“It is remotely possible that while you are in the Park or the Castle, you might see Her Majesty drive by.”

“Truly!” said Sue. “I thought no one ever saw the Queen except when there was a Jubilee or when they were presented.”

Miss Templar smiled. “Her Majesty has just returned to Windsor,” she said. “We often see her driving and it is because of that I have sent for you. Let me see you curtsey. Sue.”

Holding her skirt in both hands, head bent and eyes lowered, Sue slowly sank to the floor, and slowly rose again. “Very nice,” said Miss Templar, “but too formal for the occasion. When Her Majesty passes, Sue, we stand still and bob.”

“Bob?” repeated Sue, unable to believe her ears. “Bob” at Victoria the Good, Queen of Great Britain and Ireland, Empress of India and the Dominions beyond the Seas! What would the Commissioner say to such an idea?

“Yes,” said Miss Templar. “Bob, like this.” Miss Templar rose from her desk and, fastening her eyes on Sue, gave a funny little bob of a curtsey.

“It doesn’t seem very polite,” said Sue. To her astonishment Miss Templar agreed. “It doesn’t, Sue, but we English reserve formal behavior for formal occasions. When the Queen passes on her daily drive, we acknowledge her presence with a bob, because the occasion is informal. If you were being presented at court, it would be quite a different matter. And, Sue, the head is not bowed. It is held up so that you look directly at Her Majesty. Let me see you try it.”

Sue “bobbed” to Miss Templar. Miss Templar “bobbed” back. Both of them laughed.

“Very nice, Sue. Always remember that simplicity in manners is better than over-formality . . . anywhere.” Sue bobbed again. “And Sue, I hear that you are responsible for the creation of the school band. That pleases me. You are evidently settling down.”

“Thank you, Miss Templar.”

Sue shut the “Awful Door” behind her. Praise from Miss Templar! Would wonders never cease? She ran down the hall, hop-skippity-jump.

“Susannah!” It was Miss White. “Will you never learn to behave like a little lady? Skipping and jumping along a hall is not the way to conduct yourself.” “I’m hardly out of one thing when I pop into another,” Sue thought, as she walked slowly to the dining-room.

It was molasses pie day, and Sue loved molasses pie more than anything in the world. Marjorie and Iris hated it, so Sue had “traded” her marmalade and damson jam for their pie. It was a little complicated. Marmalade came on Monday and damson jam on Wednesday breakfasts, molasses pie on Tuesday dinner. By watching carefully, you could slip your plates to and fro without the Mistress at your table noticing.

They had boiled mutton first, with “squidge” sauce. Miss Ironsides called it “caper sauce” but to the girls it was just plain “squidge.” Sue scraped off the squidge and swallowed that first. There were “greens,” too. Greens were a strange vegetable that Sue had never seen before. To begin with, they were never green, but a strange brownish yellow. Rosemary had told her that “greens” were not one vegetable but several different kinds, such as beans or spinach or cabbage, but Sue couldn’t see how three different things could taste and look the same every day and decided that “greens” were a strange English vegetable that no one could possibly like.

Afterwards, with three pieces of delicious molasses pie in her tummy, she tried “bobbing,” with Pam or Blanche taking the part of the Queen. Pam was in a real tantrum. Her brother had sent her a copy of the Graphic, with a photograph of the Harrow cricket team in it. It also had a picture of a dancer called Fleurette Montizambert, who wore her bangs right down to her eyelids. It had taken Pam two months to grow hers as long. “And it took Smithie only two minutes to cut them,” Pam raged. “Old Hilly-Billy has no idea of style at all!” Pam’s grey eyes flashed, but though Blanche and Sue thought her short bangs much prettier, they didn’t dare tell her so. Pam’s tempers were like thunder and lightning together.

      *      *      *      *      *      

“Sunday hats and coats,” called Miss Cramp as they entered the cloakroom. A few minutes later they lined up for inspection. Shoes, gloves, handkerchiefs, hair! It was worse than any inspection that Sue had ever had with the Mounties.

“We are to be met at the Castle Gate by a special guide,” said Miss Cramp impressively, “and tomorrow for your history preparation, you will write me an essay on your first visit to Windsor Castle. That means, girls, that you will pay strict attention to everything the guide tells you.”

“Yes, Miss Cramp.”

“That’s just like the Violent Cramp,” stormed Pam. “Here we go for a pleasant afternoon and she spoils it all by making us remember dates. You never get a moment to enjoy yourself at school. It’s work, work, work all the time!”

“That’s what we’re sent here for,” said Clare primly.

“Don’t be a gibble-gabble,” flashed Pam.

“Gibble-gabble?” said Sue. “What’s that?”

“A gibble-gabble is a girl who always tries to get on the right side of the Mistresses by prissy talk.”

“What’s prissy talk?”

“You know. ‘May I get your coat, Miss Cramp? May I carry your books, Miss White?’ ”

But the day was too fair for them to remain gloomy long and the walk across the meadows with the sun shining and Windsor Castle drawing nearer every minute promised a new adventure for them all. Along the High Street of Windsor they passed and up the incline to the gates of the Castle. A guide was waiting for them.

“Arundel Abbey,” said Miss Cramp. “Yes, Madam,” said the guide. “This way please.”

Sue noticed how everyone looked at them as they passed through the gates, marching two by two and perfectly in step. “They’re Arundel Abbey Girls,” she heard someone say, and quite suddenly she was proud she belonged to the school, proud of her companions and of Miss Cramp. It was pleasant to feel that you belonged to something that outsiders admired and envied.

Windsor Park, the girls were told, had about eighteen hundred acres of land, thirteen acres of which had been first planted with oak by Lord Burleigh in order to provide a reserve supply of timber for the navy.

“How very interesting,” said Miss Cramp. “Are you listening, girls?”

“Yes, Miss Cramp.”

Sue looked up at the great mass of stone, the towers, the long flights of steps ever mounting higher to the Castle ramparts. Rapidly the guide told them of how William the Conqueror had built the first part of the Castle on the “Mound of Windsor,” the only elevation in the surrounding flat lands. Ever since, he said, the Castle had had the closest associations with every step of the British government and Empire.

“It was from here that King John rode out to Runnymede to sign the Magna Carta. . . . King David Bruce of Scotland was imprisoned here for eleven years. . . . It was Edward the Third, the Black Prince, who built the Round Tower and St. George’s Chapel. . . . It is the Royal burying place. . . . Windsor has always been the best loved residence of the Royal Family. . . .”

Sue supposed it was interesting but to her it sounded like another history lesson. Overhead soft fleecy clouds scudded by and though the air was cold, there was a hint of spring. It was easier to dream than to listen. The guide’s voice droned on. There was a little cloud chasing another high up there against the blue sky. Sue wondered what they would be doing in Dawson today. She tilted her head further back.

“Look!” she cried. “What’s that?” and pointed upwards to the tower.

“Don’t point, Susannah,” said Miss Cramp sharply. High above them from the top of the Tower the largest flag Sue had ever seen was floating in the breeze.

“That,” said the guide proudly, “is the Royal Standard. It is only flown when the Sovereign is in residence. It is fourteen yards long by eight yards wide.”

“That must be the largest flag in the world,” Sue said.

“It flies over the largest Empire,” the guide replied. His voice, she noticed, had lost its sing-song quality. He seemed interested and was smiling at her in a friendly fashion.

Up the steps they marched and through the great doors into the Castle itself, very old, very cold, very grey. There was shining armor; large windows, statuary, bronzes and tapestries; great carved chairs and tables and miles and miles and miles of pictures.

Miss Cramp was very fussy over the pictures.

“Pay close attention, girls,” she said, “to the exhibits in this gallery. I shall expect you to describe your favorite picture in tomorrow’s essay.”

“I can’t find a favorite picture,” said Pam, a little later. “Have you found one, Sue?”

“No,” Sue said firmly. “I don’t like a single picture. All the ladies are too fat and bulge out of their dresses and the men wear queer trousers!”

“They aren’t trousers,” said Marjorie. “They’re doublets.”

“Well, whatever they are, I don’t like them,” said Sue crossly, “and everybody looks sad or silly in the paintings.”

“I thought your Father was an artist,” complained Blanche, “and that you’d be able to help us pick out our favorite picture.”

“Of course he’s an artist,” Sue answered, “but he paints real pictures of out-of-doors, instead of bulgy people in stupid clothes.”

“Have you chosen your favorite picture, Sue?” asked Miss Cramp. Sue shook her head. Her legs were tired and she felt sleepy. There were pigeons wheeling outside the window.

“This,” said the guide, entering a smaller room, “is quite frequently used by Her Majesty.”

Sue looked around. More life-sized paintings and mirrors, great ornaments of bronze, silken rugs upon the floor, stiff backed carved chairs. Sue looked at the chairs and remembered the day of the Diamond Jubilee. . . . Silver trumpets shattering the air. . . . A little old lady in an open carriage, bowing and bowing. . . . Could it be possible that the little old lady had only these hard stiff chairs to use?

“Come along, Missy,” said the guide. “I’ll show you a picture that you’ll like.” He led her to a glass-topped case resting on a table. Inside there was a miniature of a young girl, a crown upon her light brown hair, a blue ribbon crossing the whiteness of her dress.

“Whoever is it?” asked Sue.

“The Queen, at the time of her accession to the throne.”

Sue looked again. Could that little old lady ever have been young like this?

“My Father was a torch bearer on the night Her Majesty came to Windsor as a bride,” he said. “He often told me of it. She was slender then and that night she wore a white silk pelisse edged with swan’s-down and a white bonnet with orange blossoms under the brim.”

Sue looked down at the miniature again. It reminded her of Rosemary. The Queen had the same look that Rosemary now had . . . as if she were about to find some lovely, secret thing she had been waiting for. Sue wondered if she ever found it.

Miss Cramp took out her watch. “There are a few minutes left,” she said. “Shall we go back slowly through the rooms we have seen? It may freshen your memory for your essay tomorrow if we go through them once again.”

“Yes, Miss Cramp.” But Sue lingered to look through the window at the Royal Standard again. It was floating there from the Tower as the flag had floated at the top of Chilkoot.

“What kind of flag do you fly when the Queen isn’t here?” she asked.

“The Union Jack,” the guide answered. “That is, when the Constable is in residence.”

“A Constable!” cried Sue in astonishment. “Not a Constable!” For to Sue a Constable could mean only one thing—a Mountie, tall, bronzed and young, in the scarlet and gold of the North West Mounted Police . . . moving across the parade in the Barracks at Regina . . . riding over the prairie grasses . . . driving dog teams in the snows of the Yukon, maintaining law and order wherever the scarlet coats passed.

“Is there truly a Constable here?” asked Sue. The guide nodded. “Mercy me,” Sue sighed. “No one told me about him and I’ve wasted a whole afternoon looking at pictures. Where is he? Could I see him and talk to him?”

“I hardly think so,” the guide answered.

“Why not? I’m a Canadian. I’ve a red coat like his and a crest. He’d be glad to see me. How did he get here?”

“He’s been here for a long time,” said the guide. “He has complete charge of all lands and property of Windsor Great Park and the Castle. His official title is The Queen’s Household Constable and Governor of Windsor Castle. Since 1087 there has been a Constable of the Tower.”

“1087,” repeated Sue to herself. There must be something wrong somewhere. Perhaps he wasn’t a Mountie after all. Perhaps he was another kind of Constable, but all the Constables Sue had known were friendly and nice, and she was determined to meet this one.

“Susannah!” It was Miss Cramp calling.

“Another day,” said Sue, waving goodbye to the guide. “Another day.” And in a few minutes they were all outside the Castle Gates and walking briskly back across the meadows.

But the afternoon had stirred exciting memories and Sue talked all through supper of the Mounties and their valor, of how they had taught her to ride, to snow-shoe, to catch gophers, to paddle a canoe in tumbled waters . . .

“And to boast,” broke in Clare.

“Boast?” repeated Sue. “Did you say boast?”

“Yes,” said Clare defiantly. “I said boast.”

“I don’t need to boast,” flared Sue. “I know the Mounties and they know me. I have my red coat and my crest, and after supper, if you come to my room, I’ll show you the crest.”

“Show it to all of us,” cried Iris. “I’d love to see it. I’m sure it’s lovely, Sue.”

“Try not to mind Clare,” whispered Pam. “She’s trying to get back at you for starting the band and stealing her thunder.”

But Sue’s heart was sore and angry. She hadn’t been boasting. She truly hadn’t been trying to tell them of herself, but rather of how splendid the Mounties were and then Clare, with her mean tongue, had twisted her words, and spoiled the happiness of the day.

A few minutes later, with Phyllis at their head, the whole Junior School crowded into Sue’s room. Over the mirror on the chest of drawers the crest shone brightly.

“There you are, Clare,” said Phyllis. “You see Sue wasn’t boasting. Her Mountie Crest is here and it is beautiful!”

“Sue says it’s a Mountie Crest,” Clare answered, “but I’d like to see a Mountie wearing it first. Seeing is believing.”

“Get out of my room, Clare Barr,” Sue cried. “Before my school year is over I’ll have a Mountie Constable here wearing his red coat and crest, and then you’ll see I wasn’t boasting. And something more. There are dozens of Constables in the Force and you’ve only one here in England. He’s the Constable of the Tower. I’m going to have tea with him. He knows about the Mounties, if you don’t!”

“Tell us about it afterwards,” said Clare nastily, and disappeared down the hall.

“Oh Sue, can you bring a Mountie here? . . . Shall you have tea with the Constable of the Tower. . . .” Everyone was talking at once.

“I’ll do both,” Sue answered hotly.

Pam linked her arm in Sue’s. “Tell us how,” she coaxed.

Sue couldn’t tell them. She didn’t know herself. She only knew she’d been driven into making a double boast and that whatever happened she was going to make that boast come true.

“Oh, Rosemary, where did you get this dress?” cried Sue. “It has such lovely ruffles!”

“That,” answered Rosemary, “is the evening cloak to wear over my presentation gown. We’ll hang it up, Sue.” Together they hung the long ivory white brocaded coat, with its pleated chiffon ruffles at the throat and wrists, in the big mahogany wardrobe that stood between the windows in Rosemary’s room.

Rosemary had just returned from Paris where she had been visiting friends and shopping for the day when she would make her curtsey to the Queen. Sue missed Rosemary when she was away, and was glad it was her turn to help her unpack, for Rosemary was her “Crush.” Sue had never heard of “Crushes” until Pam and Blanche had told her you were “simply no one at all” unless you had one.

“What do you do to a Crush?” asked Sue, “and what does she do for you?”

“She does nothing for you at all,” said Blanche, “but you wait on her hand and foot. If you have a birthday, she gets the first and largest piece of cake. You tidy her desk and hunt for her shoes and if she passes you in the hall carrying anything, you take it away from her and carry it for her.”

“Sounds silly to me,” said Sue. “How do I get a crush?”

“You choose the senior girl that you admire most and just wait on her.”

Sue thought of the seniors.

There was Geraldine. Too goody-goody.

Phyllis. Too meek.

Barbara. Too cheerful.

Elizabeth. Too whiney.

Margaret. Too jolly.

Winifred. Well no one could choose for a Crush a girl who liked beets.

“I’ll choose Rosemary,” Sue said. “She’s the prettiest and most exciting person in the whole school, and she’s away so often that I won’t have much carrying to do.”

“Let’s all choose her,” said Pam, “and we can take turns in waiting on her.”

Sue was especially glad it was her turn when Rosemary returned from Paris, for it gave her a chance to examine all the lovely grown-up things in her trunk and on her dressing table. There were soft spotted veils, a little heart-shaped box full of black patches, several kinds of perfume, a feather boa of rosy pink, a little lace fan with an ivory handle. Sue laid them all on the bed and folded the tissue paper as Rosemary fastened a tiny black patch just at the corner of her eye, and another near her lips.

“How do I look, Sue?” she asked.

“Very gay,” said Sue, “but why do you put those bits of black on your face?”

“To attract attention to it,” laughed Rosemary.

Sue chuckled. “Nobody could miss your face,” she said. “It’s so pretty it sticks out in every room. That’s why we chose you as our Crush!”

“Am I your Crush?” asked Rosemary. Sue nodded and looked meaningly at the top left-hand drawer of the dressing table. Rosemary took the hint, opened it and produced a box of chocolates. With a large fat chocolate in her hand, Sue sat upon the window seat.

“I’m in an awful mess, Rosemary,” she said, “and I’d like to tell you about it if you promise never as long as you live to let anybody know.”

Rosemary moved the patch nearer her eye and then crossed her heart, blew her breath and held up both her hands.

“Tell me,” she said.

Sue swallowed the last bit of chocolate and licked her fingers. “I have to get a Mountie here at school,” she whispered, “and I have to have tea with the Constable of the Tower.” Sue paused to let the awfulness of these two facts sink in. “. . . And Rosemary, I don’t know how I’m going to do either.”

“How did this happen?” asked Rosemary. Sue told her the whole story.

“That’s bad,” said Rosemary. “It’ll be hard enough to bring a Mountie from Canada, but even harder to break into the Round Tower of Windsor and have tea with the Constable. I don’t know how you can do either.”

“Neither do I,” replied Sue mournfully. “But I’ll never give in ’til I do!”

“Susannah!” A voice sounded outside in the hall. “That’s Smithie,” said Sue, getting down from the window seat. “She’s inspecting our clothes. There’s a lecture tonight and we’re all to wear our white dresses.” Sue ran down the hall. “Here I am, Miss Smith,” she called.

“Come with me,” answered Miss Smith in a chilly fashion and turned into Sue’s bedroom. There on the three beds were laid out their evening dresses. White dotted muslin for Pam, white lawn for Blanche. On her own bed lay the two white mull dresses Sue’s Mother had sent her from Paris.

“When I unpacked your clothes, Susannah, I did not unfold your evening dress. I wish now that I had, for it is quite impossible for me to allow you to wear such a frivolous frock.”

“What’s wrong with it?” gasped Sue.

“It is short-sleeved and round-necked, and your combinations would show below the short sleeves and above the neck. One never exposes one’s underwear, Susannah.”

Sue sighed with relief. “But I don’t wear my combinations with my evening dress,” she explained. “I take them off and wear quite different things.”

“Take off your combinations!” exclaimed Miss Smith in a tone of horror. “I never heard of such a thing! No one ever takes off her combinations in England before the twenty-fourth of May!” Sue held her breath. Smithie was so angry and Sue remembered from past experiences that she could be a very determined person.

“But I’ve seen you in a low-necked dress,” said Sue, “and I didn’t see your combinations showing. Couldn’t you fix mine the way you did yours; besides, here are the right things to wear with the dress.” Sue brought out the lacy petticoats and underbodices. Miss Smith examined them, the end of her nose twitching as it always did when she was disturbed.

“Do you call these flimsy bits of lace and lawn underclothes?” she demanded. “Why, there isn’t a medical man in England who wouldn’t condemn them. These are French clothes, frivolous and unsafe to wear in this climate. English clothes for English girls, if you please, Susannah.”

“Do you mean that I can’t wear my white dress?” asked Sue.

“Precisely!”

“But I’ll be the only girl in the school in colors.”

“I can’t help that, Sue. I am responsible for your health and I will not permit you to remove your woolen underwear.”

“But, Miss Smith,” protested Sue, “I wore this at Lady Charlotte’s for dinner and I didn’t catch cold.”

“You’re not going to wear it here,” snapped Miss Smith. “Put on your red crêpon tonight and tomorrow I will see about having a suitable white dress made for you in Windsor.”

Bristling with annoyance, Miss Smith crossed the room and opened the door. Rosemary was passing.

“Oh, Rosemary, come and help me,” Sue cried. “Miss Smith won’t let me wear my pretty dress. Tell her Canadian girls are used to cold. Tell her they don’t get the sniffles the way English girls do!”

“Sniffles, Susannah, are not confined to any one nation,” snapped Miss Smith.

“I should think not,” agreed Rosemary. “Don’t be a goose, Sue. I’ve seen French and German girls with noses just as red and sniffly as any English girl’s. And why are you making such a fuss?”

Sue explained. Miss Smith explained.

Rosemary slipped an arm around Miss Smith. “If I wrapped Sue warmly in a shawl tonight and watched her all through the lecture so that she didn’t sit in a draught, wouldn’t you let her take off her combinations this once? If she’s the only girl in a colored dress, she’ll feel so strange.”

“Stop coaxing, Rosemary,” said Miss Smith sternly, but Sue could see her softening.

“If you’ll let her wear her white dress tonight, Smithie, I’ll take her to Windsor for you tomorrow and buy her a dress right up to her ears.”

“You’d charm the birds off the bushes, Rosemary,” said Miss Smith, gently patting her cheek, “. . . and because you ask and promise to watch her, Sue may wear her white dress tonight.”

“Smithie, you’re a darling,” cried Rosemary, kissing the older woman on both cheeks. Sue wondered if the world were coming to an end. Fancy anyone wanting to kiss a Mistress, but she remembered her manners in time to open the door for Miss Smith and to thank her as she went down the hall.

“That was a near thing,” said Rosemary. “I didn’t think she’d weaken so soon!”

“How is it you always get your own way?” asked Sue wonderingly. “Smithie would never have given in to me, and yet when you asked her to let me wear my dress, everything was suddenly all right.”

“I try to meet them all half way,” Rosemary answered. “Smithie was afraid of your catching cold, so I promised to see you wore a shawl. If you had made the same suggestion, Smithie would have been just as nice.”

Sue shook her head. It was more than meeting people half way that made Rosemary so beloved. Perhaps it was because she was grown up, perhaps it was because she was so pretty. Whatever it was, Sue hoped she would be like her some day.

“I’ll be back for you, Sue,” called Rosemary, hurrying away. “You’d better change now.”

Rapidly Sue pulled off her woolen things, brushed her hair and put on the soft lawn and lace underthings, and at last the “frivolous” dress. It was pleasant to feel the cool air on her arms and neck again, to see her feet in the smart patent leather slippers. But just as she was wondering how she could ever stretch her arms far enough around to button her dress at the back, Pam and Blanche burst in.

“Sue! What a pretty dress!” they cried, and all three girls buttoned each other in turn, tied their sashes and smoothed their skirts. Pam was fastening the last button when the door flew open and Miss Smith appeared with a large grey woolen shawl.

“Let me wrap this well around you,” she said to Sue, and with a quick twist folded the shawl about her shoulders and, crossing the ends around her waist, knotted them in the back.

Sue started to protest, but remembering Rosemary’s advice to “meet them half way,” choked back her tears. “Thank you, Miss Smith,” she said.

“You look like a fat grey bunny,” cried Pam in dismay, as the door closed. Sue looked into the mirror. Her pretty dress was clouded by the ugly dark grey wool, her arms were bound awkwardly at the elbows by the tight folds, and the wool tickled her skin. Her eyes filled with angry tears as she scurried along the hall to Rosemary’s room.

“I met Smithie half way, as you told me,” she cried, “and look what she’s done to me. This half way business may work for you, but not for me,” and Sue’s eyes overflowed.

Red gold curls brushed back, blue eyes dark with excitement, flushed and angry, Sue stood facing Rosemary.

“She’s put me in an old lady’s shawl,” Sue wailed. “It’s ugly and heavy and smells of wool. My Mother sent me this dress. Why can’t I wear it? Why does school think it knows better than your own Mother? I don’t want any supper. I don’t want to go downstairs if I have to look like an old sheep. And don’t you laugh at me, Rosemary. If they think that my dress isn’t warm enough, why don’t they make the school warmer?”

“Hush, Touzle-Top,” said Rosemary, ruffling her hair. “I know just how you feel. I felt that way once, too.”

“And I’m sick of being treated as if I were a little girl. I’m not a little girl. If I was big enough to hunt for my Father in the Yukon, I’m big enough to know what clothes I can wear, without any old nanny goat putting me into a woolly shawl . . . I hate school anyway, and all the stupid girls . . . old sissies and Mooly cows!”

“What do you mean by a Mooly cow?” asked Rosemary.

“A half-and-halfer.”

“And what’s a half-and-halfer?”

“You know. A girl who says ‘yes’ to your face, and behind your back says ‘no’ . . . just to be popular with everybody. Oh, I wish I were back with the Mounties! I wish I were anywhere but here!”

“Where would you go?” asked Rosemary. “You’d only be in another school, Susie, and it might be much worse than this.”

Sue’s sobs were hushed for a moment. “Nothing could be worse than this!”

Rosemary shook her head. “Oh, yes, it could, and whether you like it or not, Sue, you have to go to school for a time. Not for lessons only, but to learn to fit in with other people. It’s like playing ‘Follow the Leader.’ Most of us have to learn to follow before we can lead. You learned to lead first and now you’re finding it difficult to follow. Isn’t that what’s wrong? Try to accept the school rules, even if they sometimes seem foolish to you. . . .”

“Would you wear this shawl?” asked Sue.

“Let me ask you something,” answered Rosemary. “What would you think of a Mountie if he appeared on parade in a green coat instead of a red one?”

Sue stared at her. What had a red or green coat to do with her white dress and the shawl, she wondered.

“What would you think of a Mountie who was always trying to tell the Commissioner what to do?” continued Rosemary.

“No Mountie would be so foolish!” exclaimed Sue.

“Why not?”

“Because the Commissioner is Head of the Force and knows what is best for everyone.”

“Miss Templar is Head of this school,” said Rosemary, “and she knows what’s best for everyone here. You tell me no recruit would question orders given by one of the Commissioner’s officers. Why do you question an order given by Miss Smith, who is, after all, one of Miss Templar’s officers?”

“I didn’t think of it that way,” Sue answered.

“School is only another Barracks, Sue, with recruits, constables and officers. You’re a recruit here in training for the business of growing up. The school evening uniform is white with long sleeves and high neck. You asked and received permission to appear in a different uniform. Would the Commissioner have allowed a recruit on parade in a different coat?”

“Never!” cried Sue.

“Then, don’t you think that Miss Smith has been very lenient?”

“Yes,” said Sue.

“Then, what are you going to do?”

“I’ll wear the shawl,” Sue answered quietly.

“Good girl,” said Rosemary, and turned back to her dressing table. Through blurred eyes. Sue watched Rosemary finish dressing. She wished someone had told her before that being a new girl was like being a recruit, but all they had told her was that school was “such fun.” It was only fun in spots, she had found, but perhaps cleaning the stables and grooming the horses hadn’t been “fun” for the Mountie recruits. She blinked back her tears. “I’ll wear the old shawl,” she said to herself, “and pretend to like it.”

“Could you lend me a hankie, Rosemary?” she asked, Rosemary shook out a lace-trimmed handkerchief and sprayed it with perfume. “There you are, Susie,” she said. Sue wiped her eyes. Rosemary looked so lovely in her white dress, with her golden brown hair curling in soft waves around her face, grey eyes set wide apart, dark brows and lashes and the tiniest waist in the world. She stood smiling down at Sue.

“Let me brush your hair,” she said, and with quick fingers she set the curls back again in order. “And, Sue, don’t tell anyone, but the tiniest bit of powder will hide all trace of tears.” With a swan’s-down puff she dusted Sue’s eyes and nose with fragrant poudre de violette.

Sue stood up, the grey shawl still around her.

“I can’t bear it!” cried Rosemary suddenly. With swift fingers she untied the grey shawl and flung it on the bed. From a drawer she shook out an apple green shawl of softest crêpe, embroidered with pale pink blossoms. It had a deep fringe of floss-like silk and smelled of violets. Quickly Rosemary draped it around Sue’s shoulders and tied it in a knot so that it fell like a little cape over her arms.

“Look,” she said, tilting the long mirror so that Sue could see herself. The shining green folds of the shawl fell over the dress to the edge of the skirt. “I love it,” cried Sue. “It makes me feel so elegant. When I grow up, will you give me one like this?”

Rosemary laughed and brought out of the wardrobe a little chiffon coat, all ruffled and spangled with sequins.

Sue watched her slip it over her dress and then admiringly both girls twirled before the large mirror as the supper bell rang.

Every girl wore a white dress with long sleeves and narrow little collar edged with frills of lace. The Mistresses were in light colors, too, instead of their usual dark evening dresses, and there was a cake with pink frosting at each table.

The Rev. Tyldsley Judd was an amiable-looking old gentleman with a bald head. He sat on Miss Templar’s right. On her left was the Rev. Crichton Gore-Barrow, the Curate of St. John’s Garrison Church in Windsor. He was a blond young man with large pale blue eyes and seemed scared of everyone, for he never lifted his eyes from his plate.

All the girls envied Sue’s short sleeves and round neck. “This starched lace prickles your neck most dreadfully,” complained Pam, running her fingers around inside her collar. “I wish I had a dress like yours.”

After supper the girls left the dining-room first and lined the hall on either side, standing arms’ length apart. Miss Templar followed, the guests of honor with her. As they passed each girl “bobbed” and then followed into the Forge.

A white sheet had been pinned over the blackboard and on a table in front of it lay a black tin box with a lamp inside of it. An opening in the front of the box was turned towards the screen. The chairs were arranged in neat rows.

Mr. Crichton Gore-Barrow took a chair in front of the table. Piles of oblong pieces of glass, called slides, were stacked on either side of him.

“I’ll give you some warnings, Sue,” whispered Pam. “Lectures are dreadfully dull but you get lines if you go to sleep. So we take turns pinching each other, little pinches you know, not big ones. When the gas is turned down and the lantern slides begin, it’s very hard not to go to sleep, for nobody ever talks about anything interesting.”

“Is a lecture as bad as all that?” asked Sue.

“You wait,” said Pam.

The Dean stood up on the Forge platform. He held a pointer in his hand. There was a great deal of fussing around the table, adjusting the wick of the lamp, moving the slides.

“Ready?” asked the Dean.

“Ready,” answered Mr. Gore-Barrow in hollow tones.

Miss Mills lowered the gas.

“I shall commence my lecture,” the Dean said, “by showing you the map of Egypt.” There was a faint rattle and on the sheet appeared a jumble of lines and names.

“Ah, upside down,” murmured the Dean apologetically. “Egypt is upside down. Could we have it the other way?”

Hastily Mr. Gore-Barrow put Egypt right-side-up, and then it turned out to be the Pyramids. Later there was a bit of confusion because the Curate discovered that the slides of Egypt and South America had been mixed. Finally, with Rosemary’s help, Egypt and South America were separated, with Egypt on the right and South America on the left.

On and on the Dean talked. Sue plaited the fringe of her shawl. The slides were very dull. Pictures of rocks or bones that looked very like the bones she used to feed Bomby. Beside her Pam’s head drooped. She gave her a tiny pinch and Pam sat up with a jerk.

On and on the Dean talked. Iris was cautiously teetering her chair. Sue wished she would fall. It would be a change. Her eyelids grew heavy. Pam pinched her. “Look at Smithie,” she said.

In the dim light from the screen, Sue could just see Smithie. Eyes closed and head against the wall, she appeared to be sound asleep.

On and on the Dean talked. Iris sneezed. Sue sat up full of interest. She knew that sneeze. It was Iris’s method of informing her friends to expect excitement. Iris sneezed again and then coughed gently. Pam drew in her breath and waited, then she coughed. Marjorie coughed hoarsely and Blanche followed.

Sue thought this was delightful. Perhaps they could cough the Dean into silence. She took a long breath preparatory to giving a good big cough, but just in time remembered her bare arms and neck. It was a good thing she did, for Smithie was sitting bolt upright and staring in their direction.

Sue pinched Blanche, but Blanche was so delighted with the hacking cough she had invented that she couldn’t stop and soon the coughing spread along the rows of chairs. Miss Templar’s head turned in their direction. The coughing ceased.

On and on the Dean talked. Iris sneezed once more, but just as the coughing began again, the slides stopped and, wonder of wonders, so did the Dean! Miss Mills turned up the lights. Miss Templar thanked the Dean and Mr. Crichton Gore-Barrow for a “most delightful and instructive evening,” and everyone clapped lustily. Iris chuckled. “The old chestnut thinks I’m clapping because I liked it,” she said. “He doesn’t know I’m clapping because he’s through.”

The Dean raised his hand. “One more moment, dear Miss Templar,” he said. “I am always happy to come to Arundel Abbey. Your girls are always so well-mannered and interested in all that goes on in the world. I think Mr. Gore-Barrow will agree that we, too, have had a most delightful evening. May I ask that the girls have a half holiday tomorrow?”

Miss Templar bowed. “Certainly, Dean Judd.” In the storm of applause that followed, Iris turned to Sue. “The old boy’s not bad after all,” she exclaimed, but Miss Templar was signaling for silence. “There will be cocoa and refreshments in the drawing room, girls,” she said, and led the way out of the Forge. With the exception of Smithie, who stood in the doorway, the Mistresses and Seniors followed.

One by one they filed past, then the Juniors. Easy Annie led, Dorothy, Clare, Gwen, Cathie, Iris came after.

“Iris,” said Miss Smith, “and you, Blanche and Pam, Dorothy and Pansy, I noticed you were troubled with coughs during the lecture. It is evident that you are all catching colds and should not eat supper so late at night. Go straight to your rooms and to bed.”

“I feel all right now,” protested Iris. “It was just a little tickle in my throat.”

“So I noticed,” said Miss Smith. “Nevertheless, you had better go to bed.”

“The joke’s on us,” said Iris ruefully, as she left Sue, on her way up to bed, “but I wish I could have had a bit of cake.”

Sue and Easy Annie went into the drawing room together. The Dean and Miss Templar were at the far end. The Seniors surrounded Mr. Gore-Barrow. It was evident that he was giving them another lecture.

Sue turned to the table with its cups of cocoa and plates of lady fingers. She pinched one. It wasn’t very stale. She knew there would be as many lady fingers as there were girls. Opposite her was a mirror so she could watch what was going on behind her. No one was looking. Hastily she tucked the lady fingers into the little puffed sleeves of her dress and loosened the shawl around her shoulders. Miss Templar was still talking to the Dean. Sue went up to Miss Hill.

“May I go to bed now?” she asked. Miss Hill looked at her suspiciously and nodded. “Keep your shawl closely around you in the halls,” she said. “We don’t want you catching cold in that light dress.”

Up the stairs and in and out of the bedrooms, Sue raced, pulling out of her sleeves the precious lady fingers, followed everywhere by squeaks of delight. But at last they heard the Seniors coming along the hall and the measured tread of Smithie.

Sue pulled off her dress and in a few minutes, in her dressing gown and slippers, walked sedately along the hall, grey shawl on one arm, green on the other.

“I’ve brought you your shawl, Miss Smith,” she said.

“Why didn’t you wear it, Sue?”

Sue wondered how she could answer. It would never do to tell Smithie that Rosemary simply couldn’t stand the ugly grey shawl and yet that was the truth. . . .

“I think Rosemary thought the green one was warmer,” answered Sue.

And then she wondered, was she a half-and-halfer, too?

“Here we are,” said Rosemary. Sue looked up at the sign over the door.

“Is this a very grand shop?” Sue asked.

“Very,” answered Rosemary. “The grandest in Windsor, for it was here that Her Majesty’s Jubilee Costume was made!”

“And is this where I’m to get my white dress?”

Rosemary nodded. Sue gave a little skip. If you had to have a dress with long sleeves and a high neck, it was nice to have it made by the Queen’s dressmaker. The shop was almost opposite Windsor Castle gates, and Sue and Rosemary had walked over the meadows from Arundel Abbey together.

Sue pushed open the door for Rosemary and followed her in. There was a faint, musty odor in the shop, not unpleasing. Sue sniffed. It was a mixture of tweeds, mothballs, beeswax and bay rum. Sue sniffed again. The bay rum, she realized, came from the important looking old man in the frock coat who was bowing to Rosemary.

“Good morning, Madam,” he said, and twirled his drooping moustache with one hand and fingered his watch chain with the other. “And what can I do for you this morning?”

“I’ve come to see Miss Tweedie,” Rosemary answered in her pretty voice. “But first I should like to look at Indian mull and dotted Swiss muslin.”

“This way, Madam.”

Sue trotted along behind Rosemary, past shining mahogany counters displaying lengths of black silks and satins, past bolts of tweeds and tartans, boxes of woolen stockings labeled “Best Cashmere Hose,” rolls of Chiné ribbon, French taffetas, strange brown frames labeled “Pompadour Foundations.” As they passed, all the sales ladies bowed.

Sue had never seen anything like the sales ladies before. They wore severe black satin dresses with skirts that swept the floor. Their collars were high and fastened at the back with bows and loops large enough to be seen in front. One of them had a gold watch fastened to her shoulder with a fleur-de-lis pin. All of them wore their hair elaborately dressed in waves or in high pompadours. Sue found it difficult to understand them. They pronounced their words in such a strange way, calling Rosemary Moddum, which, as Sue well knew, should be pronounced Madam. They seemed very anxious to please and very haughty at the same time, almost as if they were too grand to wait on anyone but Rosemary and were doing it as a special favor to her. And just then the old gentleman, who Sue discovered was called “The Floor Walker,” clapped his hands smartly.

“A chair for the young lady,” he called, and to Sue’s astonishment, at least three of these haughty ladies rustled forward with a chair for her. Sue didn’t want to sit down for she couldn’t see the top of the counter as easily, but no one had ever offered her a chair like this before and she thought she had better not refuse it.

Great clouds of white muslin and mull were shaken out on the counter. “Which would you like, Sue?” Rosemary asked. “The dotted Swiss or the mull?”

“I’d like the dots,” Sue answered. “Pam has a dress like that and I’d like to look like her.”

Rosemary rose, the Floor Walker moved forward, the sales ladies bowed. “This way, Madam.” Up a flight of richly carpeted stairs with mirrors on either side and along a little hall, Rosemary and Sue followed the Floor Walker. Opposite a door marked Robes de Style he paused and gave three sharp rat-a-tat-tats with his knuckles. The door opened. “Miss Rosemary Delamere,” he announced grandly.

Sue followed Rosemary into a room overlooking the High Street. There was a large mirror, three chairs, a dressmaker’s “judy,” a box of pins and some limp folds of cotton hanging from pegs on the wall.

“If you’ll excuse me a moment, Moddum,” said the girl who had opened the door, “I’ll tell Miss Tweedie you are here.”

Sue had just taken off her coat and dress when Miss Tweedie came in. She was a tiny, bird-like woman, with faded auburn hair and blue eyes and a face so heavily powdered that she looked for all the world like a human marshmallow. She carried a box of pins, some chalk and a shapeless mass of unbleached cotton.

“Good morning, Miss Rosemary,” she cried, in a shrill, breathless sort of voice. “Your message came early this morning and I’ve a pattern all ready for pinning up.” She looked at Sue sharply. “A small twelve,” she said, and then smiled at Sue, “We fit a cotton pattern first,” she explained, “so as to be sure of your size and then we cut the muslin for the dress. Stand still, please.”

Sue stood quite still as Miss Tweedie pinned the folds of cotton around her. Gradually a skirt and tight-fitting bodice took shape.

It was astonishing to watch Miss Tweedie at work. She could not only talk all the time but could talk with her mouth full of pins. When she finished pinning a long seam into place she would scoop up some more pins, pop them into her mouth and chatter gaily on. She never seemed to swallow them and there was always one between her lips when she needed it.

“How do you do it?” Sue asked admiringly.

“Do what?” asked Miss Tweedie.

“Breathe and talk with your mouth full of pins and yet not swallow them.” Miss Tweedie scooped up another mouthful. “It takes practice,” she said.

“Did you ever swallow a pin?” Sue asked.

“Never,” answered Miss Tweedie pridefully.

“Could you teach me how?” asked Sue.

Miss Tweedie shook her head so violently that she almost missed having a pin ready. “It would be a dangerous thing for you to do, Miss Sue.”

“If I kept at it long enough, mightn’t I learn?”

Again Miss Tweedie shook her head. “Turn around,” she answered. Sue turned and the fitting of the sleeves began.

“I could begin with just one pin,” Sue said coaxingly.

“Now, now, Miss Sue, don’t tease, and lift your arm. I want to fit this gusset.” Miss Tweedie’s fingers were cold. Sue giggled. “You tickle,” she said.

“Nonsense!”

“But you do, Miss Tweedie, and I’m very ticklish. I don’t mind a pin being stuck in me, but I do mind being tickled.”

“And who would stick a pin in you?” asked Miss Tweedie.

“You might,” answered Sue.

“I, stick a pin in you?” repeated Miss Tweedie. “I, who fit Her Gracious Majesty and never yet have pricked the Royal Person. Are you suggesting to me that I might prick you, Miss Sue?”

“Have you fitted the Queen?” asked Sue. “Do you make her clothes, as well as mine?”

“Her Majesty’s entire Jubilee outfit was made here at Stewart’s,” said Miss Tweedie, “and it was I who fitted her.”

“Oh, tell me about it,” said Sue. “Tell me about it. Does Her Majesty come down here to this room I’m in now?”

Miss Tweedie scooped up a mouthful of pins. “Certainly not,” she said. “We go to the Castle.”

“Who are we?”

“Mr. Stewart, the owner of the shop, my two assistants and myself. We wear our best work dresses and Mr. Stewart his best frock coat and gold chain with fob.”

“And then what happens?”

Miss Tweedie knelt and started pinning up the hem of Sue’s skirt. “We arrive at the Castle and are conducted to a room adjoining Her Majesty’s dressing room. There one of my assistants takes the dress we are making out of the box and hands it to me. I, in turn, hand it to the Queen’s dresser, who, in turn, takes the gown to Her Majesty, and with her approval puts it on her.

“Then,” said Miss Tweedie, sitting back on her heels, “I am summoned.” She paused a moment, removed the pins from her mouth and placed them in a box.

“Yes,” said Sue breathlessly, “and what do you do next? Please go on.”

“I enter,” said Miss Tweedie in a hushed voice, “and bow very low, once. Her Majesty nods at me, just to show that she knows I am there, and, with my assistant carrying the shears and pins, I start to fit the Queen’s robe.”

“I never met anyone before who really knew the Queen,” Sue said. “Tell me, Miss Tweedie, what is she really like?”

“Fascinating and charminating,” answered Miss Tweedie promptly.

“Charminating?” repeated Sue. “That’s a new word to me. Is it a Queen’s word?”

“Charminating means charming,” said Miss Tweedie firmly, with a toss of her head, “but much, much more so. I repeat, Her Majesty is both fascinating and charminating.”

“Do you like fitting Her Majesty?” asked Sue.

“It puts me in something of a state,” Miss Tweedie admitted, “for there is always the danger of sticking pins into the Royal Person. Not that I ever have, you understand, Miss Sue, but there is always the danger.”

“Would the Queen scream?”

“Not if she was really pricked, but,” Miss Tweedie lowered her voice, “personally I think Her Majesty screams a bit before she’s stuck, because she knows how dreadfully one of her loyal subjects would feel if they stuck a pin in the Royal arm.”

Miss Tweedie shuddered at even the thought of such a thing.

“How does the Queen scream?” asked Sue. “Could you show me?”

Miss Tweedie shook, her head. “Never, Miss Sue. . . . That would never, never do, but . . .” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “I can tell you about it.” Sue and Rosemary leaned forward to catch the words. “It is not an ouch nor is it an oh, nor yet a sigh, and not a groan . . .” Miss Tweedie hesitated for a moment. “It’s a royal scream,” she said, and sat up proudly, as if that settled the matter.

“Sophia,” she called. The girl who had opened the door came in. “The medium blunts.” Sophia returned with a tin box in her hand. Miss Tweedie opened it.

“These,” she said, “are the medium blunts!”

Sue and Rosemary looked in the box. There were pins there, just ordinary pins, so far as Sue could see.

“These are the pins I use for Her Majesty,” said Miss Tweedie. “First I used best sharp pointed Sheffield pins. They were dangerous. They went in too fast and too far. I tried ‘blunts.’ They wouldn’t go in fast enough or far enough and Her Majesty became a little restless.”

“Fidgety?” asked Sue.

“The Queen never fidgets,” said Miss Tweedie coldly. “And then I tried the medium blunts. They have been entirely satisfactory.”

Miss Tweedie closed the box with a snap and handed it back to the waiting Sophia.

“I shall be ready for a first fitting on Monday afternoon,” she said, “and I hope you’ll like your frock, Miss Sue.”

“Sophia, help the young lady dress,” and Miss Tweedie bowed herself out of the room in such a grand manner that Sue and Rosemary felt she was showing them how she had left the Queen.

It was only a few minutes before Sue had her coat and hat on again. Sophia held open the door. Below them at the foot of the stairs, the Floor Walker was waiting for them.

“What more can I do for you ladies?” he enquired, and learning there was nothing more, bowed grandly and led them past the shining counters and haughty sales ladies to the door.

“This has been an exciting morning,” said Sue, as they left Stewart’s. “What do we do next?”

“Do you like seed cake?” Rosemary asked.

“Do I!” laughed Sue. “Do you?” Together they went into a tea room where they each had a glass of milk and Sue two pieces of seed cake. “Carry I, but don’t bend I,” she sighed, as she finished the last crumb. “What do we do next?”

“What would you like to do?”

“I’d like,” said Sue, pointing, “to take that pink cake back to school for supper at our table.”

“Let me see that cake,” said Rosemary to the waitress and to Sue’s astonishment the cake was taken off the shelf and brought to her for her “approval.”

Sue examined it and shook her head. It was a disappointing cake, smothered in pink and white paper frills, with very little cake in the middle.

“Would the little Miss like a larger one?” asked the sales girl. Sue nodded but the next one was still more frill than cake. Again Sue shook her head, but finally a large cake was found with only one paper frill.

“Dandy,” said Sue, and the sales lady wrapped it for her and she and Rosemary started back across the meadows. It was high noon and the sun was warm. Rosemary loosened the fur at her throat. “Look,” she said, pointing downwards. Beside the icy path Sue saw a tiny white blossom and a leaf of palest green.

“It’s a snowdrop,” said Rosemary happily, “and that means that Spring is almost here. The worst of the school year is over now. There will be gardening soon and croquet and tennis and ground hockey. Your real fun will begin!”

“Ground hockey!” exclaimed Sue. “What ever is that?”

“It’s great fun,” answered Rosemary enthusiastically. “It’s like ice hockey, only it’s played on the ground with a cricket ball painted white for a puck . . . and you use shorter sticks than you do on ice. It is a very fast game,” continued Rosemary. “I was Captain of the team last year and I simply loved it. I’m going to play with the school until I go up to London for my presentation.”

“When will that be?” asked Sue.

“Around the fifteenth of May,” Rosemary answered, “but the date is not yet set.”

Trotting along behind Rosemary on the narrow path, Sue carried the precious box with its pink cake. Ground hockey sounded lively, she thought, and today was the Dean’s half holiday, but there was a restless feeling in the air and, in spite of the cake, the snowdrop, and the fact that she was adventuring with her beloved Rosemary, Sue felt a vague discomfort. At last she knew what it was.

“Rosemary,” she said, “will you really help me to bring a Mountie to school, for I don’t know how I can ever do it myself.”

“Neither do I,” said Rosemary, “but we can try.”

“Hurry, Sue,” called Pam. “Miss Tottie’s waiting.”

“I’ll only be a minute,” Sue cried, and scuttled down the stairs to the cloakroom for her out-of-door things. But her hockey boots were new and stiff and hard to lace.

“Sue!” It was Blanche calling. “Hurry. Miss Dottie’s waiting!”

“All right,” Sue answered, but the more she hurried the more the laces seemed to tangle.

“Sue!” It was Marjorie now and she was running down the cloakroom stairs. “Sue, hurry. Miss Tottie’s waiting, and she doesn’t wait very well!”

“Oh, go away,” cried Sue. “I’m doing the best I can and you muddle me with your Tottie-Dottie stuff! Why don’t you call her by one name instead of two?”

“But there are two,” answered Marjorie.

“Two what?”

“Totties and Dotties.”

“Tottie and Dottie yourself,” said Sue. “No one could have names like that!”

“Oh, yes, they could,” answered Marjorie, “and unless you want to be gated you’d better hurry.”

“There!” said Sue, tying the last knot and grabbing her tam o’ shanter from her locker. “I’m ready! Now show me your Tottie and Dottie.”

Up the stairs they raced together and found the whole Junior School in the hall. Beside Miss Hill stood Rosemary and two ladies so alike in dress and manner that you could hardly tell them apart.

“Sue, Cathie, Ann,” Miss Hill called. The three girls stepped forward.

“Miss Charlotte and Miss Dorothy Marshall are going to coach you in ground hockey. I hope you will be obedient and not give them any trouble.”

“Yes, Miss Hill,” the three girls answered. The Misses Marshall made pleasant sounds in their throats and Miss Hill disappeared.

“Now,” said Miss Charlotte, briskly, “I am going to take you three new girls to the hockey field in my pony cart. None of you have played ground hockey and it will give me an opportunity to explain the game, as well as instruct you in the ethics of good sportsmanship.”

“This sounds like a lecture,” Sue whispered to Marjorie. “Which one is she, Tottie or Dottie?”

“Tottie,” said Marjorie. “Tottie for Charlotte and Dottie for Dorothy. Now do you believe me?”

“Before we leave, Tottie,” said the other Miss Marshall, “should we not satisfy ourselves as to outfits?”

“By all means, Dottie,” said Miss Tottie.

The Misses Marshall both wore sailor hats under which little fringes of curls showed. At the back their hair was twisted into a teapot handle and a net held every hair in place.

Miss Tottie wore a pink shirtwaist with a stiff linen collar and dark tie, Miss Dottie the same, except that her shirtwaist was blue. Both wore dark grey frieze skirts to their ankles, neatly bound with brush binding; black boots laced high over the ankles, and ribbed cashmere hose which bulged a little over the boot-tops. Added to this were belts made of stiff black ribbon, called Petersham, with elaborate silver filigree buckles. Heavy leather gloves completed the outfit.

The girls were all dressed like Miss Tottie, except that they wore tams and their hair was tied neatly at the neck with black ribbon bows. Over their outfits, Rosemary and Phyllis also wore golf capes of light plaid with fringed hoods.

“They are goalies or goal keepers,” said Iris, “and as they haven’t much running to do, they wear extra warm clothes.”

“Hop in, girls,” chirped Miss Tottie, and the three of them hopped into the little wicker pony cart. Miss Tottie clucked to her fat grey pony and they were away, trotting down the old Bath Road that the Romans had built, long before hockey had ever been heard of.

The trees were showing first buds now, with pale blossom-like leaves breaking on the dark branches, the brown grasses had turned to green and in wind-sheltered patches, early primroses lifted their sunny heads.

The Easter holidays had came and gone. Sue had spent them in London with Lady Charlotte and they had been dismal days. The morning after her arrival Beamish had pulled up the blinds, given a funny little yelp and called Lady Charlotte. There had been a great to-do then, for Lady Charlotte had taken only one look at Sue when she announced in thunder-like tones,

“Spots. Measles!”

The doctor had been sent for, and had declared Sue did have a light case of measles, that she had to stay in one room only and that no one was to see her but Beamish. They had nailed a sheet over the door and sprayed it with carbolic, and she had been kept in bed for a week and given gruel and junket. Two days before the holidays were over, they had let her out of her bedroom, taken her for drives in the Park, and then packed her back to school. It had been a stuffy time and, though she wouldn’t admit it even to herself, Sue had been glad to return to the Abbey.

The hockey field was some distance from the school so that they arrived long before the rest of the team. Sitting in the pony cart, Miss Tottie began her instruction.

“Who can tell me what E pluribus unum means?” she asked in a sprightly way.

Sue looked at Easy Annie. She shook her head. Cathie shook hers, too. That didn’t surprise Sue, for Cathie was the slowest girl in the school, a shy, clumsy, unattractive little girl, with nothing to say for herself.

“It sounds like Latin,” said Sue cautiously.

“It is Latin. It is the motto of good sportsmanship and means ‘one of many.’ ”

“Yes, Miss Tottie,” Sue said politely, wondering what was coming next.

“One of many, in terms of a game, means that you are playing the game for the team’s sake and not in order to show off. That is, you are given a place on the field, and it is your duty to know that place and work hard in it, even if it doesn’t give you a chance to show how much better you are than anyone else.”

“Yes, Miss Tottie,” the three girls chorused.

“Rules are divided into Do’s and Don’t’s. You will learn most of them on the field. There are a few I can teach you now.

“Rule one is a do. Play for your team. Combination is stronger than the finest individual work.

“Rule two is a don’t. Don’t dispute with captain or umpire. You may think they have made a mistake, but never let anyone hear you say so.”

“Yes, Miss Tottie.”

“And now for the game.”

They left the pony cart and, hockey sticks in hands, ran out on the field which was divided into four sections by long white lines. A flag marked each corner. Two posts connected with a bar made a goal at either end of the field.

There were twenty-two players, eleven on each side, Miss Tottie told them.

“The game starts by the ball being ‘bullied off,’ ” she explained, “and this is how we do it. The ball is placed on the center line of the field with both players standing with a foot on each side of the line, facing each other, thus.”

Miss Tottie placed Sue opposite her, with the ball between them.

“When the umpire’s whistle blows we raise our sticks from the ground and count One, Two. At each count we strike the flat sides of our sticks together. At Three, we try to force our opponent’s stick out of the way and pass the ball to a player on our own team. Try it!”

Sue tried it. It was fun, she discovered, banging hockey sticks first, and then striking the ball out down the field. It was greater fun to run madly after it, to feel the wind blowing through your hair, and the kinks in your legs disappearing.

By the time the Crocodile streamed on to the field, Sue was eager to begin the game. Jackets were quickly pulled off and Pam and Clare chosen as captains. Phyllis and Rosemary gave last minute instructions to the new girls.

“Never raise your stick above your shoulders,” Rosemary warned them. “If you do, everyone calls out ‘sticks’ and the penalty is a free hit for the other side.”

“Never strike the ball, except with the flat side of your stick,” said Phyllis.

“I’ll give you a real tip,” said Iris. “When you play off, there are girls who bend over until their skirts touch the ground. They do this on purpose to hide the ball so that they can get a first whack at it themselves. If anyone tries that trick on you, give her a little carpet beating.”

“Carpet beating!” Sue repeated.

“Hush, Stupid! You bang each other’s skirts, just as if you were beating a carpet, until somebody’s ankle or shin is whacked and then the ball pops out.”

“Lovely,” said Sue. “I know just who I’d like to carpet beat.”

“Come, girls,” called Miss Tottie. Phyllis and Rosemary took their places as goal keepers and Pam and Clare “bullied off.” Sue was playing forward, which was a grand position, she thought, because you could run all the time. Running was quite a different matter, however, when everyone was chasing you like mad. It was hard to remember the rules, too, when you were so excited. There was one moment when Sue heard everyone calling “sticks.” She stopped and joined in the general hubbub. “Sticks!” she called. “Sticks!” Everyone was laughing, even Miss Tottie, who was umpire.

“Oh, Sue,” she cried, “it is you who are ‘sticks.’ You lifted your hockey stick above your shoulder.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” gasped Sue.

“Never mind,” said Miss Tottie, “we all have to begin, but it’s a free hit for the other side.”

Later, Easy Annie kicked the ball, and when the umpire’s whistle sounded, she explained that her foot was all she could find to use.

“I got so tangled up, Miss Tottie, in my skirts, and all the hockey sticks, that I couldn’t remember anything but my foot!”

“This is not soccer,” warned Miss Tottie, but everyone laughed over the beginners’ mistakes, and also when Cathie missed every ball that came her way.

Pam sent a lovely shot down the field, which was picked up at just the right moment by Marjorie and went zinging into the goal. Everyone cheered. Sue thought how glorious it would be to score a goal at her very first game and tried to run faster than ever, but the ground was wet and spongy and before long they were playing in a sea of mud.

“I don’t call this hockey,” said Sue. “I call this ‘Sqoosh.’ Every time I hit the ball, I send mud flying every way at once, and when I start running you can hear the mud sqoosh around my boots.”

“Don’t try so many long hits,” said Iris. “Try ‘dribbling.’ It’s not so showy but it gets you farther.”

“Dribbling” was difficult, for you not only had to run fast and carry the ball with you by little shots, but you had to watch the other players for fear they’d take the ball from you. To run, think, plan and pass seemed quite a lot of things to do at once. Clare’s team scored a goal. Everyone cheered for her as lustily as they had for Pam. Sue pushed her tam back off her forehead. She was hot and happy and whether the game was called hockey or ‘sqoosh’ she was determined to hit a goal.

Gwen dribbled towards her. Sue watched and then, seeing her chance, lifted her stick, over-reached, stumbled and fell, arms out, face downwards in the mud. Before she could get up, the ball missed by her was neatly passed by Dorothy to Clare, and with a swift shot Clare scored another goal.

“Come, come, Sue,” said Miss Tottie. “One must preserve a neat appearance on the field,” but though her words were reproving, her voice was kindly, and she helped Sue wipe the mud off her face and hands.

Iris scored the next goal for Pam’s team. It was almost half time and the score was two all. Clare ran swiftly and seemed to be everywhere at once, and then suddenly Sue found herself in a position where Iris, Clare, Blanche and Dorothy were together. The ball couldn’t be seen and carpet beating began. Hockey sticks cracked together, skirts and mud flew in a whirl and, for one second, Sue saw a flash of white under Clare’s skirts and realized that she was holding the ball between her feet. With a quick twist, Sue aimed for the ball, but in that second she felt a sharp crack on her shin, heard Clare’s voice cry “Sorry,” and saw her dribble the ball away down the field and then, with a well-aimed shot, send it through the goal.

While they cheered, Sue stood alone for a moment. Clare had done nothing that couldn’t be explained. The ball might have stuck between her feet, the crack on Sue’s shin might have been an accident, but in that fleeting glance between them, Sue knew that Clare had not been just “carpet beating.” Clare had struck her deliberately, because Sue had seen her holding the ball. Sue opened her lips to protest and then shut them hard. You couldn’t question the behavior of a player and the umpire had not seen what had happened.

Sue pushed her hair back under her tam. That Clare could twist anything one said into something mean, she well knew, but somehow Sue thought that no one, not even Clare, would play a game meanly.

The whistle blew, Dorothy dribbled the ball forward, Iris passed smartly. Taking a long breath and holding her stick well in position, Sue aimed and struck. Swiftly the white ball shot down the field towards the goal. “Half time,” cried Miss Tottie, as the ball sped on, passing Phyllis’s defense a split second too late.

“Hard luck. Well played! Nicely done, Sue!” they cried and then above the din, Miss Tottie called the score.

“Clare’s team, three; Pam’s two.”

“An excellent first attempt,” said Miss Tottie to the three beginners, “but you’ve had enough for today. Fetch your coats and then sit and watch us.”

The three girls trotted over to the pony cart. Sue’s skirt was heavy with mud from her fall and the brush binding of Easy Annie’s skirt was torn. Cathie alone was tidy.

“I hope we play hockey every day,” Sue said, as they hunted for their coats. The pony cart was a mass of scarfs, coats, hats and gloves, thrown helter skelter, and Sue had to dig deep in the untidy jumble before she found the coats. They had been neatly tucked away under the seat and beneath them were the two sailor hats belonging to Miss Tottie and Miss Dottie. Sue looked out across the field and then remembered that they had changed to tam o’ shanters before the game began.

“Look!” Sue called excitedly. In either hand she held out a sailor hat. Underneath the brim, at the very front of each, a double row of little brown curls was sewed.

“Quick,” Easy Annie cried, and both Sue and she pulled off their tams and, bundling their long hair under the crowns, perched the sailor hats on their heads. Easy Annie’s head was so small that the fringe of false curls fell like a curtain over her eyes, but Sue’s mop of hair held her hat up, so that the curls lay straight across her forehead, as they did with Miss Tottie.

With the pony cart between them and the field, the two girls minced up and down, taking turns in lecturing Cathie on “How to Play Hockey Like a Lady.”

But Cathie, mounted on a pile of coats in the pony cart, called down to them.

“Would you like to know why Miss Dottie and Miss Tottie sewed the curls in their hats?” she asked.

Cathie was usually such a quiet little mouse and so rarely said anything that Sue stared at her in astonishment.

“Do you know?” she asked. Cathie nodded.

“Then tell us why.”

“It’s because Miss Tottie’s and Miss Dottie’s real hair comes out of curl when they run fast . . . and they think it’s unladylike to get so hot that their hair comes out of curl . . . and they’ve tried everything they know, but they can’t play a good game unless they run fast . . . and when they run fast they lose their curls . . . and when they lose their curls, they lose their ladylikeness . . . and if they lose their ladylikeness, they will lose the Curate and then what will they do?” Cathie stopped as suddenly as she had begun.

“How’d you find all this out?” asked Sue curiously.

“I was in the cloakroom putting on my galoshes and I heard Rosemary telling Phyllis that neither Miss Tottie nor Miss Dottie had ever been known to have a hair out of place since they sewed the false curls in their hats . . .” Cathie paused for breath, “. . . and Phyllis said, ‘All that trouble for a Curate,’ and Rosemary said ‘Better a Curate than no one at all.’ ”

“Didn’t they say anything more?” asked Easy Annie.

“No. They saw me sitting there and sent me upstairs.”

“What do they do with their own curls?” asked Sue.

“They’re wearing them now,” Cathie answered.

“Let’s go and see,” said Sue. Hastily they put the sailor hats and curls back and ran out on the side lines. Sure enough, Miss Tottie’s head was covered with a tam, with a few stringy wisps of what-had-once-been-curls escaping across her forehead.

“All that fuss to look ladylike,” groaned Sue. “It isn’t worth it.”

Easy Annie agreed. Cathie said nothing at all. She was watching Rosemary intently and in a few minutes all three were watching, too, for in spite of her heavy frieze skirt, Rosemary ran with greater grace and speed and freedom than anyone on the field. Sue felt that there was something about her that was different from anyone else. She whirled and turned so quickly that you never quite knew what she was going to do and yet you could always tell with any of the others.

When the game ended with a score of seven all, both teams picked up their coats, straightened their hair and skirts and lined up in a Crocodile. Miss Tottie and Miss Dottie waved to them from the pony cart. They still wore their tam o’ shanters. Sue walked home with Rosemary.

“How is it that you can run faster than anyone else?” she asked. “Your legs aren’t as long as Geraldine’s and yet you run ever so much quicker.”

“Hush,” said Rosemary, looking back along the road. “Here comes the Queen’s carriage.”

“The Queen, the Queen,” voices repeated softly along the Crocodile. Swiftly the girls thinned out in a single line at the side of the road. . . . Clip-clop, clip-clop. At a slow trot two grey horses came towards them, drawing an open carriage. On the box sat a coachman and a footman in the royal livery.

In the carriage, Sue saw for one startled moment an old lady in black with a brimmed bonnet pulled well down over her forehead. She carried a little black frilled parasol which she tipped against them, so that her face was not visible as the carriage passed. The whole Crocodile “bobbed” and waited.

Clip-clop, clip-clop. The carriage was around a bend in the road but a Queen had passed their way and the April day seemed suddenly a special day.

Sue gave a little wriggle. “Why didn’t the Queen look at us? And why did she turn her parasol against us? We were ‘bobbing’ properly.”

“The Queen doesn’t approve of hockey for girls,” Rosemary answered. “She feels it is too violent a game to be really ladylike. When she sees us with our hockey sticks, she doesn’t recognize that we are present. When we are without our sticks, she acknowledges our bobs.”

“Does Miss Templar know that the Queen doesn’t approve of hockey?” asked Sue anxiously.

“Yes, but don’t worry; the Queen never interferes with her subjects. She feels they have a right to make decisions for themselves. That is why she is so great a Queen.”

Sue breathed more freely. It would have been too dreadful, now that she was just learning to play hockey, if it had been forbidden by Royal Command.

There was a fresh clatter along the road. Miss Tottie and Miss Dottie passed in the pony cart. Both ladies wore their sailors and both looked as if they had just stepped out of a band box. Their passing reminded Sue of the question she had meant to ask Rosemary.

“Tell me,” she begged. “How are you able to run faster than anyone else?”

“Hush,” said Rosemary, looking very mysterious. “It’s a secret.”

“Tell me,” Sue coaxed. “I’ll never tell.” But it was no good. No matter how Sue coaxed and wheedled, Rosemary would not say one word about it . . . and all the way back to school Sue could only wonder how she could discover Rosemary’s secret.

“Sue!”

“Sue Winston!”

“Where are you, Sue?”

“Here,” called Sue in her grouchiest voice.

“Where’s here?” Sue didn’t answer. “Let her find me if she wants me,” she muttered. She could hear someone opening and shutting doors along the hall and then Phyllis popped her head into the Junior Library.

“What ever are you doing, Sue?” she asked.

“I’m darning,” said Sue gloomily.

“But I thought all you Juniors had your darning done for you,” exclaimed Phyllis.

“Everyone has except me,” Sue announced dolefully, “but I have to do all my own!”

“How did this happen?”

“I’m in the awfullest trouble,” said Sue, “and it was all a mistake. Last night I was going to my bath, just before supper, and I stopped in Easy Annie’s room to show her my catapult and I was late for my bath. When I heard Smithie calling me, I just picked up my dressing gown and raced down the hall as fast as I could and Smithie saw my legs!”

“What was wrong with your legs?” Phyllis asked.

“Nothing,” answered Sue. “That is, almost nothing. Nothing I’d bother any girl about anyway. Only a few spots!”

“Spots?” repeated Phyllis. “What kind of spots?”

“Black spots,” said Sue, “and only eight or nine of them, anyway!”

“Black spots on your legs,” exclaimed Phyllis in a horrified tone. “No wonder Smithie was worried. What on earth were they?”

“Nothing much,” Sue replied. “I put them there myself—to hide the holes!”

“Holes? What holes? Don’t be silly, Sue. Tell me what happened!”

Sue put her stocking down and leaned forward. “You see,” she said, “I play hockey so hard that I come home with my stockings full of holes and Smithie said, if I didn’t take better care, she would make me darn them myself! But the holes came, no matter what I did, so I got the shoe polish and wherever a hole showed, I blacked my leg. It was faster than darning!”

Phyllis laughed. “What happened next?” she asked.

“Smithie was furious,” Sue answered in aggrieved tones. “She said I needed as many stockings as a centipede to keep me tidy and she put me in the bath and scrubbed me with pumice stone and when the shoe polish wouldn’t come off, she said she’d half a mind to report me to Miss Templar!”

“Did she?”

Sue shook her head, “No, but Smithie’s so mad at me. She says I’m a bigger nuisance than any other girl in the school. She says I make holes in my stockings just to give her trouble and she made me write,

ten times in ink without a blot—and then she said, ‘You can do your own stockings from now on!’

“And, Phyllis, I’m not a very good darner,” Sue continued, “and besides I’ll never get these stockings done this morning and I can’t leave here until I do and so I’ll miss my Art Class. And then I’ll be given fifty or perhaps a hundred lines because I missed it . . . and because I’m doing my lines I’ll miss my hockey this afternoon and that will be very bad for my health.” Sue leaned back against the window sill and sighed deeply.

“Have you run out of breath or excuses?” asked Phyllis.

Sue tried not to laugh as she poked the thick black wool through the darning needle, “Why were you calling me?” she asked curiously.

“We’re in a jam in the Art Class,” Phyllis answered. “Today we were to be taught how to use red in portraiture, but our model has a cold and can’t come. You are the only girl in the school with a red dress. We wondered if you would pose for us?”

“Do you mean you’d like to paint my picture?” asked Sue. “In my red dress?”

Phyllis nodded.

“I’d love it,” Sue cried. “But what can I do about this awful darning?”

“I’ll help you with it,” Phyllis replied, “and fix things up with Smithie, too, if you’ll pose.” Phyllis picked up a stocking and, taking the needle out of Sue’s hand, started weaving to and fro, filling a large gap that too much carpet beating had torn.

“Well, Sue,” she said, “What about it? You haven’t answered me.”

“No,” answered Sue, “I’ve been thinking and I’d like to think a little more.” Phyllis’s fingers flew. Two pairs of neatly mended stockings lay on the table before Sue spoke again.

“If I pose for you,” she asked, “would you do something else for me?”

“Why Sue, you greedy little beggar, what more do you want?” Phyllis asked in astonishment.

“I want to learn Rosemary’s Secret,” she said.

“I didn’t know Rosemary had a Secret!”

“Well, she has,” Sue said, “and she won’t tell it to me and sometimes when I go to bed at night, I can’t think of anything but how I’d like to know. If you’ll darn my stockings and square Smithie and get Rosemary to tell me her Secret, I’ll pose in my red dress!”

“You’re a greedy little grub,” said Phyllis, “but we’ll see.” She opened the door and sent a passing Junior after Rosemary.

Sue sat up on the window seat. It was sunny and warm in the Junior Library and now that Phyllis was doing the darning, she had time to enjoy it. Not once since she came to the Abbey had she ever been in the position of bargaining with a Senior and now that the chance was here, she thought she had better make the most of it.

Rosemary laughed when she heard Phyllis’s tale.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll tell Sue the Secret.”

“Now?” exclaimed Sue.

Rosemary shook her head firmly. “I’d never be such a goose,” she said. “You’ll not hear the Secret until the morning’s over and you’ve posed right through without a single wriggle. Understand, Sue? Not one wriggle all morning?”

“Yes,” said Sue, wondering just what posing would be like. “I mean I’ll try not to wriggle.”

“That won’t be good enough,” cautioned Rosemary. “It was you who started the bargaining. Now, you’ll have to live up to it. Just one wriggle and you don’t hear the Secret.”

“Is this some very special Secret,” asked Phyllis, “or do we all hear it?”

“Only Sue,” said Rosemary, picking up one of the torn stockings. From her perch on the window seat, Sue watched the two Seniors until the last hole was mended. Then they all went upstairs together and Sue put on her red dress, while Rosemary brushed her curls until they shone.

“I feel very elegant,” Sue said. “It’s not very often one has one’s portrait painted, even at school. I think I’ll wear my crest.” She took down the Mountie Crest from the top of the mirror and, pinning it on her shoulder, ran down to the Studio.

The Art Class was held from ten to half past twelve every Saturday morning and was Sue’s favorite class. The instructor came all the way from London. He was a pleasant young man, named Mr. Dale-Harris, very patient and kindly when things went wrong. He posed Sue with her hands folded in her lap, sitting in front of a jade green screen.

At first it was fun to watch everyone else working while she sat there at her ease. Some of the little girls drew pictures of cubes and cylinders, others sketched in charcoal, still others worked in colored crayons, called pastels. Five Seniors and Clare used oil paints. Clare knew a lot about painting and drawing and gave herself no end of airs.

At the end of the first fifteen minutes’ posing, Sue was given a “rest period.” She hopped off the model stand and started down to where the group of Seniors were at work.

“No, Sue!” said Mr. Dale-Harris. “You can’t do that! The model never looks at a painting until it is finished!”

“But how’ll I know whether they’re making a nice painting of me if I don’t look and see now?” Sue asked.

Mr. Dale-Harris shook his head. “You must leave that to the artist!”

“But I don’t want to leave it,” protested Sue. “Someone might make me look like an old crow!”

Mr. Dale-Harris laughed. “I hardly think so,” he said. “To begin with, you are not old and a crow is black and you are definitely red, Sue. Take the pose again, please.”

Sue sat quite still for the next period. She was planning how to get a quick look at the pictures without anyone noticing.

When Mr. Dale-Harris called out “rest!” she ran down the Studio quickly. “I’m just going to get myself a drink,” she called. He nodded.

“So far, so good,” murmured Sue. Her plan was to return by an opposite door, which would mean passing the Senior artists on the way in. But Mr. Dale-Harris seemed a very knowledgeable young man. He was waiting in the hall for her.

“The other door, please, Sue,” he said with a twinkle.

The third period Sue began to get twitches in her toes and tickles between her shoulders, but she knew Phyllis was watching and that one wriggle would mean that she might never know Rosemary’s Secret.

As he passed from desk to drawing board to easel, Sue could hear Mr. Dale-Harris talking about “perspective, line, color.” He spent a great deal of time over Rosemary’s charcoal drawing, but that was nothing new. Everyone lingered beside her.

It must be fun, Sue thought, to go to school and yet not to go to school, like Rosemary. The Art Class was the only one she attended. She came and went on visits and dressed as she liked, even to wearing no hat at all on the hockey field.

“Rest!” Sue stood up and stretched. Her legs felt cramped. This posing business was better than darning stockings but not something one would want to do every day. Yet it might be worth some effort to be the only girl in the school whose portrait had been painted. She wondered if they would hang it in the Hall or Drawing Room of the Abbey, and decided it would probably be the Drawing Room. In Lady Charlotte’s house, the portraits of the men of the family were in the halls, the women in the Drawing Room. She wondered what they would put on the brass plate she had seen on other portraits. At Windsor Castle there had been brass plates on all the pictures, like “William, Prince of Orange” or “Victoria Maria Louise, Duchess of Kent.” They might put “Susannah of the Mounties” on hers or “Susannah Winston, Canadian” and all the girls who came to Arundel Abbey ever afterwards would be shown her portrait and they would say . . . Sue wondered what they would say and laughed a bit to herself.

“Rest!” She went out into the hall and skipped. That was the quickest way to get the cramps and stiffness out of her neck and back. On the model stand again, she wondered if her Mother would be pleased when she heard about the portrait. Her Father, she knew, would put his head on one side and say, “Not bad, not too bad, Susie!” She felt a little drowsy and closed her eyes, but it wasn’t a second before she heard a warning whisper from Rosemary: “Susannah!” She opened her eyes with a start. “I didn’t wriggle,” she said. Far off a bell rang . . .

“Thank goodness,” cried Sue, jumping to her feet. “I couldn’t have stood it another minute!” It was half past twelve and the Art Class was over. “May I look now?” she asked.

Mr. Dale-Harris shook his head. “If you wait quite quietly, until I’m through my criticism,” he said, “I’ll show you the portraits myself.”

From easel to desk he moved and after each criticism one girl after the other left the studio, until at last only Rosemary remained. He and Rosemary talked and laughed so much then, that Sue thought she was forgotten and had to cough very loudly to be noticed at all. But Mr. Dale-Harris just grinned and said, “Come along, Sue, you sound as if you had the whooping cough!”

Sue ran around behind him and looked at the row of portraits. “Mercy!” she cried, “is my face as bad as all that?”

“These are first attempts at portrait painting,” broke in Mr. Dale-Harris. “You mustn’t be so upset. No one gets a good likeness the first time!”

“A likeness?” repeated Sue. “Do you call any of these a likeness of me? I look simply awful. I didn’t know that anyone could have a face like this!” She moved on to the last easel.

“Who did this?” she asked.

“Clare Barr,” Mr. Dale-Harris answered. “She’s quite good.”

“But look what she’s done to me!” stormed Sue. “She’s given me a yellow skin and green eyes and look! One of the eyes is turned in. I look like a wall-eyed alley cat . . . one of those redhaired, ugly ones! She’s painted herself, that’s what she’s done, and called it me. And look!” Sue bent forward indignantly, “She’s painted my freckle, too, only she’s put it on the end of my nose and she knows it’s at the side.” Sue’s voice rose higher and higher, “And see, she hasn’t put my crest in the picture and everyone else did.”

Mr. Dale-Harris looked down the line of pictures and back to Sue. “You’re right,” he said, “Clare did leave it out.”

“I thought having my picture painted was an honor,” cried Sue, “and I put on my crest specially for that reason.”

“Hush!” said Rosemary.

“Don’t hush me,” cried Sue. “How would you like your prettiest red dress made to look like an old tomato?”

Mr. Dale-Harris went over to his desk and brought back a sketch. “What do you think of this?” he asked. Sue smiled reluctantly. It was a pencil drawing of her and on her shoulder, three times larger than it should have been, was her crest.

“Who did it?” Sue asked.

“Cathie Macdonald. She has real talent. I mean to speak to Miss Templar about her.”

“She’s done the best picture,” Sue said critically. “I can tell it’s meant to be me and she’s given honor to my crest. What happens to these pictures?” she continued anxiously.

Mr. Dale-Harris smiled reassuringly. “They will be painted over, Sue,” he said, “No one will ever see them.” Sue breathed more easily.

A bell rang in the hall. “That’s dinner,” said Rosemary. “Run along, Sue, and afterwards, if you come to my room, I’ll tell you the Secret.”

The events following the morning’s posing had been so disturbing that Sue had forgotten all about the Secret. “Can’t I have it now?” she asked. “You know how long I’ve waited.”

Rosemary shook her pretty head.

“No, Sue, no!”

      *      *      *      *      *      

Rosemary was dressing when Sue came to her room after dinner. An apple green suit lay on the bed, with a creamy lace and chiffon blouse, sparkling with little brilliant buttons.

“I’m sorry I was so cross this morning,” Sue said, “but I still can’t get over what Clare did to my face. After I’d sat a whole morning without a wriggle, it was hard to bear.”

“I know,” said Rosemary comfortingly, “I’d have been cross, too, but I know what you’ve come for. The Secret!”

“Tell me,” said Sue.

Rosemary opened her wardrobe and lifted out a scarlet taffeta petticoat. “This,” said Rosemary, “is the Secret!”

Sue stared. She wondered what in the world Rosemary could mean.

“You know how those heavy frieze skirts cling to you and bunch when you run, and how the brush binding catches in your stockings, so that you are always being slowed down?” asked Rosemary.

Sue nodded.

“I wear this petticoat under my skirt and it slips so smoothly between the skirt and stockings that I hardly know I’m wearing a skirt at all! And that,” said Rosemary, “is how I manage to run so fast.” She tossed the petticoat to Sue. “Feel it.” She said.

Sue caught it. It was soft, yet crisp, and had a delicious slinky feel and it was Sue’s favorite color, a rich scarlet. A taffeta petticoat seemed a very simple answer to a “great Secret” but the more Sue thought about it, the more exciting it became.

She buttoned Rosemary’s blouse down the back for her and watched her prink.

“Why are you dressing up?” she asked. “I thought you were going to the hockey field to watch our game?” Rosemary tied a white veil under her chin. “I was,” she said, “but Mr. Dale-Harris is taking me to Windsor Castle. He says there are some beautiful pictures there, he wants to show me.” Sue couldn’t see why he would want a picture when he had Rosemary to look at and then she laughed.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Rosemary.

“The Secret,” replied Sue. “The more I think about it, the better I like it.” She held the soft silk to her cheek. “I’ve never had a taffeta petticoat,” she said. “I suppose I’ll have to wait until I’m grown up, but would you let me borrow it some day, so that I could know how it feels?”

“Of course you may borrow it,” said Rosemary, who was putting perfume on her handkerchief and on the lapels of her coat. “And, Sue, tidy my room, won’t you, like a dear? I don’t want to keep Mr. Dale-Harris waiting.”

“I’d love to,” answered Sue and when Rosemary hurried away down the stairs, she picked up the hair pins strewn over the dressing table, hung up the dresses lying about on the chairs, put back the hats. It looked to Sue as if Rosemary had been trying on every garment she owned before she had decided on the green suit.

The scarlet petticoat still lay at the foot of the bed. Sue held it up to her and looked at herself in the mirror. The petticoat was so long it touched the ground. Sue doubled it and held it up to her again. It was too short now, shorter than the hem of her dress. Sue sighed and shook her head. If it were only the right length, she could have worn it and run as swiftly as Rosemary and perhaps have beaten the fleet-footed Clare once on the hockey field. The thought of Clare brought back the remembrance of the awful portrait she had painted of her.

“She made me look like a windigo,” Sue muttered . . . the taffeta rustled in her hand . . .

“I wonder,” Sue said, “I wonder. . . .”

Quickly she folded the scarlet lengths into a small neat bundle and opening the door, looked out and down the hall. It was empty. Swiftly Sue scuttled to her room.

“Sue, don’t you feel well?”

“I feel as healthy as a horse,” Sue answered cheerfully. “Why?”

“You only ate two helpings of roly-poly at dinner. You didn’t take your third trade from Easy Annie at all. I never saw you do that before!”

“I know,” Sue answered, “but you can’t run fast on three helpings of roly-poly, so I cut the third!”

“I ate all my helpings,” said Blanche, with a gusty sigh, “and it’s a good thing I’m going to play goalie, for I’ve hardly room to breathe. I might roll down the field, but I could never run!”

Sue groaned, as she bent over to lace up her hockey boots. “I know what I think,” she said, “I think Cook is like the Queen. She doesn’t approve of hockey. We never have an important game that she doesn’t give us roly-poly or apple dumplings! And both make me feel cosy inside, instead of fighting mad!”

“Ten minutes, girls,” a voice called down the stairs.

“It’s Miss Tottie,” said Pam. “We’ll have to hustle.” The three girls laced up their boots and tied their hair ribbons more tightly. The last hockey game of the season was to be played that afternoon.

The teams were about evenly divided as to strength. Gwen was the weakest member of Clare’s team. She was slow and deliberate in her movements and seemed bewildered whenever there was fast play around her.

Sue was the despair of Pam’s team. She played with dash, but, as Pam pointed out, with too much dash and not enough thought. “If Sue would only use her head as well as her heels,” Pam said once, “she’d give us a goal once in a while.”

Remembering this, Sue smiled secretly. “I think perhaps I’ll show them this afternoon,” she said to herself.

It was warm crossing the meadows. A thrush was singing from a flowering hedge. Cowslips with their thin white velvet stems reached upwards through the grass. There was a soft hum of bees where honeysuckle in its first green trailed its branches over a stone wall.

Anxiously the girls weighed the merits of “dribbling” versus “dashing,” of eating after a game instead of before it . . . and their voices would rise high and shrill for a moment and then fade into silence, as each planned her own moves in the game that lay ahead.

Sue had a queer feeling at the pit of her tummy. She felt frightened and yet triumphant, sure and yet uncertain.

Pam was a considerate Captain and went the rounds of her team before the game began. She adjusted hair ribbons and belts, examined bootlaces and saw that each player was happy. “How do you feel, Sue?” she asked as they went on the hockey field together.

“Like a volcano,” Sue answered; “and I’m liable to erupt at any moment.” Brandishing her hockey stick, she went forward to her place.

“Ready, Pam? Ready, Clare?”

“Yes, Miss Tottie,” the Captains answered.

The whistle blew, Pam and Clare “bullied off” and the game was on.

From the very first, it was evident to the Mistresses and Seniors watching on the side lines that the game was going to be a close one. Both teams were so evenly matched that it was hard to prophesy success to either side. Clare ran like a hare and her aim was swift and sure. Marjorie was the star player on Pam’s team. She and Iris could manage to dribble a ball up and down the field with a cunning no one could match.

But this afternoon there was a new quality in the game. From the time the first whistle blew it was clear to everyone that Sue and Clare were determined to outplay each other.

Sue could hear the little gasps of admiration and applause as she flew up and down the field, feinting, dribbling, dashing, sometimes winning, sometimes losing. “I never saw anyone run so fast in my life,” cried Pam, “I didn’t know you could run like that. You’re wonderful, Sue!”

“You can’t down a good volcano,” panted Sue as she flashed by, dribbling a ball to Iris.

At half time the teams were tied, one all.

At the beginning of the second half both sides played more cautiously. There were fewer dashes, more deliberate shots and yet the feeling of excitement grew. Something, everyone felt, must happen soon. Sue took long breaths. Clare was watching her, checkmating each attempt to storm down the field and time was counting now.

“It needs more than just legs and breath,” Sue thought. “I’ll have to surprise them to get a goal!” She watched Clare take the ball from Dorothy and, dribbling cleverly, start up the field.

“Now,” said Sue, and with a flying leap started after Clare. Down the field she raced to the left of Clare, until, when almost abreast of her, she ducked behind Clare, appeared suddenly on her right and, with a swift twist of her stick, took the ball away.

Dribbling, ducking, dashing, Sue went up the field. It seemed to her that her feet hardly touched the ground. There was a singing in her ears, too, but the ball, blurred white, still was hers! Pounding feet behind her, someone coughing, the shadow of a hockey stick threatening hers. A feint to the left, a little cry, the white line of the striking circle.

“Shoot!” a voice called. Sue struck the white ball.

“A Goal! A Goal! A Goal!”

And then a whistle and the voice of Miss Tottie.

“Pam’s team, two! Clare’s team, one!”

Cheers! More cheers! “Well run, Sue! Well played, Sue!”

But Sue couldn’t speak. She only wondered if all the world could hear her heart beating. It thumped so loudly.

Amid the cheers the victorious team marched off the field and over to Miss Hill, who made them a little speech and specifically commended Sue for her “resourcefulness.”

“The player of the greatest individual merit,” said Miss Hill in her throatiest voice, “is one whose armory is full of devices to which she is ever adding more! And now, girls, if you will pull yourselves together tidily and look like Arundel Abbey girls again, we will set off for home. There is something extra for tea today!”

“I never thought I would want anything to eat again,” said Blanche, “after the roly-poly, but do you know that I’m positively starving.”

Sue nodded. She still felt breathless. They lined up in the Crocodile and, hockey sticks in hand, swung past the pony cart where Miss Hill had joined Miss Tottie and Miss Dottie.

“Sue! Susannah!”

“It’s come!” said Sue to herself. “I was afraid it would!” and then aloud, “Yes, Miss Tottie.”

“What do I see beneath your skirt?”

The whole Crocodile stood still. Sue looked down. A broad streak of scarlet showed below her dark skirt.

“My petticoat,” she answered.

“Let me see!”

Sue moved forward and as she did so the petticoat dropped lower and lower. It was evident to everyone that it belonged to a grown up.

“Where did you get this, Sue?”

“I borrowed it,” Sue answered.

“From whom?”

“Rosemary.”

“Why did you borrow it?”

“Because I wanted to run faster than anyone else.”

“I don’t understand,” said Miss Tottie coldly. “Will you explain more fully?”

“It’s this way,” said Sue. “These galumping skirts stick to your stockings and bunch so that you can’t run fast. Rosemary can run up and down the field like greased lightning, so I asked her to show me how she did it. And she explained that it was this petticoat. It makes everything slide so that you can run like the wind.”

Miss Tottie turned to Miss Dottie. “Is this ethical?” she asked.

“Hardly,” answered Miss Dottie.

Clare moved forward. “Is it fair,” she asked, “that one girl should have so great an advantage over the rest of the team? Doesn’t it make that last goal a bit queer?”

“Are you by any chance questioning the decision of the Umpire?” asked Miss Tottie in her chilliest tones.

Clare flushed. “No, Miss Tottie, but I was just wondering—”

“That will do, Clare! We are not interested in your wonderings. Susannah, you may retire behind that hedge and remove your petticoat!”

Sue scurried behind the hedge. The petticoat flapped around her legs and ankles as she ran and the last safety pin gave way as she disappeared. To her dismay, the pins had left holes and tears in the silk. She wondered what Rosemary would say when she saw her petticoat, but in spite of her dismay over the tears, there was a happy glow at her heart that nothing could touch. No matter what happened afterwards, there in the open field with all the school watching, she had vanquished Clare and shot a goal.

Hastily folding the petticoat, Sue ran back to the Crocodile. The pony carriage moved off and the whole school burst into argument.

“Why did you do it? How did you think of it? Did anyone know?”

“Less noise, girls. Form into line again!” It was Miss Mills’ voice. The Crocodile moved off, with everyone arguing as to whether Sue should have worn a silk petticoat or not, whether Rosemary had put the idea into her head or whether it was her natural wickedness that had suggested such a course of action.

Sue didn’t care. She was tired and more concerned over what Rosemary would think, about the tears in the petticoat than what any of the girls said about her. Besides, Pam and Blanche and Iris had smiled on her warmly. And “Old Ironsides,” who had been so mean to her over the “fishes’ eyes,” had helped her on with her coat with gentle hands instead of yanking her into it.

Petticoat under her arm, Sue raced off to Rosemary’s room as soon as she reached the Abbey.

Rosemary was pressing violets, taken from a little bunch beside her, when Sue broke in upon her and, showing her the tears, told her the whole story.

“Did you make the goal?” asked Rosemary. Sue nodded.

“Good, that’s all that matters!” Rosemary answered.

But after supper that night, Sue found that the making of a goal was not all that mattered, for an open discussion was held in the Forge as to whether or not the wearing of the petticoat had not given Sue an undue advantage over everyone else.

“Of course it did,” Sue answered stoutly, “I meant it to. I think one should play a game with everything one has, not just legs and arms and breath, but one’s head, too. If I can find a way of playing faster for my team, then I should use it!”

“That’s not the point,” interrupted Miss Ironsides. “The point is that all players should be equally equipped, in order to give a fair trial of strength. Could you have run as fast without the petticoat as you did with it?”

“Certainly not,” said Sue. “That’s why I wore it. I knew my legs weren’t fast enough, so I used my head to make them faster.”

“There’s something in what Sue says,” interrupted Miss Mills.

Miss White shook her head. “It’s not usual,” she said.

To everyone’s surprise, Easy Annie stood up. “Why is it right for Rosemary to play wearing the petticoat,” she asked, “and wrong for Sue?”

“Rosemary is no longer a school girl,” Miss White answered, “and plays only to help us out in practise games. This was a team match and Sue’s petticoat gave her an advantage.”

“Why not give everybody a petticoat,” said Sue. “We have to play hockey in the worst old clothes anyway.” A little gasp, half admiration, half dismay ran through the Forge.

Geraldine stood up. “The girls of Arundel Abbey,” she said, “have always worn frieze skirts and flannel blouses to play hockey in. We neither welcome nor require changes in our customs. I think that Sue should understand, too, that while we are glad to have girls from our Colonies with us, we do not welcome Colonial innovations. What has been good enough for us in the past, is good enough for us now!”

Geraldine sat down with a bump and Clare led a round of feeble applause.

Sue felt bewildered. There was something wrong in all the arguments. “I think it’s all very silly,” she blurted out. “Who wants to be doing the same thing for ever and ever and perhaps a Canadian some day will show you English something . . . and besides my Father says women’s clothes are asinine anyway!”

“Susannah,” said Miss White in shocked tones. “Do you know what word you are using?”

“Yes,” answered Sue, “I do. I know because Mummy said, Daddy wasn’t to encourage me in using wrong words and just to prove he wasn’t teaching me something I shouldn’t know, he got the dictionary out and asinine means,” Sue spoke more slowly, “one having the qualities of an ass; absurdly obstinate or stupid. And that’s what Daddy thinks our clothes are!”

“Thank you, Sue,” said Miss Mills hurriedly. “Your father’s ideas are no doubt very interesting, but the question we are discussing is whether your petticoat gave you an undue advantage today over the other players. Personally, Geraldine, I think there is a great deal to be said for Sue. If wearing a silk petticoat makes it easier to run, I can see no reason why we shouldn’t each wear one. And I see no reason, either, why one should wear an uncomfortable or awkward garment, if a better one can be found!”

“Could we put this to a vote?” asked Clare in her slinky voice. “We would have a decision then as to whether that last goal should be counted!”

“There’s going to be no voting,” Pam burst in angrily. “The Umpire made a decision and it remains. You know the rules, Clare Barr!”

“Pam is right,” said Miss Ironsides, “and besides this is something that requires thought. Shall we discuss this matter quietly among ourselves? It will form a most interesting subject for debate at some future time. And since there will be no more hockey games this term, it is not anything of immediate moment.” She turned to Miss Cramp and the girls broke up into little groups.

Pam was in a fine rage. “Such a fuss and bother over a petticoat!” she exclaimed. “Why shouldn’t Sue wear the kind of clothes she wants to anyway!”

“She’s twelve years old,” said Iris, “and that’s old enough to choose her own petticoat!”

“Do you know that when my Mother went to boarding school, they treated her the same way,” cried Blanche. “They couldn’t take off their woolen underwear until the twenty-fourth of May, no matter how hot it was. Things haven’t changed a mite since then and it was a long time ago that Mummy went to school, for she’s quite old now.”

“How old?” asked Sue.

“Thirty-five!”

“As old as that?”

Blanche nodded. “Well, it’s time somebody did something,” Sue said. “Are we going to be bullied like this forever? Your Mother couldn’t change her woolies until the twenty-fourth of May. Neither can we. Are our grandchildren going to suffer like this? Is the world never going to change?”

“What can we do about it?” asked Pam.

“We could form a society,” Blanche said, “like the Seniors have.”

“What kind of a society have they?” Sue asked suspiciously.

“It’s one for reading Shakespeare and Chaucer out loud and improving their minds.”

“Who wants their minds improved?” Sue asked. “It’s our clothes we want improved.”

“Let’s form a secret society,” suggested Iris. “All boarding schools have secret societies. Let the five of us have one!”

“Bedtime, girls,” called Miss Mills.

“Pssst,” said Sue hurriedly. “Look, after lights out, come down to our room and we’ll hold our first meeting. It’ll be a real secret society.”

Nodding importantly, Iris and Easy Annie went upstairs.

“Goodnight, Sue,” said Miss Mills. “I like the way you stood up for yourself tonight and it’s just possible you may be right about our hockey clothes and that it is we who are wrong!”

Sue couldn’t believe her ears. A Mistress admitting the possibility of herself being wrong and a girl being right! She hurried up the stairs. You could never tell what would happen in school.

The three girls were in bed when Miss Mills turned out the gas and pulled back the curtains.

“Goodnight, girls!” “Goodnight, Miss Mills!”

“Pssssssst,” hissed Pam, as soon as the door closed. “Ready Sue?”

Sue stole out of bed and crept over to the door. Gently she eased it open a crack and stuck a tiny wad of paper in the opening.

Going back to bed, she watched the door in the faint light that crept in over the transom. Nothing happened. Sue began to wonder if Iris and Easy Annie had gone to sleep and forgotten about the secret society, but at last the door swung open and in a state of delicious terror the two girls crept in.

At first their adventures in reaching the room were of more importance than the society itself. It seemed that Smithie and Miss Mills had held a long conversation in the hall right outside their room, “just as if they knew what we were planning to do,” said Iris. “And then, they sat at the table in the hall, and then Miss Smith took some hot milk to Winifred who has the ‘sniffles.’ ”

Sitting on Sue’s bed with the blankets tucked around them, the five girls spoke in whispers.

“Well, now that we’re all here,” said Pam, “let’s get to work. What shall we call ourselves?”

“The Seniors call themselves the ‘Society for the Improvement of Literary Knowledge’ and they have an ‘aim,’ ” said Iris helpfully.

“What’s Literary Knowledge?” asked Sue.

“Shakespeare stuff,” said Iris scornfully.

“And what’s their ‘aim’?” asked Easy Annie.

“It’s what they’re working for, Stupid!”

“We are working to alter the clothing of all girls in boarding schools and we want to stop the intolerable abuses we are undergoing,” Blanche said.

“Where did you learn all those words?” asked Easy Annie admiringly.

“From Mummy,” said Blanche. “Daddy says she’s very advanced.”

“What’s advanced mean?”

“You know. Take your woolies off before the twenty-fourth of May.”

“I wish your Mother was here,” sighed Sue. “She’d be dandy for this society. What shall we call ourselves?”

“My brother at Eton says the Prefects have a society in honor of Fleurette Montizambert—”

“Who’s she?” interrupted Sue.

“Well, she’s a lady that lives in London and they all call her Toots for short but her real stage name is Tootsie Twinkling Toes, because her toes twinkle when she dances!”

“Is she an actress?” asked Easy Annie uneasily.

Blanche nodded. “And as all this started over Sue wearing a petticoat because she wanted to run faster, I think Twinkling Toes would be a very good name for our society.”

“Twinkling Toes,” they all repeated, as if savoring the sound.

“Of course my brother pulls your leg dreadfully,” continued Blanche, “for he also said that Tootsie was sometimes called ‘Fleetlegs.’ ”

“Fleetlegs,” repeated Sue. “That’s better. It’s our legs we run with and if we’re fleet we’ll always win!”

“And nobody can join this society,” said Pam, “unless they have fleetlegs! And now that we’ve a name,” she continued, “what’s our aim?”

“To alter the clothing we have to wear,” said Iris firmly.

“No flannel petticoats,” said Blanche.

“No galoshes,” said Iris.

“No scarves,” said Easy Annie.

“No woolies,” said Pam.

“No skirts,” said Sue.

“Oh, Sue!” they gasped.

“I don’t think we can go that far,” said Blanche. “I don’t think even Mummy would do that!”

“Why not?” asked Sue, in a fiery whisper. “If we left off our skirts and ran up and down the hockey field in bloomers, we could make old Tootsie Twinkling Toes look like a snail’s grandmother!”

“I don’t think Miss Templar would allow it,” said Pam.

“Of course, she wouldn’t,” said Sue scornfully, “but it’s not for us we’re planning. It’s for our grandchildren. We’re working to improve their lot!”

“Blanche, what else does your Mother say that’s advanced?” asked Sue.

Blanche hesitated. “Once,” she answered, “I heard her talking to Daddy and he was laughing his head off and Mummy threw her brush at him and said, ‘Oh, very well, Nigel, but mark my words, the day will come when every woman in England will have a vote.’ ”

“A vote,” the five girls repeated. “A vote!” And they buried their heads in the blankets and pillows for fear their laughter might be heard.

“That’s the funniest thing ever,” said Sue. “What would a woman do with a vote? You can’t eat it or wear it.”

“If every woman voted for bloomers,” said Iris, “then it’d be all right to wear them!”

“You don’t need to vote for bloomers,” said Sue, “you just need the proper place to wear them. Mummy and I wore them in the Yukon and they’d be quite all right on the hockey field!”

“You could never make Miss Templar believe that!” said Easy Annie.

“Pssst,” warned Pam. There were footsteps in the hall. In just two jiffs the three girls were lying flat in their beds, as if sound asleep, while Iris and Easy Annie crouched under the beds farthest away from the door.

The footsteps sounded nearer, hesitated, stopped and then the door handle moved and through half closed eyes they saw Smithie in the doorway. For a moment she stood there listening.

“Was anyone talking in here?” she asked.

There was no reply. The cool air from the open window swept through the room, rattling the blinds. Smithie cocked her head on one side as if to listen better and then slowly closed the door. But she stood outside in the hall for what seemed hours to the five girls and then at last moved away. Far down the hall they heard her door close softly.

Iris and Easy Annie crept into Blanche’s bed. They were shivering with cold and fright. Sue’s teeth were chattering, too.

“I never was so frightened in all my life,” she said. “What would have happened if we had been caught?”

“We’d have been gated for a whole term,” said Pam. The five girls moaned softly to each other.

“I think we’d better hold our meetings in daytime,” said Easy Annie, “under a tree in the garden.”

“Away from the hedges, so that no one can hide and listen to our secrets,” said Blanche.

“We have to take a vow first,” objected Pam. “Every secret society has a vow!”

“She’s right,” Sue said. “The Mounties have a vow.”

“What’ll it be?” asked Iris.

“To improve the lot of women’s clothes, and specially hockey clothes.”

“You couldn’t slip in something about bloomers, could you?” asked Sue.

Pam shook her head. “If our society is any good, it’ll take care of the bloomers.”

In their long flannel night-dresses, with sleeves reaching to wrists and soft turned down collars, the five girls joined hands and repeated after Pam the pledge to improve the lot of women’s clothes.

“Pssst,” said Sue, opening the door softly. Easy Annie and Iris stole out into the shadowy hall. Sue scuttled back to bed.

“I expect Rosemary was right,” she whispered to herself, as she pulled the covers round her ears. “School is what you make it.” She chuckled. It had been more to her liking today than ever before.

It had been a day of small adventures. At Orders of the Day, Miss Hill had made two special announcements.

The first, that tennis lessons for the Juniors would be held in the afternoon after the usual rest period. “Afterwards,” Miss Hill paused impressively, “there will be a lesson in Flower Arrangement.”

“Flower Arrangement,” she repeated, “is a useful accomplishment and I am happy to tell you that Miss Templar has been able to persuade Miss Tagiaki, who is in England on a visit from Japan, to come to us this afternoon. The Japanese are famous for their flower arrangements.” Miss Hill paused, “I hope you will give Miss Tagiaki your best attention!”

“Yes, Miss Hill!”

“There are a few mannerisms creeping into the school that I do not like,” added Miss Hill, “the use of the word ‘dandy’ for instance, and the expression, ‘I guess.’ These are Americanisms! There is an accurate English word to express any thought or emotion and I prefer that the English word is used. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Miss Hill.”

“And, Susannah, I wish you would try and correct yourself of the habit most Canadians have of saying ontil for until and onless for unless. You have been in England long enough now to rid yourself of these colloquialisms.”

“I didn’t know Canadians spoke badly,” answered Sue.

“I didn’t say that they did. I pointed out to you certain mannerisms that are not elegant. For instance, Canadians pronounce it, ‘ut’! They say, ‘I’ll do ut’ for ‘I’ll do it.’ That is not good English.

“A cultured person speaks English without a trace of accent, so that one is unable to tell whether she is from England, the United States or Canada. And there is no mark of distinction to equal that of a charming voice using expressive, not colloquial, English!”

Sue turned to Pam. “My gracious,” she muttered crossly, “the English are conceited. They always think they’re right!”

“Are you just finding that out?” asked Pam.

“But you do say ‘ut,’ ” said Iris, “and it sounds awful funny when one hears it first!”

“Awful funny,” repeated Sue. “What kind of English do you call that?” But before Iris could answer, the bell rang again and Orders of the Day were over.

Tennis, Sue found, was quite different from hockey. Speed didn’t count in tennis, ladylikeness did. You had to play with “grace and charm” and never, said Miss Tottie, “must you allow yourself to become over-heated. Nothing is more distasteful than the appearance of a player coming off the field with flushed cheeks, untidy hair and a disheveled appearance.”

“When you return a ball, approach it with grace, thus!” Miss Tottie lifted her racquet with a dainty flourish, raised her skirt with her left hand so as to show her ankle and ran lightly on her toes to the net.

“Seems a sissy sort of a game to me,” objected Sue.

“Isn’t it better than classes or the Crocodile?” asked Iris.

Sue nodded. Anything was better than the classroom. White clouds sailed high over head, the lawns were vivid green and gardeners were clipping hedges.

“Come, girls, Miss Tagiaki is here.”

They went back into the Forge. On the table on the platform stood half a dozen little shallow bowls, a couple of saucers and a pile of small stones. The door opened and Miss Templar came in, bringing with her a smiling, slant-eyed young woman in a blue Japanese robe. Her hair was dressed close to her head and lay in a heavy knot on her neck. Her English was perfect but she spoke so slowly that all of the girls confessed later they wanted to shake her.

“Where are the flowers?” whispered Sue.

“I don’t know,” said Marjorie. “There’s a little bunch of what looks like weeds beside her, that’s all.”

“I am very happy to be with you this afternoon,” began the Japanese visitor, “and to have the opportunity to pass on to you in your so beautiful country, the art of flower arrangement as we know it in my country.

“We Japanese do not believe that flowers speak to the eye alone, nor yet to the nose alone. We like to see? We like to smell? Yes! But also we believe that flowers should talk.”

“That’s nothing new,” whispered Easy Annie. “My brother sends out heaps of valentines with ‘The rose is red, The violet’s blue, Honey’s sweet, And so are you,’ written on them. That’s flower language and in English, too!”

“And so,” continued Miss Tagiaki, “we teach our flowers to express our thoughts. If we love, our flowers speak for us. If we hate, even so lovely a flower as the snow drop can be made to say so!”

“I’d love to hear a snowdrop hating,” whispered Sue. “Do you suppose it’s noisy about it?” The whole row of little girls shook with smothered giggles. To think of a snowdrop being violent was more than they could stand.

Miss Tagiaki placed a deep saucer in the middle of the table, filled it with water, added seven round, smooth stones, stood back and, placing her head on one side, said, “It calls for a daffodil!”

She gave a little chirp then and from the bunch of what Marjorie thought were weeds, took a daffodil and wedged it upright amid the stones. It looked very forlorn, Sue thought, but Miss Tagiaki was not through. She cocked her head on the other side and gave another little chirp. “It calls for green,” she said, and added a spike of daffodil green. Another wait. A short stubby daffodil was added and then with a wave of her arm, Miss Tagiaki leaned over the dish.

“Watch me very carefully,” she said. “This is the moment!” Obediently everyone leaned forward. With finger and thumb, Miss Tagiaki bent the smaller daffodil to the right.

“That,” she said, “is how a Japanese gentleman tells a Japanese lady that he loves her!”

“Quite so, quite so,” said Miss Templar hurriedly. “Very interesting, I am sure. Shall we go on?”

The visitor smiled widely. “But,” she said, “if a Japanese lady wishes to tell a Japanese gentleman she loves him, too, she bends it this way.” Miss Tagiaki bent the short daffodil to the left.

“She’s jolly well pleased with herself,” murmured Pam.

The Japanese lady next took a shallow bowl. She made a little pile of stones at one end and a larger pile at the other. In the large pile she put two blades of coarse grass, a cowslip, two violets. In the other, she placed two snowdrops.

“What does it mean?” she asked. “Can no one tell me? No? The snowdrops are the bride and groom, the grasses and the wild flowers the wedding party.”

Sue thought she would burst. What a wedding! No wedding cake, no ice cream! Pam gave her a warning kick on the shins. “Old Hilly-Billy’s watching you,” she said.

On and on Miss Tagiaki talked in her slow, correct English. Sue gathered that it was a crime to use more than three flowers in any arrangement and if you could only find a few old weeds, they were much more interesting than roses or lilies, lilacs or velvet pansies.

“I’m glad I’m not a Japanese,” said Sue. “We’ve enough to do in school to remember all the old rules and if I had to remember to talk in flowers, too, I don’t know what would happen to my head. Besides, anyone can say ‘I love you.’ What I’d like to know is how to say, ‘I hate you’ or ‘I think you’re an old Turnip,’ in the Language of the Flowers.”

“We’ll have to make that up ourselves,” said Iris. “You’d get an awful wigging if you were caught asking such a question.”

Taking out an old copy book, the girls began making notes—

“I hate you,” was when you turned down all the flower’s heads.

“You’re an old Turnip” was when you turned down the center flower only and left the others standing.

“Shouldn’t we be able to call a meeting of the secret society by flower language?” asked Iris.

When two center flowers were bent down, it was a call for the Fleetlegs to meet under the big elm.

“Who’ll we use the flower language on first?” asked Pam.

“On Mademoiselle,” cried Sue. “She gave me twenty lines today and all because I couldn’t remember the reflective of deshabiller. I had to write Nous nous deshabillons, avant de nous coucher twenty times before she let me out of French class.”

“What’s it mean?” enquired Iris.

“We undress before going to bed!”

“No one but the French would ever think of such a silly thing to say,” scolded Blanche. “Of course one undresses before going to bed.”

Sue and Iris went down to the dining-room. There were crocuses on each table. Hastily they turned down all the flowers on Mademoiselle’s table and then, full of delight at their daring, turned them down on every other table.

“The whole dining-room is full of hate,” said Blanche, as they went up to change for supper. But if it was, no one noticed it but the giggling members of the Secret Society.

By bedtime all five Fleetlegs were hardly able to keep their eyes open. The extra tennis and the warm sunshine had made them so sleepy, that it was more of an effort than usual to hang up their clothes and leave things folded ready for the morning. But at last they climbed into bed, only too glad to see Miss Mills turn out the gas.

“Goodnight, girls,” “Goodnight, Miss Mills!”

Sue turned in her bed. The moonlight shone into the mirror. Something seemed to be missing from her chest of drawers and sleepily she wondered what it could be but she felt too tired to care. She opened her eyes again.

It was her crest! Her Crest was missing from its position over the mirror.

Hopping out of bed, she examined the top of her chest of drawers. The crest was not there. It might have fallen down. Groping in the dark, she found no trace of it on the floor.

“Pam,” she called, in a real panic now. “My Crest is gone. What ever will I do?”

“Keep quiet, Sue,” Pam answered crossly. “We’ll be gated if we’re heard talking.”

“But, Pam, you don’t understand. Wake up! It’s my crest—It’s gone!”

“What’s wrong, Sue?” Blanche’s soft voice asked sleepily.

“It’s my Crest,” Sue answered shakily, “my Mountie Crest. It’s gone!”

“Sue!” Blanche was out of bed, running around to where Sue stood. “It can’t be gone. You’ve just mislaid it.”

Pam sat up in bed. “When they’re doing extra cleaning,” she said, “they sometimes knock things off the tables. You’ll find it on the floor in the morning, Sue. Have you felt in your drawers?”

“Yes,” answered Sue, “and it isn’t there!”

“Well, don’t fuss. Go to bed.”

Sue climbed back into bed. She wondered how she could wait until morning came. It seemed such a long way off. Wondering, she fell asleep.

But when the rising bell rang, there was still no Crest. It wasn’t in her drawers, on the floor, nor in any of her handkerchief or glove boxes. Even Pam began to look grave.

“It’s gone,” said Sue. “Someone has taken it.”

“Oh, hush, Sue,” said Pam. “Don’t say things like that! Wait until breakfast and prayers are over and then we’ll go to Miss Hill. But until then, don’t talk about it!”

“Why shouldn’t I talk about it?” asked Sue angrily.

“I don’t quite know,” Pam answered. “I just feel that it’s better not to, at least not until we’ve seen Miss Hill. She’ll know what to do.”

But all Sue could remember was the night long, long ago when Monty and Uncle Dennis had come up to her room in the Barracks at Regina and pinned the shining golden Crest to the top of her bulletin board.

“And don’t cry,” urged Blanche. “It might be found any minute and then you’d feel like a cry-baby.”

They went quietly down to the dining-room but Sue couldn’t touch her breakfast and when Miss Ironsides told her to sit up straight and finish her porridge and not to slump in her chair, tears came to Sue’s eyes. But they were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of anger and terror.

“I can’t eat,” she cried stormily, “and I won’t eat. Someone in this school has stolen my Crest!”

Sue’s raised voice was heard by everyone and a horrified silence fell over the room.

“Susannah!” It was Miss Templar’s voice. “If you have any accusation to make, will you stand and make it in the presence of the whole school?”

Sue pushed her chair back angrily and stood facing Miss Templar. “I said,” she began, “and I mean it. Someone has stolen my Mountie Crest!”

“How do you know it is stolen?” asked Miss Templar sternly.

“I call it stealing,” answered Sue, “to take a Crest from its regular place out of a room and away so that it can’t be found. I don’t know any other word for it but stealing. . . . And I know that if I was in Canada I’d have a Mountie on the track of the thief right away and I’d get it again. Now I suppose it is gone forever!” The tears began coursing down Sue’s cheeks.

“That will do, Sue,” said Miss Templar.

Quietly, she questioned Sue’s roommates. No one could exactly remember whether the Crest had been there the day before, except Sue. No one knew anything of the matter at all. Quietly they all went to their classes.

After dinner. Miss Templar called them all into the Forge. Every room and locker in the school, she told them, had been examined and the maids questioned. There was no sign of the Crest.

“Susannah,” Miss Templar was speaking very slowly, “do you still believe that your Crest has been stolen by someone in the school?”

“Yes, Miss Templar,” Sue answered, “I do.”

Miss Templar stood looking at Sue for a long time. Her face was very grave.

“This is a serious charge that Sue has made,” she said, “and rightly or wrongly, I feel that Sue has made it believing it to be true. It may be that someone in the school knows something about the Crest. If anyone does . . . I wish she would come to me and tell me about it. I will not repeat any confidence without receiving permission to do so.

“Tonight, you are all to go to your rooms after supper. As soon as you are undressed, I would like each one of you to come to me in turn. But before then, I want you all to consider the seriousness of Sue’s accusation—and I must ask you not to discuss this matter among yourselves.”

Supper was a very quiet affair that night. There was little conversation. Miss Templar and her Mistresses looked anxious and strained. No one seemed hungry. Afterwards each girl went to her room, undressed, pulled on her dressing gown and went down the stairs to Miss Templar’s room. Of each Miss Templar asked the same question: “Have you anything to tell me about Sue’s Crest?”

Half an hour after the last girl left the head-mistress’s room, the “Lights out” bell sounded. No one knew what Miss Templar had found or heard, and Sue, with Minnie-Pooh-Pooh clasped close in her arms, was weeping softly into her pillow for her lost Crest.

It was a dreary awakening the following morning. Long before the rising bell, Sue had been up, hunting through her chest of drawers, searching the pockets of her dresses, sorting her gloves again. But there was no Crest. Pam joined her and, sitting in the window with the early May sun on their backs, Pam asked again, “Is there anyone you can think of who would have taken your Crest?”

“No one,” answered Sue. “Truly, Pam, I can’t think of anyone who would be so mean. Even Clare wouldn’t do a thing like this!”

“I wonder what Miss Templar will do about it?” said Blanche, as they went down to breakfast, but it was not until Orders of the Day were given that anyone knew.

When Miss Hill entered the Forge, Miss Templar was with her. The usual notices were read and then Miss Templar took the platform.

“I regret that I have no further word for you over Sue’s Crest,” she said. “I am hoping, however, as I am sure you all are, that it may be found. Until it is, all discussion of this matter among you is forbidden. I hope I have made myself clear!”

“Yes, Miss Templar.”

Miss Hill handed Miss Templar a sheaf of notes. “And now I have an announcement to make with regard to the gardens.”

“The East Meadow has been laid out in garden plots and is ready for seeding. Each plot is numbered and will be allotted in order of application. You may choose your own seeds and time will be arranged so that each girl may look after her garden.” Miss Templar paused. “Prizes will be awarded just before we break up for the summer holidays.

“Mr. Angus MacNab, the Queen’s Head Gardener at Windsor Castle, has kindly consented to act as Judge. This is a most unusual honor and I hope Mr. MacNab will not be disappointed in the results of your efforts.”

Amid applause Miss Templar stepped down from the platform and left the Forge. In the few minutes that remained before the next bell rang, everyone talked seeds and flowers as if they were the most important things in the world.

At dinner the conversation was entirely of gardening. Girls and Mistresses seemed equally excited and there was much argument over such matters as drainage, mulching and whether the viola or the dwarf candytuft made a better border. Easy Annie wanted a garden of nothing but poppies. Dorothy wanted “fat marigolds.”

“You can’t buy fat marigolds in a paper packet,” Miss Ironsides warned her. “The fatness comes from careful watering, weeding and cultivating.”

Dorothy smiled, “I know, but I’ll feed my marigolds until they look like plump golden balls.”

“I’m going to plant radishes,” said Blanche. “Mummy’ll never let me have enough of them at home . . . and here if I grow them in my own garden, no one can forbid me to eat them.” She turned to Sue. “What are you planting?” she asked.

Sue didn’t answer. Yesterday everyone had been concerned over her loss. Today they ate their dinners and even had second helpings, as if the loss of the Crest no longer mattered.

The long day dragged on until three o’clock.

In the Forge a young girl from one of the Windsor shops sat at a table laden with packages of seeds. “Here you are,” she said pleasantly to Sue, and held out a card bearing a number. “Your garden plot will be number twenty-three,” she said. “You’ll find it marked when you get down there. What seeds would you like?”

“I don’t care,” Sue answered. “Anything’ll do!”

“Then I’ll give you what I like,” the girl said, smiling.

Sue took the package and started down to her plot. The East Meadow was terraced so that the little gardens lay like steps, one after another, on the slope. Great elms bursting into leaf, and lilacs, green against the stone steps, promised shade for summer days.

Slowly Sue went down the terraced steps and passed the busy gardeners arguing over who should have the rake, whether you buried your seeds an inch or half an inch in the ground, whether it was best to plant in straight rows or fancy designs.

Plot twenty-three was almost at the foot of the garden. Pam joined Sue there and showed her how to stake out lengths of string so that her planting rows should be straight. She brought her a rake, too. Of all the girls in the school, Sue liked Pam best. She was always fun and shared Sue’s love of adventure. Yet when troubles came she had a comforting friendliness, or loyal anger, upon which Sue could always depend.

Pam pushed her dark bangs off her forehead.

“Can you get on by yourself now, Sue?”

Sue nodded and sat for a while on the steps. Phyllis was energetically working in a plot nearby.

“Do you have to work here every day?” Sue asked drearily.

“Goodness, no!” said Phyllis. “You can do just as you please. Garden, go on the Crocodile, play tennis, whichever you prefer. If you don’t enjoy gardening, you need never come back. What happens to your plot is your own business.”

Picking up her rake. Sue commenced leveling the soft, warm earth. The smell of the damp soil rose around her, reminding her of the land freshly ploughed around Regina and Qu’appelle, of the newly turned ground at Bombardier Mine in the Yukon, of the high mountains and the Chilkoot, the call of the meadow lark, the wild horses running on the Canadian prairies, of Little Chief and Laughing Cloud, of the long struggle to win her golden Crest . . . the Crest that was lost.

If she could only catch the thief as she had caught Joe Labiche! But there were no Constables here to help her; no Little Chief to ride madly across the prairies and bring back a Mountie, tall, strong and quick-witted.

“Come along, Sue,” a brisk voice said. “The last bell has rung. You’ve only time to plant your seeds.”

Sue looked down at the package in her hand. Hastily she scratched a hole in the center of her plot and, without even looking at the label, flung the package in, paper covering and all.

“I can’t be bothered with them,” she said to herself. “And I don’t care if they ever come up anyway. I’m going to find my Crest and that will take me all my time.”

Through the open door the sun cast long fingers of light on the stone floor and from the jeweled twilight within rose the soft notes of the organ.

Quietly the Juniors followed Miss Cramp through the nave and into the choir. It was the first time Sue had been in St. George’s Chapel. She looked around her.

The windows were like jewel boxes, their vivid blues and greens and crimsons staining the dark oak of the choir stalls with lovely colors. Above her, in the mellow golden light of late afternoon, hung the Standards of the Knights of the Garter.

A canopied gallery, known as the Royal Box, was curtained and hung with Garter blue. Sue looked at the Box with interest. Into it, before the service began, would come the “little Battenbergs,” and she wanted to see a little Princess as much as she had wanted to see the Queen. The “little Battenbergs” were Queen Victoria’s grandchildren, Ena and her three brothers, Alexander, Leopold and Maurice. Sue wondered if they would wear crowns and ermine capes, the way they did in the pictures in the Graphic or Illustrated London News. She hoped they would. What was the good of being a Princess if you had to wear ordinary clothes?

It was exciting to come to the Castle like this, she thought, to know that the Queen was in residence and for the short time they were in the Chapel, they shared the same roof. “When I am very old,” Sue said to herself, “I shall be able to tell my great-great-grandchildren of the Royalty I knew.”

More people rustled into the choir. The music swelled and choristers filed into their stalls. The service began.

Sue forgot about the “little Battenbergs.” She forgot about the Queen. There was a boy’s voice singing and Sue had never heard such singing before. Higher, still higher, the young soloist poured out his song.

Far up in the shadows of the roof the voice rose to where a long finger of light broke the darkness. Higher still it soared. Sue remembered the northern lights in the Yukon, the loveliness of the sea, the rush of wind, white-capped waves, wild prairie roses . . . stars in the Arctic night, the song of the meadow lark at dawn. . . . Might all these lovely things together make a song? Sue wondered . . .

The voice faded into silence. There was a stillness in the Chapel, such stillness that it seemed no one breathed.

      *      *      *      *      *      

There was a soft rustle . . . white gloves turning pages . . . the organ swelling into a familiar hymn . . . voices rising around her.

Miss Cramp touched her sleeve. “Look, Sue,” she whispered. Sue looked up. “Those are the little Battenbergs.”

In the Royal Box were three English schoolboys and a golden-haired girl with blue eyes and rose and ivory cheeks. The girl was Princess Ena. She wore a navy blue coat and hat and white gloves, like those worn by the Juniors of Arundel Abbey.

It was disappointing to find a Princess for all the world just like yourself, Sue thought, and wondered if she had the same trouble with French verbs and whether she ever had to do “lines.” She seemed a very solemn young princess.

The service came to an end. The Royal children disappeared behind the curtains, the congregation moved out of the Chapel. When the organ stopped, Miss Cramp rose and the girls followed her down the shadowy aisle again, to the stone steps and the brilliant sunshine outdoors.

Sue blinked her eyes. Somewhere far off in the Park there was more music and Sue knew it was a military band playing tunes for marching feet. The Royal Standard floated above them in the soft wind. Faintly, from afar, there was the sound of a command, followed by the old familiar clatter of horses’ feet, bits and chains.

“Soldiers?” asked Sue.

Miss Cramp nodded. “There has been a review this afternoon and the Royal escort is returning to the Barracks,” she said. “Shall we go up to the Round Tower? There is a beautiful view from there.”

Up the steps they climbed, their shadows, giant size, stretching before them, long and thin.

“Fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven! There are only a hundred of these steps,” said Pam breathlessly.

“Sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two.”

Sue nodded. The strains of the band floated up to them.

“Sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five!”

When they reached a hundred they would be at the Round Tower, where there had been a Constable since 1087!

Constable! The word was like magic. It was something Sue understood, something that meant action, safety.

“Seventy-seven, seventy-eight!”

For a time she had thought of writing Monty and asking him to come and help her and remembered then his warning against taking her Crest to school. “Things have a way of getting lost,” he had said. Now he might think she had been careless of her treasure.

“Eighty, eighty-one . . .”

She would have to watch her chance to escape from the Crocodile and find the Constable. All then, she knew, would be well. He would find her cherished Crest.

“Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three!”

They were almost at the top now and there was a little crowd of sightseers ahead of them.

“Ninety-nine, one hundred!”

Far below them the Castle and Great Park spread out. Miss Cramp was trying to catch her breath. Quietly Sue edged away from the Crocodile and slipped into the middle of a little knot of people. In the confusion of coming and going, she saw she wasn’t being missed. Running down the steps, she whisked around a corner so rapidly that she collided violently with an officer, very gorgeous in gold lace, clanking sword and a huge bearskin busby, with a white plume at the side.

He was so tall that Sue had to tilt her head back to look up at him. He wore a uniform that had a scarlet tunic and down the side of the tight dark blue trousers was a broad cavalry stripe of yellow.

“Oh!” said Sue, looking up into the face of a grey-haired officer with the merriest blue eyes. “Oh! Did I bump you?”

“Not at all,” he answered. “But where are you going in such a hurry? You look as if you were running away!”

“I am,” said Sue. “I’m trying to find the Constable of the Tower. I’m in great need of him.”

The officer smiled. “Too bad,” he said. “The Constable of the Tower is on leave.”

“Where has he gone?” asked Sue fearfully, hoping it was some place she could follow him.

“South Africa.”

“Why?”

“Her Majesty had need of him there!”

“Is there no one taking his place?” Sue asked. She remembered that in the Barracks at Regina when the Commissioner was away, the Assistant Commissioner always acted for him.

The officer’s blue eyes twinkled down at her.

“For the moment I am Deputy Constable of the Tower,” he said. “Will I do?”

“Oh, yes,” breathed Sue, thankfully.

“Good! Here I am then and very much at your service.”

“Help me to find my Crest,” cried Sue. “There are no Mounties in England and I need help badly.”

“But what have the Mounties to do with the Constable of the Tower?” asked the tall officer.

“On the prairies in Canada, if we are in trouble, a Mountie Constable always makes things right. You are the only Constable I could find and so I came to you.”

Sue was surprised at the way the tall man laughed.

“What’s your name?”

“Susannah Elizabeth Fairfield Winston.”

“Where do you live?”

“At Arundel Abbey.”

The blue eyes kept on twinkling. “Where is your governess?”

“I ran away from her to find you.”

“That’s bad,” the Constable answered. “Come along with me.”

Rapidly he clanged across the stone floor and, opening a heavy oak door, turned down a cool, dark passage and into a room looking out across the Great Park. It was a pleasant room, with its old brocade curtains, its heavy carved oak furniture and great table littered with papers and books. An orderly appeared and took the heavy busby from the officer.

“What’s your governess’s name?” he asked Sue.

“Miss Cramp.”

He turned back to the orderly. “Go down to the entrance gate and see if you can find Miss Cramp,” he said. “She will be with the group of Arundel Abbey girls. Present my compliments to Miss Cramp and say that I found Miss Winston who had lost her way in the crowd and that I myself will bring her back to the Abbey.”

The orderly saluted and disappeared. “Now,” said the officer, “I’m Colonel Ramsay-Lyons; supposing you tell me all about it.”

“Shall I begin at the beginning?” Sue asked.

Colonel Ramsay-Lyons sat down at the big desk and motioned Sue to the chair across from him. “The beginning is always an excellent place to begin,” he said. “And if I’m going to help you, perhaps I’d better hear it all.”

So Sue sat at the Constable’s desk and, with the white pigeons wheeling outside the windows and now and then the sound of spurred boots passing along the hall beyond, she told him of the prairies and the Yukon, of rushing waters and crocus-studded plains, of kindly gentlemen wearing red coats like his own, the coats of her beloved Mounties, of Lady Charlotte and Monty, of Arundel Abbey and the lost Crest.

The Constable asked her many questions and laughed often. He laughed in the way Michael and John Hogarth had laughed, as if being alive and talking to a little girl were the most joyous things in the world. He told Sue that he knew Lady Charlotte and Commissioner Walsh, that he had heard of Monty. He knew of Miss Templar, too, for his own godchild had been at Arundel Abbey. “And as for your Mounties,” he said, “there is no body of men in the world to equal them. I can quite understand how you feel about your Crest.”

They had tea then, with milk for Susannah, and frosted cakes and hot scones with strawberry jam, and the Constable told her of how he had lost a valuable watch once at Eton in the same way. It just disappeared and had never been found.

“I was pretty badly knocked out at the time,” he said, “for the watch had been given me by my Mother just before I left for school. It had been my Father’s and my Grandfather’s before him, and I treasured it more than anything in the world.” But just as there was nothing that could be done about the watch, so there was nothing that could be done about the Crest. At least nothing that Miss Templar had not already done.

“You must pull up your socks, Sue, and stop fretting,” he said briskly. “Your Crest and my watch are symbols to us both. Your Crest of the honor and glory of your Mounties, my watch, a heritage of courageous gentlemen. No one can take the memory of the winning of your Crest from you. No one can efface the memory of my Father and Grandfather. Those are things we keep in our hearts all our lives. So carry yourself as bravely as if you wore your Crest on your shoulder. It won’t be such good fun but it’ll help you keep your chin up when you’ve other losses.”

His words were serious but he smiled in such a kindly way that Sue realized that losing things was something he knew all about and understood how to make the best of.

She wished she could tell him how grateful she was for showing her the way, but the words she tried to use seemed very babyfied. She looked at the gallant figure of the Constable sitting there before her and then rising, stood at attention and saluted smartly.

“Very good, sir,” she said.

The Queen’s Deputy Household Constable and Governor of Windsor Castle, Col. Sir John Ramsay-Lyons, gravely returned the salute.

The orderly entered. “The carriage, sir.”

“Sue, we must run. I’m going to take you back to school myself and see if I can’t square things for you with Miss Templar, but first I must get out of these things.”

“Oh, don’t!” Sue cried. “Please don’t. You look so beautiful and if you took me back to school as you are, I should be so important among the other girls.”

The Constable laughed as they started out along the halls and down the great steps. Sue laughed, too, and stretched her legs as far as she could to keep step with him.

There was a carriage waiting for them, and on the harness Sue saw the Royal letters V.R. and a crown. There were two men on the box.

Through the great gates they drove and then, as if to make the afternoon even more complete, Sue saw ahead of them a company of soldiers. They wore red coats and busbys and were mounted on dappled grey horses.

“Soldiers!” cried Sue. “Who ever are they?”

“They are my regiment, the Royal Scots Greys,” said the Constable, and before they reached the Abbey Sue heard of how the Royal Scots Greys were called the “Bubblyjocks” or birdcatchers in Scotland.

A young officer rode by at a fast trot. Sue leaned out of the window and watched him. The Royal Scots Greys thrilled her but in her heart she thought they weren’t as fine as her Mounties.

When they reached the Abbey the great door flew open without their having to knock. Inside stood Barnes, looking even stiffer than usual, but Miss Templar was waiting with her friendliest smile. Sue looked anxiously down the hall and up the staircase. She wanted the whole school to witness her return in glory. And then, over the top of the landing rail she could see so many heads that she knew everyone who could crowd the railing was there watching . . . and in the very front was Clare’s carrot top.

“Take your things off, Sue, and then come down and thank Sir John for his care of you.”

“Yes, Miss Templar,” Sue answered primly and, as the door closed behind Miss Templar, she moved slowly up the stairs, as much like Rosemary as she could. But when she reached the landing all the girls fell on her at once.

“Tell us quick what happened?”

“Was he nice to you?” “Were you arrested?” “Did you see the Queen?” “What happened?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sue saw Clare. “Her ears are just flapping,” Sue thought, and raised her voice. “Nothing happened,” she said airily. “Nothing at all. I just had tea with the Constable of the Tower.”

“Oh, Sue!” cried Pam in delight. “You remember you said you would and now you’ve done it. How perfectly gorgeous!”

Hastily the girls followed her to her room where she took off her coat and hat and brushed her hair and then went down to Miss Templar.

For once the “Awful Door” did not seem at all awful, and Sue felt very grand sitting there listening to the two older people discuss the “future of England” and “the state of the Queen’s health.” At a signal from Miss Templar, Sue stood up, made her curtsey and said goodbye to the kindly Constable.

The girls were all in the Forge waiting for the supper bell when Sue returned and she had to tell the story over and over.

“But didn’t Miss Templar say anything to you at all for running away?” asked Marjorie.

“Not a word,” said Sue. “The Constable said he’d square things for me and he has.”

The bell rang and with Pam’s and Blanche’s arms around her, Sue went down the hall to supper. On the way they met Miss Smith. Her face was flushed and the tip of her nose seemed even redder than usual: The three girls stood aside for her to pass and overheard part of her conversation with Miss Cramp.

“It’s Cathie Macdonald,” she said. “She was all right until about an hour ago and then was reported to me. I’ve given her sal volatile, but she’s in a queer state. I think I’ll have to send for the doctor. I’m going straight to Miss Templar, though why a girl has to choose Sunday afternoon to be ill is more than I can say . . . and on my one Sunday evening off!”

It was plain to all of them that Smithie’s temper was very ruffled.

Afterwards they heard more about it. Cathie Macdonald was having queer attacks of something called hysteria in her room. She rolled her eyes and moaned and clenched her hands and wouldn’t let Miss Smith touch her and finally Smithie sent for Miss Templar. Miss Templar had had Smithie get the doctor. And the doctor had come and gone very soon and hadn’t looked a bit upset.

Sue thought it all very boring. She told the girls about hysteria. “It’s not much of a disease,” she said. “It generally comes from bad temper or fright and you cure it by smacking them soundly where they least expect it, or by dashing a pail of cold water over them.”

“How do you know?” Marjorie asked.

“Oh, I know,” Sue explained, “because there was a woman on the boat who had hysteria. They couldn’t do anything with her and Lady Charlotte said, ‘Let me deal with her.’ She smacked her,” continued Sue, “and flung cold water on her and, do you know, that woman never had another attack. You see, she didn’t like getting her clothes wet.”

“I wonder if they threw water on Cathie,” Iris began, but Phyllis shook her head.

“Tell us again about the Constable, Sue. What he said, what his rooms looked like, and about the Bubblyjocks.”

Sue took a long breath. Phyllis was asking her to tell the story over again so that Clare should know beyond doubt that the first part of her boast had come true.

But the day was not to end without another surprise. Just before the bedtime bell rang, Miss Templar sent for Sue to come to the Headmistress’s room.

“I wonder what this can be about,” Sue asked herself, as she knocked on the “Awful Door.”

Miss Templar was sitting in front of the fire and for a moment Sue thought she had been crying.

“You sent for me, Miss Templar?” asked Sue.

“Yes, come along in, Sue,” said Miss Templar. “Come over here beside the fire. I have a very difficult story to tell you and you will need to give me your full attention . . .” the Head Mistress hesitated for a moment “. . . and you will need to be generous and kindly.”

“Yes, Miss Templar.” Sue took the little wicker chair in front of the fire. She wondered what on earth could have happened. Miss Templar wasn’t exactly solemn. She seemed more sad than solemn and yet there was a determined air about her, too.

“You remember your Crest, Sue?” Sue nodded. What a silly question, she thought. As if she could ever forget it!

“You were right, Sue! Your Crest was stolen. I know who stole it and I have it here. . . .”

Miss Templar held out her hand. The Crest lay there shining in her palm.

“My Crest,” said Sue fearfully, and then bending forward, touched it with one finger. “Truly, my Crest?” She took it into her own hands. “My Crest, my Mountie Crest,” she said. “Oh, Miss Templar!”

The Head Mistress nodded. “Yes,” she said. “It’s your Mountie Crest and I’m glad you have it safely back again.”

Sue examined it. Not a scratch or bend in it. It was just as lovely as on the morning when Monty had first pinned it to her dress.

“How did you find it?” she asked, and then, “Who was the thief? He should be arrested and taken to jail at once!”

Miss Templar nodded. “Yes,” she said. “That is exactly how the law is written. If you steal and are found out you are arrested, tried, and if guilty, taken to jail to serve your sentence. . . . But I don’t think you will want that done when you hear the story.”

“Oh, yes, I shall,” broke in Sue. “It was a wicked, wicked thing to do. Why shouldn’t the thief be arrested?” She paused but Miss Templar did not answer. “Who was the thief?” Sue asked again.

Miss Templar hesitated. She poked the fire for a moment and then walked up and down the room. “Do you really want to know?” she asked. “It will make you very unhappy.”

“Why should I be unhappy over a thief?” asked Sue in astonishment. “Of course I want to know! Who was it, Miss Templar?”

Miss Templar hesitated again and then said, “Cathie Macdonald.”

“The mean little sneak,” said Sue hotly. “I never liked her anyway. Nobody does. What a dreadful thing for her to do!”

“Yes,” agreed Miss Templar, “it was a dreadful thing to do, but if anyone is to be blamed for this theft, I am the one, not Cathie.”

“You!” gasped Sue. The whole world seemed turning upside down. A Head Mistress a thief? What could it all be about?

“I don’t understand,” she said. “First you say it’s Cathie and then you say you are to blame. How can I understand? I’m all puzzled in my head.”

Miss Templar sat down again and told Sue what had happened.

It seemed that when the girls returned from Windsor Castle they had brought word that Sue was with the Constable of the Tower. Later, when the carriage drove up with the Constable in all the glory of his scarlet and gold, the girls had hung over the stair rail to see the arrival. Shortly afterwards Cathie had been taken ill, had refused to allow Miss Smith to take care of her properly, and Miss Templar had been sent for. To her surprise, Cathie had asked to see her alone. Once the door was shut Cathie had taken the Crest from a hiding place and given it to the Head Mistress.

“I stole it,” Cathie had said. “I stole it, and Sue has brought the Constable from the Tower and I know he is going to arrest me and put me in jail! Don’t let my Father know! I must go to jail, but don’t let my Father know!”

“I promised her that her Father should never know,” continued Miss Templar, “and she grew quieter. Then, bit by bit, I learned of her home life. She is not attractive, Sue, and she is dull, neither amusing nor clever. None of you girls liked her and neither did the Mistresses, but I had taken her for a year and I felt I must keep her.

“Now I find that her Mother died when she was a baby and an old Aunt has brought her up. Her Father has great sheep ranches in New Zealand and is only home in England every other year. Cathie has been brought up by a woman old enough to be her grandmother, who felt her responsibility so keenly that she never allowed the child friends of her own age, but gave her all her lessons herself and watched over her so carefully that Cathie had no freedom.

“When her Father was home last year, he saw how things were and sent Cathie to me. She has never had any pretty clothes, has never had any fun or life like girls of her age should have, and didn’t know that little girls may own bits of personal jewelry.

“To her, your Crest became the most beautiful thing in the world. She used to go into your room to look at it every day when you were having your music lesson. She used to touch it and finally she thought if she could hold it in her hand just once, she would be happy. One day she unpinned it and held it close, and then ran off to her room and hid it . . .”

“I would have let her hold it!” exclaimed Sue hotly. “Only she never asked me. Why didn’t she ask me?”

“I questioned her about that, too,” Miss Templar replied, “and she told me she was afraid to. She knew the girls all thought her stupid, that they disliked her, and she grew more and more frightened each day. She told me she couldn’t do anything without its going wrong.”

“You gave her a chance to tell,” objected Sue. “Why didn’t she say something then?”

“She was afraid, Sue. Don’t you understand . . . afraid of everyone. Afraid to tell, and afraid not to tell!” Miss Templar answered. “Had I been a better Head Mistress, Sue, she would never have taken the Crest.”

“I don’t see that,” protested Sue, who felt very bewildered.

“I do,” replied Miss Templar firmly. “Had I studied this quiet little girl more carefully, I would have seen that she needed special care and attention, until she became one with you all, instead of being the lonely little outsider that she is . . . reaching out for beauty and fun and being denied it, by the very people her Father trusted to take care of her!”

Sue sighed. This was all beyond her understanding. On the prairies a thief was a thief. Here in England a thief was someone to be frightfully sorry for, and she really couldn’t see why she should be sorry for a girl who had given so much trouble. She moved restlessly in her chair and held her Crest more closely. “What are you going to do to Cathie?” she asked.

“Nothing,” answered Miss Templar.

“Nothing?” cried Sue. “After stealing my Crest! Nothing?”

Miss Templar nodded. “What are you going to do to her?” she asked.

“Me? I don’t know,” said Sue in surprise.

Miss Templar pulled back the curtains and opened the window. Outside Sue could see the stars and the rising moon. Far off there were the faint sounds of night in the country. Sue knew them well, the chunk-chunk of a frog, the low call of birds, a cricket.

“What is the motto on your Crest?” asked Miss Templar.

“Maintain the Right.”

Miss Templar turned back from the window. “I am going to leave you here, Sue,” she said, “and I am going up to sit with Cathie until she goes to sleep. Think over all I have told you and when you decide what you would like done with her let me know. That is your right . . . only, Sue, be sure when you make your decision, that you are maintaining the right.”

The door closed and Sue moved nearer to the fire. It was just what a Head Mistress would do, she thought—leave her all alone to make such a decision. It was the Head’s place to decide upon punishments, not the girls’, and Cathie had stolen her Crest.

Sue felt very upset. She couldn’t bear to think of sending anyone to jail . . . or even of being the means of having anyone expelled . . . but her Crest . . .

She wished Monty or the Commissioner were there to help her. Miss Templar, she sometimes thought, had a flavor of the Commissioner about her, but she wasn’t as friendly.

The coals burned low in the grate and Sue shivered. Perhaps Miss Templar was right, that Cathie hadn’t had much fun. Sue poked the fire a little. She wished she had some bits of green wood to lay at the back of the fire with nice dry pine in front so that there would be a bright blaze and yet it would hold, the way fires did in the Yukon.

She looked around the room. Photographs everywhere! Such funny ones, too, of girls in queer dresses, very old-fashioned and faded. Girls playing hockey and tennis, girls riding, girls in presentation and bridal dresses, and all of the pictures marked “To Dear Miss Templar.” Sue wondered if the girls really meant that when they wrote it.

On the big writing table there was a funny small picture in a velvet frame of a lady holding a little girl of two in her arms. Sue examined it. The baby was unmistakably Miss Templar. There was the same nose and mouth, the same expression.

“I never thought of a Head Mistress ever being a baby,” said Sue to herself. Somehow it made Miss Templar suddenly more human.

She thought of Cathie and the horrid time she must have had all alone and without any fun . . . only a strict old Aunt. She remembered the Commissioner and Superintendent Consell, Old Louie and the Constable of the Tower. Gallant gentlemen all. And she remembered most of all how kind they had been when she disobeyed orders. The Superintendent could have taken the Crest away from her that dreadful morning in the Yukon when she had had to report to him for insubordination . . . but he hadn’t. Sue gave the footstool in front of her a kick. “I wish I were back in the Yukon,” she said to herself.

She found an apple in a dish on a side table and ate it. It made her feel a little better. She pinned her Crest on her shoulder again and looked into the mirror to see if it shone as brightly as ever . . .

She leaned out of the window and let the cool air blow over her face . . .

She touched the Crest with gentle fingers. “This maintaining the right is an awful business when you have to do it all alone,” she said to herself, “but I expect I’ll have to do it with Cathie.”

Sue went upstairs. The corridors were quiet and dim, the stairs empty. Everyone was asleep.

In Cathie’s room, Miss Templar sat holding the hand of a frightened little girl with swollen eyes and tear-stained face.

Sue looked at her and wondered how she ever could have had such mean thoughts about her as she had had downstairs.

“Don’t cry, Cathie,” she said. “Don’t cry! Let’s pretend it never happened and let’s forget all about it.”

“What was Miss Templar talking to you about in her room last night?” asked Pam on their way down to breakfast the following morning.

“About my bad character!” whispered Sue, only too thankful that rules forbade any further conversation until after breakfast.

When prayers were over Miss Templar looked down among the girls and said clearly, in the most matter of fact way,

“I’m glad to tell you that Sue Winston’s Crest has been found. Susannah, will you come up and get it?”

Last night, in Cathie’s room, Sue had given the Crest back to Miss Templar and the three of them had agreed that it should be returned to her without comment and in a way that forbade questioning. Sue walked slowly up to the platform and you could have heard a pin drop when Miss Templar placed it in her hands. She turned, and before she could reach her seat, the Head Mistress was asking the Upper and Lower schools to plan for the annual school bazaar. “You will, of course, have the usual sale of fancy work, but the question of a concert, a play or whatever form of entertainment you choose must be decided upon within the week. Let me hear from you next Monday afternoon.” There was a pause. “Upper Forms lead out!”

Sue breathed deeply. It was all over now and she could forget about it and so could Cathie.

Sue wondered how it was possible for anyone in the world to be as wonderful as Miss Templar. “Whatever happens she always knows just what to do, and it’s always right,” Sue said to herself, as she opened the hated French grammar.

But an hour later Barnes knocked at the classroom door. She was strangely flushed, almost purple, and a blind man could have seen that she was in a rare rage. She handed Mademoiselle a note.

“Susannah!”

Sue leaped to her feet.

“Oui, oui, Mademoiselle.”

“You are to go to Miss Hill at once.”

“Whatever have I done now?” wondered Sue, as she knocked on Miss Hill’s door. “Did you send for me, Miss Hill?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Miss Hill shortly. “You are excused from your lessons for the day. Your Grandfather is in the drawing room.”

“My Grandfather!” repeated Sue. “Grandpapa Winston?” Miss Hill nodded. She, too, was flushed.

“I gather that you have never met him.”

“No,” Sue answered, “I’ve never even seen him. What’s he like?” she asked.

“I should prefer to let you judge for yourself,” said Miss Hill acidly.

Sue went down the hall. She only had one grandparent living and she supposed he must be very old. Grandparents were always old and white-headed and a bit feeble. They leaned on canes and mumbled a bit, at least they did in books.

Sue opened the drawing room door.

There was a rush of white fur, a sharp yelp, two paws on her shoulders, dark beady eyes shining with happiness, a rough tongue! It was Sue’s husky, Bomby, who had come all the way from the Yukon with her and had been sent for safe keeping to her grandfather in Ireland.

“Bomby!” shrieked Sue. “Bomby! Down! Down!”

“Down, Bomby, down!” a deep voice cried.

Bomby dropped to all four paws, his tail swishing gaily, and Sue looked up. A tall, thin man stood there before her, with piercing blue eyes, iron grey hair and a moustache.

“So!” he said. “You are Susannah.”

“You’re never Grandpapa Winston?” cried Sue delightedly.

“Why not?” the deep voice asked.

“But you’re young and gay!” exclaimed Sue. “I thought you’d be old and lean on a cane and say ‘Grummmph’ each time I spoke.”

“You’ve your Mother’s looks,” the deep voice said, “and your Father’s wit. You should go far, Susannah.”

“Are you really Daddy’s Father?” asked Sue.

“I am and I hope you and I are going to be friends. I have a cane, Sue, and I can thump it when I have to.” He motioned to where his hat and gloves and cane lay on a table.

Sue looked at him again.

“You’re very elegant,” she said. “The girls will all envy me!”

Grandpapa Winston twiddled his moustache and then put both hands in his pockets and leaned back against the fireplace. He wore a lounge suit of darkest grey, the coat single-breasted with small lapels and a high cut opening. Under it was a fancy checked waistcoat with gilt buttons.

“Do you like your Head Mistress, Sue?” he asked.

“She’s the best in the world,” answered Sue proudly.

“Do you think so?” he asked. “Well, I don’t. I think she’s a most tiresome woman.”

“Oh, Grandpapa, don’t!” cried Sue. “If anyone heard you, I don’t know what would happen to you!”

“A most tiresome woman,” Grandpapa Winston repeated. “When I arrived here this morning I asked for Miss Templar. That sour-faced parlor maid told me she couldn’t be seen until three o’clock this afternoon. I asked for Miss Hill. She, too, said I couldn’t see Miss Templar. So I thumped my stick on the floor and Bomby growled and Miss Templar came out into the hall.

“I explained that I had come to see you. She told me neither Mistress nor girls saw anyone until three in the afternoon—that the rules were clear. She talked to me, Susannah, as if I were a boy in short pants again!”

Sue bent over Bomby’s head. “And then what happened?” she asked.

“I bowed and asked her if she would be good enough to send for you or would she prefer that I should go after you. And then I tightened Bomby’s leash. Whenever you do that, Sue, he growls. At the first growl, the parlor maid and Miss Hill vanished. At the second growl, Miss Templar put me in here and sent for you.”

“Oh, mercy me!” said Sue. “What a pickle to be in. What do we do next?”

“How would you and your roommates like to go to London with me tomorrow for the day?”

“Miss Templar would never let us,” Sue answered.

“Oh, yes, she will,” Grandpapa Winston answered. “She’ll let you do what I say . . . or I’ll set Bomby on her!”

His words were fiery but Sue knew that he really wouldn’t hurt a fly, and presently Barnes appeared.

“Miss Templar’s compliments,” she said sourly, “and she would like to know if Mr. Winston would care to stay for dinner.”

“I should, indeed,” he replied, and then the fuss started over Bomby. Miss Templar wouldn’t have him in the dining-room, which meant that Sue had to shut the husky in the girls’ locker room in the basement while they were at dinner. Afterwards Sue and Pam and Blanche sat out on the lawn with her Grandfather and planned what they would do in London for, surprisingly enough, Miss Templar had given permission for them to go to town the following day.

It was all very peaceful and happy when suddenly Bomby burst out of the basement window with a large be-ribboned hat in his mouth. Shaking it from side to side, he began charging up and down the lawn.

“Bomby!” roared Grandpapa Winston.

“Bomby!” shrieked Sue.

“Bombé!” cried Mademoiselle from the window. But Bomby had never tasted straw, tulle and feathers before and he raced down the pathways and across freshly planted borders of flowers.

Miss Templar came out and joined the screaming crowd of girls and Bomby waved his tail and tried to bark and found he couldn’t with his mouth full of hat. It was all very joyous and exciting until Sue dragged the happy Bomby back into the locker room and there discovered that an open door had shown Bomby the way to all the Sunday hats. What was left of six of them lay on the floor. Was Miss Templar furious! “Gee Whitakers!” said Sue fearfully, but Grandpapa Winston only laughed.

“There are plenty more hats where these came from,” he said. “Don’t worry, Miss Templar. I’ll take care of this.” And Grandpapa Winston wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes.

But Bomby had enjoyed himself too much to remain locked up in any basement. He wrenched himself free and started out on another garden rampage. The three girls tumbled after him and nearly upset the chair where Cathie was sitting wrapped in shawls.

This time it was harder to catch Bomby. He was tired of the garden and spying the open gate, started towards it. But Cathie saw his intention, too, and catching up her pillow, she raced across the corner of the lawn. She had only a short distance to go but the dog was stronger and faster than she. Standing still, she flung the pillow at him. It hit him smack on the nose. Surprised, he stood still and then, after a sniff or two, commenced tearing it apart. Feathers scattered in every direction and while Cathie ran on and closed the gate, the storm of feathers grew until it was difficult to know which was Bomby’s white fur and waving tail and which was flying goose down.

Sue caught him at last and they helped the shaky Cathie back to her chair in the sun.

“Sue,” said Pam, as they sat resting in the locker room, “did you see how fast Cathie ran?”

Sue nodded. “Do you know what I think?” went on Pam. “I think she would be a good person for our secret society. Any girl that can run as fast as that would be like lightning in a taffeta petticoat. She would make a good Junior hockey forward. Let’s ask her to join and swear her in tomorrow.”

Sue smiled happily. She thought Pam the nicest girl she had ever known, and her niceness gave Sue an idea.

“Grandpapa,” she asked, “do you think we could take one more girl with us tomorrow?”

“Why not, Sue?” he asked. “Who is it you want?”

“Cathie Macdonald.”

“And who is she?”

“Well,” said Sue, a bit dashed at having to explain Cathie, “she’s the one who caught Bomby when he ran away the second time.”

“You mean the little girl who threw the pillow at him? That was quick thinking. Of course you may bring her.”

At ten o’clock the following morning the four girls stood in the hall, waiting for Grandpapa Winston. They were the most envied girls in the school, for they were going to London by train and did not have to be back at the Abbey until half past six.

When the station fly arrived there was a slight difficulty about cramming the four girls, Bomby and Grandpapa Winston inside it. Bomby took up so much room and wouldn’t sit still. At the station there was even more difficulty. He had to be chained up along with the trunks in the luggage van and then he barked so wildly that at every stop from Windsor to London they all had to get out of their compartment and run along the platform to scold him for being noisy.

Bomby would prick up his ears, wag his tail, loll his tongue and quiver all over with delight and mischief; the Guard would call “all aboard” and they would race back to their compartment, the train would start, and above the clatter of the wheels they would hear Bomby barking again. Over and over it happened.

Sue had never enjoyed a train journey more.

At Paddington Station, however, when they had reached London, Bomby became quite a problem.

“What will we do with him?” asked Grandpapa Winston. “We can’t take him to a hat shop!”

The four girls stood looking anxiously at Bomby. None of them had ever picked out a hat for herself before and in the train Grandpapa Winston had promised that they should all have that delightful experience as soon as they reached London.

They tried the Station Master and at first it looked as if he would take care of Bomby for the day . . . and then the husky growled. They tried the package room. Bomby showed his teeth! They tried a porter. He took one look at Bomby and ran away. Bomby thought it was a game and tried to run after him and Grandpapa Winston had to hold him very tightly.

“It looks as if we’d have to spend the day taking care of him!” Pam observed mournfully.

“Let’s take him up to Lady Charlotte’s,” said Sue. “She knows him and she can manage anything!” So they all piled into a cab and drove up to Lady Charlotte’s.

“Take him in yourself, Sue,” her Grandfather said. “We’ll wait.”

Sue ran up the steps and rang. Stole, the old butler, opened the door.

“My, my, Miss Sue,” he said. “What have you here?”

“Woof!” said Bomby. But Stole wasn’t to be frightened by any woofing. “Down!” he said sharply. “Down!” And wonder of wonders, Bomby lay quietly at his feet.

Rapidly Sue explained what had happened.

Stole nodded. “Her ladyship is out,” he said, “but I’ll put Bomby in my pantry for the day. You can fetch him on your way back to the train. And I think, Miss Sue, that you and your party had better come in for tea. Her ladyship wouldn’t like to miss you.”

Sue thanked him and dashed out of the door and down the steps, while Stole held Bomby tightly by the collar.

“And now,” said Sue, hopping back into the cab, “for the hats!”

They drove to Bond Street and then walked slowly along it until they came to a shop known as the Maison Nicole.

Grandpapa Winston opened the door and shooed the four girls in ahead of him. It was a very chic shop, with velvet carpets and long brocade portières sweeping the floor. Three young women with beautiful, fluffy pompadours and long black dresses came forward to meet them.

“We want four hats,” said Grandpapa Winston. The tallest young woman said, “Yes, Sir,” and disappeared into another room. She came back with Madame Nicole herself, a lady with very black hair.

“I am very sorry, sir,” she said, “but we do not carry children’s hats. I think you would find them at Foster and Kennedey’s in Regent Street.”

Grandpapa Winston shook his head. “We haven’t come for children’s hats,” he said. “We’ve come for anything these four girls want.”

Madame Nicole protested that she had nothing “suitable.” Grandpapa Winston waved his stick. “Let’s see what you have,” he said, and then turned to Sue. “What was it you wanted?” he asked.

“A hat with five blue ostrich plumes,” said Sue. Madame Nicole gave a little gasp.

“A big hat,” said Pam.

“A hat turned up at the side,” said Blanche.

Cathie said nothing at all. She just smiled.

Feathers, tulle, lace, ribbons, buckles, bows—everything you could think of—came out of the big drawers, boxes and cases. The hats were either too big or too little, too fancy or too plain. Madame Nicole clearly did not approve, but her young assistants thought it fun, for they laughed a good deal among themselves.

But at last Sue found a leghorn hat with two blue feathers drooping over the brim. You couldn’t see much of Sue when it was on, but it was very dashing and Sue sat smiling at herself in the mirror. Pam had discovered a pale pink lace and mohair hat and Blanche a flower toque which she wore at a rakish angle over one ear.

Cathie had nothing. They all turned to her then and tried to fit her, but as Madame Nicole said, her head was so small and her hair so soft and fine, that either a crown was too large or it slipped off her smooth hair.

Grandpapa went poking around the shop, and finally came upon a small round box. “What’s in this?” he asked.

Madame Nicole smiled. “Let me show you, Monsieur,” she said, and with a flourish lifted out a tiny green hat that was shaped like a pixy’s, and topped by a single tiny green feather.

“Très chic, n’est-ce-pas?” said Madame.

Grandpapa took it from her and walked across to where Cathie was sitting quietly on a cushioned stool. He looked at Cathie. He looked at the hat.

He turned to one of the assistants. “Tie her hair back,” he said, “away from her face.” This done, he popped the hat on Cathie’s head.

“Gracious!” exclaimed Sue, “I never knew before that Cathie’s eyes were green.”

“I never knew her hair was shiny!” said Blanche.

The young assistant softened the hair at Cathie’s temples and stood back. Grandpapa smiled and nodded approvingly.

“Turn around and look at yourself,” he said.

Cathie turned obediently and looked into the mirror. First in a bewildered way, and then, as if it couldn’t be true, she touched the soft green crêpe with a finger and bobbed her head. The little feather fluttered gently. Cathie smiled and lifted her chin.

Grandpapa blew his nose violently. “We’ll take it,” he said. “It suits the child.”

“But impossible, Monsieur,” cried Madame Nicole. “That hat is not for sale. It has been made to order for a customer.”

“Make another!” barked Grandpapa Winston.

“Quite impossible,” said Madame Nicole firmly. “That hat has been made for a famous actress and is to be worn tomorrow.”

“Make another,” repeated Grandpapa.

“You do not understand,” said Madame Nicole, almost in tears. “That hat has been designed for Miss Fleurette Montizambert!”

“Tootsie Twinkling Toes!” cried Sue.

“Fleetlegs!” exclaimed Blanche.

“Hush,” said Pam, for Grandpapa Winston was speaking to Madame Nicole and he was being very firm.

“There will be no further argument,” he said. “I’m taking the four hats.” Reaching into an inside pocket, he pulled out his note case and opened it.

“Put elastics on these three hats,” he said. “We will be back after luncheon to collect them. Don’t take yours off, Cathie. You are to wear it! And now, where shall we have luncheon?”

“Fulton’s,” said Sue promptly. Fulton’s was a new restaurant in Regent Street which she had heard about from Rosemary. The doormen wore white uniforms and on their collars and peaked caps was embroidered in script lettering the word “Fulton’s.”

When they reached there, Grandpapa shook his head. “Comic opera costumes,” he said. “I don’t like them. What made you choose this place, Sue?”

“Rosemary said it was an American restaurant and that we could buy ‘American candies’ here,” Sue answered. “And, besides, you can get an ‘ice cream soda.’ That’s what I’d like for my luncheon.”

“What on earth is an ice cream soda?” asked her Grandfather.

“Don’t you know?” asked Sue. “It’s ice cream with very cold fizzy water poured over it. It’s lovely!”

Her Grandfather shuddered as they went inside. “I’m not going to assault my internal arrangements with any such mixture,” he said, and ordered clear soup, chicken and green peas for them all. But with a little coaxing later the girls each had a chocolate ice cream soda, while he had biscuits and cheese.

“What next?” he asked.

“Opera creams,” said Pam. “Rosemary calls them American candies.” They turned out to be fat squares of rosy pink. Sue bit into one. “It tastes a bit lardish,” she said, “but I think we’ll get used to it, and they are nice and big.”

Her Grandfather took out his watch. “We have half an hour,” he said, “to collect the hats and go on to the Coliseum.” There was a little cry from Sue. “Not a Music Hall?” she asked. “How lovely!”

A few minutes later they entered Madame Nicole’s where the young assistants placed their hats on their heads.

“I feel a bit top-heavy,” Sue said, as she tilted her head far back, “but very elegant.” Plumes drooping over a hat brim were difficult to manage if you wanted to look at anything taller than yourself. Pam’s lovely bangs were hidden by her hat, but Blanche’s dimpled cheeks were rosy with delight, as she cocked the flowery toque further over one ear.

Laughing as if he would never stop, Grandpapa Winston put them in a cab and they drove off to the Coliseum. None of them had ever been to a Music Hall before, and when they found themselves sitting grandly in a box, with grown-up hats on their heads and ice cream sodas in their insides, they were far too interested in themselves to even bother with the music of the orchestra.

“Do you think everyone’s looking at us?” asked Blanche.

“Oh, yes,” Sue answered, “but let’s pretend we don’t even notice. Let’s pretend we’re ladies!”

“I thought you hated the word ‘lady,’ ” giggled Pam, then she peered through the transparent brim of her hat at Blanche, who was nodding gaily, right and left. “What are you doing?” she asked her.

“I’m bowing, like the Queen,” said Blanche. “I don’t know anyone, but I’m pretending I do!”

But the curtain went up at last and there were tumblers and singers and dancers, a lady with a white horse that could count up to twenty and do tricks, and a very funny man who tried to paper a room and never could get up his ladder without falling into a pail of paste.

The stage manager came out then and announced that the Coliseum felt itself very fortunate in having been able to persuade the distinguished American “Black Bird Boys” to come to them for six weeks, and that this was their first performance.

The Black Bird Boys were darkies and they wore red coats and white trousers and blue caps. They sang songs and the two end men cracked jokes, and at the finale each man brought out a mouth organ and when they played There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night, the audience clapped and clapped, and the Black Bird Boys rolled their eyes and smiled, caught their breath and began all over again.

“There is no music like the mouth organ,” said Sue, tilting her hat back on her head, for when the lovely darkey airs began, she forgot the blue ostrich feathers, forgot everything but the color and music on the stage.

“Come along,” said Grandpapa Winston at last, when the final encore was over, “we’ll be late for tea.” Once more they piled into a cab and drove up to Lady Charlotte’s. Stole opened the door. He looked a little startled as the four girls and Sue’s Grandfather entered the hall, but not as startled as Lady Charlotte.

“What on earth have you got on your head, Susannah?” she boomed, “and what do these other preposterous hats mean?”

Grandpapa introduced himself and explained.

“Preposterous,” Lady Charlotte repeated. “Perfectly preposterous, and you know it!” She tried to glare at them all and suddenly started to laugh. The four girls laughed. Grandpapa laughed and even Stole smiled.

They had tea and there was much conversation about Bomby and the difficulty of traveling with a husky.

“Sue,” said her Grandfather, “I wonder if you will lend Bomby to a friend of mine. He’s an explorer and he’s going to the Arctic in a week. He needs trained dogs. Will you lend him Bomby? England is too warm for a northern dog, and Bomby will be happier and healthier if he has work to do.”

Sue remembered the trouble they had had with him at Paddington in the morning—and she knew, too, that each time she traveled with him there would be more trouble.

“Is the explorer a nice man?” she asked. “And kind?”

Her Grandfather nodded. “Very well,” said Sue, “but I’ll go down and tell Bomby about it myself.”

Bomby was sitting on a chair in the pantry, staring out of the window. He was mournful, and though he welcomed Sue with the old delight, she knew at once that Grandpapa Winston was right. A husky’s place was in crisp, clear northern air, with snow beneath his paws.

Sue cupped the husky’s white cheeks between her hands.

“Bomby,” she said, “you’re going north again. You’ll be away nearly two years and by that time I’ll be almost grown up and able to handle you myself.” She scrabbled behind his ears in the way he loved.

“Dear Bomby,” said Sue softly, and kissed the top of his head, “don’t forget me. You were a darling fluffy puppy, and you’re a darlinger dog. . . .”

Sue closed the door behind her and went slowly along the hall. From the doorway she looked into the drawing room. Lady Charlotte and her Grandfather were talking gaily to each other. Pam and Blanche were gobbling cakes, and nearby on an ottoman by herself sat Cathie.

Sue looked at Cathie again. She seemed different. She was sitting very erect, with her tiny head in its pixy hat held high. There was a glow about her, almost as if she had found some lovely, shining secret that she had never known before—like Rosemary, and the Queen when she was young.

Sue wondered what it could be and following Cathie’s eyes, saw she was looking into a mirror—almost, thought Sue, as if she’d never seen herself before.

All too soon they were on the train again. The compartment was full of boxes. There was a huge plum cake with almond icing from Buzzard’s; there was a creamy cake from Fulton’s; four hat boxes from Madame Nicole’s, each one containing a school hat; and a simply gorgeous box of opera creams. As they neared Windsor, Pam wondered if perhaps they hadn’t better change into their school hats, but Grandpapa Winston said, “No, positively, no!”

Sleepy, tired and full of rich food, they arrived back in the station fly at seven instead of half past six. “That’s really awful!” exclaimed Sue. “I don’t know what Miss Templar will say to us.”

“Leave her to me,” her Grandfather answered serenely, as if no Head Mistress in the world could scare him.

As they entered the hall, the entire school, Mistresses and girls, were coming down the stairs for supper.

There were “Ohs” and “Ahs” as they saw the hats. Miss Templar turned a rich, ripe plum color and came forward quickly.

“What nonsense is this?” Sue heard her ask, in low but angry tones.

Her Grandfather’s answer wasn’t heard, but Miss Templar’s reply was. “Perfectly preposterous,” she said, in exactly the same way Lady Charlotte had when she first saw the hats. Only Lady Charlotte had laughed. Miss Templar didn’t.

“Take your things off, girls,” said Miss Hill, “and then come and say goodnight to Mr. Winston.”

A few minutes of hasty tidying and they came down and said “goodnight” and “thank you” to Sue’s Grandfather, who seemed to be the only one enjoying himself any longer.

He really was a wonderful person, Sue thought, and as she closed the “Awful Door” behind her she could hear his voice:

“Miss Templar, I salute you,” he was saying. “You are a courageous woman. I’ve only had four of them for eight hours. You have fifty-four of them for eight months. However do you do it?”

Miss Templar laughed then and Sue knew that nothing more would be heard about the hats that were “perfectly preposterous.”

“Sing it again,” said Blanche sleepily.

Sue sat up in bed, pushed her curls back and began:

“It’s the song we sing in Canada on the Queen’s birthday,” she explained. “Everyone has a holiday and there are lots of firecrackers and bonfires and Roman candles that hiss and sputter.”

Blanche pattered across the bedroom floor in her bare feet. It was long before the rising bell.

“I don’t know much about Canada,” she said, “but here in England on the twenty-fourth of May we leave off our woolies and that’s a celebration in itself.”

“Well, you’d better dress as fast as you can then,” called Pam from the window. “The sky is cloudy and it’d be just like Smithie to make us wear our woolies another day.”

Anxiously the three girls looked out at the grey sky.

“Let’s warn all the girls to be dressed by the time the rising bell rings!” Sue exclaimed. “Smithie couldn’t make us change then!”

Down the hall the three girls stole, rousing each room with the threat of the grey day and the despised woolies.

Shortly after the rising bell rang there was a rap on the door and Miss Smith stuck her head inside. “Not dressed already, girls!” she exclaimed, as she came further into the room.

“It’s curious,” she went on, “but in each room on this hall this morning, I have found everyone up and dressed . . . and that has never happened to me before in all the fourteen years I have been at Arundel Abbey.”

There was silence in the room. None of the girls knew whether to say, “No, Miss Smith” or “Yes, Miss Smith,” so they said nothing.

“I really knocked to say that I thought you had better wear your woolies another day,” said Miss Smith, “but now I hardly know what to do.”

“I don’t think we’d have time to change back to woolies before breakfast,” said Sue helpfully.

“Don’t you, Susannah?” Miss Smith answered coldly, her nose twitching violently. “Well, perhaps you’re right, but you will all wear cardigans to breakfast.”

“That was a near thing,” said Pam, when the door closed. “We just escaped by the skin of our teeth.”

Pulling on their cardigans and straightening the seams of their long black lisle thread stockings, the three girls clattered happily down the stairs to breakfast.

Miss Smith had been able to warn the Seniors in plenty of time and they were still wearing their woolies. Even Geraldine seemed flushed and irritable and more particularly when the Juniors chattered gaily of how free and light they felt without the binding heaviness of their clumsy winter underwear.

“I even learn better without them,” Sue whispered aggravatingly to Phyllis at Orders of the Day.

“I have two announcements,” Miss Hill began importantly, “that will please you. The first is that the Seniors may leave off their woolies at noon. The sun has come out at last, and there seems to be no danger of your catching colds.

“The second is that today being the birthday of Her Majesty, the Queen, you are to be allowed to attend the Band Concert of the First Life Guards, in the grounds of Windsor Castle. A note from Sir John Ramsay-Lyons, the Deputy Constable of the Tower, arrived a short time ago, saying that seats would be reserved for Arundel Abbey. This is a most unusual honor and has made Miss Templar very happy.”

There was a delighted burst of clapping.

“I wish I could wear my ostrich feather hat,” sighed Sue, “but I don’t suppose there’s a chance.”

“Not one,” answered Pam. “You’ve no idea how fussy Miss Templar will be over our looks.”

Pam was right, for when the whole school lined up in the Forge for inspection, every curl was examined, every button, and both sides of their white gloves. Everyone wore white muslin and a pale blue blazer and a broad-brimmed sailor hat. Such fussiness Sue had never seen. With her own hands Miss Templar pushed hats forward that were too far back, tucked too fluffy hair out of sight, re-tied hair ribbons, examined handkerchiefs.

“Very nice, girls,” she said finally. “Hold your heads up, keep your shoulders back and when you applaud, do so in a ladylike fashion. It has been very good of the Constable of the Tower to include us in the list of invitations and if, by any chance, he should come down to speak to us, you will all rise and remain standing until he leaves.”

Miss Templar passed down the line for a final inspection. Cathie put her hand on Sue’s arm. She was shaking all over and Sue knew it was because of the unhappy memories that were associated with the name of the Constable.

Miss Templar stopped in front of Cathie, almost as if she, too, knew Cathie’s fears.

“Your sailor hat is too large for you, Cathie,” she said gently. “Run down to your locker and put on the little green one Mr. Winston gave you, and you will drive with me to Windsor.”

Sue thought it was wonderful that Miss Templar should always remember about Cathie.

Out the door they marched, two by two, and over the meadows to Windsor and through the gates and park to the East Terrace.

Soldiers in uniform everywhere, blue and gold and scarlet; bearskin busbys, clattering swords and spurs. Stone urns massed with flowers, ornamental shrubs and landscaped lawns, and beyond the East Terrace the Private Apartments of Her Majesty, the Queen.

It was a very grand party, with lovely ladies in pale pinks and blues and broad hats moving over the lawns, their escorts wearing high, light grey “toppers.” Miss Templar looked so pretty in her pale blue trailing frock and carrying a frilly chiffon parasol that it was difficult to believe she could be a Head Mistress. Cathie sat beside her, wearing the small green pixy hat as proudly as if it were a crown.

God Save the Queen was played with everyone standing at attention, and afterwards, with the red coats of the soldiers reminding her of the Mounties, Sue sat listening to the music and wondering how she could ever make good her boast to bring a Mountie to the Abbey.

The concert was over all too soon and the members of the Royal Family and high dignitaries of the Church and State moved about, chatting gaily.

“Look, Sue!” said Pam. “It’s the Constable and he’s coming this way.”

Sue turned. Sir John was bending over Miss Templar’s hand and the two of them were laughing together. Miss Templar slipped an arm around Cathie and, with the whole school looking on, the Constable smiled and bowed and Cathie in her pixy hat bobbed prettily.

“Cathie’s met the Constable!” said Blanche enviously. “Isn’t she lucky? I wish my hat had been too big.”

Sue said nothing at all. She knew from the set of her head that Cathie’s fears at last were at rest.

It seemed very dull to go home, take off muslin dresses and settle down to sewing. At least Sue thought so, until Cathie, her eyes shining like stars, touched Sue’s arm gently.

“I know now why you wanted the Constable,” she whispered. “He seemed so kind. He’d never hurt anyone. Are your Mounties like him, Sue?”

“Yes,” said Sue emphatically, “only much, much better!”

“Less talking, Susannah,” Miss Mills called. “It’s going to take us all our time to be ready for the bazaar.”

Sue picked up her needle again. The bazaar was a frightful nuisance. The whole school had had a meeting in the Forge and had decided to give a performance of Romeo and Juliet in the evening, preceded by an afternoon sale of “fancy work.”

Each girl had promised to make at least one article for the work table. Miss Cramp, who taught “Needle and Fancy Work,” had brought out a number of samples and in an ambitious moment Sue had chosen to work a “French centerpiece.”

“Why is everything about the French so dreadfully difficult?” sighed Sue. “French verbs, French accent, French knots . . .”

“Let me see your work,” interrupted Miss Cramp and Sue stood up.

The centerpiece was a long narrow strip of yellow satin, edged with gold torchon lace. At either end of it, sprays of black currants with leaves and flowers were embroidered in colored silks. The currants were made of black beads. It had been fun making them, for Sue dearly loved doing bead work, but she had hated outlining the leaves with neat, tiny stitches of green and the flowers were a dreadful memory. Each one had a knobbly center of something called “French knots.” Miss Cramp had been most trying over them. You had to twirl the silk around your needle and then dig straight into the heart of the flowers and if you did it properly you left behind a little knot that represented the pistils of the blossom.

It was the easiest thing to prick your finger and leave behind a tiny spot on the satin—and then you had to cover it with another French knot. Sue looked gloomily at the number of knots. “It’s a pretty bumpy centerpiece,” she said. “Do you think anyone will buy it at the bazaar?”

“I hope so,” Miss Cramp answered doubtfully. “But try and work more slowly, Sue. You won’t prick your fingers then.”

Sue twisted the silk around her needle. “Why do I have to learn fancy work?” she asked crossly after Miss Cramp had gone. “I’m not going to be an old maid and do fancy work and play with the cat, like Miss Hill’s sister.” Blanche clattered her knitting needles busily. “You have to be able to do fancy work to be a lady,” she answered. “I’d rather knit than sew any day.”

Sue chuckled. Blanche was knitting a baby shawl and it was big enough for an elephant, for she had grown confused with the instructions to “knit one, purl two” and had added more stitches at the end of each new row. It looked for all the world like a pink woolly hammock. Easy Annie was tatting an edge to a square of white linen for a table mat. Pam was wood carving. She said it was the lid of a cigar box and that she knew her father would buy it. The bunch of acorns that made the knob to the cover looked more like mushrooms, but Sue supposed Pam’s father wouldn’t mind. In the corner, Clare was painting china, Dorothy was crocheting napkin rings and Gwen embroidering a washstand splasher. Sue wished she had chosen it. The design was called “A Bad Boy” and depicted a small boy having his ears washed by his cross old nurse. Gwen was tracing the design with red cotton on a white linen background.

But they were all restless after the Band Concert at the Castle and there were yawns and kicks and twitches, until Miss Cramp suggested that there was just time before supper to have a rehearsal of Romeo and Juliet.

Work things were put away and the players took up their positions. The whole Junior school had parts as pages or spear carriers, except Clare, who played the part of the nurse. “Not because she can act,” explained Phyllis, “but because she can memorize so quickly.”

Juliet was played by Veronica, a pasty-faced sort of girl with long hair, who sighed her part in most romantic fashion, rolled her eyes and clutched at her heart and generally looked very silly.

Romeo was played by Barbara with such a cheerful voice that Sue couldn’t believe he would ever stab himself for love of Juliet, and besides, Barbara was far too fat to look well in a doublet!

Sue and Blanche were spear carriers and stood at an imaginary doorway listening to the moans and groans of the lovers. Sue thought it all very boring. “I can’t see why they don’t stop fussing,” she complained during the rest period, when Miss Cramp left them alone, “and run away from home where no one will find them. It’s awful having to stand here and listen to them. Clare sounds like a volcano when she reads her lines and Friar Lawrence like a turkey gobbler, and all we Juniors do is stand around. Why can’t we Juniors have a show of our own?”

“Oh, but we’ve never done that,” said Pam. “We couldn’t begin now!”

“Why not?” asked Blanche. “My Mother says women are too mealy-mouthed about their likes and dislikes. She believes we should air our opinions like men do. Come on, Sue, I’m sick of carrying spears. Let’s air our opinions together.”

Sue stood up on a chair. “Hands up,” she said, “for those who like Shakespeare.”

Clare’s hand and Gwen’s were raised.

“Why do you like Shakespeare?” asked Sue.

“Because of the imperishable beauty of his poetry and his drama,” replied Clare smugly.

“Pish!” cried Pam. “That’s not your own idea. You heard somebody say that. Gwen, why do you like Shakespeare?”

“I don’t know,” Gwen answered. “I just thought one had to like Shakespeare.”

“Pish and Puff,” growled Sue, “that’s all that Romeo and Juliet is, and I bet if we Juniors gave a show together we’d beat Shakespeare any day! At least we’d enjoy it better.”

“You’d better not let anyone hear you saying ‘I bet,’ ” said Easy Annie, “and besides, what kind of show would we give?”

“Would Miss Templar allow it?” asked Dorothy cautiously.

“Yes, why don’t you ask Miss Templar first?” asked Clare in her slinkiest voice.

“All right,” said Sue. “Who’ll come with me?”

All hands went up, but the supper bell rang at that moment and they were on their way to supper when Cathie touched Sue on her arm.

“Do you remember the Black Bird Boys we saw with your Grandfather in London?” she whispered. “Why couldn’t we Juniors have a Black Bird Show?”

“Cathie, you’re wonderful!” said Sue, and at the supper table the four girls told the others of the Black Birds and their mouth organ band. Sue promised to teach them all how to play if Miss Templar gave permission.

“We’ve only a fortnight to work in,” she said, “and we might do a little dance, too, called the Cake Walk.”

After supper the Juniors waited in the hall until the “Awful Door” was opened and Phyllis, who had been sent to ask for an interview, came out.

“I’ve told Miss Templar a little of your plans,” she said, “and she’s ready to see you now.”

“You go first, Sue,” said Blanche.

“All right,” answered Sue, but she suddenly felt a bit scared, for in spite of Blanche’s mother, it was pretty daring to go in and upset school customs.

“I don’t mind going in first,” said Clare. “I’m not afraid of Miss Templar.”

“Neither am I!” exclaimed Blanche and Sue together. The two of them stepped quickly forward to lead in, but Clare and Pam moved forward, too. For a moment it was like a hockey scrimmage until, propelled from behind, Sue shot into the Head Mistress’s room like something out of a catapult.

“Gently, Sue,” said Miss Templar. “Come along in girls and tell me all about it.”

“It’s Sue,” said Clare primly. “She wants to change our Arundel Abbey ways and have a Junior show separate from the usual Shakespeare play. I have nothing to do with this, Miss Templar. What has been good enough in the past for Arundel Abbey girls is good enough for me now.”

“Don’t talk like a prig, Clare,” Miss Templar answered shortly. “I’m delighted to find some new ideas creeping into our stuffy English ways. Tell me, Sue what is it you want to do?”

“It’s not me alone,” Sue answered. “It’s all of us. We don’t like Shakespeare.”

“Why not?” asked Miss Templar.

“He’s not very lively,” Sue explained.

“And his speeches are so long,” Blanche murmured, “and they don’t rhyme.”

“Yet when you are as old as I am,” Miss Templar answered, “you will remember with happiness the beauty of lines you learned at school.”

“Shakespeare’s all right for grown ups,” Sue protested, “but just now we’d rather be darkey minstrels.”

Miss Templar laughed until tears came into her eyes. “At least you’re honest about what you like,” she said, “but suppose you go to Miss Mills and tell her what you want to do. If she finds your plans suitable, you may drop out of Romeo and Juliet and be darkey minstrels. Only remember, your performance must be good. You will be starting a new custom at Arundel Abbey and it must be worthy of the old.”

They found Miss Cramp rehearsing Romeo and Juliet, with Miss Mills holding the prompt book.

“Miss Mills doesn’t find Shakespeare lively either,” Sue observed. “She’s always yawning behind her book when Veronica is being Juliet. I know she’ll like the Black Birds better.”

Sue was right. Miss Mills was delighted with the idea and discussed it at length. They decided that six of the girls would play the mouth organ under Sue’s tuition and there were to be two end men to crack jokes. Miss Mills promised that she and Miss Ironsides would make up the jokes for them and Sue showed them the steps of the American dance called the Cake Walk.

“What about costumes?” asked Easy Annie.

“The Black Bird Boys wore red coats,” said Blanche.

“We can rent those from a costumer’s,” explained Miss Mills, “and you can all wear your gym bloomers.”

“Burnt cork is just dandy for blacking your face,” said Pam.

Miss Mills shook her head. “We’ll get proper grease paint for that. If we’re going to do this, we must have the proper tools. I know we can get the mouth organs in London. Sue, do you know some songs for us?” Sue nodded. Miss Mills turned to Clare. “Do you want to play with the Black Birds, Clare, or do you want to continue with Shakespeare?”

“Oh, Shakespeare,” Clare answered with a shudder. “I don’t think my people would approve of my being in a vulgar American show.”

“And what makes you think that a show must be vulgar because it is American?” asked Miss Mills sharply. “Have you ever lived in America?”

“No, Miss Mills,” Clare answered. “I’ve always lived in the Isle of Wight.”

“Then until you know what you are talking about, Clare, it would be more becoming if you didn’t make statements that only betray your ignorance. Americans are of the same stock we are. I don’t suppose you are prepared to admit that we English are ever vulgar?”

“Oh, no,” protested Clare.

“Some of us are,” said Miss Mills emphatically. “Vulgarity is not something that belongs to any one nation, though it does belong to one class of people everywhere—people with low manners, who are rude and boorish in conduct and thought.”

“Mercy!” gasped Sue. “What a squash! Old Millsie is skinning her alive.”

But Miss Mills was not yet through. “I deplore the superior attitude of the ignorant English who look down their noses and talk of ‘vulgar Americans,’ just as I deplore the Americans who speak of ‘those dreadful English.’ Both betray their ignorance, as well as their bad manners. And this applies to you all, girls. From every contact you make with foreigners you may give or bring back something to add grace to life. Don’t think because you are English or American, that you are perfect!”

Miss Mills’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes dark with excitement. Sue could see that the young Mistress felt very strongly about this business of casting slurs on people simply because they belonged to some other country than her own. Sue had never felt that way herself even though she sometimes thought French things difficult. She wondered why. Perhaps it was because of the days she had spent in the North West Mounted Police Barracks on the Canadian prairies, where everyone, Canadians and Americans, English and Doukhobors, Swedes and German immigrants alike, had all been looked upon as equals by the Mounties.

Miss Mills was speaking again. “Were any of your Black Bird Boys vulgar?” she demanded.

“Oh, no,” cried Sue. “They were just funny.”

“Very well, then,” said Miss Mills. “Teach us one of their songs.”

Sue thought a moment. “How would Polly Wolly Doodle All the Day do?” she asked. Picking up her mouth organ, she played the air and Pam, Blanche and Cathie began to sing the words.

The rehearsal for the Junior Show had already begun and it was so exciting and such fun after the dull business of being a spear holder in Romeo and Juliet that Sue didn’t notice for some time that Clare had disappeared. But when the first rehearsal was over and they were on their way to bed that night, Clare stopped her in the hall.

“What about that Mountie you told everyone about?” she asked in high, clear tones. “You remember, Sue, the one you said you would bring to the school? Is he ever coming or were you just boasting when you promised you could bring him?”

“I had tea with the Constable, didn’t I?” Sue answered. “Well, as soon as I’m ready, I’ll bring my Mountie.”

Clare laughed as she started up the stairs. “Seeing is believing,” she said, and Sue didn’t dare answer her, for she really hadn’t the faintest idea how she could ever bring a Mountie all the way from Canada to Arundel Abbey.

“Miss Mills, will you please stop the Black Birds from making such a frightful din? I cannot memorize my part with those mouth organs going full blast all the time.”

Veronica stood in front of Miss Mills’s desk, flushed and angry.

“Why not ask them yourself?” Miss Mills enquired.

“I did,” Veronica answered, “and Sue Winston was very rude. She said they had to play loudly to drown my yowls!”

“What were you doing?” Miss Mills asked.

“I was rehearsing my speech with full voice and gestures, the one beginning ‘Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo . . .’ but you can’t be an actress, Miss Mills, with six mouth organs going full blast in your ears!”

“It is difficult,” Miss Mills agreed. “I’ll talk to the Black Birds,” and Miss Mills went down to the Junior Library, where six of the Black Birds were practising their mouth organs and the others were trying out the new Cake Walk steps.

“Oh, Miss Mills!” cried Blanche. “We’re so glad you’ve come. Can you do anything to stop Veronica from shrieking every little while? It is so distracting.”

“Yes,” said Pam. “Just as we get into the soft part of Polly Wolly Doodle, Veronica howls in the next room and upsets all our plans for shading our music.”

“And the Capulets and the Montagues are practising fighting in the cloakroom below,” added Sue. “They’re so pleased with themselves that they cheer each other and we can’t hear ourselves play.”

“Why not go down to the garden terrace?” asked Miss Mills. “You wouldn’t disturb anyone there.”

“Barbara’s down there rehearsing the balcony scene,” said Easy Annie angrily. “She’s as mad as hops when you go near her. She says she needs to be alone to get the right feeling.” Easy Annie giggled. “She’s saying all her speeches to a tall sunflower and she sounds so silly.”

“There’s the tennis court,” offered Miss Mills. “Or the vegetable garden.”

“Spots is in the garden,” said Dorothy, “and Miss Hill won’t let us play our mouth organs near him. She says we have completely upset his digestion with our horrible noise. She was very waxy!”

“The tennis court is no good,” sighed Gwen. “It’s occupied by Rosemary and Mr. Dale-Harris. Rosemary doesn’t mind our rehearsing there, but Mr. Dale-Harris does. He says we sound like a pack of angry hyenas. He may be an artist,” added Gwen, “but he’s not much of a musician.”

“Why not try the drawing room?” asked Miss Mills patiently.

“Forbidden,” said Sue. “Miss Templar said our mouth organs hurt her teeth, even when we played softly, and I heard her tell Friar Lawrence that she’d have to find another place to be dismal in.”

“Still, we must do something for Veronica,” said Miss Mills. “After all, she is playing a very important part. I suppose I’ll have to let her use my room—but, Sue, couldn’t you play some other tune once in a while? Must you play Polly Wolly Doodle all the time?”

“It’s our best tune,” replied Sue loyally. “We can both play and dance it now.”

“I know,” said Miss Mills hastily, “but please let me hear something else.”

Go to Sleep, my Little Pickaninny and Old Black Joe were promptly played and sung, but before they could repeat them, the tea bell rang and rehearsals were over until after supper.

It had been a most exciting week, Sue thought, as she put away the mouth organs. There had been the Fourth of June, when Blanche’s people had come to Arundel Abbey and taken the three roommates to Eton.

Blanche’s brother Eric was captain of one of the Houses there. He was a big boy, and very top-lofty. In fact, he hardly noticed them at all. Blanche’s Father had been at Eton and her Grandfather and Great-grandfather, too.

Somehow Eton seemed much more beautiful than Windsor and the boys in their black silk toppers and Eton jackets, running to and fro, had thrilled the three girls.

Sue knew she would never forget her first Fourth of June. White muslin dresses, leghorn hats, blue sashes, hat ribands, gardenias, yellow plaited hair, black curls, silk stockings and shining patent leather shoes . . . tall grey hats and grey frock coats . . . the groups of people, the colors . . . the school yard slowly filling. Groups by the gate, outside along the wall, under the arches leading to the Chapel, on the Chapel steps, by the buttresses along the Chapel wall. Pigeons circling the towers. Lime trees showering the air with fragrance.

And as they were leaving Eton, Blanche’s father walking at her side, singing softly under his breath:

Gay parasols and the tinkling sounds of women’s voices, as he went on,

Sue joined her voice softly to his,

Blanche’s father looked down at Sue. “How is it that a little Canuck knows the Eton Boating Song?” he asked.

“I heard a man singing it on the prairies in Canada,” Sue answered, “so I stopped my pony and asked him what it was. He said it was his school song, and I asked him to teach it to me.”

“What was he doing?”

“Mending railroad ties,” Sue answered. “It was his luncheon time and he gave me a bit of pie out of his dinner pail. He was a nice man and told me to think of him when I first saw Eton. I’m glad you sang that song,” Sue added, “for I’d almost forgotten him.”

hummed Blanche’s father under his breath, and Sue joined him,

      *      *      *      *      *      

Sue looked at the bulletin board in the Forge. It was already July first, and the notices read that on the afternoon of the twentieth there would be prize giving, followed by the bazaar and afternoon tea. In the evening there would be a performance of scenes from Romeo and Juliet by the Seniors, and an entertainment by the Juniors. All girls were requested to write home and enquire how many of their relatives intended to be present.

That evening Miss Hill added to the written announcement.

“Examinations will begin on the fifth, girls,” she said, “so please get your letters off tonight. Also, anything extra you need for the closing should be written for now. You will have all too little time when examinations begin.”

“Daddy and Mummy are abroad,” Sue said to Pam, “so they can’t come, but I’ll ask Lady Charlotte and Monty and Vicky.”

“If you can stay for the evening performance,” Sue wrote Lady Charlotte, “I wish you’d wear your feather boa and tiara. You look so very grand when you wear both.” She asked Monty to bring Vicky and his Mountie coat, and then, while the other girls wrote to their many relatives, she added a few more French knots to her centerpiece.

It was a quarter to nine when the letters were collected for posting and both Seniors and Juniors gathered in the Forge for a few minutes’ practice of the Glee Club. The windows were all open on the garden and the notes of a willow wren echoed softly those of the violin.

Miss Templar entered through the long French window. “I have been listening to you from the garden, girls,” she began. “Your song sounded very sweet.” She paused for a moment and then stepped up on the platform.

“I wanted to talk to you for a few moments about the bazaar,” she said. “There is a frivolous note creeping into your preparations for it that I do not like. You all know that the proceeds of the sale are to go to the Red Cross.” The roomful of girls became very quiet as Miss Templar went on.

“All over the British Empire, men, women and children are helping to raise funds to send supplies to the wounded in South Africa where we British and the Boers are at war.

“I do not intend to discuss the merits of this particular war. Our Government has made the decision for us. . . . But I want to impress upon you that war is always a dreadful thing. There can never be glory in war.

“It is easy to put on a smart uniform, carry the colors, and march to the sound of military bands and cheering crowds. It is more difficult to get up in the morning, put on a tweed suit and go down to your work, determined to pursue the fight against dirt, disease and injustice.

“If the same amount of labor and planning and money was spent by the British and the Boers on a whole-hearted determination that there should be nowhere in England or South Africa an unfed, uneducated or badly housed child, there would be no time for war. There would be only time for happiness and peace.

“In that garden out there tonight, with the perfume of the roses and the lilies and the sound of your fresh young voices coming out to me, in all the lovely peace of this England of ours, I reconsidered my duty to you, who in time will bear English sons of your own.

“I do not believe in opening or closing addresses by Head Mistresses. If, during the school year, we have not given you ideals and training with which to face life, no closing speech of mine will do anything now. But if the memory of the purpose of this bazaar can make you pause for even one moment to question the hysterical statements of those who talk of the glory of war, then Arundel Abbey will have played some small part in the future peace of the Empire.

“Goodnight, girls.”

“I know I won’t get anything,” Sue said, “for I’ve only been down here about half a dozen times since I planted my seeds.”

“Don’t you like gardens?” asked Gwen.

“Yes,” Sue answered, “but there were so many other important things to do—the Black Birds, tennis, Shakespeare and examinations—that I had no time for weeding or anything.”

“Hush, girls,” warned Geraldine. “Miss Templar is coming.” Below in the terraced garden plots, they could see Miss Templar, accompanied by the portly figure of Mr. Angus MacNab, the Queen’s Head Gardener. For the past hour the Seniors and Juniors had watched from the top of the terrace steps, the slow progress of judging the gardens.

At the foot of the steps a table had been set up with a few vases, flat baskets and notebooks. Two chairs were placed beside it.

Miss Templar signaled to the girls and they all rose as Mr. MacNab, followed by a young gardener bearing a basket of mixed flowers and vegetables, approached the table. They seated themselves and the girls sank back on the steps until Mr. MacNab completed some notes he was making and finally rose.

He was very Scotch, Sue thought, as he complimented Miss Templar on the general excellence of the garden plots, and then, looking up at the girls, congratulated them on their good fortune in having such a Head Mistress.

Everyone clapped at that, though remembering the dress rehearsals of the night before, Sue wondered that anyone could ever clap for Miss Templar. Everything had gone wrong.

Phyllis had been off key on the high notes of her song. Romeo had forgotten his lines. The Black Birds had giggled into their mouth organs and played out of time. Friar Lawrence had roared like a bull and the Glee Club had shouted the music of Hark, Hark the Lark.

Sue shivered as she remembered the pointed remarks of Miss Templar. Even now she could see that Romeo had a copy of her part pinned to the back of Geraldine’s blouse and was cramming her lines while they waited for the results of the judging.

Mr. MacNab consulted his notes. “I have made five awards,” he began impressively, “for which prizes will be given this afternoon. This morning I should like to hear from the lips of the young leddies themselves, the methods of gardening they used to win these prizes.”

He shuffled the leaves of his notes.

“First award, plot number fourteen. Clare Barr, for the best arranged and tended flower garden. Will Miss Clare tell us just what she did to win this prize?”

Clare rose. “Thank you, Mr. MacNab,” she said. “First, I studied the flower catalogue to find what flowers bloomed at this time, then I chose them for contrasting colors and, lastly, I watered and weeded them every day.”

“Prig!” muttered Blanche.

Mr. MacNab grunted. “Verra good. Miss Clare,” he said. “Yir garden does ye credit.

“Second award, plot number nine. Dorothy Brocklehurst, for the best bed of pinks. Pinks,” added Mr. MacNab, “are a favorite of the Royal Family.

“Three, plot number seventeen. Iris Raymond, for the best bed of pansies.

“Fourth award, plot number eleven. Blanche Drummond-Hay for her exceptionally fine radishes.” Mr. MacNab held up a round, red, shining radish. There was an outburst of clapping but the Royal Gardener held up his hand. “There is one thing that puzzles me though,” he said. “Why are there so verra few?”

Blanche stood up, her dimples showing. “I ate the others,” she explained. “I left just enough for judging.” Even Mr. MacNab joined in the laughter.

“Fifth award, plot number twenty-three . . .”

“Twenty-three!” exclaimed Sue under her breath. “That’s me! Gee Whitakers! Whatever’s happened!”

“Susannah Winston for the best single bloom,” went on Mr. MacNab. “I should like the young leddy to tell me how she managed to grow such a perfect flower.” He held out a stalk of white sweet peas, bearing blossoms so large that each one looked like the ruffled wings of a white butterfly.

Sue rose. “I don’t know how it grew like that,” she said. “I haven’t been in the garden much, but I think it’s very pretty.”

“What was the name of the sweet pea ye planted?” Mr. MacNab asked.

Sue shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Then tell us how ye planted them.”

Sue gasped. She supposed it would all have to come out now. “I just stuck them in the ground,” she began.

“Aye, but how?” persisted Mr. MacNab.

“It was one afternoon,” Sue said breathlessly, “and I was in a hurry and the study bell rang, so I just shoved the package in the middle of the bed and scrabbled the earth over it.”

“Ye shoved the package in the bed?” repeated Mr. MacNab in horror-stricken tones. Sue nodded. “Paper and all,” she said.

Mr. MacNab sat down with a bump. “Paper and all,” he repeated in puzzled tones. “It’s a new way to plant seeds but there may be something in it. I wonder!” He held the stalk with its lovely blooms at arm’s length and turned to Miss Templar, who was looking very grim, and then back at Sue. “Well,” he said. “Ye’ve won the prize for the best single bloom, even though ye don’t deserve it.” He gave a dry Scotch chuckle. “I hae me doots that it’d be a wise practise for me to follow in Her Majesty’s Gardens though,” he said. “I doot if I’d be there long, but with yir permission. I’ll take the seed pods of yir flowers and use them there next year.”

Sue said she’d be very glad indeed to have Mr. MacNab take her flowers. Miss Templar smiled and led the clapping. Sue breathed freely again. It had been a narrow squeak.

But the whole day was a narrow squeak. The Mistresses went around with lists in their hands, directing everyone they saw. The Seniors did the same. Spots appeared, newly washed and boasting a large red bow, and got in everybody’s way.

“I feel as if I might explode at any moment, I’m going in so many directions at once,” exclaimed Sue, as she met Rosemary in the hall. “Just now I’m going to tidy my room for Miss Smith, and I’m taking all the Juniors’ books from their desks to their lockers for Miss Cramp, and I’m hunting for Geraldine for Miss Hill.”

“And I want you to help me in the Forge,” laughed Rosemary. “Run, Sue, and find Pam and Blanche and I’ll help you get settled.”

Everyone seemed breathless and flushed and cranky. The old girls, the ones who weren’t coming back next term, looked solemn, and poor Romeo was hustled from one corner to another as great bowls of flowers were placed on tables, chairs ranged in rows on the lawn, trestles put up in the Forge and desks in classrooms shoved back against the walls.

Rosemary and Miss White covered the trestles with red, white and blue crinkly crêpe paper and arranged the “Fancy Work” on them. A large sign “In Aid of the Red Cross,” painted by Mr. Dale-Harris, hung over the main table. Sue’s French centerpiece had been cleaned and pressed by Miss Cramp and, with its wrinkles removed, looked a bit bumpy, but gorgeous. Sue wondered if anyone would buy it.

Fireplace and window sills were banked with flowers. The French windows were opened on the lawn, where folding chairs stood in rows facing the stone terrace. The walls were lined with work tables and there was a delightful air of festivity over everything and everybody.

The dinner bell rang and in the dining-room they had a hurried meal of cold lamb and salad and a final dish of “flub.” Sue whacked the pink rubbery blanc-mange with her spoon.

“When I’m through school,” she said, “I’ll never eat ‘flub’ again, and for weeks I’m not going to behave like a lady either!”

Miss Templar’s voice rose over the dining-room. “Each girl is to be dressed and in the Forge by two o’clock,” she said, “and I trust you all to do your best today for Arundel Abbey.”

      *      *      *      *      *      

There were voices in the hall—men’s voices.

“It’s Mummy and Daddy,” said Pam. “I can hear them.”

“It’s Lady Charlotte,” said Sue, listening, “I know the way she booms!”

“To your places, girls,” called Miss Hill. “Are you ready?” The piano sounded the opening bars of a march. With Geraldine leading, the tattered red bow worn proudly on the shoulder of her soft white dress, the line of girls moved out of the Forge into the sunlit garden.

There was a soft buzz of welcome as relatives and friends smiled on their girls and then the voice of the Bishop, sitting beside Miss Templar on the Terrace, congratulating them all on the conclusion of “another eventful year on the history of Arundel Abbey.”

The Bishop presented the prizes and there were times when he was reading the Juniors’ list that Sue thought he read only one name:

Iris’s name was called for English and, to the surprise of everyone, Pam won the Junior prize for history. Sue’s only prize was the one she did not deserve—for the best flower.

Geraldine was called next and the Bishop made a little speech about the duties of a Head Girl and how admirably she had filled them. Geraldine smiled her nervous, toothy smile, but when she left the terrace, she wore the gold and blue pin given only to Head Girls and her arms were full of books, all of them prizes for science, mathematics, trigonometry, geometry, Latin and Scriptures.

“She’ll burst, she knows so much,” muttered Sue. The notes of the piano and violin floated out of the Forge windows, and Miss Mills lifted her baton.

trilled the girls. Sue tilted her head back. A blue sky with light, fleecy clouds, feathery sprays of trees against the blue, scent of roses, and high above them all, an English lark, singing his song of summer.

Gloved hands clapping applause. Phyllis standing on the terrace, curls around her pretty face, singing a song:

More applause. Phyllis dimpling with delight. Miss Mills lifting her baton again, and the Glee Club singing its last song:

Miss Templar and the Bishop coming off the terrace, mingling with the guests. Lady Charlotte booming, “Susannah, come here, my child. How are you?”

Monty’s laughing voice: “Susie, you are almost up to my shoulder now. How you’ve grown!”

“Where’s Vicky?” asked Sue.

Monty laughed. “At home, busy with her household. She sent her regrets and told me I was to bring Lady Charlotte, as well as you, to Glentoch for the holidays.”

“Truly?” exclaimed Sue.

“Yes, truly. We start day after tomorrow.”

And then the girls introducing their people to each other and much pouring of tea and passing of little sandwiches and frosted cakes. In the Forge everything was being bought up rapidly. Rosemary and several of the Seniors were making the sales and wrapping up the purchases.

Sue’s centerpiece had been bought by Lady Charlotte, as a present for Vicky. “It is a most commendable piece of work,” Lady Charlotte said in her deep voice, “and I know our dear Vicky will want to use it at her best dinner parties.” Sue felt surprised but very proud.

At last everyone said goodbye and left. The rooms and gardens were empty and untidy, the flowers wilted. It was six o’clock.

Miss Templar stood on the platform in the Forge. “I am very proud of you girls,” she said. “We never had a more successful prize giving. Now let us try to make tonight’s performance equally good. Will you go to your rooms now and rest for an hour? After supper you may get into your costumes and then come to the Forge for makeup.”

When they returned to the Forge everything was in order again; fresh flowers, chairs straightened on the lawn and the lantern footlights placed on the terrace which was to serve as the stage.

“Mercy,” said Sue. “You’d never know Veronica.” Veronica looked lovely in her long flowing white gown and loosened hair. Romeo still seemed a bit portly but Friar Lawrence was so skinny that they had had to add pillows to give him a tummy and hips. Sue gave him a poke. “Don’t!” he cried anxiously. “I’m scared stiff they’ll come off as it is. They’re just tied on with my bathrobe cord and they wobble frightfully.”

The Montagues and the Capulets were in a fine frenzy. Their spears and shields had been mixed up, and the Black Birds were practising their steps and blowing their mouth organs, and the woman from Windsor with the makeup supplies hadn’t come and everyone was fretting and hearing each other’s lines and cues. Miss Hill called, “Quiet, girls” every other minute, and nobody paid any attention, Miss Hill least of all. Mercutio’s tights were too tight and he couldn’t sit down, which amused everyone but Mercutio.

The Black Birds were very smart. Black pleated gym bloomers, white stockings and patent leather pumps, red coats with gold braid, all the way from the costumer’s in London; wigs of black ravelled darning wool, and, if the woman from Windsor with the makeup ever came, they would have black hands and faces.

More voices. Through a crack in the door, Sue saw ladies in evening dresses passing through the hall to the lawn in front of the terrace. There were men in tail coats and white ties, too, and much laughter, and at last a deep voice, a ruffled boa of black feathers and a high, upstanding tiara. Sue gave a sigh of relief. No other tiara, she was sure, would eclipse Lady Charlotte’s.

Miss Hill came in looking very flushed, and after her, two young women with boxes of makeup. They were sorry they were late, they said, but it would only take a few minutes. Juliet first, then Romeo, were colored brightly, powdered and sent off, and afterwards the whole tribe of Capulets and Montagues. “When you fight, be sure you don’t touch each other,” the makeup women warned. “Grease paint comes off.”

Sue stepped up for her coat of black grease paint. “It has a slight fuzzy smell,” she thought, but it was fun to see her face and hands getting darker every minute. There was a shriek from Easy Annie. “I’ve blacked Mercutio,” she wailed. “I went to straighten the back of his doublet and look at him now!”

Two large black hands showed on the dove grey of Mercutio’s tunic.

“I can’t sit down and I can’t show my back,” wailed Mercutio. “I can never play this part.” The tears streaked down over the paint and powder. Sue thought she would really burst and put up her hand and held on tight to her nose for fear she would laugh out loud.

The makeup woman jumped at her.

“Don’t touch your face!” she cried.

Sue’s hands dropped and there was a howl of laughter from everyone. Her nose was smeared, partly white and partly black, with a touch of red from her lips, and at the sight of Sue’s mishap, Mercutio forgot to weep. The makeup woman started to work on Sue again, repairing the damage to her nose.

“All artists ready,” called Miss Hill.

It sounded very grand to be called an artist, Sue thought, as the Shakespeare group and the Black Birds lined up on opposite sides of the room.

Miss Mills and Miss Ironsides appeared then and even Geraldine laughed, for they were dressed just like the Juniors, with blackened faces and all. They were the End Men, and they had made up the loveliest jokes about everybody in the school, such as “What hill can you never miss?”—and the answer, “Miss Hill.”

Everyone thought that deliciously funny, but it was getting near the time to go on, and Sue began to feel very queer at the pit of her tummy. She tried her mouth organ softly, and one by one the others joined her.

“Ready, march!” said Miss Hill.

Fourteen Juniors marching two by two, followed by big Miss Mills and fat Miss Ironsides, tramped busily out on the terrace, mouth organs and a little drum making music for them.

There was clapping and much laughter at the end of their first mouth organ number, and then Sue sang Go to Sleep, My Little Pickaninny with mouth organ accompaniment and the rest of the girls joined in the refrain. A Cake Walk came next. Sue felt anxious. They had rehearsed it until they were quite perfect, but she knew the audience should have been laughing and they weren’t. Something was wrong. Under cover of the End Men’s jokes she nudged Cathie.

“Why don’t they laugh?” she asked anxiously.

Cathie shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said, “but if you let me, I can make them laugh.”

“Do it then, quick!” said Sue fiercely.

The Cake Walk began again. Sue was leading and suddenly she heard laughter from the audience—glorious, uproarious laughter. She looked over her shoulder. Cathie, with the black rubbed off the end of her nose so that it was like a little white button in her black face, was imitating Sue’s gestures and imitating them all wrong. Sue felt annoyed. Cathie knew what to do, why was she going wrong? There was another burst of laughter. Cathie was trying to dance the Cake Walk and had her feet so twisted that it didn’t seem as if she could ever get them separated again. And Cathie was plainly enjoying herself and so was the audience. From then on the Black Bird Show was an entire hit, and when they danced off the stage they were called back five times. The fifth time Cathie turned a handspring, and as the music of There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night repeated itself again, Sue heard Monty’s voice join in and suddenly everyone in the audience was singing, too.

“I wish we could go on forever!” cried Sue, as they reentered the Forge. “It’s so exciting out there.” She had forgotten how scared she had been at the beginning.

“Cathie,” she asked, “why didn’t you ever tell us you were such fun?”

“I never knew,” said Cathie shyly, “but you were so unhappy, Sue, I felt I had to do something, and just suddenly I knew I could make them laugh.”

“Quiet!” cried Miss Mills. “Run out through the passage way and behind the audience and you can watch Romeo and Juliet.”

Sue would never have believed that Shakespeare could have been so lively. Instead of the long dry speeches of the classroom, here suddenly before her eyes were real people with real troubles, and Veronica, as Juliet, was so beautiful that Sue forgot all about Romeo’s portliness and even tolerated Clare as the Nurse. There were very few missed cues and only one bad mishap. That was when the Montagues and the Capulets collided too fiercely and Winifred stood up with her grease paint smeared so that she looked like a clown. Mercutio got a bit rattled once and presented a rear view with the two black hands showing clearly, but as Sue said later, “His tights didn’t split and we should be very thankful for that.”

The soft voice of Juliet: . . .

Sue thought it must be thrilling to be almost grown up and so lovely . . .

And as she watched Veronica, Sue suddenly realized it was a good thing to be graceful and dignified, to move across a room so that it was a pleasure for people to watch you, to use your hands so that each gesture had meaning . . .

“I think I’ll play Juliet myself next year,” Sue said to herself.

The play ended. There was prolonged applause, quite different applause from that which had been given the Black Birds, but in its own way quite as satisfying. And Juliet took her bows without once becoming Veronica—remaining always the maid of gentle birth and manner.

Lady Charlotte stood up and as she moved across the lawn and into the lights of the terrace, the whole school could see how magnificent she was, tiara and boa, booming voice and kindly smile.

“Who was the funny little girl?” she asked. “You can’t think how she made us laugh.”

“That was Cathie,” said Sue proudly.

“Where does she come from?” asked Lady Charlotte.

“Nowhere,” said Sue. “You see her father has sheep ranches in New Zealand, and only comes home every other year to see her. She has no people in England except an old Great-aunt, so she has to spend her holidays here at school.”

“Does she?” said Lady Charlotte. “Hurrumph!”

“Come along, Susie. Dance with me,” cried Monty, and to the music of the piano and violin Sue waltzed with her beloved Monty. Soon everyone was dancing; Lady Charlotte with the Curate, Mr. Gore-Barrow, who looked frightened to death. Monty and Sue watched them. The Curate was having trouble with his steps and finally Lady Charlotte took him out in the hall and gave him a dancing lesson.

“She’s wasting her time,” Sue commented. “Miss Tottie’s going to marry him and she doesn’t approve of dancing.”

“How do you know?” asked Monty.

“Why, we know everything about the Mistresses,” Sue answered. “They can’t keep a thing from us.”

“I’m glad I don’t run a girls’ school!” exclaimed Monty, but Lady Charlotte was beckoning from the door and Monty left Sue for a moment. He came back grinning cheerfully, and bringing with him Miss Templar and Lady Charlotte who was explaining why she had left the Curate in the hall. “He is a tiresome young man,” she said. “He may be able to preach a good sermon but he treads on your toes when he dances, so I doubt if he’ll ever make a Bishop. To be a Bishop, one must at least have the social graces!”

“Quite so, quite so,” said Miss Templar hurriedly. “Susannah, Lady Charlotte and Lord Dunleith want to take Cathie home with them for the holidays, if you would like to have her.” They looked down at Sue as if waiting for her decision. The roomful of dancing girls and relatives grew a bit misty.

“Oh, Monty!” cried Sue, and flung her arms about his neck and kissed him. “Let’s go and tell Cathie.”

“You’d better take him away and wash him first, Susie,” suggested Lady Charlotte. “He looks like half a Black Bird.”

Monty’s face and his beautiful white shirt front were streaked with black from Sue’s makeup, but no one really minded and when he cleaned up a bit he came back and danced several times with the entrancing Rosemary, and once with the starry-eyed, speechless Cathie.

And then, suddenly, all the guests and relatives were gone and the girls were telling each other how wonderful everyone had been and especially Sue, whose Black Birds had been such a hit and whose guests included the handsomest man and the largest tiara at the Closing.

Miss Smith lining up the Black Birds in front of her and showing them how to take off their makeup . . . Miss Templar saying goodnight to them all . . . the old girls lingering in the halls . . . the Juniors skittering up the stairs, rejoicing that tomorrow there would be no lessons, no Crocodile, no “fishes’ eyes and glue”!

“Goodnight, girls.”

“Goodnight, Miss Mills.”

Silence over everything, a deeper silence than Sue ever remembered along the halls, but soon the gentle opening of doors, shadowy forms in the hall, soft padded feet, little muffled squeaks, a frightened gasp from Pam and pillows flying through the air.

In and out of the rooms, down the halls, into the Seniors’ rooms and out, they ran, flinging pillows, falling, scrambling, gasping for breath, squealing with delight . . .

“What’s happened to the Mistresses?” panted Sue.

“This is the one night in the year they’re deaf!” cried Rosemary, aiming a swift one at Geraldine who, still neat and tidy, was coming up the stairs. On and on the battle raged until all the Seniors’ pillows were in the Juniors’ Hall . . . and then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the girls drifted back to their rooms and tumbled into bed, happy and exhausted.

Sue’s first Closing Day was done.

The rising bell rang. Sue pulled the covers over her head. She was sleepy and her legs felt like lead. A few minutes more snoozing would be perfect. Yet it seemed as if she had only just turned over when a rap on the door was followed by Miss Smith’s voice.

“Everyone up in here?”

“Yes, Miss Smith,” the three of them called together.

“I see no signs of it.”

The girls struggled out of bed and stood blinking at the door. Miss Smith was gone.

Only half awake, they pulled on their stockings. A faint bumping sound was heard, growing louder every minute. Sue peered cautiously into the hall.

“Trunks!” she cried. “Trunks! We’re going home. We’re going home.” Easy Annie came running in, half-dressed.

“Trunks! We’re going home,” she crowed, and down the hall the cry was repeated a dozen different ways.

At breakfast every girl gobbled her porridge and toast, knowing that no one would be gated or given lines.

The Mistresses looked tired, and Miss Ironsides still had a line of black grease paint in the fair hair at her temples. Miss Mills was decidedly cranky. The old girls looked sentimental and solemn and the Juniors wriggled in their seats with delight.

Sue looked at the clock. It was only nine now, and they were not leaving until twelve o’clock. She wondered how she could ever wait that long.

But by the time they had all packed their clothes under the watchful eyes of either Mistresses or Seniors, it was eleven and there were biscuits and milk in the Forge, half a dozen cabs and station flys outside and the whole school waiting to say goodbye to Miss Templar.

From the platform, Miss Hill gave out the last Orders of the Day: “You will be as quiet and as ladylike as you know how on your journeys home,” she said. “Always remembering that you are Arundel Abbey girls . . . and happy holidays, all of you.”

“Thank you, Miss Hill,” and as their names were called they left in single file to go down the hall, past the “Awful Door” and away to their homes.

Miss Templar was standing at the entrance door.

“Goodbye, Susannah; a happy holiday.”

“Goodbye, Cathie; a happy holiday.”

“Goodbye, Pam and Blanche. A happy holiday to you both.”

“Goodbye, Clare. You have done good work this year. A happy holiday.”

Each girl joined the little group near the Mistress who was to chaperone her on her journey home. Sue and Cathie were just stepping into the fly marked “London,” when, clear and high, Clare’s voice rose behind her.

“Goodbye, Susannah. It’s a pity you couldn’t bring your Mountie, isn’t it?”

Sue’s heart burned. “He was here last night!” she exclaimed hotly. “You can’t even recognize a Mountie when you see one!”

“But I thought he was going to have a red coat and be very dashing?” answered Clare nastily.

“You may win all the prizes, Clare Barr,” cried Sue, “but you really know nothing at all. A Mountie off duty does not wear his uniform and Monty was off duty last night.”

All the girls laughed, for Sue had made a smart answer and they knew it, but Sue knew it was only a smart answer, and that she hadn’t made good her boast. “Not yet,” she said to herself, “but next term I will.”

There were more goodbyes, and then the train to London; Lady Charlotte’s house; Monty and Cathie becoming friends; Grandpapa Winston arriving; a hurry and bustle, and suddenly they found themselves in another train, taking them by night to Scotland, to Glentoch Castle and the moors.

Clip-clop, clip-clop . . .

Over the paved courtyard they drove. The great doors of Glentoch Castle opened to the sunlight, the sound of the sea beyond the Park and the cry of the gulls made homecoming very sweet.

But there was something lacking and Sue knew at once what it was.

“Where’s Vicky?” she cried.

“We’ll find her,” said Monty, looking very mysterious and gay.

“Yes, but where?” asked Sue. “And where’s Janet?”

“We’ll find them both,” repeated Monty. “Let’s go hunt for them together. Come along, Cathie.”

Up the great stairs they ran, two steps at a time, and along the hall to the Tower. Up the Tower steps and there, in the sitting room, high above the sea, they found Vicky, in a ruffled pink tea gown, looking like a rose. The Tower Room was large, but when all the grown-ups had gathered in it, with Lady Charlotte at her boomiest, it seemed crowded. Sue sniffed. It was more than crowded. There was something mysterious about everyone. They were behaving as all grown-ups did when they had a secret.

“There’s a secret here,” said Sue.

“Secret?” repeated Lady Charlotte. “Has anyone a secret?” “Secret?” said everyone, looking at each other. “Has anyone a secret?”

Janet entered the room.

“Good morning, Janet,” said Lady Charlotte. “Have you a secret?” Janet shook her head. She was wreathed in smiles. “Then I think you’d better bring in his lordship. We’ll ask him. He may have a secret.”

Janet beamed and left the room.

Why was everyone looking so mysterious and important? Sue loved a secret, but she couldn’t rest until she found it out. What could it be?

The door opened behind her. She turned. Janet was standing there. In her arms was a pillow, all lace and lawn, and on the pillow was a baby. A tiny, tiny baby.

“There, Sue!” boomed Lady Charlotte, “is the heir to the earldom, the new Viscount!”

Sue looked at the baby, at Vicky, at Lady Charlotte, at Monty.

“Is it really true?” she asked.

Lady Charlotte was wiping tears from her eyes. “It’s as true as the sun and the rain,” she said. “Thank God!”

Sue thought she had never seen so much happiness in one room before, and all over this tiny, red, wrinkled baby. She and Cathie examined him closely. He looked very old and his hair was soft and downy. Sue opened the tightly closed little fist. The fingers were long and crumpled. Janet turned back the covering shawl and Sue examined him even more closely. In spite of the fact that he was so very tiny, he was long and straight.

“He’ll make a dandy Mountie,” said Sue, and wondered why they all laughed.

“Bring him to me, Sue,” said Vicky. Sue took off her hat and coat and stretched out her arms. Carefully Janet placed the baby in them, and holding him very tight, Sue carried him across to his pretty mother.

“You are to be his godmother, Sue,” smiled Vicky, “and he’s to be christened on Sunday.”

But at the very mention of a christening, the baby gave such a piercing yell that Sue almost dropped him.

“Mercy! What a screamer,” she said, and handed him over to his mother. He was a month old, Sue learned, and they hadn’t told her about his birth because Vicky wanted to show him to Sue herself. It was all very merry.

A christening party. Sue discovered, was a really very important affair. The Archbishop of Canterbury, who, Sue learned, was the highest official in the Church of England, was coming to christen the baby, and relatives from far and near were coming, too. And there was to be a new white dress for Sue to wear, and a leghorn hat with blue ribbons.

“Come along, Miss Sue,” said Janet, “I’ll show you and Miss Cathie where you are to be for the holidays.”

Full of excitement, Sue and Cathie followed. Janet looked very smart in her grey alpaca uniform, white apron and stiff collar and cuffs. She told them she was nurse to the baby, with a nursemaid to look after the day and night nurseries.

“So I shan’t be able to look after you, Miss Sue,” she explained, “but I’ve brought you my niece, Jessie. She’s youngish and will take good care of you, but mind you don’t torment her with your wild ways.”

Sue and Cathie shared a large, airy room overlooking the moors. Leading off it there was a sitting room with books and a piano. “This is called the schoolroom,” said Janet, “but it will be a long time before my little charge will be using it.” She opened another door. “Jessie will sleep here,” she said, “so that she’ll be on call all the time.”

Jessie turned out to be a pretty Scotch girl with rosy cheeks and a twinkle in her eye, but she knew her work, and Sue and Cathie soon found themselves unpacked, their dresses changed and hair brushed.

“Let’s go back and see the baby,” said Sue, running along the hall.

“What are you going to call him, Vicky?” asked Sue. “I thought I’d like to know before I go to see the horses.”

Monty laughed. “John Wyndham Douglas Angus Montague Alexander Forbes.”

“Gracious!” said Sue. “Couldn’t we call him something shorter?”

“How would Sandy do?”

Sue thought Sandy a perfect name.

All through the week, Lady Charlotte coached Sue in her duties as a godmother.

“It’s a very responsible business, this being a godmother,” Sue said gloomily to Grandpapa Winston. “I wish I were grown-up. Lady Charlotte’s just got me scared to death.”

Grandpapa Winston laughed. “I’ve been godfather lots of times,” he said, “and it’s no trouble at all. All you do for your godson is teach him to wash a great deal and to tell the truth at all times, in the face of anything. If you do that for him, Sue, you’ve done all that anyone can ever do.”

People began to arrive on Friday afternoon. More came Saturday morning and by tea time that day, the Castle was full and in the halls there was laughter and the sounds of many voices. That night dinner was served in the great dining-room with all the windows open onto the terrace, and Monty and Vicky, proud and happy, at either end of the long table.

From the musicians’ gallery, Sue and Cathie, in their white dresses, watched the progress of the dinner.

There were only candles in the room, candles flickering over the dark mahogany, the silver, the satins and brocades and jewels of the women, the flowers and fruits on the table. Through the open windows came the sound of the bagpipes, played by Old Donald on the terrace.

Glasses were raised, “Your son, Monty!”

More laughter and gaiety, the women rising and leaving the dining-room, Jessie calling the girls from the gallery door.

“I wish I were grown-up,” sighed Sue. “You’ll be that soon enough,” said Jessie, “and, meanwhile, have a look at what’s come from London for you both.” Upstairs in their sitting room they found soft ivory mull dresses, inset with valenciennes lace, and leghorn hats, with pale blue ribbons for Sue and apple green for Cathie.

Sunday morning after breakfast, Lady Charlotte took Sue to meet the Archbishop. He was the most beautiful old man Sue had ever seen. Silvery hair, rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes, he looked down at her and then said, laughing, “She’s all you said she was, Charlotte,” he said. “Tell me, Sue, are there any puppies on the place?”

“Lots,” Sue cried. “Would you like to see them?” With a hop, skip and jump she was off down the terrace walk with him to show her new friend the kennels.

“He’s very nice,” she told Cathie later. “Not a bit solemn or always talking about good deeds, like the Dean.”

After luncheon Lady Charlotte came up to the girls’ room and was very trying over Sue’s hair and clothes. She was really worse than Miss Templar had ever been, and even Jessie was near tears when Sue was at last pronounced neat enough to be a godmother.

“You will sit in my carriage,” Lady Charlotte said, “and you are not to talk, Susannah, nor you either, Cathie. I don’t want any nonsense from either of you.”

The door had hardly closed when Janet came in, as stiff as a poker in her grey and white uniform and long floating head veil.

“Miss Sue,” she said. “I’m a wicked woman and not much of a Christian, either, and her ladyship would probably give me notice for talking to you.” Janet grew very red. “But something must be done today at the christening and you’ll be the only one I can trust to do it.”

“Whatever can it be?” Sue asked. “I won’t tell anybody, Janet, if you don’t want me to.”

“Well,” said Janet, “we Scotch hold that if a child doesn’t cry out loud at his christening, it’s an omen of bad luck. So, please, Miss Sue, if he doesn’t scream when the water’s poured over him, just give him a wee pinch. A wee one won’t hurt him and it’ll make sure his luck. But even should he scream like he was hurt, never mind. Better be hurt today than carry bad luck tomorrow.”

“I promise” Sue said. “Just leave the pinching to me, Janet. I’ll see he screams.”

The little village church was already full and the villagers were standing in the churchyard when Monty and Vicky, followed by Lady Charlotte and Sue, entered the church. It was such a tiny church, with beautiful stained glass windows and carved pews. The old Rector with his saintly face, a little Curate and the Archbishop were waiting for the baby.

Janet bore him proudly in on a gold brocaded pillow, his long christening robe of lace and lawn almost reaching to the floor. The organ music poured softly out of the open windows, and perfume from the flowers on the altar drifted down the nave.

Janet handed the baby to his mother, and Sue and the two godfathers stood up at the Font.

Carefully Sue followed the service, making her responses solemnly and clearly, and then the Archbishop turned to her. Sue put down her prayer book and, with cautious hands, took the baby from his mother. Everyone was smiling at her, even the Archbishop. Lifting the quiet, sleeping baby, she placed him gently in the Archbishop’s arms. The baby’s eyes opened slowly. He looked up at the Archbishop, considered him for a moment and then crowed, as if he liked being christened.

The Archbishop smiled down at him and swayed gently to and fro, just the way Janet did when she sang to him. Turning to Sue, he said clearly in his beautiful voice, “Name this child.”

For one awful moment the only thing Sue could remember was his nickname, “Sandy.”

Something touched her hand. She looked down. There in writing so neat that it was like print was the baby’s name in full.

“John Wyndham Douglas Angus Montague Alexander Forbes,” she said quietly.

Someone behind her took the card away. It was Grandpapa Winston. The service went on. Repeating the names, the Archbishop dipped his fingers into the water in the Font and sprinkled the tiny fuzzy head. There wasn’t a sound from the baby. He liked being christened and had no intention of screaming. Sue caught Janet’s anxious eyes. She leaned forward and straightened a fold of the long dress. Her fingers touched the baby’s toes. She gave a hasty tweak and the quiet air was shattered by a piercing scream.

Sue looked up at the Archbishop. He smiled at her reassuringly. The baby went on screaming. Deep down inside her, Sue knew the screams were those of rage, but Janet was smiling at her and Sue knew that so far as Janet was concerned no ill luck would follow the little Viscount.

The Archbishop handed the baby back to Sue and she stood there swaying lightly to and fro until the crying stopped. It was wonderful the way you knew just what to do for a baby, Sue thought, without ever having to be taught. Then the Archbishop blessed them all and they went out into the sunshine and through the line of villagers, who blessed the baby, too, as Janet carried him to the carriage and they wished the Earl and Countess, as Sue had now learned to call Monty and Vicky, long days of health and happiness.

Back at the Castle, it seemed as if all of Scotland had come to see the baby and drink his health. In the great dining-room there was a christening cake and Sue examined it closely.

“It looks like your wedding cake,” she said to Monty.

“It is,” he said, “or rather it’s part of it. Mrs. Walsh saved the top layers and sent them to us, sealed in tin boxes. We had it freshly decorated for our son’s first party.”

“Could we have two large pieces?” asked Sue. “Wedding cake is Cathie’s and my favorite cake.”

The whole party was quite like a wedding, Sue thought, except that it was happier. No one went away from the house. No one said goodbye. Someone new had come to stay and brought nothing but happiness with him.

It was such a big party that Sue and Cathie were left undisturbed to sample all the Scotch goodies, until even they felt they had had enough party.

“Let’s go up to the schoolroom, and lie down a while,” suggested Sue. “I feel very queer.”

But later, refreshed by sleep and rest, Sue remembered a plate of dark, rich-looking cake that she had neglected. She looked over to the other bed. Cathie was still asleep.

Sue slipped out of the room and down the hall.

The nursery door was ajar. Sue peeped in. A small fire burned in the fireplace and in front of it in a low chair was Lady Charlotte. In her arms was the baby and Lady Charlotte was singing in a queer, cracked voice:

Sue crossed the room softly and sat down on a stool at Lady Charlotte’s feet. The song went on, until the last verse:

“Thirty years ago, in this same room,” said Lady Charlotte, “I held Monty in my arms and sang this same song to him. I am an old woman now, Sue, but I’ve held Monty’s son in my arms today.”

Sue looked into the dancing flames. Such a tiny baby and yet for him had been all the ceremony, all the hopes and promises—and she had been chosen as godmother.

Suddenly Sue knew that to her had been given a charge to keep as surely as it had been given to the Knights of the Round Table.

She hadn’t thought of them for a long time. And besides they had lived so long ago. The only knights she knew were gentlemen like the Commissioner and Monty, Grandpapa Winston and the Constable of the Tower, Michael O’Dare and Old Louie.

She touched the downy head softly.

“If he grows up like any of them,” she thought, “he’ll be all right.”

In the morning Monty called Sue and Cathie to the terrace. A groom was standing there and beside him two rough-coated, sturdy little Highland ponies. Both had side saddles on their backs and their names were Jock and Jess.

“It won’t take Cathie long to learn to ride, Sue,” said Monty, “and while MacTavish is teaching her, your Grandfather Winston wants to give you some extra lessons in jumping. Once Cathie can handle her pony, Young Donald will take you both riding every morning.” Monty smiled. “Two skirts of Vicky’s are being altered for you so you’ll both be equipped in a few days.”

Monty was right about Cathie. Within a week she and Sue, with Young Donald beside them, set off each day over the moors, down to the sea, up into the hills, riding bareheaded through wind and sun and rain, coming home tired and freckled and brown.

Sometimes they would take sandwiches with them. Sometimes Young Donald, who was the son of Old Donald and was all of fifty years, would take them to his sister’s cottage where they would eat potato scones hot from the fire, or oat cakes with sweet butter and bramble-berry jelly. Now and then they had a honey cake, and once when they were overtaken by a gust of rain, they took shelter in the cottage of Young Donald’s cousin, Meg. There for their luncheon they had a dish called Kailkenny.

First the potatoes were boiled, all white and mealy, and while Donald mashed them, the same amount of green cabbage was cooked for just ten minutes and then finely chopped. Next the potatoes and cabbage were mixed in a large bowl, along with a cup of cream, and seasoned with pepper and salt. The mixture was then put back beside the fire for a few minutes and was served very hot with fresh oat cakes.

Sue and Cathie thought they would never get enough of it.

Sandy grew very fast and looked more like a baby every day and less like a wrinkled little old man. Letters came from New Zealand, too, from Cathie’s father, thanking Vicky and Monty for making his little daughter so happy. Grandpapa Winston came and went. He was making a round of visits in Scotland and once when he returned Sue told him of the Secret Society called Fleetlegs and how it came into being through the discovery of the red petticoat.

Grandpapa Winston laughed a great deal over it.

“You wouldn’t laugh,” protested Sue, “if you knew what a dreadful time we have over our vow.”

“What’s your vow?” asked her grandfather, with another burst of laughter.

“To improve the lot of women’s clothes, and especially hockey clothes,” repeated Sue glibly.

“How do you propose to do that?” he asked.

“It would be easy enough,” sighed Sue, “if we had the money.”

“Haven’t you any money?” asked her grandfather, jingling some coins in his pocket.

Sue shook her head. “Cathie and I are only allowed four shillings a week each,” she explained, “and out of that we have to buy our hair ribbons and gloves . . . and gloves, Grandpapa, are very expensive.”

“What would you do if you had the money?” asked her grandfather.

“I would buy yards and yards of slippery taffeta and make enough petticoats for the whole Junior team, so that we could run faster than anyone we played.”

Grandpapa Winston’s eyes twinkled. “All right, Sue,” he said. “I’ll come to the rescue of the Fleetlegs with the taffeta for petticoats, if you and Cathie promise to make them during the holidays. But mind, the taffeta is to be dark like your skirts, so that no attention is called to it. The trouble with that first petticoat was its color. It was red and too easily noticed.

“When you’re attempting to change well established customs, Sue, it’s best to do so quietly. If you’re clever, you will find your new ways becoming old ways without trouble.”

“Without trouble.” Sue remembered those were the words of the unofficial motto of the Mounties.

“And if I were you,” he continued, “I’d make up my mind what I wanted to do and then do it. If you fail, you can always begin again.”

“Could we have the taffeta tomorrow, Grandpapa?” she wheedled.

He laughed, but the following day Janet took Sue and Cathie into Edinburgh and part of a bolt of stiff black taffeta was bought. Janet cut the petticoats for them and Jessie helped sew the seams.

They were queer looking petticoats, but Jessie said, “All you can do is run an elastic through the waist band and sew up the side seams. The hems will have to wait until the girls try them on and know what length each one needs.” It took a great deal of sewing, Sue found, and as she stitched she wondered anew how she could ever get a Mountie to school.

The purple of the heather on the hills deepened. The paths in the woods rustled with the first autumn leaves and winds blew in cold from the sea. Lady Charlotte and Grandpapa Winston had gone home; the footmen closed the shutters in the library earlier each night, through the halls the gas jets popped and bedroom candlesticks were laid out upon the table in the gallery.

“It’s autumn,” said Vicky, “and you’ve grown so fast, you and Cathie, that we must see about new clothes for you both. There’s only a fortnight before you return.”

And the kind of hustle and bustle followed that Sue enjoyed so well, and quite suddenly they were back at Arundel Abbey with everything just the same, except that Clare was in the Senior school now and no longer at their table. There were new girls, too, and it gave Sue an immense feeling of superiority to show them where to hang their clothes and instruct them in the rules.

They started in to play hockey at once. At Half Term the Junior Team was to play Cedar House, another girls’ school in Windsor.

“Now that the teams are chosen,” said Pam busily, “we’d better have a meeting of the Fleetlegs and decide what we’re going to do about our clothes.” Pam and Blanche knew all about the taffeta petticoats and how Sue and Cathie had smuggled them into school and hidden them away on a high shelf in Sue’s cupboard.

“Where’ll we hold our meeting?” asked Sue.

“Down in the garden,” Pam answered, “just before tea.”

There they met and decided to include all the Junior players. “We’ll have to have dues,” said Blanche. “Every society has dues. How would a penny do?”

The five girls agreed that it was a likely fee and the following afternoon, on their return from hockey practice, the whole team met in the garden and were made members of the Secret Society and all of them vowed to try and “improve the lot of women’s clothes and especially hockey clothes.”

“It’s easy to make a nice vow,” said Pansy, “but the match is five weeks away. Couldn’t we practice wearing our petticoats before then?”

“No,” said Sue firmly, “we mustn’t take any risks. But each one of you must come to our room and try on her petticoat for length and turn up her own hem.”

“What’s the penny for?” asked Dorothy.

“Dues,” said Blanche. “Every society has dues. Don’t you know anything?”

“Yes,” said Dorothy, “but I’d like to know what we’re going to spend our money on. Eleven pennies is almost a shilling.”

“Opera creams,” said Blanche, “I’ll collect the money and give it to my brother and the first time he comes down he’ll bring with him some opera creams.”

“Pink ones,” said Cathie shyly.

“What a lovely society,” sighed Gwen happily. “Taffeta petticoats and opera creams!”

Half Term was on the tenth of November and the match between Cedar House and Arundel Abbey Juniors was to be held on the ninth. The afternoon before it, Miss Tottie congratulated the team.

“You are quite the fastest Hockey Juniors I ever remember,” she said. “Just keep cool and use your heads as well as your heels.”

Easy Annie giggled delightedly. “She doesn’t know that our name is Fleetlegs,” she said, “and that we have taffeta petticoats. We’ll be just like greased lightning.”

Sue hardly knew which excited her most, the game or the petticoats, but when the team dressed for the match in dark skirts and pink flannel blouses, she was horrified. The taffeta held the skirts away from the woolen stockings but it swished so noisily that the eleven girls together sounded like a threshing machine.

“That’ll never do,” cried Pam. “Miss Templar’ll hear us when we go down the stairs and all our plans will fail!”

“No, they won’t,” flared Sue. “Look!” She took off her skirt and doubled back the taffeta petticoat until it was smoothly folded around her tummy and hips. Pinning it tightly, she slipped on her skirt again, adjusted the Petersham belt and looked anxiously into her mirror.

“You look dreadfully fat around the tummy,” said Easy Annie fearfully.

“It won’t show with our jackets on,” Sue answered. She was right. With their jackets worn loosely open, their tams perched smartly at the sides of their heads, the Arundel Abbey Junior Team marched quickly past the “Awful Door” without Miss Templar noticing anything peculiar about them.

It was a bad moment, though, passing the Head Mistress, with smiles on every face but with hearts beating almost to suffocation.

“I feel as if nothing could ever frighten me again,” Iris gasped as the Abbey door shut behind them.

“Wait,” cautioned Pansy, “the day isn’t over.”

The weather was ideal, cold and sunny, and the ground hard. At Cedar House they found both schools lined up on either side of the hockey field and everyone in a state of suppressed excitement. The Head Girl and Miss Fitzgerald, the Sports Mistress, met them and conducted them to a little summer house at the side of the Field.

“We thought you’d like to take your things off here,” said Miss Fitzgerald. “There is a rack for extra hockey sticks and pegs for your jackets. When you are ready will you let us know?”

“Thank you,” said Pam, and while Miss Tottie and Miss Fitzgerald made polite remarks to each other outside, they took off their jackets, tightened hair ribbons and boot laces and when Pam hissed “now,” let down the petticoats.

“Dindy dandy,” whispered Pam, as she quickly examined the team.

“Fleetlegs,” chuckled Sue. “I feel fleeter than a jack rabbit.”

Iris gave a gay little cry and spun around on her toes. “I could almost feel sorry for Cedar House,” she said. “We’ll be so fast that the game’ll be over before it’s half begun.”

Miss Tottie entered. She was very pink and excited and even more fluttery than usual.

“I have a delightful surprise for you, girls,” she said. “Mr. Gore-Barrow has kindly consented to act as umpire this afternoon. Both Miss Fitzgerald and myself feel complimented to have him with us.”

She gave an excited little laugh. “Ready, girls?”

“Yes, Miss Tottie.”

They swung out the door past Miss Tottie and lined up in front of the summer house.

“She never even heard our petticoats,” whispered Sue. “All she can think of is Mr. Gore-Barrow.”

“Wait,” said Pansy with a little shiver. “We’ve got to pass Miss Dottie.”

Down the steps they marched and both schools burst into cheers. Sue lifted her head. The cheering was all they needed. Miss Dottie would never hear the taffeta with all that sound from the field.

They were almost past Miss Dottie when Sue heard the fatal word “halt.”

Miss Dottie walked up to Pam.

“What have you on under your skirt?” she demanded.

“A petticoat,” answered Pam spunkily.

“What kind of petticoat?”

“Taffeta.”

“Pamela, will you take your team back to the summer house?”

With flaming cheeks, Pam turned, and the rest of the team followed her.

“Tell Miss Fitzgerald that we will be with her in a moment,” said Miss Dottie to Miss Tottie.

Inside the summer house, Miss Dottie closed the door. Coldly, she asked each girl in turn the fatal question, “Are you wearing a taffeta petticoat?” and each girl replied in the same way, “Yes, Miss Dottie.”

“Take your petticoats off immediately,” she said sharply, “and before you go out on the field, I should like to know who suggested wearing them?”

“I did,” said Sue. “I brought the taffeta. I did everything.”

“I’m Captain,” said Pam. “I said they could wear them. I’m to blame.”

“Why shouldn’t we wear our taffeta petticoats?” asked Pansy. “We’ll play better with them on.”

“Silence!” exclaimed Miss Dottie, who was really very angry. “Take off your petticoats!”

There was a rustle and swish and crackle as the petticoats were removed.

“You will play as you are,” said Miss Dottie, “and when the game is over I shall report you to Miss Templar. No Arundel Abbey team has ever tried to take advantage of an adversary before.”

“You don’t understand,” began Pam, but Miss Dottie interrupted her.

“Silence!” she commanded. “Adjust your belts properly and go out and play as well as you can.”

“No girl can play a good game when she is as mad as I am!” cried Sue.

“Then you can learn to do it today,” answered Miss Dottie shortly, as the team again swung down the steps and out on to the Field.

“Old Stick-in-the-Mud!” stormed Sue. “I’m simply sizzling, I’m so mad!”

“So am I,” Blanche replied. “I’m so mad I’m going to pretend the ball is Miss Dottie and slash it every time I see it.”

“Keep cool,” pleaded Pam, “and play as well as you can.”

Sue could see Miss Mills and Miss Ironsides, Miss Hill and Mademoiselle on the side lines. In the center of the field, Miss Fitzgerald, Miss Dottie and Mr. Gore-Barrow were chatting together.

The two teams took their places.

Cedar House had three big girls on their team, tall, strong girls; otherwise the two schools were evenly matched.

The Captains bullied off. From the first it was clear that Cedar House was in great form. The three taller girls played forward and quickly outmatched the discomfited Arundel Abbey team.

“Steady, steady,” whispered Pam to Sue, who was slashing wildly, and for a few minutes the play steadied down, but the Fleetlegs’ game was uneven.

“Team work, Blanche,” Pam warned softly.

Blanche nodded, but at half time Cedar House was up with three goals to one.

The next half things went even more badly and the game ended with Cedar House with nine goals and Arundel Abbey, three. Pam led the cheers and then Cedar House entertained the girls from the Abbey at tea. There were goodbyes and plans for a return match and the Crocodile set off across the meadows.

Miss Dottie and Miss Tottie and the curate drove rapidly past them. From the set of Miss Dottie’s head there were evidently going to be wigs on the green. But nothing happened. The girls finished their study hour, dressed for supper and afterwards went to the Forge as usual.

“I wish I knew if anything was going to happen,” sighed Sue. “I want to get it over with. I’m so fidgety.”

“Pamela!” It was Miss Mills, calling from the doorway of the Forge. “Bring your team to Miss Templar’s room immediately.”

“It’s come,” said Pam.

Miss Templar was in her sitting room with Miss Dottie and Miss Tottie. It was evident that there had been a great deal of discussion for Miss Dottie was flushed and bright-eyed; Miss Templar very stern. Miss Mills sat down beside the girls.

“Pamela, why did you allow your team to wear taffeta petticoats?”

Pam stood up. “So we could run faster and play a better game.”

Sue rose hurriedly. “I suggested the idea,” she interrupted, “and I brought the petticoats. If anybody is to blame, I am.”

“Don’t you really think you are to blame?” asked Miss Templar.

“No,” replied Sue. “I don’t.”

There was a shocked exclamation from Miss Dottie. Miss Templar’s expression grew a little colder.

“Perhaps you would like to explain what you mean,” she said.

“I mean,” began Sue and stopped. “It’s hard to explain what I mean without sounding rude,” she said, “but what I think is this: If we’re smart enough to find some way of playing a game faster and better than another team, we should be allowed to do it.”

Miss Templar frowned. “Do you think it is good sportsmanship to have an advantage from the beginning over another team? Do you think it fair?”

“The way you put it makes us sound awful,” Sue stammered, “but I still think that if we can find a way to play a game faster and better, then I think we should.”

“I know what Sue means,” broke in Blanche. “Miss Dottie told us to play with our heads as well as our heels and we were really playing with our heads.”

“Then why did you keep your petticoats a secret?” asked Miss Templar coldly.

“Because I knew we’d never be allowed to wear them,” flared Sue. “Nobody ever wants to do anything new here at school. Just because it’s new, it’s wrong.

“There were three girls on the Cedar House team as tall as Miss Mills,” she went on. “They had a big advantage over us. Why weren’t they put off when their Captain saw how small we were?”

There was a soft buzz of approval behind her and Sue saw that Miss Templar was really listening, not just being Head Mistressy.

“May I interrupt?” asked Miss Mills. “I think Sue and Pam have made out a case for themselves. I really feel that outside of rules governing play, the girls should be free to do anything that will help them play the game well.” Miss Mills paused. “I used to play hockey at Girton,” she said, “and I found the heavy skirts and wool stockings just as trying as our Junior team here does.”

Miss Templar looked around the room.

“What is it you want to do?” she asked. “What do you really want to wear?”

Sue and Pam took a hurried look at the rest of the team. Blanche nodded brightly.

“Bloomers!” they cried.

“Bloomers?” repeated Miss Templar.

Miss Dottie and Miss Tottie drew in their breath with a little hissing sound.

Miss Templar pushed back the inkwell on her desk, and brought the paper weight forward. She lifted the velvet photograph frame and put it down. She moved the pile of exercise books from the right to the left and back again. The girls waited breathlessly.

“I cannot consent to your wearing the taffeta petticoats, girls,” she said, “since Miss Dottie does not approve of them.” Miss Dottie sat up straighter. “But I can understand your point of view. I am going to make a decision that may cause unfavorable comment from the friends and admirers of Arundel Abbey, but I believe in moving with the times.” Miss Templar looked hard at Sue, and then said,

“For the rest of the year, the Junior girls may play hockey, here or in matches against other teams, in their pleated gym bloomers.”

There was a storm of clapping from the girls and Miss Mills. Miss Dottie and Miss Tottie flushed and sat even straighter in their chairs.

“That will be all, girls. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Miss Templar, and thank you very much.” Pam stepped forward to the desk and held out her hand. Gravely, Miss Templar shook hands with each girl as she passed.

At last the “Awful Door” closed.

“Wasn’t Miss Templar simply wonderful?” cried Sue.

“When you get to know her,” added Cathie softly.

“I’m going to write home at once and tell Mummy,” Blanche crowed. “She always said that when women banded together in societies they could do anything.” She dimpled. “Pssst! I’ve got a secret.”

The girls crowded around her.

“When my brother was here yesterday he left a package of opera creams hidden in my new galoshes.”

“Are they pink?” asked Cathie.

Blanche nodded. “Let’s call a meeting of the Secret Society tonight after lights out and celebrate our victory.”

“Good idea,” agreed Sue. “But first let’s take one of the opera creams and put it in the middle of Miss Mills’s pillow. She likes sweets, too, and she did stick by us right through.”

At Half Term, Pam took Cathie home with her and Sue went up to Lady Charlotte in London.

Sue told her all about the hockey match, the petticoats and the bloomers.

Lady Charlotte strongly approved. “You have an excellent Head Mistress, Sue,” she said. “But tell me, how is everything else going at school, now that you are an old girl? How is your French?”

“It’s all right,” Sue answered hurriedly.

“And your Latin, Sue?”

“Bad,” admitted Sue gloomily.

“Mathematics?”

“Very good in my head, but I’ll never be able to paper a room.”

Lady Charlotte smiled. “I doubt if you’ll have to paper many rooms, my dear. Can you make correct change in a shop?”

“Always,” said Sue firmly.

Lady Charlotte nodded approvingly.

“Now, what do you know about your own country? Who is the Prime Minister?”

“Sir Wilfred Laurier.”

“Who is the High Commissioner?”

“Who is the what?” asked Sue.

“The High Commissioner of Canada in London,” repeated Lady Charlotte.

“I don’t know,” Sue answered. “I never heard of him.”

“You never heard of Lord Strathcona?” asked Lady Charlotte in shocked tones.

“Oh, yes,” answered Sue. “Daddy’s abroad collecting pictures for him for his gallery in Montreal but I didn’t know he was a Commissioner. The only Commissioner I ever heard of is Vicky’s Father, Commissioner Walsh of the North West Mounted Police.”

“That’s rather bad!” exclaimed Lady Charlotte. “I must speak to Miss Templar about teaching you girls something of our colonies.

“Lord Strathcona,” she continued, “is one of the greatest Canadians Canada has ever known. Let me tell you about him.” And then Sue heard of how, early one morning in 1820 in Scotland, there had been born a boy named Donald Smith; how at eighteen that same boy had set out for Canada and entered the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company; of how through thick and thin he had served his Company in the Far North, in Labrador, at home and abroad; of how he believed in Canada and its great opportunities and had persuaded others to share his faith.

“He put his great wealth at the service of his adopted country, Sue. He was more responsible than any other person for the building of the Canadian Pacific Railway. He was knighted by the Queen for his services, and four years ago—that was in ninety-six, Sue—the Canadian Government asked him to represent the Dominion as High Commissioner in London.

“And that is what he has been doing ever since,” concluded Lady Charlotte. “He is a great and noble man and at the Diamond Jubilee, Her Majesty raised him to the Peerage with the title ‘Baron Strathcona and Mount Royal of Glenco, Argyllshire and Montreal, Canada.’ You should be very proud of him, Susie!”

“I am,” answered Sue, “now that I know about him. Tell me, Lady Charlotte, is he the most important Canadian in the whole world?”

“Yes,” said Lady Charlotte firmly. “I am sure he is.”

“Do you know him well?” asked Sue.

“Very well. He and Lady Strathcona dine here often and I go to his country place, Knebworth, to spend a weekend every year. It’s not far from Windsor.”

Lady Charlotte went on talking about Lord Strathcona. “He gives generously to many schools, colleges and universities. I asked him once what advice he would give to a young man starting out in life and this was his answer: ‘Save half you earn, look ahead, and hang on. Hang on! Never let go.’ ”

“Hang on! Never let go,” repeated Sue to herself, and while Lady Charlotte was finishing her tea, Sue began to scheme. Perhaps, since she couldn’t get a Mountie to the school, Lady Charlotte could be wangled into bringing Lord Strathcona, and he might do instead of a Mountie. He wouldn’t really do, Sue admitted to herself, and she wouldn’t be keeping her boast, but Lord Strathcona would be better than nothing.

“How I should love to see Lord Strathcona,” she said with a sigh.

“Would you, child? Well, now, I’ll see if I can’t take you to his home to tea tomorrow. He likes young people and your manners have grown to be quite charming. There are times when I am really proud of you.”

When Beamish pulled up the bedroom blinds the next morning, she told Sue that Lord Strathcona had sent word that he would be delighted to see them at tea.

      *      *      *      *      *      

Sue found Lord Strathcona to be very like the one other Commissioner she knew, friendly and yet stern. After she curtsied, she sat still as a mouse and listened to her elders talk.

Lord Strathcona had snow white hair, shaggy eyebrows and short white beard and moustache. His eyes twinkled brightly and his movements were quick. He and Lady Charlotte argued a good deal about the education of the young, but they laughed so much, too, that Sue realized they were too old friends ever to really quarrel.

“Come, Sue,” said Lady Charlotte at last. “We mustn’t take up any more of Lord Strathcona’s time.” But just as they were saying goodbye, she added “I’ve taught Susannah your advice to young men.”

Lord Strathcona looked down at Sue. “Can you repeat it?” he asked.

Sue smiled. “Save half you earn, look ahead, and hang on! Never let go.”

Lord Strathcona patted her shoulder. “It’s good advice for a young man,” he said, “and it won’t do a girl any harm to remember to hang on, too.” He looked at Lady Charlotte. “But I’m going to wish Susannah something more.” He put a finger under her chin and smiled down at her.

“Here is my wish for you,” the old man said. “Luck, Love and Laughter, all your days.”

“I’m very grateful,” Sue said and curtsied again.

      *      *      *      *      *      

Lady Charlotte was sitting up in bed, reading her morning paper when Sue came in and perched herself at the foot of it.

“Were you ever in awful trouble?” she asked.

“Mercy, child, what a question! Of course I’ve been. Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m in dreadful trouble,” said Sue, trying to put a croak in her voice.

Lady Charlotte put down her paper and whisked off her glasses.

“No nonsense, now, Susannah,” she said. “What is the matter?”

“I’m three things,” confessed Sue, sadly. “I’m a simpleton, a dunderhead and a boaster.”

“I’ve been a simpleton and a dunderhead myself,” said Lady Charlotte, “but never a boaster. I don’t like boasters. Who told you you were a simpleton and a dunderhead?”

“Grandpapa Winston, but I called myself a boaster and I am.”

“Tell me about it,” demanded Lady Charlotte, sitting up higher in bed, “for I’m not going to have a boaster around me.”

Things weren’t going exactly the way she had planned them, Sue felt, and she decided to make a clean breast of her troubles. Starting with the first tiff with Clare, she told Lady Charlotte the whole story.

“And now,” Sue concluded, “she’s in the Senior school where she’s really of no importance at all. Last year she was the oldest girl in the Junior school and two years older than any one of us. She doesn’t like being unimportant, for when she found out we’d had a Secret Society and hadn’t asked her to join it, she was simply wild. She sneers at me all the time, but she never does anything that you can really fight back. Nothing that you can even stick your tongue out at.”

“I should think not,” snapped Lady Charlotte. “I hope you never are guilty of anything so unladylike!”

Sue continued, “She twists your words so that everything you say sounds mean when you never even thought of being mean. When you play games, she always manages to make herself right and you all wrong.” Finally Sue told Lady Charlotte how she had made her twofold boast to have tea with the Constable and bring a Mountie to the school.

“Did you have tea with the Constable?” asked Lady Charlotte.

Sue’s heart stood still for a moment. No one must ever know Cathie’s part in that meeting.

“Yes,” said Sue, “I did. We had been to service in St. George’s Chapel—and the Constable, whose goddaughter had gone to Arundel Abbey, found me separated from the others and we had tea before he took me back to school himself.”

“Mercy, child, what a pest you must be to your Head Mistress,” said Lady Charlotte, and Sue breathed freely once again.

“Clare’s a bully,” she resumed. “And the sort of bully you can never put a finger on. When she passes me in the hall now she always smirks and says, ‘What about that Mountie?’ She knows it makes me mad and there’s nothing I can say. . . . She’s mean and slimy and she gloats until sometimes I can’t think of anything but how I hate her.”

“Don’t waste time hating her,” Lady Charlotte said briskly. “If you must hate someone, try hating yourself. You brought all this trouble on yourself. Forget it now and start on something else.”

“You don’t know what Clare’s like,” Sue objected.

“Oh, yes, I do,” said Lady Charlotte emphatically. “I knew a girl once, called Angelica. We called her Jelly for short. Nasty, sallow-faced creature, slimy and deceitful and up to all the tricks you tell me Clare uses—the sort of tricks that take the heart out of you. I did my best to outwit her, but she always won, and all I could ever do was stick my tongue out at her when she wasn’t looking.”

“Oh, Lady Charlotte,” cried Sue, “I hope you never did anything so unladylike.” They both laughed.

“You caught me there,” Lady Charlotte said. “But, Sue, what is it you want of me? You’re not telling me this story without some reason.”

Sue took a long breath. “Lord Strathcona’s the greatest Canadian in the world, isn’t he?” she asked. “Well, as I can’t get a Mountie, could you bring him to school for me instead?”

Gee Whitakers! thought Sue, you can never tell about grown-ups! Lady Charlotte was furious.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “Are you proposing that one of the greatest and most important men in the Empire should be brought to school just to satisfy your childish vanity? No, Susannah, I would never lend myself to saving your face in any such outlandish fashion.”

Altogether, it was a bad morning. Later, Beamish packed the little bag shaped like a sausage and discovered that Sue had popped a twist of licorice in it too near her gloves and everything was sticky and black.

“You’re too old now for such childish behavior,” said Beamish sternly.

Sue went down to the pantry where Stole was polishing silver. “I’m in trouble everywhere,” she told the old butler. “No one will look for me here, may I help you with the silver?”

Stole shook his head. “Suppose you just sit up on that high stool and tell me more about the Yukon,” he said, and there Sue stayed until twelve o’clock, when Beamish came for her.

“Her Ladyship’s just going out, Miss Sue, and would like to speak to you in the drawing room.”

Lady Charlotte was waiting in the hall and looked very grand indeed. She told Sue she had a luncheon engagement and that Beamish would put her on the train for Windsor.

“There are times when I find you a very silly little girl,” she said, “but I suppose all of us are silly sometimes. Now, mind, Susannah, this is only a suggestion and may never come to pass. It will never come to pass if I am pestered . . . but, if you pass your Christmas examinations and make high marks in everything, particularly French . . . and, I am never pestered . . . and your Latin picks up . . . and Lord Strathcona should ever happen to be in the vicinity of Windsor . . . and there are times when he goes for an audience with the Queen . . . I will see if I can persuade him to visit Arundel Abbey.”

Sue started to speak.

“Quiet,” ordered Lady Charlotte. “I promise you nothing and if you write to me or even refer to this, it will never happen. I don’t like being bothered,” she added severely.

Sue kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Lady Charlotte,” she said meekly and opened the door. Lady Charlotte swept out as if she were a queen.

Sue sat back on the ottoman. For the third time that morning she wondered at the queer, uncertain ways of grown-ups. And then the door opened. It was Lady Charlotte back again.

“I think your Clare must be very like my Jelly,” she said briefly, and was gone.

Sue changed her mind. Grown-ups were wonderful, she decided.

Sometimes Sue wondered if the term would ever end. It seemed to be just an endless round of grammar, arithmetic, French and Latin. She had worked like a beaver at her French. Even Mademoiselle had complimented her in a back-handed sort of way.

“There you are, Susannah Winston,” she had said. “I always told you you could learn your lessons properly if you wanted to. Your verbs are excellent. Now we will take dictation and mind your spelling.”

Latin had given Sue a pain in her head and she had told Miss Hill as much, but all Miss Hill had said was, “We will give you a little special tutoring, Sue. Miss Mills will take you for an extra hour twice a week.”

Miss Mills hadn’t seemed any more enthusiastic about the Latin than Sue, until she found that Sue was really trying to learn.

“What are you up to, Sue?” she asked curiously. “All this hard work is unlike you. I know perfectly well it isn’t because you like Latin. You’re not working for a prize, are you?”

Sue twinkled at her. “I’d never dare tell,” she said. “But you’re right. I don’t like Latin. I’m just taking it, like a pill.”

It was hard to get up in the morning, too. The gas had to be turned on to see how to dress. Blanche had growing pains and was fretful, and now that the Secret Society was secret no longer, there seemed to be nothing to do but learn lessons.

“All I’ve got to do is hang on and never let go,” Sue would say to herself. “But I do wish Lady Charlotte would write to me. All this hanging on business is dreadful.”

No letters came except from her Father and Mother who were in Rome and would not be able to be back for Christmas.

“Oh, blow the French,” said Sue, “and blow the Latin, too!”

Cathie came up to her. “Here’s another letter, Sue,” she said. “It has a Canadian stamp on it!”

Sue opened it curiously. “It’s from Matilda,” she cried. “Matilda was my nurse, Cathie, when I was little, and she’s married to Hawkins, a Constable in the Force, and what do you suppose she’s done? She’s had a baby and she’s asked me to pick out a name for it! It’s a girl, too. Now what shall we call it?”

The whole Junior school took part in the effort to find a suitable name for the baby. Sue read Matilda’s description of her:

“She has blue eyes and black hair, the creamiest, loveliest skin and is so fat and cuddly, and looks just like Hawkins.”

Sue exploded with laughter. “You should see Hawkins!” she cried. “He has black hair, a bright red face from living out-of-doors, a bristling moustache, all waxed at the ends, and he’s as stiff as a poker. No one could cuddle Hawkins!”

“How would Marigold do?” asked Easy Annie.

“I like Millicent,” said Gwen.

“My first child shall be called Guinevere,” said Dorothy loftily, “and my second Miriam.”

“Francesca, Margaret, Patricia, will be my daughters’ names,” announced Marjorie.

“I would like a Russian name,” said Pam. “Something romantic—like Sandra or Kyra.”

“Margaretta’s nice,” volunteered Cathie.

The bell rang. Sue raced off to her special Latin period.

“You are late, Sue,” reproved Miss Mills.

“I know,” said Sue, “and I’m sorry, but I’m in an awful pickle. I’m choosing a baby’s name and I can’t find anything I like.”

“What do you want?” asked Miss Mills.

“Something that will be gay and happy,” Sue answered. “Matilda’s so mournful that the baby will need a cheery name.”

Miss Mills opened her grammar and suddenly smiled.

“Translate the first word,” she said, pointing to the page.

“Felicitas,” said Sue. “The state of being happy.”

Miss Mills laughed. “Why not call the baby Felicity?”

“Felicity,” repeated Sue. “Felicity Hawkins. That means Happy Hawkins. I like that. How wonderful of you to think of it.”

“I didn’t think of it,” said Miss Mills. “It was in your Latin grammar.”

Sue chuckled. “Fancy Latin being useful!”

The term dragged on, full of lessons, dark mornings and early twilights, nearer and nearer to examinations and the Christmas holidays.

And then one morning at Orders of the Day Miss Templar entered. In her hand she held a letter written in the dashing handwriting of Lady Charlotte.

“Such pleasant news, girls,” said the Head Mistress. “Lady Charlotte Dawkins writes me that Lord Strathcona, the High Commissioner for Canada, will be in Windsor on the twentieth to see Her Majesty. As that is the date of our closing Christmas exercises, Lady Charlotte has asked Lord Strathcona to come on to us after his audience with the Queen. We are very honored in having so distinguished a man address us on that date.”

Sue danced a jig of joy all the way to the French class. Closing was only a fortnight away. There were examinations in between, and a concert of Christmas Carols by the Junior Glee Club. There were Christmas decorations, too, holly and mistletoe and evergreens. There was less fog on the meadows, the air was colder. Two new dresses came from Paris. Red crêpon for Sue to wear at the Christmas closing, and an apple green crêpe for Cathie.

“Mummy always chooses the prettiest things,” Sue said. “Wait till you see her, Cathie. She’s like a flower, and she uses the loveliest perfume. It makes you think of violets.”

The examinations were not too bad, at all, Sue discovered, but Pam explained they were always easier at Christmas time. “It’s the summer term when they try to pluck you,” she said. “I’ve tried to get out of the Junior school twice and somehow or other I always miss on some subject.”

“It’s your age,” Sue said loftily, “not what’s in your head that matters in getting out of the Junior school. I heard Miss Mills say you were the most intelligent of all the Juniors and that it was a pity you were so young that they couldn’t take you into the Senior classes.”

“What did they say about you?” asked Blanche slyly.

“They said I was a problem and what to do about me they didn’t know, that I was always into something and Millsie said, ‘Leave-her-alone-she’ll-come-out-all-right-in-the-end.’ ”

“So here I am,” Sue said, “all ready for the closing day.”

When it arrived at last, the three girls put the finishing touches to their dresses and went down to the Forge, which was gay with Yule-tide decorations. They all looked very smart in their brightly colored winter dresses. Miss Templar and Miss Hill were waiting in the hall with Lady Charlotte. Sue had heard her voice but hadn’t seen her.

Clare separated herself from a group of older girls.

“Well, Sue,” she called across the Forge, “are we to see your Mountie today? You remember you promised him in a red coat before your school year was out. Where is he, Sue?”

A little laugh ran through the crowd of girls. Sue’s heart burned.

“You’ll see my Mountie when I choose to bring him here,” she said, as coldly as she could. The laugh was repeated, only this time a little louder. Clare had evidently been making a good story out of her boast.

Slowly, and with all the dignity she could muster, Sue walked over to the window looking out upon the drive. Tears were very near her eyes. In her heart she knew that, great as he was, Lord Strathcona was only a makeshift—that she had boasted in a stupid, silly way and had not made good. She had been lucky, she knew, with the Constable, and now, with Lady Charlotte’s help, was putting as good a face on things as possible. But her heart was sore. She had failed and there was nothing she could do about it but admit defeat as gallantly as possible. At any rate that was what a Mountie would do.

Sue took long, deep breaths. Clare was waiting, she knew, to make another jibe at her failure. She must get herself well in hand. Breathing deeply and counting up to ten over and over again, Sue steadied down. The gaunt branches of the trees outside the window were no longer misty. Her heart wasn’t thumping so loudly and the lump in her throat was almost gone.

Clip-clop. Clip-clop . . .

Two Windsor greys trotted around the curve of the drive and behind them rolled a shining black carriage bearing the Royal Arms. Before Sue could move, the footman swung down from the box and opened the door.

Sue couldn’t believe her eyes.

It couldn’t be true!

It never could be true. Not ever. And yet, perhaps it was true . . .

Wonder of wonders!

“Gee Whitakers!”

“Golly Molly!”

“Big Fishes and Little Fishes!”

It was true!

Stepping smartly out of the door of the carriage was a Mountie, beloved scarlet coat and all. Standing at attention, he watched Lord Strathcona move briskly from the carriage to the steps.

“It’s my Mountie!” shrieked Sue. “It’s my Mountie! He’s come at last!” With hair flying and all rules and regulations forgotten, she tore through the Forge, pushing girls aside, overturning a chair in her hurry, running along the corridor and out to the entrance hall, where Miss Hill was just entering the drawing room with Lord Strathcona.

Out the big door Sue flew, and down the steps, to where the Mountie stood.

“Come quickly. Oh, come quickly!” Sue cried, seizing his hand. “I’ve been waiting for you for a whole year!”

The Mountie looked down upon her in smiling astonishment.

“What can I do for you?” he asked in the kindly way Sue remembered the Force dealt with all questions.

“Just let me show you to them all!” cried Sue, tugging at his arm. “They don’t believe you really are true! Come quickly.”

Half smiling, half protesting, the Mountie followed Sue into the hall.

“Let’s go in here,” said Sue proudly. The “Awful Door” of Miss Templar’s room was open, and Miss Templar was in the drawing room with Lord Strathcona. It was the next most important room in the Abbey and Sue knew it was fitting that a member of Her Majesty’s North West Mounted Police should be received with suitable honors.

“I’m Sue Winston,” said Sue. “Do you know my Uncle Dennis in Regina?” The Mountie bowed.

“I was the Captain’s batman for six months. I know all about you. You’re the little girl who captured Joe La Biche and found a gold mine in the Yukon.”

“Truly?” asked Sue. “But how did you come here? I’ve needed you most awfully badly.”

From his six feet four of height, Constable Macdonell looked down at Sue, and told her of how he had just finished service in the Far North and had been sent to London to be in attendance on Lord Strathcona.

Sue, in turn, told him of how no one at the Abbey believed that such a Force really existed. “They don’t believe you are as perfect as you are,” she said, “and when Lord Strathcona is through with his speech, I want to show you off!”

“I don’t think I should like that,” protested Constable Macdonell.

“Pssst,” said Sue. “They’re coming out!”

From the drawing room Lord Strathcona was moving toward the Forge, with Miss Templar, Miss Hill and Lady Charlotte.

Lady Charlotte’s eyes opened wide as she saw Sue and Constable Macdonell together and then, putting a finger to her lips for silence, she joined the little procession down the hall and into the Forge, Sue and her Mountie following.

Inside the Forge, Constable Macdonell stopped just by the door and stood stiffly at attention as Lord Strathcona mounted the platform and began his speech. Slipping her hand into the Mountie’s, Sue stood erect beside him, proud that her crêpon frock matched the scarlet of his tunic, happy that through some magic she had been able to fulfil her boast, happier still because she was once more with a member of her beloved Force, proud that all her world might see the glory that was Canada’s.

Sue never remembered what Lord Strathcona said. She only knew his voice sounded pleasant and that he had the most gentle, courtly manners. He spoke to Sue as he was leaving the Forge to have tea in the drawing room.

“Come with me,” said Sue to Constable Macdonell, pulling him down the hall and into an empty school room. “Now,” she said hastily, closing the door, “you’ve got to make a speech so that all the girls may hear you.”

“A speech?” said the Constable. “Oh, no, Miss Sue. Not I!”

“Oh, yes,” said Sue firmly. “You must make a speech to the whole school about the Mounties.”

“But I’ve never made a speech in my life,” he protested, “and I won’t begin now. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“Speaking’s easy,” said Sue. “I’ll tell you what to say. You just stand up and begin like this:

“Oh, no, Miss Sue,” said the Constable hurriedly, “I’ll say nothing of the kind.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” demanded Sue.

“We think so, Miss Sue, but we never admit it.”

“But don’t you think the English ought to be told how good you are?” insisted Sue.

“We let our actions speak for us,” the Constable replied.

“Well, what am I going to do?” asked Sue. Constable Macdonell looked at Sue and coughed. “I’m very hoarse,” he said.

Sue chuckled. “You’re spoofing me,” she answered, and thrust a pencil and exercise book in the Constable’s hand. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, and running to the Forge, called Veronica.

“I’m bringing Constable Macdonell to speak to you all in a few minutes,” she said importantly. “Will you have everybody quiet and tidy, please?”

“Certainly, I will. How wonderful!” exclaimed Veronica.

Constable Macdonell was writing busily when Sue hurried back to him.

“How do you feel?” asked Sue.

Constable Macdonell groaned. “I’d rather face a crowd of wild Indians than those girls.”

“Are you scared?”

“Dreadfully.”

“Do you feel squiggly?”

The Constable nodded. Sue sighed. “I feel sorry for you,” she said, “but you have to come.”

Constable Macdonell rose, took a hurried glance at his notes and followed her.

Veronica was at the door, waiting, when they entered the Forge. She shook hands with the Constable and all the girls stood while he and Sue walked to the platform.

Veronica held a slip of paper in her hand.

“We are very proud to welcome you to Arundel Abbey, Constable Macdonell,” she read in a fluttery manner, “and are most grateful to you for addressing us.”

Constable Macdonell stood up. “Thank you,” he said in a husky voice, and then, looking down at them all, he smiled.

“I’ve just come from the far north of Canada,” he said, “and all I have to say is this: I am very proud to be here today in attendance on Lord Strathcona. Canada is a large country—we need men. Send us your best. We can take care of them all . . .” He paused. “I am glad that here in England you have, too, one of our Canadian girls—Sue Winston. In the Force we remember her courage as a very little girl—when she helped capture a man long wanted by the Force . . . Thank you.”

Even Sue was satisfied with the applause. But there was more joy still to come. Every member of the Junior school was presented to the Constable. Every Mistress popped into the Forge to meet him. Afterwards Sue, Pam, Blanche and Cathie took him on a tour of the school. But when Lord Strathcona left the Abbey, it was Sue only who stood at the salute as the carriage bearing the Royal Arms rolled away.

Clip-clop, clip-clop . . .

The Windsor greys turned the corner. The scarlet coat disappeared.

Clip-clop. Clip-clop.

      *      *      *      *      *      

“Tell me, Sue,” asked Lady Charlotte, “did Clare see your Mountie?”

“Everyone saw him,” Sue answered proudly.

“Good!” said Lady Charlotte emphatically. “But, Sue, tell me, confidentially, did you stick your tongue out at her?”

“Gee Whitakers!” cried Sue. “I forgot to! I forgot all about her, Lady Charlotte, I was so happy that she didn’t matter.”

But late that night, after the closing pillow fight was over and everyone was in bed, Sue crept cautiously out and over to where her Treasure Trunk stood behind the curtain in the window. Lifting the lid quietly, she took out the little Indian doll. Reaching up above her mirror, she brought down the golden Mountie Crest.

“You are my best treasures,” she said softly, and tumbled back into bed, Minnie-Pooh-Pooh in her arms, her fingers tightly clasped around her Crest.

Clip-clop, clip-clop.

The sound of the Windsor Greys was still in her ears. What was it Lord Strathcona had said?

“Hang on. Never let go.”

Sue smiled sleepily. “I did hang on,” she said.

“Look!” cried Monty. “It’s almost midnight.”

Sue stood beside the entrance door of Glentoch Castle. Around her and back of her, crowding the wide stairs and looking down from the garlanded galleries, were Monty’s people and friends; the women in velvets and brocades, the men in full Highland dress, their kilts and sporrans swinging gaily. There were flowers, music, laughter, the sound of the bagpipes, and Vicky, in shimmering white, standing near.

“One more minute!” called Monty.

Voices died away. Save for the rustle of the women’s gowns and the crackle of logs in the fireplace, there wasn’t a sound but the ticking of the great clock.

“Thirty seconds,” said Monty.

An excited buzz rose from the crowd.

“Fifteen seconds!”

Vicky slipped her hand into Monty’s arm.

“Now!” cried Monty.

There was a thundering knock on the great door, followed by a young man’s voice, full and strong.

Listen!

Sue pushed back the bolt and Monty helped her tug the heavy door open. Outside stood five young men, bearing great feathery branches of evergreen high above their heads. They were dark, with black hair and shining eyes, and all of them wore kilts. The tallest man was Young Donald’s grandson. He placed one foot across the door sill and then, followed by his companions, advanced into the Hall towards Monty.

The five young men were “First-Footers,” for the Scotch believe that the first person to cross the threshold on New Year’s morn must be dark-haired, if there is to be luck within the house all year.

“A guid New Year tae you and yours, sir,” they cried; the bagpipes skirled, and everyone broke into cheers and laughter.

“Happy New Year, Happy New Year!” The young men marched through the Great Hall and out to the Servants’ Hall, carrying their feathery branches of green.

Sue waited until they had disappeared before pushing the heavy door shut again, for Monty had told her that she must hold the door open long enough to let the Old Year out as well as the New Year in.

Beamish had brought Sue and Cathie from London to Glentoch Castle for the Christmas holidays, and Lady Charlotte had followed for the New Year’s celebration. Christmas in Scotland, Sue discovered, was not the important festival it was in England or in Canada. New Year’s or “Hogmanay” as the Scotch called it, was the festive day. Because of Sue and Cathie and Sandy, there had been a Christmas tree and presents on Christmas Day, but no one at Glentoch Castle had been really excited until this New Year’s Eve.

Large silver bowls of punch and steaming ale to drink toasts to the New Year were carried in, with egg-nog for Sue and Cathie; there were cries of welcome for latecomers and the wild dancing of the Highland Fling to the music of the pipes.

In the gallery the two girls sat with Lady Charlotte and watched the gaiety below.

The candles flickered in the candelabra, the evergreens still held the piney fragrance of the woods, the logs blazed higher and higher. Laughter, and now and then snatches of song, rose from the dancers.

Lady Charlotte stood up. “They are going in to supper, children,” she said. “Let us go, too.”

Down the great staircase, with its banister twined with evergreen, they followed Lady Charlotte into the dining-room.

Arranged along the sides of the room were long tables set with jellies, cold birds, turkeys, great joints of spiced beef, salads, pigeon pies, roast pheasants, spiced salmon, and for hot dishes, pigeons in casseroles, deviled lobster and oyster patties. There were meringues, too, and tipsy cake and French pastries, and a delicious dish called Whim-Wham that Sue and Cathie already knew. Whim-Wham was made of cream and cakes and jelly, with candied citron and orange peel.

“Gracious,” said Sue. “This beats anything I’ve ever seen. Let’s take a little of everything, Cathie. We won’t get a chance like this again in a hurry.” Carrying their heaped plates, the two girls perched themselves on the cushioned seat of the great window.

Swaying plaids, silver-buckled shoes, jeweled dirks . . . everywhere a riot of color and sound. Candlelight and firelight . . .

“I don’t want to go to bed,” said Sue, sleepily, “but a wee snooze mightn’t do us any harm.”

The two girls leaned back against the cushions.

The skirl of the pipes, laughing voices and the sound of dancing feet floated in from the Great Hall. The odor of sweet-scented candles mingled with the bitter tang of the evergreen boughs on the hearth. Through the gallery window Sue could see a starlit sky and far off on the hills, New Year’s bonfires.

repeated Sue drowsily.

      *      *      *      *      *      

It was still dark when Sue heard Jessie lighting the fire. The curtains were not yet drawn and the flames cast dancing shadows on the ceiling. Sue turned over. She couldn’t remember coming up to bed. When Jessie tip-toed away, Sue was sound asleep again.

A log fell in the fireplace. Somewhere there seemed to be voices, whispering. Perhaps the whispers were the end of a dream. Save for the crackle of the fire, there was no sound, but a faint fragrance was in the air. It reminded Sue of some happiness she had known. Half asleep, she wondered what it could be . . .

Sue opened her eyes again. There were shadows now in front of the fire. Vague shadows moving apart, that revealed the gold of a curly head and the dark hair of another.

“I’m dreaming a lovely dream,” thought Sue. The fragrance stole around her again. She remembered now. It was like the perfume her Mother used.

Sue opened her eyes wider. The firelight still shone on the golden curls.

“Mummy,” she said to herself softly. “It’s like Mummy.”

The golden head moved back into the shadows. Sue sat up. Even to her sleepy eyes, the shadow had the quick grace of her Mother.

“Mummy?” she said sharply.

“Sue, my Susie!”

There was the soft rush of feet, of warm arms embracing her, kisses and beloved voices. It was Mummy and Daddy, back in Scotland for the New Year! And there were tears and smiles and laughter, and tales to tell of how they had hurried across Europe to be with her for New Year’s Eve, but had missed the boat train in Paris and had arrived early in Scotland, only to find the great Castle like that of the Sleeping Beauty, with everyone sound, sound asleep.

“It was Young Donald, the footman, who let us in and roused Jessie. She gave us breakfast and then brought us up here,” Sue’s mother explained.

“Why didn’t you waken me right away?” asked Sue.

“Because I wanted to feast my eyes on you, baby,” her Mother answered. “I’ve been hungry for a sight of you for so long.”

Sue looked up at them. In spite of the happy tears in her Mother’s eyes, she could see how chic her Mother was, how dashing her Father.

“When I go back to school,” Sue said, “I’d like to take you both back with me and show you off to every one. Not even Pam’s Mother is as pretty as you, Mummy.”

Sue’s Father ruffled her curls. “Everywhere I go, Sue,” he said, “she’s the prettiest woman in the room,” and the two of them smiled on Sue’s Mother. And then, in the delightful way that Sue’s Father always managed to bring excitement with him, there was an imperious knock on the door and before anyone could answer, Lady Charlotte entered in a long woolen dressing gown, a lace cap on her head.

“Jimmie Winston!” she cried. “Aileen! What is this I see? When did you come? Why wasn’t I told?”

Cathie sat up in the next bed, bewildered and frightened by so many strange voices and people.

“Mummy, that’s Cathie,” cried Sue, and then everything happened at once. Jessie arrived with breakfast for the two girls. Beamish came in with early tea for Lady Charlotte. Monty came flying into the room, very touzeled, and after him the laughing Vicky. Sandy was brought in to be inspected. Lady Charlotte boomed happily.

Sue bounced in her bed. Everybody was talking at once in the most enchanting fashion and they continued to do so all morning. Cathie forgot her shyness and told Sue’s Father all about her own Father in New Zealand. Sue was taken out of bed and measured for height, and was found to be almost as tall as her mother, and then put back to bed.

“Not because you are tired, child,” Lady Charlotte answered to Sue’s protests, “but because we know where you are while you’re in bed.”

And the happy voices talked on and on and Sue told them three times about how the Mountie, Constable Macdonell, had come to the school and saved the day for her. And the laughter grew, until even Beamish, who came in to take Lady Charlotte’s tray, smiled on them all.

“It’s nearly time for luncheon,” interrupted Vicky. “Hadn’t we better dress?”

Lady Charlotte rose. “We’ve covered almost all the events of the past year and planned for this new one . . . All except Susannah’s future. What are you going to do with her now?”

Sue’s mother smiled. “That’s one of the things that brought us home,” she said. “We feel that Sue is old enough now to choose for herself what she wishes to do.”

Sue could hardly believe her ears.

“I have two suggestions,” continued Sue’s Mother. “Jimmie and I will still be traveling a great deal in Europe and cannot have Sue with us. Once in a long while we will be in Paris for a few days. We could take a small apartment for Sue and leave her there with a governess. It would improve her French and we would be able to see her now and then.”

Sue’s Mother paused and looked straight at Sue.

“On the other hand, Sue could go back to Arundel Abbey, and come to us in Paris for the Easter holidays, but the choice is to be Sue’s. She was not very happy when she first went to the Abbey, and she has stuck the year out like a good Mountie taking his Arctic service . . . Now she is to make her own choice.

“Which is it to be, darling?”

Sue looked at her Mother in astonishment.

Go to Paris with a governess? Grown-ups were beyond her understanding. Only a year ago almost everyone in this very room had been telling her what fun you had at school. Monty had had fun. Lady Charlotte’s brothers had had fun. Vicky had had fun.

Fun at school . . . they had talked of nothing else. And now they seemed to think she might choose something different . . . a governess in Paris . . . with a very small chance of seeing her parents, except for a day or two at a time.

They were all looking at her, waiting for her answer.

Not go back to school?

Not see Pam and Blanche again?

No pillow fights at the end of term?

No hockey matches?

No meetings of the Secret Society?

No spoofing with Miss Mills?

No Glee Club?

No molasses pie?

No Shakespeare?

No Black Birds?

“Well, Susie?” asked her father at last. “Which is it to be—school or Paris?”

Sue laughed. As if there could be any choice.

“Why, it’s school, Daddy,” she cried. “School! We have such fun there.”

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 Susannah at Boarding School, by Muriel Denison]